The Game of Love and Death(9)

Henry transcribed the captain’s answers to the questions Ethan asked. But his curiosity had traveled ahead to the Domino. No matter what Ethan wanted, Henry planned to attend a show there, and soon. In a strange way, it felt as though his life depended on it.





THE dress had been her mother’s, and so it was the slightest bit old-fashioned: a black-and-white harlequin-patterned halter that plunged in the back and made Flora feel self-conscious. The entirety of the silky fabric had been covered in sequins, so it was heavy on her skin in the way a fur coat might be, like something that had once been alive. She inspected her reflection, turning to make sure the seams were intact and that she wasn’t going to give more of a show than she intended. One of the waves in her chin-length hair was misbehaving, so she pinched it back into place, sighing in exasperation. She would have preferred to wear her flight coveralls everywhere, along with the braids she wore as a child. Such things were comfortable, practical, and practically invisible. Being togged to the bricks made her feel like a Christmas display.

She’d asked Uncle Sherman probably a thousand times if she could just wear something simple and stay in the kitchen with Charlie, reminding him to go easy on the salt in the brisket rub, telling him to cut smaller pieces of corn bread because too much of that makes a customer too sleepy to drink.

But Sherman wasn’t having it. “The Domino’s half your club, baby,” he’d told her. “You got to be out in front and on that stage. Nobody comin’ to hear Charlie’s corn bread sing. And there ain’t nobody in town who sings like you, and you don’t even half try.”

She wasn’t bad-looking, she knew, but far from the stunner her mother had been. She compared her reflection to the woman in the picture frame on her bureau, glad to be not as lovely. Her plainness had shielded her from the interest of boys, except for Grady. Her own absence of beauty made her miss her mother more.

She had no true memories of her parents. But she’d imagined being hugged and sung to so many times the memories felt like something made of truth.

“Flora!” Sherman’s voice, calling from the parlor.

“Almost ready.” She opened her top drawer, removed the pair of kid gloves that had been her mother’s, and slipped them on. Though it was no longer raining, the night was still cool. And she liked the look and feel of them, the way they still carried the shape of her mother’s hands.

Sherman, dressed in his master of ceremonies tuxedo, whistled at her when she emerged from her room. “I always liked that dress.”

“Thank you.” Flora felt embarrassed by the praise, although she knew it was his way of remembering his sister.

On their way, she passed Nana, who was working on a quilt with patches of red and white.

“Hello, love,” Nana said. “There’s a cake for you in the icebox.”

“Chocolate?”

“Does coleslaw give Sherman heartburn?”

“Hey!” Sherman said. “It’s not my fault your slaw is so good I can’t stop eating it.”

Flora gave him a friendly shove and stopped to kiss her grandmother’s head. “Thank you, Nana. I’ll eat it after the show. But you should have your piece now.”

“I can wait,” Nana said. “I’m not so close to the end that I need to take my dessert first, you know.” She looked up at Flora over the tops of her glasses. “Don’t you look just like your mama.”

“Not half as pretty,” Flora said, waving it off.

“Half again prettier, child. But she would have liked for you to stay in school. Graduate. Not have to work two jobs the way you do. You’re only seventeen. Not old enough to be carrying the weight of the grown-up world on your shoulders.”

“Oh, Nana. We’ve talked about that.” There was no point in school, not when the club was her future and most white folk were hell-bent on keeping colored folk in their place, even if they were polite about it. And not when Nana needed her the way she did. Taking care of the house by herself would be far too much of a burden, and Nana moved so slowly these days, as if every inch of her ached.

“Girl’s right,” Sherman said. “The club needs her. We’ll be able to turn things around and be more like we used to be. And just wait till she sets that record in the airplane. Flora’s got all of Bessie Coleman’s fire, and all of Amelia Earhart’s ice. Miss Earhart won’t know what hit her, and people will line up around the block to hear her sing. There’s no kind of bad fame, you know.”

“Tell that to Bonnie and Clyde.” Nana returned to her quilt.

Flora waited until Nana had finished a slow, careful stitch. Then she bent and placed one more kiss on top of her grandmother’s head. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Sing your heart out tonight, child. Your mama’s buttons would burst if she could see you now, all grown up.”

Flora found a light coat and stepped into the night. A black cat, the strange but elegant one that had stopped by every so often for years to beg a little supper, skittered from the shadows and wove through Flora’s ankles.

“You again,” she said.

The animal had odd black eyes and seemed to prefer affection on her own terms, never coming when she was called, often hovering near the edges of things, as if she merely wanted to observe. The strangeness of the creature softened Flora’s mood. She’d feed her when she got home. Maybe even some cake.