The Game of Love and Death(83)

“Henry.” She said his name again. She reached for his hand. But he did not take hers.

“What is it?” she asked. “Why don’t you want me?”

Henry felt sad for her. Her expression was one of open need, of hunger almost. He recognized himself in it. But she was not the one he wanted, and as much as he craved the touch of another, his heart had been built for Flora alone. The more time he spent with Flora, the more time he watched her sing, the more he understood the love she had for her airplane, the less he could imagine life with anyone else. If he could not have her, he did not want anyone.

For the longest time, he stood there, breathing and looking down at Helen, who had closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Helen said. Her tone changed suddenly, in a way he did not fully understand. There was a petulance to her, the sort he used to experience in elementary school with the kids who couldn’t stand to lose at games. “The loss is yours.”

She crushed her cigarette on the edge of the glass and dropped the smoking remains inside. She set the glass on the bureau, smoothed her dress, and stepped back into her shoes.

“Help me with my coat?”

Relieved to be giving her something she wanted, he slid it up her arms and over her shoulders. She stood close, and he knew that in refusing her now, he was refusing her forever. She would not be a path to reconciliation with his old life. She would not be the cornerstone of a respectable, plentiful future.

But this choice: It wasn’t one he’d made in haste in the middle of the night. He’d made it long ago. It was Flora. It always had been. It always would be.

Even if she did not want him, she had to live. He would not let Death take her, not without a fight. At first light, he would visit James Booth, who might be able to help. At the very least, he might reveal Death’s identity. The thought terrified him. But what choice did he have? If this Death character was not a man he could fight, perhaps he was someone who would consider taking Henry’s life in trade.

Helen slipped her hands back inside her gloves and laid a hand on Henry’s cheek, firmer than a gentle touch but something short of a slap.

“See you around, Henry,” she said.

“Let me walk you to the door,” he said.

“No need.” She nudged the tumbler off the dresser. It shattered, sending fragments of glass and ash across his floor. “So sorry.” Though she didn’t sound it.

Henry went to his closet, where he kept a broom and dustpan. By the time he turned around, she was gone. Henry peered into the dimly lit hallway, puzzled at her disappearance. Exhaustion set in. He cleaned up the glass and staggered to his bed, which smelled of her. Nonetheless, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the sort said to be enjoyed by the dead.



He woke with a start the next morning, anxious to find his way to Hooverville. But when he looked out the window to see what sort of day he faced, he spotted Mr. Thorne’s car parked across the street from the boarding house. It was so early, and yet, how long had he been there?

The color drained from Henry’s face, the feeling from his hands. This was the last thing he needed. He did not want to be berated about any of his choices. Nor did he know anything about what had made Ethan enlist; even the prospect of speculating about that felt disloyal at best.

If he used the back door, he might slip out undetected. He tried, but one of the risers squeaked, and Mrs. Kosinski met him at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you,” she said. “No visitors before nine o’clock. The policy is as clear as day.” She pointed to a framed cross-stitch on the wall. Henry found it impossible to argue with a policy that had been sewn in green thread. He wondered for a moment how Helen had made it in so late, but he didn’t have time to puzzle that one through, not with Mr. Thorne waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, realizing that Mr. Thorne had probably barged into the place and demanded to see him whenever he’d arrived. “It won’t happen again.”

“He won’t tell me who he is or what he wants with you,” she said. “And he refuses to leave. It’s almost as if he doesn’t give a whit about cross-stitch.”

Henry started to apologize, but she wasn’t finished.

“I think he’s a gangster. Is he a gangster? What would a gangster want with you? I didn’t offer him any coffee, because I don’t want gangster lips on my good Haviland. Are you in trouble with gangsters, Henry? Because that is also against the rules, even though I haven’t yet had time to work it up in thread.”

“He isn’t a gangster.” Henry had to smile at that, just a bit. Mrs. Kosinski had closed the French doors, but through the lace curtains, Henry could see Mr. Thorne sitting on the edge of the couch, his hat in his lap. He had the sort of profile that should be carved in stone.

“Should I bring coffee, then? Made with fresh grounds?” She firmly believed you could use coffee two to three times before the beans were spent.

“That would be nice. Fresh grounds.”

“I’ll add it to your weekly bill,” she said. “Coffee costs extra, of course. So does cream and sugar.”

“Bring us everything,” Henry said, mostly wanting her to be out of the blast zone when Ethan’s father blew up.

“Biscuits? Because —”