The Game of Love and Death(67)

HENRY and Flora made excuses to linger after the show. A sudden summer rainstorm had descended, and they hid from it under the red awning in front of the Majestic.

“I’m starved,” Flora said, wrapping her arms around herself.

Henry draped his jacket around her shoulders. “Our stomachs have so much in common. Where would you like to go?”

“Go?”

“There’s the Sterling Cup, there’s Guthrie’s —”

“Henry,” she said. “Neither of those places will let us in.”

“No, they’re open,” he said. “Ethan and I eat there all the …” His voice trailed off as he understood her meaning. These were white restaurants that would serve colored people through the back windows during the day, at best.

“You might go there,” she said. “We don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never thought about it. It was more that you have your places and we have ours.”

Flora shrugged out of the jacket and returned it to him. “Yes, like the lovely Coon Clucker Inn.”


“What, that place?” he said, refusing the coat. “No one goes there. It’s —” He stopped himself. It was a place for low-class whites. Ethan’s family considered themselves above rubbing elbows with that sort. He thought about the restaurant’s sign: a huge cartoon character with black skin, red, rubbery lips, and a winking eye. It was grotesque, and he’d never given it a second thought. He’d never had to. He was so used to being able to go where he wanted, and so unused to thinking of Flora as anyone other than the girl he loved, that the idea of their not being welcome at a restaurant — or anywhere — hadn’t entered his mind.

“If no one goes there,” she said, “why does every third automobile in the city have a Coon Clucker tire cover?”

Henry had no answer. He stood holding his jacket open for her, not knowing what else to do. “Flora, I’m truly sorry. Please. Wear it. Your dress will get soaked, and you’ll catch your death of cold. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

“Exactly.” She accepted the coat. “That’s part of the problem. You’ll go anywhere. The world is yours.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant I’d go anywhere you’d like.”

Rain hissed on the pavement, and every so often, cars honked and doors slammed. It was otherwise quiet.

“There’s one place,” she said after a moment. “It’s called the Yellow House. On Yesler. Open twenty-four hours and they do a pretty mean omelet.”

Henry smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of doing this without getting soaked.”

“You should have worn a jacket,” Flora said. “Dummy.” She lifted Henry’s coat overhead to keep the rain away.

“What can I say,” he replied. “School dropout and all.”

“On the count of three,” she said. “Let’s make a run for it.”

“I’m not in any hurry,” he said. “Let’s get soaked.”

“You are a dummy,” she said. “Here’s to turning ourselves into human dishrags.”

“To dishes.”

The restaurant’s windows glowed gold on the sidewalk ahead, lighting their way. A bell dinged as they opened the door. Conversations ceased when the diners caught a glimpse of Henry. He pushed his hair off his forehead with his free hand. With his other, he held tight to Flora. They were both drenched.

“You all right, hon?” the waitress asked Flora, who’d tried to slip out of Henry’s arm. One of the diners lurched as if he was going to stand. Henry’s pulse raced. He didn’t want trouble, just a spot out of the rain and darkness and something to eat. And someplace to spend time with the person he loved.

“I’m fine, Miss Hattie,” Flora said. “Just a little wet.” The man sat, but did not resume eating. Henry looked away.

Hattie inspected them both. “Hmmph.” She shrugged, smoothed her white apron, and took them to a booth by the restroom door. She laid two menus on the table. “Coffee or juice?”

“Coffee, please,” Flora said. “Cream and sugar.”

“I’ll also have a coffee, if that’s all right,” Henry said.

“How dark do you like yours?” Miss Hattie asked. The men at a nearby table snickered.

Henry studied Miss Hattie’s expression, which reminded him of his long-departed grandmother. She’d always sounded crabby, but she also invariably sneaked him peppermint candies. He had plenty of room in his heart for cranky old ladies. “I like mine the way she likes hers.”

“Hmmph,” Miss Hattie said. “Cream and three sugars. Be back in a minute with your coffee. You best be ready to order then too.”

Henry looked at Flora over the top of her menu. “What’s good here? I mean, besides the mean omelet and the cranky coffee?”

Flora laughed. “Everything except the oatmeal.” She laid her menu down. “That’s like eating marbles.”

He folded his paper napkin into a boat and pretended to sail it through rough seas toward her, trying to recapture that easy connection they had when they played music together.

“What are you doing?” she asked.