“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry,” Helen said. “Let me feed you. You look halfway dead already.”
“As long as you’re being generous,” James said, “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Helen said. “I’m just an innocent girl, after all.”
“Then we’ll miss you,” James said, stepping between the car and Henry. Helen looked at James, as if she was calculating the best reply. Then, without another word, she reached over, slammed her door, and drove off.
“Where are we going?” James said, giving him a grin that suggested he hadn’t been affected at all by the strange interlude.
Henry wasn’t in the mood for company, and he didn’t like the way James and Helen made him feel, as if he was some sort of plaything for the two of them to fight over. “I’m afraid I’ve got personal business to attend to.”
“Personal business,” James said. “Sounds intriguing.”
“I’m sorry, James. You’ve been such a help lately, but I really can’t stay. And this isn’t the sort of business that requires company.”
He was surprised at the look on James’s face. Rather than looking disappointed, he looked relieved. Maybe even happy.
“I wish you luck with it,” he said. “Truly.”
And Henry found that he believed him, even as he wished James would leave him be.
FLORA had to stop thinking of Henry. They both needed to rebuild their lives with as few scars as possible in the aftermath of the recent disasters. She’d kept busy planning Nana’s memorial service, which would happen the next afternoon. And she’d received a note from Doc Henderson, inviting her to meet with him about picking up a performance or two at the Majestic. She was glad to have something to focus on besides the misery of losing her grandmother and her club and the uselessness of wondering where Henry was, what he was doing, how he was feeling.
“I love you,” she said, just to see how the words she’d never give him felt in her mouth.
As she picked up a broom and started sweeping the kitchen, there was a knock on the door. Annoyed, she opened it, expecting some well-meaning person to be bringing her a casserole. She already had many more than she’d ever be able to eat. But it wasn’t anyone bearing food. It was Henry.
Despite her desire to see him, she panicked at his actual presence. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come.”
He stepped back. The sun was setting and silhouetted his face, but she could see how hurt he was, even through the shadow.
“That’s not how I meant it to sound.” She touched his forearm.
He swallowed. “I heard about the club. I — I wanted to say I was sorry.”
“Well.” She exhaled and looked past his shoulder, welcoming the sting of the sun on her eyes. Henry moved closer, and she could see the exhaustion on his face, and she was torn between inviting him inside for a glass of water and sending him home so she wouldn’t say anything that would cause more hurt or trouble. She heard her grandmother’s voice in her head. Manners, Flora! Invite the boy inside!
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
“Like a camel,” Henry said.
She led him to a chair by the window. Then she went to the kitchen, wishing she had something better than water to serve. She filled a glass.
“Are you hungry?” Food, she had.
“Like a camel that hasn’t eaten anything in days.”
“Ham or casserole?”
“No self-respecting camel eats casserole. It could contain a relative.”
Laughing, Flora made a ham and cheese sandwich and set it on a tray next to the glass of water. These, she put on a side table next to his chair. He reached for the glass with ink-stained fingertips.
“You look like you lost a fight with a fountain pen.”
“The pen is mightier than the sword.” Henry picked up his sandwich. “It’s a wonder I survived.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Truly, though, it’s a long story.”
“I have time,” she said, sinking into a nearby ottoman. She looked up at him, feeling finally at ease. “Tell me.”
He did between bites, although she suspected he made Hooverville sound like a nicer place to live than it was.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is my fault.”
Henry moved off the chair and sat on the floor next to her, taking her hand in his. “Shh,” he said. He touched her cheek with an inky finger. Her heart drumrolled in her chest.
“Henry, we shouldn’t do this. There’s no future with you and me in it.”
“Shouldn’t isn’t the same as can’t,” he said. “Besides, there’s no future for me without you in it.”
“You’re white,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I can’t help that. I’d change it if I could, but I can’t. This is it.”
“You come from money,” she said.
“Not anymore. Not for a long time. I never belonged with the Thornes. But I belong with you.”
“It’s my fault you went to jail.”
“It wasn’t, and I’ve forgotten that already.” He kissed the back of her hand and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love you. We are meant to be a pair. It’s that simple.”
The words and the weight behind them weren’t simple. She knew he meant them. But their lives were not their own, not when it came to this. There were too many other people, with too many other thoughts on the matter. There was also the truth of love, that its end was nothing but pain.
“The world is against this sort of thing. Surely you can feel it,” she said.
“If it’s us versus the world, my money’s on us.”
She moved away from Henry, to lighten the mood. “Easy for you to say. Last I heard, you had twelve cents. You’re ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“When it comes to being ridiculous, I am very ambitious.”
Amused, she let herself rest her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart, inhaling his scent before she sat up with a start. “Henry?”
“Yes?” He held her hands and looked into her eyes, so sweetly serious.
“You smell terrible.” It was the best kind of terrible, but he’d feel better if he was clean. “The bathroom’s down the hall. Wash up. I’ve got some clothes that ought to fit you.”
He laughed. “And then what?”
