The Game of Love and Death(45)

STUCK as eternal companions, Love and Death never worked as allies. But in that moment they left the Majestic, they worked toward a shared goal of keeping the humans inside the club, each for reasons of their own. Death slowed time, and Love dimmed the hearts of Henry and Ethan so they would stay complacently in their seats. This accomplished, their antagonism returned.

“What you’re doing to that boy,” Death said. “It’s vicious. Irresponsible.”

“Henry? You’re the one toying with him.”

“I meant Ethan,” she hissed. “He’s a little close, don’t you think?”

“I’m playing the Game. Ethan loved Henry. Now he loves me. You, though — you’re going straight for the kill. It’s appalling. Never in the history of the Game —”

She interrupted. “I don’t think you’re entitled to make accusations along those lines. I carried those deaths to spare you that. You’re not strong enough.”

The words silenced Love.

She spoke again, more softly this time. “I, however, have not yet succeeded at love. Henry hardly looks at me. And to think that I’ve made him at least thirty-seven sandwiches.”

Her confession made Love laugh. Death laughed too. Around them, the rain thickened. Steam rose from their shoulders, tangling with the mists of night. Love put his arm around Death’s shoulder. “Go home. Dry off. Drink something warm.”

“Home,” she said. “Which do you mean?”

“Ethan’s, of course. If you were to disappear now, James Booth would swing from the gallows.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Her glee pleased Love, even though it was at his expense. “But I can’t go home just yet. Business to attend to.” Her eyes darkened. She was gone before he could ask what she meant.

Setting aside his anxiety about her swift departure, he approached Flora’s car. He considered opening its hood and removing some necessary part, some greasy cog, or one of those little sparking wonders that made the beast roar. But for his plan to work best, his vandalism had to be visible.

To guard against witnesses, he shifted his guise. His pants and coat were now black, as was the cap that covered his golden hair. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket — every man in Hooverville had some sort of blade — and drove its tip into each tire. He stood in the cobblestone street, watching the car sink. As the rain spiraled down, he turned his face to the stars, the stars that always hung there, even when they could not be seen. Stars that burned their eternities in the cold solitude of space, piercing the darkness for as long as they could.





FLORA had heard what she needed to hear. Peaches was fine, but not good enough for the Domino, at least not long term. They might be able to work with Doc to borrow him temporarily while they advertised as planned. She resolved to work on it the next day, and felt better than she had since Grady died. The clarity of the decision combined with the buzz of the bubbly filled her with a streak of daring — the same compulsion she felt flying loop the loops over Lake Washington.

On her way out, she veered past Henry’s table. The girl he was with had gone, probably to the powder room. Flora pretended not to notice Henry until the last moment. Then, when he looked up at her, she stopped and bent her lips to his ear, resting one gloved hand on his shoulder.

“He’s good,” she whispered. “But nothing compared to you.”

Her lips brushed down Henry’s earlobe. She wanted to stay there, inhaling him, or even turning his perfectly curved chin toward her so she could kiss his lips, just once. But she didn’t. That sort of thing … it couldn’t happen. Ever.

She fetched her things from the coat check and stepped outside. The rain was coming down furiously, so she popped her umbrella and held it overhead. She’d nearly reached her car when she noticed something awful: all of her tires were flat. She stood staring at them for several minutes, torn between calling for a cab and walking home. A walk would cost less money. Just as she was about to set off, she heard footsteps. Behind her stood Henry, Ethan, and a fellow about their age. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

“Looks as though you might have a flat tire,” Henry said.

“Or four,” she replied.

“We have a dry car,” Henry said, “if you’d like a lift. It’s no trouble.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I could use the walk.”

“Flora,” Henry said. “It’s almost midnight. It’s raining. You’ll get soaked.”

“Nonsense.” She lifted her umbrella overhead. She held her pocketbook close to her ribs. It wasn’t much more than a mile. Even in her high-heeled shoes, it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. And, after her disclosure, it felt safer.

“Let us take you.” Henry pleaded with his eyes.

“Thank you, but no.” She turned and headed toward home. Her shoes would be ruined and she’d probably catch her death of cold, but she’d have her pride intact. That felt like enough. Wanting a safer distance between them, she walked faster.





DEATH did not travel back to Ethan’s home. Instead, she slipped inside her black cat guise and meowed piteously until the old woman let her in. Flora’s grandmother tucked small, even stitches into a quilt. Game or no Game, it was this woman’s time. No one, not even Love, could fault her for that. She’d almost finished with the quilt, which melted over the edges of a table in front of her. It was a riot of color and fabric that had been cut from remnants of flour sacks and Marion’s own dresses over the years, reassembled into a blooming chrysanthemum pattern.