The Game of Love and Death(47)

“How will this work?” Marion said.

Death took her hand. Marion’s soft arm wrapped around her shoulder, and her forehead touched Death’s as the two leaned into each other. At the moment of contact, there was an explosion of memories, Marion’s and Vivian’s, cut apart and stitched together …

… and then Death’s eyes turned white as Marion’s life flowed into her, feeding that endless hunger until she felt as though she might burst.

Marion said one last word: “Oh!”

Her body grew heavy. Death eased herself out from beneath the old woman’s shoulder and arranged her on the davenport. She laid Marion’s head on a needlepoint pillow, slipped her still-warm shoes off her feet, and placed them neatly on the floor. She removed Marion’s spectacles, but left the old woman’s eyes open.

Death looked from the quilt to the clock and back to the quilt again. She slipped the needle out from the top layer of fabric. Fascinating how such a small, pointed object could bind together so much. She inhaled, feeling comforted by a variety of scents: cotton, baby powder, the beeswax Marion had used to stiffen her thread.

Death worked the needle and thread through the fabric as well as she could, picking up speed as she grew used to the task. Then, as abruptly as she started, she stood and released time. The clock chimed once, twice, three more times — and Death was gone.





HENRY retrieved an umbrella from the Cadillac and waved Ethan and James ahead. He’d walk a few paces behind Flora and see to it she got home safely. If he timed his steps to match hers, she wouldn’t even know.

He liked watching her walk. He liked the look of the umbrella resting on her shoulder, the way her dress swished around her calves with each step, and the smart way her shoes met the sidewalk. No hesitation. Ka-tap, ka-tap, ka-tap. A high-heeled heartbeat softened by the gentle hiss of rain.

Every so often, she seemed to speed up or slow down. Henry was long used to keeping time with other musicians, so he had no problem responding. But after several blocks she surprised him by stopping short. The scuff-click of his own footstep echoed off of someone’s garage. Flora held still, as though she were listening, and Henry waited for her to turn around. She didn’t.

As she resumed walking, Henry followed. But after a few strides, she tossed in a little dance step he could not hope to follow. This time, when his footfalls rang out, she stopped.

“I thought I heard a shadow.” She turned toward him.

“The noisiest one in the history of shadows. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

“You must have confused me with some other person who is frightened by a stroll.”

“At midnight? In the rain?”


Flora peered out from under her umbrella. She pretended to be injured by the raindrops that hit her cheeks. “We could keep going like this,” she said, “or you could walk beside me.” She paused. “Even though I don’t have any gingerbread this time.”

She remembered that day from when they were children, the day Charles Lindbergh came to town. His pleasure at that left him unable to hold on to his hurt feelings. Not now, not when he was so close to her, thinking about her voice, dying to know what she’d thought of the show. There was no one in his life to talk to about what music meant. He didn’t realize until that moment how much he hungered for such a thing.

Their umbrellas knocked against each other overhead as they walked, shaking down a net of raindrops, and Flora laughed. “There’s room under mine. Here.”

She raised her umbrella to make space, and Henry folded his away. She took his other arm. She wasn’t as tall as he’d remembered. The top of her head came to an inch or two below his shoulder. Still, she was the perfect size. His arm would wrap around her waist just so…

“Cat got your tongue?” She looked up at him.

“Cat? What?” Henry was glad she couldn’t read his mind. “What did you think of the music tonight?”

“One of the better bass players I’ve heard,” she said. “But not the best.”

His heart beat faster and they turned onto Flora’s street. Henry wanted her to say who the best was, and he wanted it to be him, and that need embarrassed him.

“Ooh, stop!” Flora said. “Listen — midnight.”

Henry stood next to her, feeling the brim of her hat against his shoulder, her skirt against his calf, the rise and fall of her breathing. The bells of a faraway church pushed through the raindrops. Time slowed so there was nothing but the vibration of the chimes against his skin. The bells stopped, and he resumed breathing.

Flora tilted her head and looked toward her house. “Strange. The parlor light’s on. It’s awfully late for Nana to be up.”

When they reached the porch, she ducked out from beneath the umbrella and dashed up the steps. She found the key in her pocketbook and unfastened the lock. She burst inside, leaving the door ajar. Henry wondered whether he should follow. And then Flora cried out.



Henry followed, ready to fight an intruder. Instead, he found Flora on her knees by the davenport, sobbing. Her grandmother’s mouth gaped and her lips had a bluish tinge, but it was her open eyes that made it clear she was gone.

Henry froze. It was too late for a doctor. There was nothing the police could do. He felt as if he were the intruder. But he couldn’t leave her alone. Not like this. He sat beside her, silent until she turned toward him a while later.