The Game of Love and Death(52)

A car engine growled behind him. Henry glanced over his shoulder. He recognized Ethan’s Cadillac coming not from home, but from the opposite direction. Downtown. Or — a notion struck him — Hooverville. He raised his hand in greeting and Ethan pulled over. His tie peeped out of the pocket of his jacket, and his shirt was partially unbuttoned. The strangest part, though, was how happy and relaxed he looked.

“You didn’t make it home either, apparently,” Ethan said.

Henry slid into the front seat, suddenly aware of his exhaustion. “Nope.”

“Scoundrel,” Ethan said. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell my parents.”

“What? No,” Henry countered. “It was nothing like that. Her grandmother — she passed away.”

“No fooling?” Ethan grimaced. “That must have been a terrible thing to come home to. What happened?”

“Old age, it looked like. She was just lying on the couch.”

There was silence between them for a moment. Then Ethan spoke, his voice thoughtful. “Life is a temporary condition, Henry. And it’s uncertain. That’s why you have to seize chances when you find them. Pursue what you want. Take risks. Live, love … all of it. Every last one of us is going to die, but if we don’t live as we truly want, if we’re not with the one we want to be with, we’re dead already.”

Henry turned in his seat to see if someone had secretly replaced his best friend with an identical impostor. “Since when has that been your philosophy?”

Ethan turned onto their street. He filled his cheeks with air and exhaled forcefully, as a trumpet player might. “I couldn’t even begin to say,” he said, looking over at Henry. “But something’s happened to me. Just … It’s something I can’t talk about.” He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing his disheveled curls. “But I think it’s probably something you can understand.”

He looked at Henry again with earnestness, and Henry swallowed hard. How much did he want to say? And what, exactly, was Ethan telling him? They drove down the long, treelined avenue in silence.

Ethan turned into the driveway and shut off the engine. “So it’s a good thing, then?” Henry asked.

“Honestly?” Ethan’s eyes had a pained look. He exhaled deeply before he finished his thought. “It’s all I’ve ever really wanted. But I don’t know that I’d ever call it good.”

He covered his face with his hands. Henry wondered if he should say something. Then Ethan opened the door, stepped out of the car, and slouched toward the house, his jacket over his shoulder. Henry followed him to the front door, which swung open when they were a few steps away.

Ethan’s father filled the doorframe. “Out all night, boys?” His face was stern — the expression he wore before he lowered the boom.

“Yes, Father,” Ethan said, crossing his arms over his chest. “All night. I watched the sunrise, in fact. Did you ever do that when you were young?”

Mr. Thorne paused and stroked his chin.

“Actually,” he said, “I did. Which is why I am telling you to go in the back door and use the servants’ stairs. Your mother is up, and if she hears you coming in at this hour, we’ll all have headaches to last a week. Make this the last time this sort of thing happens, though. There are raids on the horizon, and it would complicate things if you’re swept up in any of them. The consequences for both of you would be severe. We’re a prominent family, Ethan. No embarrassments.”

Ethan threw an arm over Henry’s shoulder, and the two boys walked around the ivy-covered north side of the house and into the servants’ entrance. It led into the butler’s pantry and to a narrow staircase that opened onto the third floor, where Ethan and Henry had their bedrooms. They kicked off their shoes and hastened up the stairs in their socks. Ethan grinned at Henry. Henry couldn’t return the look. Police raids could spell disaster for Flora.





AFTER a day spent answering the door to receive visitors and their gifts of food, Flora stood alone in the kitchen, her hands deep in the suds of a dirty pan. She’d done her best to keep busy. Once she fixed her tires, she’d have to go to the airfield and explain her absence to Captain Girard, but he’d understand. Her ambition there felt so out of reach it almost didn’t matter, and even if she achieved the dream, Nana would never know.

The morning paper had carried a small bit about Amelia Earhart’s around-the-world trip. The aviatrix had flown from the mouth of the Amazon River to Dakar, Senegal, setting a record crossing the South Atlantic in thirteen hours and twenty-two minutes. Not so long ago, these exotic names and places, this world record, would have filled her with a competitive rush. Now, though, they were letters on a page, black ink on cheap paper that would yellow and dry out in a blink of time’s eye.

And what was the point? Flora still wanted what flight offered: solitude, good pay, a chance to see the world on her own terms. But she also wanted Henry. She could not have both things, be both things. The impossibility of it was paralyzing. But even if she did choose, she’d still someday end up like her grandmother. Everyone did.

She finished her coffee and pushed the troubling thoughts out of her mind. Except for the mantel clock, the house was entirely silent. The absence of sound would take some getting used to. Nana was always up and about. Cooking, shining the windows, polishing the woodwork, working on a quilt, listening to the wireless.