The Game of Love and Death

by Martha Brockenbrough

  “This here’s the church,” Will said. More care and better building materials had gone into its construction. On the front stood a porch with wide, horizontal rails. The front rose to a shallow peak, where a cross had been nailed above a decorative lattice capped with a curving beam. “Most days, though, doesn’t feel like God bothers to show up, even though our new mayor acts like he’s God’s gift, if I do say so.”

  Nearby, men argued. When it became clear the dispute was getting worse, Will held up his hand. “Wait here a moment.”

  He strode toward the source of the scuffle, which now included grunts and the thuds of fists meeting flesh. Henry followed, intending to sneak back to the church once he learned what was going on. Peering around the rough edge of a shack, he saw Will holding two red-faced men apart. In the air, the sharp scent of alcohol. In the background was a contraption with rusting pipes and barrels. A still.

  Henry slipped back to the church and wrote a quick description of what he’d seen and where. If he could prove the men weren’t paying taxes — and they almost certainly weren’t — Ethan would have his story. But Henry wished he wouldn’t want it.

  Will returned and registered Henry’s stricken look. “A dozen gallons a day pays for a lot of bread and meat. Those soup kitchens? Dinner only and not much of it. Without this, these men would starve.” He paused. “It’d be better if they drank less and sold more. But I’d challenge any man to live here and not want to take the edge off a bit. What we want is a chance, not charity. So you’ll keep that part out of your story, right?”

  Henry considered this, and thought about all the alcohol that was consumed at the Domino, and even the glasses of wine and tumblers of Scotch at Ethan’s house. What made this so very different, aside from the matter of taxes?

  Before he’d worked out his opinion, Ethan and James returned.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve shown our guest the church,” James said. “We do like a spiritual moment now and again in Hooverville.” He turned to Ethan, extending his hand. “I’ll see you again next week?”

  Henry expected Ethan to decline. They had all the information they needed, and Ethan was never the sort to come to a place like this when he didn’t have to. But Ethan tucked his notebook into his shirt pocket and said, “Next week. See you then.” His voice was nonchalant, and Henry knew him well enough to know that meant he was anything but.

  Inside the car, Ethan shut Henry down before he had a chance to say what he’d seen. “We’re not writing about the booze. James told me all about that. I’m interested in something different. It’s hard to explain. And do me a favor,” he said, casting Henry a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell my father.”

  Henry glanced at Ethan, curious about the look in his eyes. It wasn’t one he’d seen before. But he didn’t question it, he felt so relieved.

  “I won’t say a word.”

  HENRY and Ethan came home after a disappointing baseball game to the spectacle of Annabel in a sobbing, facedown heap by one of the columns holding up the porte cochere. With anyone else, Henry would have worried there had been a death in the family. In all likelihood, Annabel had stubbed her toe.

  “What’s wrong this time, Bell?” Ethan said.

  “Mother. She’s what’s wrong.” She rolled onto her back to sob sunny-side up, flinging an arm across her forehead.

  “Don’t say that so loudly,” Ethan said, laughing.

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “Ethan’s right.” Henry stifled his chuckle. “She might make you eat Brussels sprouts. Or worse.”

  “She won’t teach me how to ride a bicycle,” Annabel said. “She said ladies don’t do that.”

  “She doesn’t know how to ride a bicycle is why,” Ethan said. “But I’ll teach you this weekend.”

  “I need to know now,” Annabel said. She sat and brushed gravel from her dress.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Ethan said. “It’s a school night. And we’re worn out from our game.”

  “I’ll teach you, Bell,” Henry said.

  “Really?” Annabel asked. She stood, wiped her nose, and launched herself into Henry’s arms. He caught her and pretended to stagger backward, but really, she was as light as anything.

  Ethan shrugged. “You’re spoiling her. Not that I give a darn about that.”

  “Dry your face,” Henry said, offering her his handkerchief. “Let’s get Ethan’s old bicycle and go to the park.” He felt like having a little adventure before drilling calculus into his skull.

  Once they’d arrived and he’d helped her carry the bicycle down the steps leading to the path, Henry explained to Annabel how her feet were meant to push the pedals, and how forward momentum would make it easier for her to keep her balance as she rode from one of the circular ponds to the other, landmarks that reminded him of the day he’d seen Charles Lindbergh. He’d been about Annabel’s age at the time. Strange. He hadn’t thought of that moment in years.

  “I’m not a dummy,” she said. “I know how a bicycle works. I’ve watched you and Ethan do it a thousand times. I just need you for the push.”

  “All right, then,” Henry said. He helped Annabel onto the seat. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “On the count of three.”

  “Don’t let go.”

  “I thought you knew how to ride a bicycle.”

  “I do,” she said. “I just don’t want you to get lost from me.”

  “One,” Henry said.

  “And don’t go too fast.”

  “Two.”

  “And don’t let go,” she said.

  “Three!” Henry started jogging beside the bicycle, holding tightly to the seat. “You have to pedal, Annabel.” He had visions of her tipping and falling into the pond and getting tangled in the lily pads.

  “I am.”

