The Game of Love and Death(78)

“You’ll have to ask nicely,” Death said. “I will also consider begging.”

Damn her and the way she invaded his mind. If that was how she wanted to play, fine. He sent her images of things he’d witnessed without her as he followed Henry about town.

Here, the image of Henry fastening his tie around his neck; there, Henry combing the unruly curls from his forehead; the shine of lamplight on his shoe as he polished it; the gray ribbon of sidewalk unrolling itself at his feet. Leaves full of sunlight. The world seen through the eyes of someone in love with a woman, in love with life.

It took most of Love’s concentration to send the images so purely, but he paused now and then to watch Death’s expression change. She grew impatient and pawed through the rest of the memories as quickly as he could form them: of stolen kisses and swift touches, and most of all Henry and Flora as they played “Someday,” every charged note of it, performance after performance ending with crashing waves of applause.

This magic had happened. Even if they never performed together again, they’d been altered by it. Irrevocably.

She pulled away, her eyes dark around the edges. He leaned in to dab her face with his handkerchief, but she grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

Then she shoved everything off the table — the wine, the empty snail shells, the soup. “And what of it? We have two days left in the Game, and still she refuses him.”

His wrist stung where she’d grabbed it. “How are you faring in your attempts to lure Henry away?”

She arranged herself carelessly in the chair, draping one hand over its back. “I have two ways to win. You have but one. History and the odds are on my side.”

Love could not argue either point.

But what were odds? The odds against any one human being born were tremendous. The chain of moments that led to it was long, a chain made of infinite human choices that each had to occur in sequence to lead to a particular birth. The odds of either Flora or Henry being here at all were one in four hundred trillion, give or take.

“Two days left.” She held up a pair of fingers. As if Love could forget or would not understand the words. She tossed the book back at him. He caught it and felt immediately soothed by its warmth and familiarity.

Then Death gave him her awful Helen smile and faded like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. As she did, Love thought of something he hadn’t before. Where was the real Helen? The one Death was impersonating? It seemed a small matter, really. And yet, much could hinge on the minutiae. He sucked in his breath and stood, hoping there was still time.



It was the middle of the night when Love reached the human Helen. The place smelled of stale breath and antiseptic, and an acid light filled the hallways. The rooms, each a white rectangle behind a door with a square of reinforced glass in its middle, were for the most part dark. Almost all of their inhabitants were sleeping. Helen wasn’t, and Love was glad, for he hated to disturb the rest of someone who’d been so wounded.

He materialized in the room not as James Booth or any other human, but as a creature Helen would welcome: a wiggling cocker spaniel puppy whose breath smelled of hay and summertime. He whimpered, and she sat up, looking left and right. Then, in the gray light, she spotted him on the floor and lifted him in bed with her. Love felt her heart. Please tell me this is not another hallucination. They say I went mad, but I know that I didn’t. I’ve forgotten, is all. I’ve just forgotten.

Love kissed Helen on the chin and she giggled. She curled around him in bed, her heart pressed to his rounded back. Love sensed the spot where Death had taken the girl’s memories. The edges around that hole in her mind were ragged, preventing her from reaching the ones that lay further back. Love repaired the tear. The form he’d chosen was perfect for this: soft, vulnerable, full of life and love.

Helen fell asleep around him as soon as he started. He was gone by the time she woke in the morning, and forever after, she thought of his visit as a dream, the sweetest of her life. The restoration of most of her memory caused great excitement with her physician, who telephoned her parents once he’d determined her recovery was indeed legitimate, that she was a person of consequence, and, most important, that someone would cover the bill for her care. By the time all of that was settled, Love had already returned to Seattle.





WHISPERING. There had been so much whispering since Ethan left the house. Annabel hated whispering. It was rude, rude, rude. And now, after the phone call, there was more of it, and when she asked what everyone was whispering about, she was sent from the room.

It wasn’t fair.

First Henry, and then Ethan, and now Helen, who had disappeared not long after Mama had hung up the phone. Helen had been listening at the door, and Annabel had been hiding in the alcove behind her. It was very strange how Helen had left the house. First she was there, and then she wasn’t. Annabel would have to ask about it once Mama calmed down.

Annabel crept into Ethan’s room, which still had most of his things. His baseball uniform. His school pennant. All of his suits and ties and Oxfords. It still smelled like him too. Grass and perspiration and Lucky Tiger Bay Rum aftershave, Annabel’s favorite.

There was a piece of paper in his wastebasket. She lifted it out and smoothed away the crumples. Dear Henry, it read. She started reading it, but it was about mushy, yucky things. Besides, she was excited to get to the part where she sealed it in an envelope, wrote an address, and licked a stamp. That was the fun of letters, not writing them.