The Game of Love and Death(72)

Now that Ethan no longer had a professional reason to be at Hooverville, he wanted his visit to be private. The men there wouldn’t judge. They were as far from that sort as he’d ever met, and he and James weren’t the only ones there to have come to an understanding. Even so, he felt watched all the time.

He stood on the edge of the encampment. A light breeze had its way with the dust, smudging the horizon, giving the angled columns of light that pierced the clouds an otherworldly definition. Something compelled him to turn his head, and there, leaning against the Hooverville chapel, his face half in shadow, was James, as still as a man in a photograph.

James pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward his shack. He looked back over his shoulder, as if to ensure Ethan was following. The glance was unnecessary. Ethan careered after him.

James kicked the door closed. Light and shadow merged into the half darkness. The men embraced, and Ethan felt the outline of the book. He helped James out of his jacket, making note of where it landed. And then both their shirts were off, and Ethan wished he could melt into the muscles of James’s chest, to be pummeled by the beating heart beneath.

“Slow down,” James whispered in his ear. “We have time.”

Ethan couldn’t. What time they had was nearly out. Or it would be, as soon as he could find the courage to break it off.

“You hungry?” James said, gently easing back.

The question struck him as funny, and soon, they were both laughing until their eyes watered.

“I handed in the story,” Ethan said.

“And?”

“My editor liked it all right. My father’s going to hate it.”

“What do you think?” James turned up the wick on the lantern.

“What do I think?” Ethan never considered his own opinion. It was everyone else’s that mattered.

“What we create must be something that we love. That’s how we know it’s true.” James moved the lantern aside. The way they were together was everything Ethan wanted and needed, everything that terrified and grieved him. Afterward, James held him on his makeshift bed, whispering soothing words that made Ethan’s eyelids grow heavy. He fought sleep in vain.

When Ethan woke, he was alone. He pulled his bare legs to his heart, trying to persuade himself that he was the same person he’d been before any of this happened, before he had faced the truth.

He stepped into his pants, pulled his shirt on, found his socks, his shoes. He smoothed his hair as well as he could. James’s coat lay in the corner. Ethan closed his fingers around the book. He hesitated. Then he pulled it out, marveling at the intricate detail on the leather cover. He did not open it, as he had no hope he’d be able to read it. It was enough to prevent anyone else from seeing it. He wished he could discover what James had written, to know whether James had felt the same things, or if even in this, he was alone.

Ethan stole away from Hooverville. It occurred to him later that he might just have asked James what was in the book. But, as with everything else, that realization came too late.





FROM the peak of the cross on the Hooverville chapel, Love watched Ethan leave. His sparrow guise felt cramped and limited after all the time he’d spent as James Booth, despite the ease of flight, despite the sharpness of his vision.

There are deeper ways to see than with eyes.

He’d forgotten the truth of this.

Love had felt the human’s desire for the book when they were with each other. The agony of it made Love wish for death. Ethan’s every nerve ending had been set alight with pleasure and recapped in pain. That he was able to breathe, to stand, to walk, to converse with others despite this … perhaps mortals weren’t as fragile as he’d thought.

It was good that Ethan had not asked for the book. Now, whatever happened was not Love’s responsibility. He would have read the stories to him, of course. Stories of love, held like handfuls of water, for the shortest and sweetest of moments. He might not have stopped when he came to the part about Henry and Flora. Of all the stories, theirs was his favorite. He could have shared this with Ethan. But if Ethan told the players, Love could not protect him. And Ethan would tell them. The knowledge could be useful to Henry and Flora, and Ethan was a loyal friend.

Regret seeped into Love’s heart. It rose and swelled and became birdsong. Below, the men of Hooverville stopped their conversations, their cooking. They listened, and they stood, mesmerized, as the planet spun them from lightness to darkness. These men understood that melody. Afterward, the men returned to their activities, their misery softened only by the knowledge they were not alone in the world.





HENRY had been looking for Ethan’s article. He knew every word, but he still hoped to see the story in print with Ethan’s byline. Maybe they were holding it for the big Sunday edition. Ethan hadn’t stopped by in a couple of days; Henry would ask the next time he did.

He noticed a letter on the editorial page as he sat at the table in the break room eating a thin sandwich of mustard and bread. Unable to swallow the bit of sandwich in his mouth, he forced himself to slow down as he read. The letter was about him. Him and Flora.

“Amen to that.”

Henry looked up. His supervisor sat next to him, tucking into his lunch. Henry forced himself to swallow. “Excuse me, Mr. Watters?”

“Someone finally taking on those dirty colored jazz clubs. They’re nothing but bad news. Wheels on the handbasket that’s rolling straight to hell.”