The Game of Love and Death(65)

“Yes?” He held her hands and looked into her eyes, so sweetly serious.

“You smell terrible.” It was the best kind of terrible, but he’d feel better if he was clean. “The bathroom’s down the hall. Wash up. I’ve got some clothes that ought to fit you.”

He laughed. “And then what?”

“Then I’m calling Sherman,” she said. “And we’re maybe stopping by the Majestic if we can get things together quickly enough.”

“The Majestic? But I don’t have any money, and all my other clothes are at my tar-paper castle. It’s almost two weeks before I get my first paycheck —”

“Shh. Doc’s going to pay us,” Flora said, touching his lips. “So are a bunch of the other clubs in town. They will. I know it. So clean yourself up. We have work to do. And I have to keep moving, or I’ll start thinking about everything else and fall apart.”

“I’m sorry for what’s going to happen,” Henry said.

“What?” she said, her shoulders stiffening. “What’s going to happen this time?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if it would have killed him to do anything else. And she was glad, because if he hadn’t, she might have died. His mouth was soft on hers. Soft, and warm, and those lips she’d studied so intently tasted salty and sweet, and they moved against hers as if they’d been made for no other purpose. They would never be the couple he wanted them to be; but at least they would always have this moment, this secret sliver of joy that could live on in memory, if no place else.



By the time Henry was clean and dressed, the rest of the band had arrived. Voices, laughter, warm-up notes from trumpets … a world of sound he thought he’d always stand at the periphery of, never getting to dive in. He listened from the short, narrow hallway, keeping himself in the shadows.

“We talked to Doc already,” a man said. “We’ve just been waiting for you to come around.”

Flora replied: “You know I’m only singing until I have enough money for my flight.”

“You keep saying that,” the voice said. “But you don’t ever got to be just one thing. Life isn’t divided up like that, where you’re one thing at the cost of another. And it’s not just the Majestic. Plenty of places for us to play as featured guests.”

“And he’s all right if Henry —”

“He wants to hear him, obviously,” the voice said, “but we vouched. Henry’s in.”

Henry, feeling bad about eavesdropping, cleared his throat and loudly entered the room. He felt painfully aware of his wet hair and white skin and the fact he was wearing clothing that must have belonged to Flora’s father.

“Look what the cat dragged in — our bass player.” It had been Palmer, the pianist, talking.

“Really?” Henry replied, not having to pretend to sound excited and disbelieving.

Palmer pointed at Henry. “That one’s dimmer than a new moon. We been trying to get her to sign you up since that day at her house. And now she tells us you wrote a hit song. Let’s hear it.”

The slow smile that worked its way across Flora’s face was about the best thing he’d seen. He looked around the room. The band filled chairs, windowsills, the davenport. The ones who’d been having private conversations stopped. They were waiting. For him.

“But I don’t have my bass,” he said.

“Flora,” Sherman said. “You still have your daddy’s, right?”

“Still do,” she said. “The strings are going to be ancient, though — I don’t know.”

“Better than nothing,” Palmer said. “Need a hand in fetching it?”

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“I’ll help,” Henry said.

“Just don’t help yourself to too much,” one of the trumpet players said. Henry made a mental note to throttle the guy later. He followed Flora into a bedroom that clearly had been her grandmother’s. In the corner, looking like an old soldier, stood a bass with dusty shoulders.

“Here,” he said, reaching for it. “Let me.”

“Wait,” Flora said. She took one hand, then the other, so they stood facing each other. “This is it. Are you ready?”

“Someday,” he said, making it sound like a promise.

“You mean the song, right?” Her forehead wrinkled, as if something worried her. “Because now would be a good time to be ready to play.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“I know.” She dropped his hands and her tone changed. “Nervous?”

“Petrified,” Henry said. God, he wanted to kiss her again.

Flora laughed. “They’ll love it. I —” She stopped and smoothed her hair, and Henry wished they had more time. It felt as though he’d never have enough. “Shall we?”

Henry nodded. He followed her into the parlor and set up the bass. Then he walked the band through the chords and the chorus and the verse. He played it, hoping they’d feel what he put into the song.

There was a long moment of silence after they finished.

“That song’s gonna change your life, son,” Sherman said.