The Game of Love and Death(73)

“Have you ever been inside one?” Henry moved his hands beneath the table so his boss wouldn’t see his fists.

“Don’t need to. Not in a handbasket, not in a colored club,” the man said, taking the waxed paper off of a thick corned beef sandwich that smelled so good Henry’s mouth watered.

“How do you know they’re trouble, then?”

The man sank his teeth into the sandwich. Then he shifted the bite to the side of his mouth. “How can you not know? That sort of music is bad enough. But to have the different colors onstage at the same time? It’s not what God intended. He meant for there to be separation, which is why the Negro races are in Africa. I’m telling you, this sort of thing will spell the end of society as we know it. They need to nip it in the bud.” He ate more sandwich, glancing at Henry’s lunch. “Ha! Looks like you forgot to put anything between the bread, son.”

A year earlier, Henry might have considered this argument. Now that he knew Flora, he couldn’t understand how something that felt so normal, so essential, could be wrong. But he couldn’t live in both worlds. He pushed his plate away, brushing a few crumbs from his apron as he stood.

He stood and tossed his napkin on the counter. “Mr. Watters,” he said, “I’ve found employment elsewhere. I quit.”

Mr. Watters held up a finger. He took another bite of sandwich. He wiped a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t quit,” Mr. Watters said. “Direct orders from Bernie Thorne. Son of a gun was right about you trying.” He laughed and finished his sandwich.

Henry tore off his apron, surprised at how much lighter he felt without it. Not allowed to quit, was he? He wasn’t making much playing music, but it was enough to pay his room and board. He burst out laughing. Why had it taken him so long to realize he didn’t have to do everything Ethan’s father said?

“Bishop!” Mr. Watters yelled his name. “Mr. Thorne isn’t going to like this.”

Henry kept walking.

“I could lose my job if you walk.”

Henry paused. He hated to think he might be responsible for someone else’s hard times. There was only one way around that. Much as he didn’t want to face Mr. Thorne, he knew he had to, to limit the damage the man could do to everyone around him. He chose the stairs over the elevator, knowing he’d be less likely to run into anyone on that route. At the sixth floor, he looked out the window to the street below, wishing he didn’t feel that rush of fear. He took a deep breath and pushed through the double doors that separated the hallway and the carpeted antechamber where Ethan’s father’s secretary sat sentry.

“You can’t be in here,” she said, before giving Henry a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t realize it was you. Mr. Thorne is on the telephone. Shall I tell him you stopped in?”

Henry walked past her and into Mr. Thorne’s office. She followed, protesting that this interruption was not her fault. Mr. Thorne’s padded leather chair faced the bank of windows that looked out over the city. He was in the midst of what sounded like a serious conversation — something involving a raid and arrests and how the newspaper might cover it.

“Mr. Thorne,” Henry said. “Bernard.”

Ethan’s father spun in his chair, annoyed at the interruption. He pointed at the telephone.

Henry walked to the desk and pressed the button that would end the call.

“Henry!”

“I told him not to disturb you, Mr. Thorne,” the secretary said. “He just barged in.”

“I’m here to let you know that I quit,” Henry said.

“You can’t.”

“I already have,” he said. “It’s a matter of conscience. I can’t agree with your decision to print that letter to the editor.”

“It’s time you come to your senses.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back into his chair, which squeaked in protest. “Look at everything you’re throwing away on her account. First, your education and home. Now, your job. I don’t even want to hear that girl’s name. And we print all manner of letters, not just ones we happen to agree with.”


“Do you agree with that letter?”

Mr. Thorne paused. “Wholeheartedly. It’s not in your job description to judge editorial calls. You’re in the pressroom. You look after the ink and paper and the machinery. That’s it.” He reached for his phone again. “Now if you will excuse me.”

“I quit,” Henry said. “I don’t want to be associated with this newspaper.”

“That’s the same thing Ethan said when I refused to print the garbage he brought me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you boys. In my day —”

“Good-bye, Mr. Thorne,” Henry said.

“If you leave now, our association is done. You are not to have any contact with Ethan or Annabel or Mrs. Thorne. And don’t come crawling to me when your money runs out and you find yourself on the streets with a tin cup. If I had known your music would turn into this, I would have set fire to that instrument years ago. Your father — this would kill him.”

“My father’s dead already,” Henry said. “He killed himself.”