The Game of Love and Death(82)

She stopped herself midthought.

She’d known it her whole life. It was the one thing she was certain of. That someday, everyone she loved would die. Everything she loved would crumble to ruin. It was the price of life. It was the price of love. It was the only ending for every true story.

This was the certainty Death had given her. This. Not love.

The love she’d felt for music, for flying, for her parents, for her grandmother, and most of all for Henry? That was real, and it came from within, in whatever mysterious way love arrived.

Game or no, she would someday die, as all living beings did. But that wasn’t the tragedy. Nor was there tragedy in being a pawn. All souls are, if not of eternal beings, then as pawns of their own bodies. The game, whatever shape it takes, lasts only as long as the body holds out. The tragedy, every time, is choosing something other than love.

That had been her whole life. And now it was too late for it to be anything different.

She ran out of the hangar, and, breathing hard beneath a sky missing its moon, she felt the words of the song he’d written for her rise in her chest. Without accompaniment, without audience, without caring about anything but feeling them to their depths, she sang out into the void, filling the darkness with everything she’d denied herself, sending the love she’d lost to the world beyond, knowing that nothing more could hurt her worse than she’d already hurt herself.

“You are the moon and I am the sea,” she sang. “Wherever you are, you’ve got pull over me.”

Even with the music, she had never felt more alone. The desolation was deep enough to drown in.

Henry would never want her back, not after what she’d said to him. She’d ruined them. She would put the notes back into his pockets, pretend she’d never seen them, and return his jacket to him tomorrow, just as soon as she’d taken Helen on her flight. Or, better. She’d ask Helen to give Henry what was his. Death could come for her now, or Death could come later. She would welcome him when he arrived. Surely what came next could not be worse than this.





IT took Henry hours to walk home. Even so, he couldn’t sleep. He was folding laundry when someone knocked. For a moment, Henry hoped it was Flora. She’d changed her mind. Persuaded Mrs. Kosinski to let her up, even though it was well past the hour when visitors were permitted. He pushed his hair off his forehead and glanced around his room. He tucked the stack of folded clothes away. Everything else was fine. The bed was made. His bureau, clear. His bass, looking sharp in front of the window.

He opened the door.

Helen stood in front of him, wearing a black coat and heels over an admittedly fetching red dress. She walked into the room. She pulled off her hat, her gloves, and her purse, and laid them on the center of Henry’s bed.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said. “Really homey.”

He couldn’t tell if she was being serious. It was far beneath the style of living she was accustomed to.

“Helen,” he said, wondering how she’d gotten inside.

“Cat got your tongue?” She glanced at her purse and Henry knew she would walk over to it, snap it open, and pull out a cigarette. She did just that. In a way, it comforted him, knowing her so well.

“No,” he said, “it’s just that it’s late, and this isn’t the best neighborhood, and —”

“And what,” she said, after she’d lit a match and taken a drag. “Blow this out, would you?” She held the match toward him. It burned close to her long white fingers.

Henry leaned forward and blew. The look in her eyes was strange, and she seemed nervous. “Are you all right?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she said. “Tell me you’ve missed me. It’s dull spending time with only Annabel.”

He looked around the room, wishing he had a chair. “Would you like to sit? I can only offer you the bed, unfortunately.”

She stretched out on it, kicking her shoes to the floor. Henry’s pulse sped up. She looked down at the empty spot on the blanket next to her, patting it with her free hand.

“Let me get you something for the ashes,” Henry said, pretending he hadn’t noticed her invitation.

“Henry.” Her voice was a warm purr. She exhaled smoke through her red lips. Despite himself, he felt something radiate from his center outward. Flora didn’t want him. Not the way he wanted her. And here was Helen, the girl who’d once been intended for him, making herself astonishingly available. She’d even helped Flora on his behalf. Maybe choosing her made sense after all.

He had nothing for the ashes but a nearly empty drinking glass. He drained it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He offered Helen the glass. As she took it, their fingertips touched and Henry found himself on the bed next to her, trembling and dizzy. Her back was to the headboard and he faced her, his hand brushing the silk of her dress and the thigh it concealed. He looked down, blushing fiercely.

“Henry.” Her voice was a lethal whisper. He froze in the sound of it. “I could talk to Ethan’s father for you. Get him to give you a second chance.”

A second chance. Would he receive a third? He knew what Helen was offering, what it would cost. There were worse bargains to be made. He leaned toward her, just an inch. He hoped she couldn’t see that he was shaking. He caught a whiff of her perfume. Lilies. It brought him back to his father’s funeral and the misery of it. He stood, feeling wobbly. Helen looked up at him, her eyes pleading.