“I’ll get that.” He picked up the bass, carrying it with practiced arms across the stage.
“So the first few chords —” She breathed in, the way a person does before diving beneath the surface of a lake. “I’m not warmed up, but they go like this.” She sang the notes so that they’d correspond with where they fell in the melody. “A minor seventh, E diminished …”
Henry checked that the bass was in tune and started plucking along with her, as if he were getting the feel for things.
She sang carefully, quietly at first, taking her time to warm up, making sure he was following. He looked at her every so often, then returned his attention to the bass, sliding his left hand along the neck of it as he found the notes, coaxing sound out of it with his right.
“You’re holding back,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m warming up.”
“No, I mean in general. I think you could give more when you’re singing. Put your heart out there more.” He smiled, as if to let her know it wasn’t a judgment, more of an observation.
She held up a palm, as if to dismiss the notion. As they eased their way through the refrain, she gave in. Just to see. And then all the way, as she had once earlier at the Domino. It was different, singing without the full band. But Henry was good, so steady as he pulled sounds out of more than one string at a time. He was a natural. He knew how to connect. He improvised here and there, and for the first time since the day they’d met, she felt something inside herself open wide. The thing that surprised her most was that it was easier to sing this way when she was letting each note be what it wanted to be. She felt it in her chest, in her head, and finally everywhere.
As she came to the last line of the song, she heard footsteps. Someone was coming. More than one person, judging from the irregular tap of shoes on the treads. She cursed inwardly when she saw who it was: Mr. Potts and his crew. And they’d brought a police officer with them.
“I’m sorry, my uncle isn’t here yet,” she said. She rushed toward them, intending to usher them out before Henry realized who they were.
“We’re not here for your uncle.” Mr. Potts strode toward her.
They met in the middle of the room. The police officer moved forward and reached for the handcuffs dangling from his wide leather belt.
“We’re here for you,” Mr. Potts said. “On account of that bribe you offered us not too long ago. Turns out that sort of thing is against the law. You, my dear, are in a world of trouble.”
Flora felt all the blood leave her body. They’d trapped her. The club would have been shut down if she hadn’t paid a bribe. And now they were going to arrest her anyway for paying it. All while Henry watched.
“That isn’t fair,” she said, jerking her hands away from the police officer, realizing how stupid the words sounded. “Please.” She took a half step back and felt Henry behind her.
She looked the officer in the eye, and then glanced down at the name on his badge. J. WALLACE JR. “Come on, Officer Wallace. This is a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Potts interrupted. “Miss Saudade. We are acting in the interests of the law, and you are a public menace.” He lunged for her.
“That’s ridiculous!” she said. She dodged Mr. Potts, and Henry stepped between them.
“Isn’t there something that can be done about this?” he said. “Please don’t cart her off. I know some people…” A look of uncertainty came over him.
“What are you saying, boy,” Mr. Potts said. “Are you offering us a bribe? Making a threat? Because believe you me, that is not going to turn out nicely.”
“No,” Henry said. “It wasn’t like that. I —” He reached for Flora’s hand. She squeezed his fingers.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Mr. Potts said. “A young man has needs and he sometimes finds ways to take care of those that society wouldn’t like. It’s not illegal in these parts, not yet, even if it is shameful. But you do not want to lose your head here. A colored whore like this one —”
Henry’s fist was a white flash. There was a crack, and Mr. Potts put his hands to his nose. Blood oozed through his fingers. “You broke my nose!” he said. “You done broke it!”
The men restrained Henry. Officer Wallace, who said not a word, was at least gentle as he fastened the cuffs on Flora’s wrists. Henry did not enjoy the same kind of treatment. By the time he was in the back of the police car next to her, he had a pair of black eyes and a split lip.
“Oh, Henry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Their aim was lousy. They missed my nose completely.”
She couldn’t bring herself to smile at his joke. The backseat was too wide for them to touch, but she wanted to hold ice to his swollen face. She wanted to clean the blood from his lip with a damp washcloth. She wanted to kiss his forehead and apologize for bringing him into her world this way, with the roughness and injustice and frequent humiliations. She turned her face to the window. Thick clouds had gathered. It was sure to rain again.
Henry hummed the first few bars of the song they had been playing. “We’ll do it again. I promise. Someday.”
Flora’s forehead burned. Overwhelmed with anger at being set up, wondering what her next move would be, she flexed her fingers and strained against the handcuffs. With a start, she remembered her mother’s gloves. She’d left them next to Henry’s hat. Dammit. Her hands felt naked without them. It wasn’t just that they covered her skin and made her fit to be seen in public. They represented so much more. She tried to tell herself that they were just a pair of gloves, not her mother, that her mother’s hands hadn’t been inside of them for ages, and that any bit of her that remained inside had surely been worn away. She willed herself to hold it together as she leaned against the seat.
“Sure,” she said. “Someday.”
When she looked over at Henry, she wished she’d been able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“Flora,” Henry said. “Have a little faith.”
