The Game of Love and Death(40)

The black cat slipped through the open screen door and brushed Flora’s ankles. She put a hand on her chest, feeling dizzy. Probably from too much chicken and sunshine and not enough ice tea. She shooed the cat away, and it entangled itself in Nana’s ankles.

“There’s that creature again,” Nana said. “I swear it will be the death of me.”

Flora shook her head. The idea of Henry in her band was madness. And yet she was surprised to find she wanted it. Without knowing why, and with the certainty of knowing she’d never want anything else nearly as much. This was why she had to say no, and firmly. It would only hurt them both when he played and was terrible. She’d never be able to face him after that.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just —”

“Just what?” Henry said. “Do you think I can’t play or something?” His eyes challenged her. Flora wanted to take a half step back.

“It’s not that.”

“What she’s saying,” Sherman said, “is that is the least of your problems. There’s also the matter of your age. If you’re over eighteen, I’m a juggling nun. I’m gonna have to talk to Bathtub about who he’s lettin’ in the place.”

“Flora isn’t eighteen,” Henry said.

“Flora owns the club. The rules don’t apply to her. Go on home, boy.”

“Flora.” Henry loosened the knot on his tie. “May I at least audition?”

The way he said her name sank into her core. Terrified people would guess her feelings, she stepped backward and smashed the cat’s tail beneath her shoe. The creature hissed and zipped outside.

Then she said the last words she wanted to say. “I don’t — you’re not the one for us. I’m sorry.” She turned away. As she walked down the steps and outside again, she heard Nana’s voice.

“Can we at least offer you a bit of chicken? I fried it up myself.”

Henry declined politely, and his silhouette disappeared from the screen door.



He hurried out, trying not to hit his bass on the edges of the doorway. She wouldn’t even listen, a possibility he hadn’t imagined, couldn’t believe. It had been audacious to want to audition. But he had talent, and he’d been playing her songs almost since the moment he’d first seen her onstage. He’d practiced so much his fingertips were raw. She’d dismissed him without so much as an explanation.

He thought there had been something between them. The way they’d met as children. The way their paths crossed again at the airstrip and the park, as though fate were guiding them toward each other. How they both understood the language of music. The way she felt in his arms as they waltzed on the rooftop under a sky that had no moon and no stars but still felt full of light.

The difference between that and how he felt at the Thorne family dinner table with Helen was enormous. Helen was the right choice in many ways, but wrong in all the ones that mattered. And then a space had opened up for him onstage with Flora — in a terrible way, yes. But he was ready to step into it. He’d offered himself up. And she’d said no. How could he have been so stupid?

If that was the way she wanted it, he’d respect it. He’d let her go. Give Helen another chance. Maybe he’d been mistaken about love. Maybe Helen could teach him another way.

He set his bass next to Ethan’s car. He popped open the back door and was just about to slide in the bass when a sparrow sang a lick exactly like the one Henry had been working to master. Coincidence, maybe. Or maybe just a trick of his reeling mind. Either way, a twitch started in his fingertips. It rose through his arms and across his chest, and there was only one way he could still it.

He closed the car door, removed his bass from its case, tightened the hair on his bow, and found a divot in the sidewalk that would hold the endpin steady. He would walk away from her, but not without giving her something to remember him by. He faced the fence surrounding Flora’s backyard, tilted the bass against his heart, and checked to see that the strings were in tune.

He began the first movement of a Bach suite that had been written for the cello, but could be played on the bass by someone with enough skill. It was a good warm-up piece, sweet and smooth. He eased into his own rendition of “Summertime,” constructing a bridge of notes that joined the two songs. He took his time traveling over it, like he was a man unweighted. And then, nearly there, he dropped his bow and bent himself entirely toward the pizzicato jazz style.

His playing took on urgency. His impulse had been to make Flora hear him and realize her mistake. But the music swallowed him. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted to play.

Time slowed down enough that he could turn what he was feeling into notes. A lock of hair slipped onto his forehead and his skin grew hot, but his hands stayed light and fast. He played as if he could not go wrong, as if he were meant to be right there, doing the thing he’d been born to do. The ground and his body and the sky were no longer separate, but as related as three notes could be in an infinite variety of chords.

Henry didn’t notice when faces appeared over the fence. Flora’s band. As they listened, the men removed their hats. Eventually, they ventured glances at one another. No one spoke.

Henry played until he’d said his piece. His shirt stuck to his back and a drop of sweat from his forehead fell to the sidewalk. He looked up and acknowledged his audience. Flora stood atop the porch steps. She held one hand on her chest, clutching her dress.