The Game of Love and Death(44)

“I can think of something worse,” James practically spat at her.

The pair pulled apart when Ethan coughed politely, and Henry was relieved when his friend switched on the radio again. The news program had ended and the announcer was telling the story of a woman, her maid, a love made possible through the magic of Ivory soap.

“They’re playing your commercial, Helen,” Ethan said. He quoted the jingle: “ ‘Hilda will never get a Grecian nose by using a beauty soap, but we do hope she gets Henry.’ ”

“Hilda!” Helen said. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting their pronunciation. Either that, or Henry has some explaining to do.”

They arrived at the Majestic. Henry expected to escort Helen inside, but Ethan and James flanked her instead, leaving Henry to walk by himself into the club.

It was just as well. It gave him a chance to catch his breath, to take in the lighted marquee, the thump of the band, the weight of the clouds. There was no bouncer, so Helen, James, and Ethan walked in while Henry stood on the sidewalk, relieved to have a moment alone. The air around him pulsed with energy, and if he’d still been a little kid, he would have wanted to run up and down the street yelling at the top of his lungs, just to release the feeling. As unsettling as it was, it beat the sadness.

The rain started. As the first drops soaked his skin, the atmosphere shifted. He dabbed the water away with his handkerchief and breathed deeply, savoring the mysterious scent the drops had drummed from the soil. Light footsteps tapped the sidewalk behind him. He turned and saw her.

“Flora.” He took a half step toward her before he remembered himself. She stood alone, a black umbrella hooked over her arm.

“Henry. I —” She pressed her lips together. She looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else.

After a moment, she looked away, and Henry realized he would let Flora break his heart a million times, if he could look at her face every day.

“What’s keeping you, Henry?” Helen stood in the open doorway of the Majestic. She stroked the head of her mink. “We’re all waiting.”

He swallowed. “Excuse me,” he said to Flora.

He walked into the club, knowing she was behind him, knowing she was watching. But he wouldn’t let himself turn around or speak to her again. He was here with Helen. He’d honor that. He’d also keep Flora away from Helen, who could be a pill and a half. Besides, Flora didn’t want him anyway. He owed it to his pride to steer clear.



Henry had wanted to lose himself inside the music, a complicated song being played in 5/4 time, a polyrhythm that felt murderously hard to pull off. But Helen and James had started in again about the Trojan War and the many other victims of the other Helen’s treachery: the deaths of Achilles and his lover Patroclus, the isolation of Ajax, the endless journey of Odysseus. They shouted at each other to be heard over the music, with a glum-looking Ethan interjecting to referee.

“Love killed all those people,” Helen said.

“The war did that. War.” James finished his drink. “War is the machinery of death.”

“The machinery was started by love.” Helen slipped a cigarette between her lips and leaned toward Ethan to light it.

“You talk about love as though it’s the root of all evil,” James said.

“And you’ve failed to prove that it isn’t.” The look on her face surprised Henry: hurt and angry and scared. What had happened to Helen to make her turn out this way?

Ethan signaled to the waiter for another round of drinks, but Helen shook her head. “I’ve had enough of this.” She stood.

“Helen, don’t be that way,” Ethan said. Henry wanted to echo the sentiment, but couldn’t.

“Be what way?” she said. “It’s just a friendly debate. Mr. Booth here thinks there is something magical about love; I say it’s one of the swifter routes to ruin.”

“I’m glad you and your cousin are not of the same mind,” James said.

Ethan stammered. “Let’s — let’s just listen to the music.”

Helen wasn’t swayed. “I’ve enjoyed meeting your friend.” She reached for her clutch. “What a charmer. But I really must be getting home.”

Ethan stood. James put his hand on Ethan’s forearm. “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “I feel responsible for the unpleasantness.”

“Let me.” Henry stood.

“No, I’ll do it,” Ethan said. The waiter rushed forward, as if concerned they were going to skip out on their bill.

“Sit,” Helen said. “Both of you. Mr. Booth can walk me out, although I doubt he can pay for my cab.”

“I can, believe it or not,” James said.

Henry tried to step away from the table to escort Helen, but he found himself feeling rooted to the floor. It was the most curious sensation. He glanced at Ethan, who shrugged, then sat and sipped his drink. Helen and James walked out together, still arguing.

“Forget them,” Ethan said. “What a bust this has been. She’s the kiss of death to good times. Always has been. Sorry, pal.”

Henry, dazed, fell into the chair next to him. He gulped his drink. What a strange evening, strange and terrible.

Across the room, he spotted Flora. She’d just set down her empty glass of champagne. She looked back at him, but as he smiled and lifted his hand to wave, she closed her eyes. As much as he wanted to be able to look at her and have it mean something to her, he didn’t mind. She was beautiful lit up with song. So beautiful. And never to be his.