The Game of Love and Death(18)

“You have to be able to withstand a bit more than hard shoes in the pursuit of procreation,” Mr. Thorne said. “Your mother said to put down the fossils.”

“I was five when she kicked me,” Ethan said, catching the fossils one at a time with a flourish. He set them back on the shelf. “And Helen” — he shot Henry a warning look — “Helen is not particularly lovable.”

“Kicking isn’t nice,” Annabel said. “I do not kick.”

“Run along to the kitchen, Annabel,” Mrs. Thorne said.

Holding her doll by one leg, Annabel galloped out of the room.

After a moment, Mrs. Thorne tucked her hair behind her ear. “Helen isn’t a match for Ethan, of course, but we’ll see what Henry says about the matter. She might … he might enjoy her company.” She set down the photograph and wiped imaginary dust from the edge of the frame.

“He’s in the room, Mother,” Ethan said. “And he’s not like one of Annabel’s dolls for you to play with. He’s a person.”

Henry wanted to say something on his own behalf. But what? This was what he was supposed to want. A way to become an official part of the Thorne clan. He’d complete his schooling and become engaged to a girl damaged enough to say yes to a penniless orphan but still a good enough match to give him connections that would lead to a respectable job. It was a life that promised him everything that was supposed to matter.

“The second bit of news involves Henry,” Mrs. Thorne said. She held up an envelope, addressed to him, which had been opened. “The scholarship to the university came through. Isn’t that wonderful?”

It was good news. Truly. Pieces of his life were falling into place all around him.

“Excellent, excellent,” Mr. Thorne said. He turned his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

“Now, boys, both of you may be excused,” Mrs. Thorne said. “We’re going to have to get the house ready. There’s so much to do.” She clasped her hands together. “So much to do.”



“She probably won’t kick you in the shins,” Ethan said as they hustled out of the library. “But if I were you, I’d be careful.”

“What?” Henry said. He was thinking of one thing only: getting to the carriage house so he could play music and think. So many things were happening, and so fast.

“I was joking,” he said. “But I do imagine she’s outgrown kicking boys. She might even be nice now. And for certain, she’s not bad-looking. I wouldn’t blame you if …” He let the thought trail off.

Henry looked at Ethan in disbelief.

“I’m on your side, of course,” Ethan said quickly. “You don’t need a marriage to be part of this family. You’re important.” His face turned a bit pink. “You’re like my brother. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says.”

Henry was glad to hear it even if he and Ethan weren’t the sort for soppy stuff. He felt the same way, despite the fact he was feeling the limits of their brotherhood for the first time. He wouldn’t talk about Flora with Ethan, not after that first night, although he’d been to the Domino many times since. He’d waited until after Ethan had gone to bed, then he’d sneaked out, borrowing Ethan’s car on the sly.

Now that he knew this Helen person was on her way, it felt as though someone had planted a bomb in his life and lit a fuse. As soon as Helen arrived and Mrs. Thorne put her plot into motion, this life he’d begun to hope for — one with late nights in jazz clubs and the dizzying presence of Flora — would be annihilated. Ethan’s words confirmed it.

“But think of it, Henry,” he said. “If you married her someday, not now or anything — and I’m not saying you have to, I mean, you ought to get to know her and see if she’s your kettle of fish. And maybe neither of us will ever marry. But if you did, and you chose her, you’d really be part of the family. My father might even write you into the will or give you a share of the paper. I’d always have you with me. It would solve so many problems —”

“Look, I know,” Henry said, louder than he’d intended. “There’s something I have to do, so if you’ll excuse me.”

He ignored the hurt look on Ethan’s face. This one time, he couldn’t bear being responsible for disappointing him.

“Hooverville tomorrow, though, right?” Ethan called behind him. “We’ll crack that story wide open.”

“Yes.” Henry didn’t bother to turn around. When had he ever let Ethan down?

Henry spent the rest of the afternoon in the carriage house. He started off playing the Enigma Variations but lost interest before he made it through the second movement. Without thinking, he began to play his versions of Flora’s music, eventually setting down his bow so he could focus on jazz-style plucking, varying the lengths of his notes to create a rhythm that felt entirely new. He imagined her voice replying to the voice of his bass, and he wished she were there so they could talk to each other without the peril of words.

This wasn’t like classical music, where every note was written, every movement with the bow prescribed, every dynamic meant to be the same every time. It was more like real life: unpredictable, unrepeatable, sometimes lousy, but something you loved all the same.