  “You’re just moving your feet,” he said. “I can tell. Use your muscles.”

  “Is this better?”

  “Perfect,” he said, running faster to keep up.

  “I think I am a natural,” she said.

  “You certainly are. Keep going.” His plan was to have her pedal from one pond to the other, down the straight sidewalks connecting the two.

  As Annabel pedaled, a sparrow trilled. Henry looked up and caught a glimpse of a young woman in a green coat, white gloves, and black hat. It was Flora, coming down the steps just ahead. Of course it was. It felt as though he’d willed this moment into being. She was all he could see when he closed his eyes, and he knew at some point or another, he’d open them and find her in the real world, away from the club and away from Ethan, where they could just be two people together, standing under the same sky.

  “Annabel, let’s practice stopping,” he said, trying to mask his nerves.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Annabel,” he warned, “you’re going to have to.” He tugged gently on her seat, but she pedaled harder, breaking away. He took off after her, but wasn’t fast enough to stop her before she crashed spectacularly in front of Flora.

  Annabel turned on the waterworks. “Henry. You let go of me. You let go.”

  Henry crouched next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He glanced up at Flora and remembered a long-forgotten moment from that day in the park. He’d nearly run over a girl on his bicycle. In his mind’s eye, that girl’s face and Flora’s were one and the same. They had the same name too. The coincidence of it seemed equally impossible and necessary. Did she remember? Had it been her? He couldn’t bear to ask. And there was also the matter of Annabel’s dramatic meltdown. She had a definite future as a radio star. The situation was feeling more like a disaster every moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping Annabel’s tears.

  “Girl’s got a good voice.” Flora looked even better than she did onstage. Definitely less serious as she crouched down to t
alk to Annabel. “Do you know any songs?”

  “Lots,” Annabel said, hiccuping.

  “Like what? Can you sing me one?”

  “No,” Annabel said. “Ladies don’t sing in public. Mother says.”

  Flora laughed. “Some do. I’m pretty sure of it.”

  “Henry sings sometimes,” Annabel said, “because he is not a lady.”

  Flora laughed again. “You look as if you could use something to clean up that flood on your face.” She opened her pocketbook and took out a handkerchief with her name embroidered on it.

  “Flora,” Annabel read. “Henry talks in his sleep about someone named Flora, even though he is supposed to marry cousin Helen the Hellion.”

  “Annabel!” Henry said. “That’s not true!” He wondered what the odds were that the earth might open up and swallow him then.

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “I heard you last night when I was getting a drink of water. And Mother says you and Helen are a perfect match even if I am not to say hellion.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t do any such thing.” Flora looked as if she’d like to be anyplace else.

  Henry stood and brushed off his slacks. This was not going well, and he wanted to make a quick escape. Maybe a unicorn would materialize and he could gallop away in style. “It’s been swell to run into you again. I mean, not the almost crashing part. But just seeing you. I hope you liked the article.”

  “Are you a maid?” Annabel said.

  “Annabel!” He wished for invisibility or time travel or just a really big box to climb inside.

  “I’m not a maid,” Flora said. “I fix planes and I fly them. And yes, I did like it. Ethan got most of the facts right.”

  “Well, you look like our maid.”

  “Flora’s a singer too,” Henry sputtered, wondering which facts he’d botched, feeling a shameful level of relief that Ethan was taking the blame for the errors. “A great one. And your mother is wrong about ladies singing onstage, just as she was wrong about girls riding bicycles.” This was not how he’d imagined telling Flora that he admired her voice. Oh, God.

  “You and our maid are both colored,” Annabel said. “And Mama says the colored people make the best maids. Sometimes our maid sings. She only knows church songs, though.”

  “Well!” Flora said. “Isn’t that an interesting story.” She looked as finished with the meeting as Henry. He hoped Annabel had exhausted the opportunities to mortify them.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “Can I keep this?” Annabel held the handkerchief out.

  Flora’s face softened. “Yes, you may keep it.”

  “I’ll share with Henry. I promise.”

  Flora laughed again. “I’m sure he’d love that.” She adjusted her hat, tugged at her gloves, and gave a relieved smile that almost countered the strange look in her eyes. “And now I have to be off. It’s been nice to see you again.”

  She turned toward the nearby cemetery, and as she walked away, Henry called after her.

  “Flora! It was —” What did he want to say? That it was nice seeing her too? He’d already said that, and it would ring false anyway. He pushed his hair off of his forehead. “I’ll — I’ll see you around. I hope.”

  She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a small wave. He wanted to say something else, something more definitive. Or even suave, to salvage the scraps of his dignity. But he couldn’t find the words. Though they stood only a few yards apart, what felt like miles of embarrassment stretched between them.

  She turned toward the path and was on her way.

  FROM the floor of the Domino, the white steps leading to the stage looked substantial. Like the kind of marble used to carve an angel for a church or graveyard, the kind of thing that could withstand eons of rain and lightning. From the top, they were anything but. They were wood, coated in glossy paint to reflect the most light from the chandeliers, and flimsy enough to vibrate with the music of the band. Flora had to be careful not to step in the wrong place, or they’d sag. So many things in life were not what they appeared. It was a wonder she trusted anything.

