The Game of Love and Death(55)

“Run along,” Officer Wallace said.

The children scattered like dry leaves.

“I’d like my telephone call,” Henry said.

“All in good time.” Officer Wallace led Flora to her cell first. He clicked open the cuffs. The return of circulation made her hands ache. The door slammed behind her. The space was small and dark and dirty, equipped with something that was more a hole than a toilet, and a bed that barely deserved the name.

It occurred to her, as she lowered herself onto the thin mattress, that no one had offered her a telephone call. Not that it mattered. Nana was dead. Sherman was halfway across the state, picking up a supply of alcohol from his inexpensive source, and he wouldn’t be back for hours, and neither he nor anyone else in the band had a telephone, anyway. There was no one to come for her.





FIRST Nana. Now this. Flora wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, to temporarily shut out the sadness of the world, but she couldn’t. The cell was dank and smelly: the opposite of the sky. Somewhere in the gloom, a fly buzzed. She did not want to think about what it might be dining on. She tried to imagine herself in her plane, leaving all of this behind, but she couldn’t. She leaned against the rough, damp wall and willed herself not to feel anything at all.

And then she heard Henry’s voice. Singing. It hadn’t occurred to her before that he might be able to do this too. He sounded as if his voice had been shaped to fit her ears alone. She moved by the bars, so that she could hear better.

The song wasn’t one she knew, although it was the sort that immediately felt as familiar as her own skin.

You are the moon

And I am the sea

Wherever you are

You’ve got pull over me

The whole of the sky

Wants to keep us apart

The distance is wearing

A hole in my heart

Someday your moonlight

Will blanket my skin

Someday my waves

Will pull all of you in

Someday I promise

The moon and the sea

Will be together

Forever you and me.

Someday. For as long as she could remember, Flora had linked thoughts of this word with the certainty of death: hers, and that of everyone she’d ever loved. Someday had always been a source of dread. But the sweetness of this song showed her a different way to look at it, a way that made it hurt less.

As she listened, her grief over Nana, her rage at her situation, her guilt over Henry faded. She could have listened to the song, been suspended in its magic, for ages. But it was not to be. Slow applause and the click of heels on the concrete broke the spell. Henry stopped mid-note.

“Don’t stop on my account,” a sharp voice said.

Flora peered through the bars. Her stomach clenched at the sight of the hard-looking girl who’d been with Henry at the Majestic. If she was the one he’d called when he needed rescuing, she must mean something to him. And it made sense. She was beautiful. She looked intelligent. She was the right color. She was everything he needed.

Flora understood this, and even though the match would provide a happy life for Henry, she envied the dark-haired girl for having what she could not have, for being who she could not be. Worse, the girl would know Henry’s humiliation was Flora’s fault. She’d look down on her, and rightfully so.

The girl stopped in front of Henry’s cell. “Congratulations. After bail, you have twelve cents to your name. It’s a good thing I was never interested in your money.”

Henry replied, too softly for Flora to hear.

“You must be joking,” the girl said.

More murmuring from Henry.

“You’re a lunatic.” The girl raised her voice. “You know what the Thornes are going to say, don’t you?”

“Helen, please. Don’t tell them why I’m here. I beg of you. And once you’ve finished, if you could please pick up Ethan at school, and take him to his car, then he can come back for me. He has the money, and he won’t mind that I took the Cadillac. Please … I need you to do this for me.”

Flora held her breath and wished she knew what they were talking about.

Helen shot back a reply. “It’s an awfully queer way to ask me for a favor, Henry. What do I care about her? I’m certainly not going to promise my silence. Not without anything from you in return.”

There was a long pause, and Flora still didn’t dare breathe. Then a whisper from Henry and Helen spoke again, her voice flip and uncaring.

“Fine,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”

Flora, no longer trying to mask her hate for Helen, wished a piano would fall from the sky and land on her. Death in the key of B-flat.

And then, just like that, the girl was in front of Flora, accompanied by a guard. “Don’t just stand there like a lump,” Helen said.

“Excuse me?” Flora tried to hide her contempt for Henry’s sake. “What’s happening?”

The guard jingled his keys, and Helen said, “Henry’s being a fool. He had only enough money to get one of you out, and because he’s a gentleman — a quality I truly admire — he’s chosen you. But if you’re comfortable here, I’d love to talk some sense into him.”

Flora felt like an animal on display. The disgust was palpable.

“Someone else will come for me,” Flora said.