They arrived at the police station. Officer Wallace guided Henry out of the car, then Flora. They walked past a group of hungry-looking children leaning against the side of the building.
“Run along,” Officer Wallace said.
The children scattered like dry leaves.
“I’d like my telephone call,” Henry said.
“All in good time.” Officer Wallace led Flora to her cell first. He clicked open the cuffs. The return of circulation made her hands ache. The door slammed behind her. The space was small and dark and dirty, equipped with something that was more a hole than a toilet, and a bed that barely deserved the name.
It occurred to her, as she lowered herself onto the thin mattress, that no one had offered her a telephone call. Not that it mattered. Nana was dead. Sherman was halfway across the state, picking up a supply of alcohol from his inexpensive source, and he wouldn’t be back for hours, and neither he nor anyone else in the band had a telephone, anyway. There was no one to come for her.
FIRST Nana. Now this. Flora wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, to temporarily shut out the sadness of the world, but she couldn’t. The cell was dank and smelly: the opposite of the sky. Somewhere in the gloom, a fly buzzed. She did not want to think about what it might be dining on. She tried to imagine herself in her plane, leaving all of this behind, but she couldn’t. She leaned against the rough, damp wall and willed herself not to feel anything at all.
And then she heard Henry’s voice. Singing. It hadn’t occurred to her before that he might be able to do this too. He sounded as if his voice had been shaped to fit her ears alone. She moved by the bars, so that she could hear better.
The song wasn’t one she knew, although it was the sort that immediately felt as familiar as her own skin.
You are the moon
And I am the sea
Wherever you are
&nb
sp; You’ve got pull over me
The whole of the sky
Wants to keep us apart
The distance is wearing
A hole in my heart
Someday your moonlight
Will blanket my skin
Someday my waves
Will pull all of you in
Someday I promise
The moon and the sea
Will be together
Forever you and me.
Someday. For as long as she could remember, Flora had linked thoughts of this word with the certainty of death: hers, and that of everyone she’d ever loved. Someday had always been a source of dread. But the sweetness of this song showed her a different way to look at it, a way that made it hurt less.
As she listened, her grief over Nana, her rage at her situation, her guilt over Henry faded. She could have listened to the song, been suspended in its magic, for ages. But it was not to be. Slow applause and the click of heels on the concrete broke the spell. Henry stopped mid-note.
“Don’t stop on my account,” a sharp voice said.
Flora peered through the bars. Her stomach clenched at the sight of the hard-looking girl who’d been with Henry at the Majestic. If she was the one he’d called when he needed rescuing, she must mean something to him. And it made sense. She was beautiful. She looked intelligent. She was the right color. She was everything he needed.
Flora understood this, and even though the match would provide a happy life for Henry, she envied the dark-haired girl for having what she could not have, for being who she could not be. Worse, the girl would know Henry’s humiliation was Flora’s fault. She’d look down on her, and rightfully so.
The girl stopped in front of Henry’s cell. “Congratulations. After bail, you have twelve cents to your name. It’s a good thing I was never interested in your money.”
Henry replied, too softly for Flora to hear.
“You must be joking,” the girl said.
More murmuring from Henry.
“You’re a lunatic.” The girl raised her voice. “You know what the Thornes are going to say, don’t you?”
“Helen, please. Don’t tell them why I’m here. I beg of you. And once you’ve finished, if you could please pick up Ethan at school, and take him to his car, then he can come back for me. He has the money, and he won’t mind that I took the Cadillac. Please … I need you to do this for me.”
Flora held her breath and wished she knew what they were talking about.
Helen shot back a reply. “It’s an awfully queer way to ask me for a favor, Henry. What do I care about her? I’m certainly not going to promise my silence. Not without anything from you in return.”
There was a long pause, and Flora still didn’t dare breathe. Then a whisper from Henry and Helen spoke again, her voice flip and uncaring.
“Fine,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”
Flora, no longer trying to mask her hate for Helen, wished a piano would fall from the sky and land on her. Death in the key of B-flat.
And then, just like that, the girl was in front of Flora, accompanied by a guard. “Don’t just stand there like a lump,” Helen said.
“Excuse me?” Flora tried to hide her contempt for Henry’s sake. “What’s happening?”
The guard jingled his keys, and Helen said, “Henry’s being a fool. He had only enough money to get one of you out, and because he’s a gentleman — a quality I truly admire — he’s chosen you. But if you’re comfortable here, I’d love to talk some sense into him.”
Flora felt like an animal on display. The disgust was palpable.
“Someone else will come for me,” Flora said.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Helen said. “It’s now or never. Decide.”
Too tired to think everything through, Flora agreed. “I have money for Henry at my club. So if you can take me there, I’ll come back for him.”
“Your plans fascinate me,” Helen said. “Thank you for sharing.”
Death in the key of B-flat. Her kingdom for a falling piano.
Henry’s cell was the last she passed on her way out. He rushed against the bars, but the officer elbowed her forward.
“I’ll be back for you,” she called over her shoulder. “I promise.”
