The Game of Love and Death(38)

He nodded. “Has anyone tried?”

“So far, just the one. A little over a year ago.” She searched her memory. “His name was Joe. One day he tried to kill himself by breaking his glasses and sawing through his own throat.”

“Was he insane?”

“Consider where it occurred,” she said. “Also, he steered clear of his carotid artery. He didn’t really want to die. He was sending a message in blood.” The wind blew her hair again, and she pushed it back.

“What else of Joe?” Love asked. “Did he have friends?”

“No. There was no one. Even among outcasts, he was considered a freak.”

“Why was he in prison?”

“He stole sixteen dollars and thirty-eight cents in a post office robbery. Twenty-five years to life.”

“He would have stolen more if there had been more to take,” Love said. “It’s not the amount. It’s the act.”

“He was hungry.” Death raised her voice so she’d be heard over the cold scream of wind off the bay. “He was hungry and couldn’t find work. Care to guess the last image he offered me?”

Love shook his head.

“It was his own face. Unlooked at. Unseen. Unloved. In his life, there was one moment of great resolve: the moment he chose to climb the stone wall and escape. And then the guard’s bullet found his back.”

Love swallowed. “And you know this from a touch? How do you remember it all?”

“How do you remember your own hands?” Death said.

Love reached into his pocket and removed a chocolate bar. He broke off a square and handed it to her. She put it in her mouth, where it began to melt.

“Bittersweet,” she said.

“It seemed the thing. Chocolate contains some of the same chemicals the human brain produces when it’s in love. I’m surprised you have any taste for it.”

She stared at him. “Condescension does not become you.”

They finished the chocolate as stars emerged in the endless cage of sky, a few at a time, beautiful unblinking monsters.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Love said.

Death squeezed his hand. “Play as yourself. Not as me. Trust me on that.”

Love nodded. Had any human eyes been on them that moment, they would have seen what looked like a couple in love standing beneath a sky pinned in place by a fishhook moon.





HENRY made a deal with himself. If he read fifty pages in his history textbook, he could go to the Domino. Never mind that he’d be out late again and would certainly be too tired afterward to finish his remaining calculus problem. Other calculations mattered more — as in how he might get Flora to change her mind about “someday.”

Clutching a sheaf of unruly pink peonies from Mrs. Thorne’s garden, Henry hastened toward the club. He was sheepish and excited and had a million things to say. Mostly he wanted to be in his seat, watching Flora sing. He wouldn’t press for more, but he had to be near her.

It was strangely quiet on the street outside the club. Usually, snatches of music leaked out of the building. Or couples on their way inside chattered with each other and called out greetings to their friends. Maybe it was just a slow night. Or maybe — he picked up his pace — a police raid had shut the place down. The bulb above the door was dark. The bouncer wasn’t standing at his post. Something was wrong.

Henry pounded on the door until his knuckles hurt. Eventually, as he was about to give up, it opened. Flora’s uncle emerged from the shadows.

“Club’s closed,” he said.

“Closed?” Henry felt stupid for saying it.

“Now I know you don’t got a hearing problem, son. Otherwise, you wouldn’t come here so often. So don’t make me say it again.”


Henry could hardly feel his limbs. “Closed … closed for good? What happened?”

“For now, kid,” the man said, his voice bitter. “Bass player got shot and killed, not that it’s any of your concern.”

Henry felt ill, as if his antipathy for the man had caused his death. “But Flora, she’s all right?”

The man did not answer. “Go home, son. You look like something a cat coughed up.” Then he closed the door.





THREE days later, the band gathered after Grady’s memorial service for a backyard picnic at Flora’s. Several of the players, still wearing their funeral suits, were distracting themselves with a game of croquet using an entirely unorthodox set of rules. The core of the band — Harlan Payne, the drummer, and Palmer Ross, their pianist — sat around the table, arguing with Sherman about whether Jack Johnson would’ve beat the stuffing out of Joe Louis if they’d been the same age.

Despite the weight of the occasion, it was a fine day to be outside — warm and sunny, the air filled with the sweetness of cut grass and wisteria blossoms. If anything, though, it made the guilt worse. The last time Flora had seen Grady was after she’d been with Henry. Grady had dropped her at home without a word, which at the time had felt like a relief. Now it sharpened the feeling inside her that his death had been her fault. She wanted to get in Captain Girard’s plane and leave town, start over somewhere else as someone else. She’d never do it, not with Nana depending on her. But the urge was there.