The Game of Love and Death(70)

Ever since Henry had moved into the boarding house, Ethan had been stopping by every afternoon for help with his article about Hooverville. Something was amiss; Henry could tell. Since graduation, Ethan had lost weight, and he looked exhausted. Henry had asked Ethan once or twice what was the matter, but Ethan waved him off. For certain, though, the Hooverville story was part of it.

“Father’s going to blow a gasket at this, isn’t he?” Ethan lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling.

“It’s true, right? You’ve managed to take some notes documenting everything?”

“Yes, but I also know these facts inside and out.” Ethan rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Would you read me that last part again?”

“Certainly.” Henry cleared his throat.

“ ‘Hooverville is the abode of the forgotten man. By this journalist’s count, six hundred thirty-nine live here, each one with a story worth hearing — far too many to include in these humble columns. They are the modern melting pot, counting among their ranks Filipinos, Scandinavians, Africans, Mexicans, Indians, South Americans, and Japanese, along with Caucasians who fell down on their luck during the Crash of ’29.

“ ‘Some men had wives and children. Some owned homes. Some worked as laborers and craftsmen. Others helped tame the forests surrounding the city, providing the lumber for houses and businesses. Others still were maimed in the Great War and cannot work. They have come together in shabby camaraderie to form an ethnic rainbow, dreaming not of a pot of gold at the end, but a pot of soup and respectable employment.

“ ‘It is not so different, really, than what any man wants. Respectability, repast, and a roof over his head. Or so says James Booth, a charismatic and handsome twenty-year-old fellow who calls himself the mayor of Hooverville.

“ ‘ “If people could see us for who we were,” Mr. Booth said, “the better angels of their nature would respond.” ’ ”

Ethan sat up. “That bit,” he said, “was it too much?”

“The part about James being handsome and charismatic?” Henry said. “You could perhaps leave that out.”

Ethan’s expression shifted and Henry stopped himself. In that instant, he understood something. Something that made his stomach fall, though not with horror, as it might have before he and Flora had found each other. The feeling was sadness and compassion. It made Henry want to confide his own secret to Ethan, to let this person who was like a brother to him know that he understood. But he could not betray Flora in the process. Even if she had not consented to be with him, not yet, their bond felt sacred, secret.

The situation worried Henry. Ethan would soon be occupied with college. Henry, who had not graduated from high school, would not be able to help. These secrets, this distance … the natural thing might be to drift apart.

But he would fight that.

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s good. It’s the truth. What does the Bible say about truth? Veritas vos liberabit?”

“The truth shall set you free,” Ethan said, looking out the window. “The older I get, the more I hope it’s true, but the less I believe it.”





PROTESTORS stood in front of the Majestic carrying pieces of painted cardboard.

YOU CAN’T SPELL SINGER WITHOUT SIN.

MISCEGUNATION: AGAINST GODS PLAN FOR MAN.

Flora hated walking past them on her way into the club, hated the way they’d block the sidewalk and make her step around them, hated their bad spelling and punctuation. The worst of them hissed and spit at her. As Flora arrived, a car carrying even more pulled up. The passengers, four large white men, reeked of trouble.

Inside, Doc’s wife, Glo, was painting the window trim.

“Don’t mind them,” she said when she saw Flora’s expression. “You’d think they’d find something better to do with their days.” She stepped back to inspect her work. “In my opinion, anyone who claims to speak for God is probably talking out of the wrong end, anyway.”

Flora laughed. “Amen.”

Glo dipped her brush. “It’s a good problem if it can be fixed with a bit of paint, and even better if I can get it done with a snifter of gin. I’ve been wanting to spruce this place up for years. Thanks to the business you’re bringing in, I can.”

Flora didn’t have a chance to respond before shadows filled the window. She shoved Glo out of the way. There was a burst of breaking glass as something hard sailed through the window. A car squealed off.

They lay on the floor a moment, panting. When it felt safe, Flora looked up. A newspaper-wrapped brick lay inches away.

“Oh, Glo,” she said.

Glo was on her knees. “My windows, my beautiful windows. And oh, Lord, no. The paint is all over the floor.” A puddle of it spread across the linoleum, mixing with shards of glass.

Flora fetched rags and mopped up as much paint and glass as she could. “Turpentine might help. Do you have any?”

“Doc’s got that in the back,” Glo said. “I’ll fetch it.” She knocked back the rest of her gin.

Flora wiped up the bulk of the paint. She folded the rags over on each other until the mess had been contained inside, and she dropped the bundle in the trash. Then, fingertips sticky, she bent to pick up the brick. She untied the string and unwrapped the paper, a letter to the editor about the music they’d been performing. The writer called their show a crime against humanity, a sign of moral decay, and any number of things that twisted Flora’s insides. The voice of the letter, which had been signed A Concerned Citizen, felt like a living creature in her mind, a sharp-toothed shrew, a gnawing rat.