“Then I’m calling Sherman,” she said. “And we’re maybe stopping by the Majestic if we can get things together quickly enough.”
“The Majestic? But I don’t have any money, and all my other clothes are at my tar-paper castle. It’s almost two weeks before I get my first paycheck —”
“Shh. Doc’s going to pay us,” Flora said, touching his lips. “So are a bunch of the other clubs in town. They will. I know it. So clean yourself up. We have work to do. And I have to keep moving, or I’ll start thinking about everything else and fall apart.”
“I’m sorry for what’s going to happen,” Henry said.
“What?” she said, her shoulders stiffening. “What’s going to happen this time?”
He didn’t answer.
Not with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if it would have killed him to do anything else. And she was glad, because if he hadn’t, she might have died. His mouth was soft on hers. Soft, and warm, and those lips she’d studied so intently tasted salty and sweet, and they moved against hers as if they’d been made for no other purpose. They would never be the couple he wanted them to be; but at least they would always have this moment, this secret sliver of joy that could live on in memory, if no place else.
By the time Henry was clean and dressed, the rest of the band had arrived. Voices, laughter, warm-up notes from trumpets … a world of sound he thought he’d always stand at the periphery of, never getting
to dive in. He listened from the short, narrow hallway, keeping himself in the shadows.
“We talked to Doc already,” a man said. “We’ve just been waiting for you to come around.”
Flora replied: “You know I’m only singing until I have enough money for my flight.”
“You keep saying that,” the voice said. “But you don’t ever got to be just one thing. Life isn’t divided up like that, where you’re one thing at the cost of another. And it’s not just the Majestic. Plenty of places for us to play as featured guests.”
“And he’s all right if Henry —”
“He wants to hear him, obviously,” the voice said, “but we vouched. Henry’s in.”
Henry, feeling bad about eavesdropping, cleared his throat and loudly entered the room. He felt painfully aware of his wet hair and white skin and the fact he was wearing clothing that must have belonged to Flora’s father.
“Look what the cat dragged in — our bass player.” It had been Palmer, the pianist, talking.
“Really?” Henry replied, not having to pretend to sound excited and disbelieving.
Palmer pointed at Henry. “That one’s dimmer than a new moon. We been trying to get her to sign you up since that day at her house. And now she tells us you wrote a hit song. Let’s hear it.”
The slow smile that worked its way across Flora’s face was about the best thing he’d seen. He looked around the room. The band filled chairs, windowsills, the davenport. The ones who’d been having private conversations stopped. They were waiting. For him.
“But I don’t have my bass,” he said.
“Flora,” Sherman said. “You still have your daddy’s, right?”
“Still do,” she said. “The strings are going to be ancient, though — I don’t know.”
“Better than nothing,” Palmer said. “Need a hand in fetching it?”
“I’ve got it,” she said.
“I’ll help,” Henry said.
“Just don’t help yourself to too much,” one of the trumpet players said. Henry made a mental note to throttle the guy later. He followed Flora into a bedroom that clearly had been her grandmother’s. In the corner, looking like an old soldier, stood a bass with dusty shoulders.
“Here,” he said, reaching for it. “Let me.”
“Wait,” Flora said. She took one hand, then the other, so they stood facing each other. “This is it. Are you ready?”
“Someday,” he said, making it sound like a promise.
“You mean the song, right?” Her forehead wrinkled, as if something worried her. “Because now would be a good time to be ready to play.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
“I know.” She dropped his hands and her tone changed. “Nervous?”
“Petrified,” Henry said. God, he wanted to kiss her again.
Flora laughed. “They’ll love it. I —” She stopped and smoothed her hair, and Henry wished they had more time. It felt as though he’d never have enough. “Shall we?”
Henry nodded. He followed her into the parlor and set up the bass. Then he walked the band through the chords and the chorus and the verse. He played it, hoping they’d feel what he put into the song.
There was a long moment of silence after they finished.
“That song’s gonna change your life, son,” Sherman said.
“Darn tootin’,” Palmer added.
It didn’t feel like that to Henry, though. It wasn’t so much about changing his life as much as it was about him stepping into the one he was meant to live. And, after all of this, he’d arrived.
MORE than two weeks passed. During this time, Henry, Flora, and the rest of the band rehearsed and set up shows in clubs around town at night, while Henry worked at the paper during the day. Love and Ethan continued their assignations, which had become as much about philosophical discussions as physical interactions. Death, meanwhile, had been quietly observing. Her relative silence terrified Love.
When the night came for Flora and Henry’s debut at the Majestic, Ethan breathlessly invited James to join him, and Love, eager to hear what the players would create, agreed. He wished he truly were human so he could embrace the evening as a man in love should, wearing a cloud-white shirt of crisp cotton, a fine tuxedo of black wool, and a carefully knotted tie of cerulean silk.
He wanted to scrub the dirt of life from his fingernails. He wanted to steam his face, soap his chin, shave with a new blade — or better, have the practiced hands of a barber perform the duties. He thought of frosted bottles of champagne. Tender rib-eye steaks dripping juice onto bone china. Rich wine. A stunning, audacious dessert: perhaps a cream-filled swan made of dark chocolate, its feathers edged in edible gold.
