The Game of Love and Death(48)

“Is there anyone I can call for you?”

She shook her head. “My uncle — he doesn’t have a telephone.”

“No friends? No minister?”

“No one I’d call at this hour,” she said.

“What about Ethan? I could call him and he could drive here.” He’d have to hope none of the other Thornes picked up. They’d be full of questions he did not care to answer.

“And what then?”

Henry was momentarily silent. “We should at least call the coroner.”

“Not yet,” Flora said. “I want to sit with her awhile.” She smoothed her grandmother’s simple dress. Then she reached up and gently closed the woman’s eyes.

Eventually she leaned against the davenport. She unpinned her hat and set it on the ground, and Henry realized what people would say if they knew he was with her like this, in her house after midnight, unchaperoned. If he cared about either of their reputations, he would leave. He swallowed hard. Some things were more important than the judgments of others.



Henry had seen death before. The swift departures of his mother and sister from influenza were first. They’d been fine one day, and then the next, both were feverish. In the days after that, the horrible agony of watching them worsen, their lips cracking, their eyes glazing with incoherence. At the end, his mother had hallucinated about the summer place she had visited as a little girl. It almost looked as if she were having a conversation with someone from beyond.

He’d learned what a truly sudden death was when his father left the house without his hat for reasons Henry, just a boy of ten, could not understand.

Father will be back when he realizes he doesn’t have his hat, he thought. I’ll wait for him by the door and he’ll be so glad I found it.

Henry was sitting on the wooden chair in the foyer with his father’s hat in his lap when the doorbell chimed. He jumped up, holding the hat, wondering why his father hadn’t just walked in. He pulled open the door ready to say, “Father! Look what you forgot!”

But it wasn’t his father. It was two police officers with serious faces, their own hats held close. The one with the curving mustache asked him to run and fetch his mother.

“I can’t, sirs,” he said.

“It’s important,” the other officer said.

“She’s passed on, sirs,” Henry answered. “So is my sister. It’s just me and my father now. We had to let the servants go after the crash.”

The police officers took him to the station in their big car. They sat him in front of a scuffed wooden desk. Someone brought a paper sack from the diner down the street, and as he was eating the greasy doughnut inside, the mustachioed police officer informed him that his father had died. Henry didn’t learn how until years later, when he overheard the Thornes whispering about it. Ever since, heights had made him ill.

Henry remembered himself with a start. Flora was staring at the fireplace.

“Are you cold?” He felt eager for something useful to do.

“Cold?” Flora said. “Maybe.”


He found kindling and matches. Before long, he had a fire roaring. It wasn’t cold enough for such a thing, but the activity helped and the flames were comforting. He turned on more lights in the parlor, keeping the night away as best as he could. Then he sat by Flora again, close enough that he could feel her next to him.

“She made the best gingerbread,” Flora said.

“I remember,” Henry said.

She’d moved her hand next to his. “You should have tried her fried chicken. Now —” She couldn’t get the rest of the sentence out without crying again.

“I wish I had,” Henry said. “I wish —”

“I wish I hadn’t said no,” Flora said. “I didn’t want to. I was surprised to see you there, with a bass no less, and I felt terrible about what we’d done, and Grady, and I just couldn’t …” She looped her little finger over his, and Henry’s pulse raced.

“Let’s forget it,” Henry said, as soon as he could speak. “I showed up uninvited. I can see why you thought it was strange. And we’re not, we have no … Let’s just forget it.” He wanted to say something about her not having obligations to him, how he understood why her people wouldn’t want her with someone like him.

“No,” Flora said. She covered her face with her hands. “I apologize. All of this. I can’t explain it. I don’t mean to be cruel. Something in me went haywire a long time ago. You’re better off staying away.”

Henry went numb. To want her like this and not be wanted in return: The razor’s edge would hurt less. He stood. “Are you hungry? I could cook you eggs or something.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again. But help yourself if you want something.” She led him into the tiny kitchen. She sat at the table, keeping a safe distance, folding and unfolding a napkin while Henry set to work.

He found a cookie sheet, laid strips of bacon on it, and then slid the tray into the oven. As that cooked, he took eggs from the icebox and cracked a half-dozen into a bowl, scrambling them with a splash of cream. He poured the mixture into the pan over a low flame.

“Just how Nana used to cook them,” Flora said.