The Game of Love and Death(53)

She thought about switching it on. But there was no music she could listen to without pain, and the thought of a radio drama or worse, a comedy … it just wouldn’t do. She walked into the parlor and picked up her grandmother’s last quilt, which she’d folded and set on the table. She breathed its scent and then spread it out on the floor, poring over every inch of it until she found it, stitched in red, in the final section her grandmother’s hands had completed. When everything else was gone, there it was, sewn into memory.

She folded the quilt and tried to muster the energy to handle the tires. Sherman was busy with the funeral arrangements, and then he was heading north for business, so he’d be gone for the day. But it would at least occupy the rest of the morning. She washed up and reached for a black dress. She heard Nana’s voice in her mind chiding her for wearing black. So she found a long polka-dot skirt and blouse instead. Then she donned a hat, shoes, and her mother’s gloves and walked back toward the Majestic.

As unbearable as the silence in her house had been, the clamor of life outside was worse. The sun overhead seemed like an affront, as did the barking dogs and rumbling cars. If the world made any sense at all, time would stop when someone died. Just for a moment, just to mark the loss. The sidewalk ahead blurred, and Flora blinked away her tears.

At the club, she set to work on the tires straightaway, glad to have something to occupy her. She had two spares, but she’d have to patch the others. Four flats at once. Flat tires happened often enough, but not when a car was parked. Someone had obviously been up to no good. Flora wished for whoever had done it to walk beneath the business end of a sick pigeon.

She found the jack in the trunk. She’d just lifted one side of the car when she heard someone pull up behind her. A door opened and slammed shut, and she knew who was there without even turning around.

“Hello, Flora.” Henry’s voice was gentle and warm. “Need help?”

“Don’t you have school?” She stood, feeling conscious of her hands, as if she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do with them.

He lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Nope. Not today.” His face told another story, though.

She wondered what he was missing. Final exams, maybe, given the time of year. She decided not to press it, surprisingly grateful for the company. She didn’t ask him how he’d known to come, because she already knew what his answer would be. He’d known she was there, just as she’d known he was on his way. It was as if they were playing a duet, but on a much bigger stage. “You any good at patching a tire?”

“I do it for Ethan all the time.”

They crouched side by side, and she couldn’t help but smell the lemon-and-spice scent of his skin all over again. She liked it, but for some reason, it made her deeply sad, more conscious than usual of inevitable loss.

“The patches are in the trunk.” She tried to sound as businesslike as possible. “Orange tin. I’m going to put the spares on, then we can fix the ones I’m taking off, all right?”

As they worked, she found herself humming, out of habit more than anything.

“What’s that song?” Henry said.

“Billie Holiday. ‘Easy Living.’ Ever heard it?”

“Nope. But I like it.”

She had a wild idea, one she hesitated to say out loud. “I can teach it to you afterward,” she said. “If you want. It can be the first number you learn.”

There was a long pause, and she wondered if she’d said something stupid.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said. “What’s the harm in that?”



After they’d repaired the tires and driven to the Domino, they made their way down the steps together.

“It’s different during the daytime,” Henry said, removing his hat.

At first Flora didn’t know what he meant by “it” — them? The way they interacted? The strange ease of the night of Nana’s death was gone.

She guessed he meant the club. “The crowds and music add a certain something.” She moved ahead of him to find the switch for the main room.

“I like it better this way, actually. There’s more of a sense of expectation.” He paused at the base of the stairs, and she turned back to look at him. “This is a place that wants to be filled.”

Flora was glad for the inadequate lighting. She set her gloves down on a table and climbed the staircase to the wings where Grady’s bass remained. Henry put his hat next to her gloves and followed her.

“I’ll get that.” He picked up the bass, carrying it with practiced arms across the stage.

“So the first few chords —” She breathed in, the way a person does before diving beneath the surface of a lake. “I’m not warmed up, but they go like this.” She sang the notes so that they’d correspond with where they fell in the melody. “A minor seventh, E diminished …”

Henry checked that the bass was in tune and started plucking along with her, as if he were getting the feel for things.

She sang carefully, quietly at first, taking her time to warm up, making sure he was following. He looked at her every so often, then returned his attention to the bass, sliding his left hand along the neck of it as he found the notes, coaxing sound out of it with his right.

“You’re holding back,” he said. “Why?”