But then that would be it. After that, it was good-bye. It didn’t matter what she felt about him, how tied to him she felt. Carrying on would only lead to ruin, if it hadn’t already.
As they left the building, Helen waved to the police officers as if this were a social call. “Catch you all later.”
The angle of the sun told Flora it was afternoon already. She’d missed her morning shift at the airfield. She didn’t feel herself when she wasn’t near a plane, even if Captain Girard had been understanding about her absence. What’s more, she hadn’t set up the Domino for that evening’s service, so she’d have to rush around in a lather. Things could not fall apart more.
“How much money do we need?” Flora asked.
Helen quoted a sum that made Flora blanch. That would clean out the safe, and explaining everything to Sherman … She dreaded the conversation more than anything.
“Short on funds?” Helen said.
Flora didn’t answer. “Where did you say you’d parked?”
“I didn’t. I also didn’t offer you a ride anywhere, but maybe, if you ask very nicely …” She gave Flora a wooden nickel of a smile.
“Please,” Flora said.
Helen looked back over her shoulder. “Follow me.”
HELEN sped toward the Domino as though she had a death wish: too fast, with no regard for other automobiles. At one point, as she fished for a cigarette in her purse, she swerved into oncoming traffic, laughing hysterically. Flora hoped Helen would never take an interest in flying planes. It wouldn’t last long.
When they arrived at the Domino, Helen uncapped a tube of crimson lipstick and applied it as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” Flora reached for the door latch.
“Go inside to fetch the bail money, of course.” Helen pressed her lips together and examined herself in the rearview mirror.
“This is where we part ways,” Flora said. “Thank you for the ride.”
Helen wouldn’t hear of it. “I’d love to go inside the club I’ve heard so much about.”
Flora wanted to refuse her on principle, but she also wanted Helen to see the Domino was something special. Something her family had built. Something that had survived all sorts of hardships. Something Henry admired.
“Fine.” She found her keys.
They headed into the club, past the portrait of her parents, down the stairs, and then turned left into the kitchen, where Charlie was already hard at work on the evening’s food. The air smelled good, a mixture of slowly cooking meat and corn bread.
“I’d offer you something to eat,” Flora said, “but I know you have other places to be.”
Leaving Helen for a moment, Flora went into the storeroom, opened the safe, and removed all of the bills, hoping Charlie wouldn’t ask what she was doing. When she returned to the kitchen, Helen was seated at the table, and Charlie was leaning against the countertop, a hand to his forehead.
His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the counter. Flora rushed to his side. She put an arm around his back and held him steady.
“I don’t feel well, Miss Flora.”
“You should go home, Charlie,” she said. “I can take it from here.”
“But Sherman isn’t back yet. There ain’t enough hands to get the work done, and if you don’t mind my saying, you’re a bit behind in the dining room already.”
“Charlie, please. You get on home. I know all your recipes and I’ll be back soon. I’ll call in some of the girls. We’ll take care of it. You can’t coo
k if you’re ill. And setting the tables is no trouble.”
Charlie looked chalky around his edges, and Flora hoped whatever he had wasn’t contagious.
“It came on so sudden,” he said.
“It’s all right, Charlie. You go on. Rest.”
“I think I will,” he said. “I appreciate your understanding.” He shuffled out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He rented a room a half block away, or Flora would have escorted him.
“Well.” Helen turned her head slowly to look at Flora. “How unfortunate for you. He looked fine when we walked in.”
“These things happen,” Flora said. “We’ll manage.”
Helen had removed her gloves. Apparently she’d planned to make herself at home. Too bad for her. Flora led her up the stairs, remembering as she did her own pair of gloves, sitting on a table next to Henry’s hat. She made a note to retrieve them after she sent Helen on her way.
At the exit, Helen said, “What, no grand tour?”
“No time,” Flora said. “I do apologize. Thank you again for the ride.”
Helen offered Flora her hand. Flora took it, mostly to end the exchange. But when their bare palms touched, she felt a startling coldness. Her body felt strange, as though she were underwater and sinking deeper, the pressure growing every second. The world dimmed, and she was no longer standing on the sidewalk, but inside the Domino — or at least a version of it from long ago.
The floor of the club hummed with noise and motion. A mustachioed man in a striped shirt and suspenders banged out a rag tune. Dice thumped on felted tables. Highball glasses plinked against each other, and beaded dresses rustled and clicked as women with bobbed hair leaned into the arms of men in suits and turned their powdered faces to the electric chandeliers. Laughter. There was so much of it. But then, it was clearly another time.
Flora wanted to look around, but she wasn’t in control of her gaze. It was as though she was inside someone else’s head. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing by herself in a joint like this?”
The view shifted to the bartender, whose sleeves were rolled up over his wide forearms. He leaned toward her across the polished slab of wood. A set of fingers, white ones, were laced a few inches away from her drink. The hands pressed flat on the counter and Flora felt something flow into her, something that felt strong and old and smelled like Douglas fir. It was almost as though she were sucking the life out of the bar.
The Game of Love and Death Page 17