  But she trusted herself as she made her way down the steps, aware of the audience, aware of the steadiness of Grady’s bass line supporting her. That reliability. It was supposed to be enough. She put one hand on the microphone, then another, as if she were cradling a face. Only it wasn’t Grady’s she was thinking of.

  She opened her mouth and let the first note rise, acutely aware that Henry wasn’t there for the first time in weeks, probably because of their run-in at the park. What a disaster, even if it had broken the weird spell between them. She was more disappointed at his absence than she could have believed, and the feeling leaked into her song. But she didn’t mind. There was little difference between disappointment and yearning.

  She closed her eyes and sang, focusing on technique. Shutting out the audience helped, and by the end of the number, she felt more herself again. She opened her eyes, and there he was, at his usual table. The surprise made her miss her cue for the next song by a half beat, and she had to rush to catch up. The band covered for her, but Grady shook his head and looked at her with pity.

  As her irritation hardened into anger, she could feel it color the song. She worried she might lose control of the performance. This only frustrated her more, so she was surprised to notice the effect it had on the audience. People leaned forward. They set down their cocktail glasses. Some held their forks midway to their mouths. Encouraged, Flora focused on the notes, making each as heartfelt as she could. The full disaster of her feelings spread from the deepest part of her and flooded the room. The band responded, Grady especially, turning heat into sound.

  She avoided looking at Henry until a thought struck: That was just another way of giving him — and whatever was between them — power. She remembered when she’d first started flying and feared contact with the earth and the danger it represented. The way to conquer that, Captain Girard had taught her, was to remember she was the one in control. The plane would do what she told it to. She would not be harmed. It was that simple.

  She turned her face to his and sang to it, wishing she hadn’t noticed him in the first place, but a mistake like that, she could recover from. Her blood was just a bit of fuel she had to burn off. Burn it, she would.

  By the time she finished the tune, sweat coated her back. The last note out of her mouth soared overhead and then dropped, ringing against the hard surfaces of the room, burrowing into the soft ones. The crowd erupted. Her heart felt lighter. She’d done it. She was safe. She looked away from Henry and let herself smile as she disappeared backstage, ignoring Grady’s hurt and perplexed look.

  She’d faced Henry and stayed in control. This thing that was happening — whatever it was — she would survive.

  THE Game haunted Love as he walked the streets of Seattle in the guise of James Booth, past hollow-eyed men holding cardboard signs begging for work. Days had passed. A week, and April turned into May, bringing longer days and soft earth, warm with growth, along with a visit from Death. She materialized without warning at the shanty in Hooverville, where he lay looking at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling.

  “I don’t see how you expect to create any sort of love from this vantage.” She sat on an overturned peach crate, her face lit by a candle on the floor. The shadows underscored a haunted expression, even as her voice radiated arrogance. “Honestly. You’re making it too easy.”

  “You might be surprised.” Love found a bottle of wine and two glasses. It was a good wine, one he’d picked up on a quick trip to France.

  “Red?” she said.

  “I’m not going to be superstitious about things anymore. I won’t give you that power.”

  She sipped from her glass. Love put his to his lips, but he could not drink. “What you did in Spain.” His voice cracked.

  “Stop
.” She held up a hand. “You don’t know what I go through.”

  “Sometimes …” He paused, weighing his words before he tossed them across the table at her. “Sometimes I feel as though you haven’t any heart.”

  “You know nothing of my heart.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Death sipped her wine. She was hiding her thoughts, as ever. Love tried to read her face, but couldn’t.

  “To tell you that it’s not too late,” she said.

  “Too late for what? It’s certainly too late for all of those people in Spain.”

  “Let me have her now,” Death said, “and I won’t take any others from either player.”

  “Call off the Game? Is that what you’re saying?” She’d never done this before. Then again, she’d never looked so awful. He was almost concerned enough to ask after her, to ask if there was anything he might do. But then he chided himself for the foolishness. She was worried, worried that he might win.

  He laughed and finished his wine. Death reduced herself to the form of a cat and slipped out into the night. The candle flickered out. Love refilled his glass and let the darkness surround him as he drank. He’d made a mistake, laughing at her. He’d have to be more careful.

  NO one likes to be laughed at, Death least of all. This time she did not venture as far as Spain, but rather to the East Coast, where she had two errands. If he didn’t want to call off the Game, she’d make it worse. Far worse.

  Her first stop was Lakehurst, New Jersey, where she waited at the edge of a naval airstrip, watching the sky. She looked clean and modern in her smart black suit and red cloche, even if she felt as though she’d been stuffed with the ashes of an apocalypse.

  The afternoon was stormy. A charge hung on the air, reeking of dirt and ozone. Clouds gathered; humans did the same. At seven in the evening, a silver airship glided into view, its shadow a swath of black below. The craft looked like a blind whale and was the biggest thing that had ever flown. Humans had already conquered land and sea. With the Hindenburg, they’d rule the sky.