He’d had these pleasures before. And in previous Games, where he had developed no direct attachments to the players or their friends, he’d indulged himself when the urge struck. But this wouldn’t be the way of James Booth, and so Love would have to forgo such things in favor of humbler clothing, humbler fare.
There was beauty enough in the Majestic, where the musicians had gathered. Candlelight from the table illuminated Ethan’s carved cheekbones, his blue irises, his straight white teeth. Game or no, Love might not have been able to resist this one at any point in history. Ethan was like no other: smart, creative, passionate, handsome. The world was his to inherit.
As the show began, the curtains that covered the stage billowed and split, and the smallish audience that had gathered for the opening act began to applaud politely, though most continued with their conversations as if the music wouldn’t matter. There was a pop of brightness as the lights came on, then the rat-puh-puh-tat of the drum. The Majestic wasn’t set up the same way as the Domino, and it didn’t have that club’s history as an underground speakeasy to lend it an air of danger and intrigue. It was closer to a regular restaurant, so the stage was simpler. But it was lovely, all the same.
The band launched into the Gershwin hit “Summertime” — an appropriate choice, as the days had peaked in length and were growing warmer every night. Flora made a straightforward entrance from the left side of the stage, and the look she gave Henry as she walked past him and toward the microphone, her arms swinging languidly, could have lit a city block.
The humans, who did not know what they had before them, scraped their forks against their plates and chattered to each other over the sound of the band, until Flora opened her mouth. When the first note emerged, a few people put down their drinks and watched. Conversations ended. The girl was no longer holding back.
The tune had a meaty bass part for Henry, a sort of slow, sad, wistful walk up the strings that reminded Love of his favorite part of summer, when the heat of the day broke and the light turned a soft purple, and the world was womb-warm and just as safe. Henry gave everything to the song, his hands a blur on the strings, creating a counterpoint to Flora’s melody and a rhythm for her to follow. As Love listened, certain details mesmerized: the way the spotlight burnished the edges of the musicians; the scent of the melting wax from the candles; the occasional, purposeful break in Flora’s voice, turning it from satin to velvet.
The first set ended. Ethan leaned to whisper in Love’s ear: “This is aces, isn’t it?”
Love nodded in agreement, just as the young man’s face took on a stricken look. Death, in her guise as Helen, approached the table in a red dress: hard, modern, impossible to ignore. It was the color she wore when she was in the mood to kill. Love regretted letting himself get so swept away that he’d missed her presence until it was too late to prepare.
The hi-hat shimmered and a new song began. Death crossed her arms and made a face that looked as if she were smuggling a lemon wedge in her mouth. She pulled off her glove and reached for Ethan bare-handed. Love gasped. She stopped short of touching him, as if reminding Love that she held Ethan’s life in her hands too.
; She pulled out a chair between the two of them and sat. “What’s in your pocket?” She tapped the spot where he kept his book of notes and observations about the players and their progress in the Game. “Is it a book? Some sort of journal where you write down your James Boothian exploits? What I wouldn’t give for a look inside of it.”
Love glanced at Ethan to see if the boy had noticed. He had. His face colored as he turned toward the stage and pretended to be transfixed by the music.
What was her aim? The book was merely a record of the Game, a record of things that had happened and could not be changed. He turned his focus to the music, and he turned his affection for Ethan outward, so that every heart in the audience would swell with the joy of it. The effort was exhausting, but he had reached the point in the Game where he could save nothing.
HENRY and Flora made excuses to linger after the show. A sudden summer rainstorm had descended, and they hid from it under the red awning in front of the Majestic.
“I’m starved,” Flora said, wrapping her arms around herself.
Henry draped his jacket around her shoulders. “Our stomachs have so much in common. Where would you like to go?”
“Go?”
“There’s the Sterling Cup, there’s Guthrie’s —”
“Henry,” she said. “Neither of those places will let us in.”
“No, they’re open,” he said. “Ethan and I eat there all the …” His voice trailed off as he understood her meaning. These were white restaurants that would serve colored people through the back windows during the day, at best.
“You might go there,” she said. “We don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never thought about it. It was more that you have your places and we have ours.”
Flora shrugged out of the jacket and returned it to him. “Yes, like the lovely Coon Clucker Inn.”
“What, that place?” he said, refusing the coat. “No one goes there. It’s —” He stopped himself. It was a place for low-class whites. Ethan’s family considered themselves above rubbing elbows with that sort. He thought about the restaurant’s sign: a huge cartoon character with black skin, red, rubbery lips, and a winking eye. It was grotesque, and he’d never given it a second thought. He’d never had to. He was so used to being able to go where he wanted, and so unused to thinking of Flora as anyone other than the girl he loved, that the idea of their not being welcome at a restaurant — or anywhere — hadn’t entered his mind.
The Game of Love and Death Page 20