The Game of Love and Death(27)

“Oh, Helen,” Mrs. Thorne said, “what a curious thing to say. I’m sure Henry has thought no such thing.”

It was true. But, he realized, he would not be able to look at a flower again without wondering whether it had suffered, and whether anyone had cared.

A minute later, Ethan bounded down the stairs holding two racquets and a fresh box of Slazenger tennis balls.

“Don’t you have any Dunlops?” Helen said. Ethan shot her a look of disgust. “Oh, but I’m just teasing. I’ll play with any old thing.”

“You’re stuck with me,” Ethan said. “Henry’s busy.”

Helen took one of the racquets from Ethan’s hand, tipped it over her shoulder, and looked back at Henry with a wink.

“Isn’t she lively?” Mrs. Thorne said, after Helen and Ethan had disappeared outside. “Lively and intelligent.” She slid one tulip after another into the vase. “This whole thing with the — it’s just — she comes from good stock,” Mrs. Thorne said. “That should be what matters. But back east, they’re a little —” She sniffed, and somehow managed to elongate the space between her nose and lips just enough to look like an insulted horse.

Even with all the half-finished sentences, Mrs. Thorne’s meaning was clear. The prospect made him feel — he looked at the tulips before him — as if he were about to be severed from something vital.

“Did I tell you about the school she attended?” Mrs. Thorne chattered as she led Henry to Mr. Thorne’s office. She wiped her already dry hands on her white linen apron.

“You did,” he said. Twice. “It sounded like a rigorous environment.”

“And she would’ve had top marks there.” Mrs. Thorne tilted her head to examine her work. She nudged one flower to the left and moved the vase to the corner of Mr. Thorne’s desk.

Henry nodded and watched the flower drift back to its original spot. Top marks but for all the time she spent in the office of the headmistress accused of things for which they had no proof. He’d heard Ethan’s parents whisper about it.

Seeming satisfied with her arrangement, Mrs. Thorne lifted the old photograph of Helen off the shelf. She held it up and regarded Helen’s and Henry’s faces side by side. “Well,” Mrs. Thorne said, after she’d set the photograph down. “I think we’re finished here. Can you please send Ethan inside to do his schoolwork?” She smoothed her apron and left the room with the empty basket, a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Of course.”

He walked to the west-facing window. Late-afternoon sun spilled across the grass and through the trees, bathing everything in a green-gold light. Helen returned a serve, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Ethan lobbed it over the net and Helen threw her racquet at it. Both the racquet and the ball made it over the net. Ethan picked them up, looking exasperated, as Helen flopped down on the grass, laughing, her cigarette in her left hand. Ethan tossed the ball at her. She caught it with her right, and winged it into the cypress hedge.

“Hey!” Ethan yelled. “That’s practically new.” He jogged after the ball. Helen caught Henry staring through the window. He ducked into the shadows, and then realized this made him look more foolish. When he looked out again, she blew him a kiss, holding her nearly spent cigarette between her fingertips. By the time he thought to wave, she’d already turned back to Ethan, who’d emerged from the hedge, looking ready for revenge.

When Henry went outside to fetch him, Helen came inside as well. He wondered if he’d ever grow used to her arm in his — stiff and cold, even through his sleeve. It wasn’t what he thought it would feel like, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, he didn’t care much for her perfume or how it smelled mixed with tobacco. But maybe this was what a person was supposed to get used to. Maybe accepting it was what it meant to grow up.



At dinner, Henry sat across from Helen, who took the seat of honor at Mrs. Thorne’s right.

“You must be starving, my dear, after your long journey,” Mrs. Thorne told Helen, who’d changed out of her tennis whites and into a black-and-white-striped dress with an enameled red rose pinned over her heart.

“I confess I am rather hungry,” Helen said. She sipped red wine from a goblet. “Though I did eat quite well on the way.” She lifted her fork, letting it hover over her plate.

“It’s curried lamb,” Mrs. Thorne said. “And Waldorf salad. There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”

Annabel pointed at the lamb dish. “I don’t want … the yellow. May I just eat bread and butter?”

“That’s prison food, Annabel,” Mr. Thorne said. “You’ll eat what your mother planned and you’ll like it. Even if it is … never mind. I don’t know why you didn’t just have Gladys bake a ham. Everybody likes ham.”

“I think it’s terribly modern,” Helen said. “Well, except for the salad. That’s been in New York for ages and ages. But curried lamb! My!”

Henry marveled. Everything that came out of Helen’s mouth in front of the elder Thornes was perfectly polite. And yet something about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself — maybe it was her slow, wide smile — felt off. Dangerous, even, as silly as that notion felt.

“It looks like cat food,” Ethan said.