The Game of Love and Death(75)

“Henry!” she said, surprised. “What are you — I thought you’d be at the paper.”

“I quit!” he said. “I feel like a new man.”

Her face fell.

“These are for you.” He held the flowers out to her, puzzled at what made her look so unhappy. She glanced toward the windows. He noticed the plywood sheets and his stomach sank. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but I have to tell you something.” She paused, as if she were struggling to find the right words.

Henry swallowed. “I understand. It’s because of the letter to the editor. Doc didn’t like it. Bad press for the Majestic and all.” He felt like a fool holding the flowers. What a lousy idea that had been.

“What we’re doing, it riles people too much. Next time, it might be worse.”

His mouth became dry. He knew what he had to do. “I’ll quit, then. Don’t you worry.” He regretted the luxury of taking the cable car. He’d need those nickels.

Flora twisted her dress in her hands. “That was my first thought. That we might find you another band, maybe even get some help from the union finding you an uptown gig. But music is not my life. It’s yours. You breathe it. I still want to do what Amelia Earhart is trying to do.”

“But what about the money?” They’d gone over figures. She’d need a fortune to pull it off. Her music was half her income.

“I’ve found a sponsor. I’m out. Not you.”

Her news stunned him. He tried to sound happy. “If I may ask, who?”

Flora’s eyes widened, as if she expected him to know. “I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.” She pressed her lips together, looking uneasy. “It’s Helen. She bought an airplane for me. It’ll be ready in a week.”





DEATH had always rather liked Amelia Earhart, who reminded her of Flora in many ways. The auburn-haired pilot wasn’t one to give her heart easily. Her husband had to propose six separate times to get her to agree, which she did only after writing him a letter asking for release if in a year’s time she was miserable.

The letter read, I may have to keep some place where I can go to be myself, now and then, for I cannot guarantee to endure at all times the confinements of even an attractive cage.

Flora might have written the very same words to Henry. Oh, how she feared the attractive cage of love. The sky was her refuge. Death could make this refuge more appealing than ever. She could remove Flora’s competition.

The aviatrix and her navigator were surprised to see Death on board their Lockheed Model 10 Electra. Even more surprised when their radio transmissions stopped working. Death had consumed them before the plane hit the water, her blood ringing with things she had not expected to feel as their lives drained into her. Humans and their secrets. Perhaps someday they would stop surprising her.

The next day, she was the black cat peering through the window of Flora’s house, watching the girl read the morning newspaper. Flora’s reaction was another surprise. The girl did not look hopeful, or even thoughtful, as someone might when a new opportunity opens up.

Rather, she folded the newspaper, put her hands over her face, and wept.





DAYS after he’d taken the book, Ethan had still not decided what to do. It felt like a living thing in his pocket. The book gave off warmth, and occasionally it seemed to shudder, as if it were drawing breath. He touched it often, not because he wanted to check that it was still there, but because the feeling was so strange he had to be sure of it. He’d glanced inside a couple of times, but had closed it when he saw how ornate the script was.

In that time, he hadn’t seen Henry once. Likewise, he’d stayed away from James. His father had returned his article with the word Killed written on every page. Ethan hadn’t protested, lest his words give his father reason to believe his relationship with James had been any more significant than source to journalist.

Restless, he’d driven around the city until the sun was low in the sky. He did not want to go home, not if it meant he had to face his father and the absence of Henry. He had no interest in joining the crowds at the Seattle Tennis Club awaiting the fireworks display. He considered stopping for food, just to have a diversion. But he had no appetite, and so he headed home not long before sunset and parked beneath a silver maple by the carriage house. He pulled the book out of his pocket, determined to make sense of it. The text was the same inscrutable mess.

If it had been a baseball, he’d have pitched it through a window, just for the pleasure of smashing something. Instead, he put the book back in his pocket and slipped in the servants’ entrance, risking that Gladys would see him as she cleaned up after dinner. But even if she did, she’d nod and look down as she’d been trained to do by his father. It struck Ethan, as he moved through the butler’s pantry, that his father believed anything he didn’t want to look at shouldn’t be seen. Ethan had obliged with invisibility of his own for so long without realizing he was doing it.

The kitchen, blessedly, was empty. A bowl of bing cherries sat on the kitchen counter, their red-black flesh shining. Ethan had helped himself to a handful when someone whispered his name. He started and dropped the one he’d been about to consume. Helen stepped out of the shadows — the shadows he’d just examined and found empty.