The Game of Love and Death

by Martha Brockenbrough

  “Don’t you have any Dunlops?” Helen said. Ethan shot her a look of disgust. “Oh, but I’m just teasing. I’ll play with any old thing.”

  “You’re stuck with me,” Ethan said. “Henry’s busy.”

  Helen took one of the racquets from Ethan’s hand, tipped it over her shoulder, and looked back at Henry with a wink.

  “Isn’t she lively?” Mrs. Thorne said, after Helen and Ethan had disappeared outside. “Lively and intelligent.” She slid one tulip after another into the vase. “This whole thing with the — it’s just — she comes from good stock,” Mrs. Thorne said. “That should be what matters. But back east, they’re a little —” She sniffed, and somehow managed to elongate the space between her nose and lips just enough to look like an insulted horse.

  Even with all the half-finished sentences, Mrs. Thorne’s meaning was clear. The prospect made him feel — he looked at the tulips before him — as if he were about to be severed from something vital.

  “Did I tell you about the school she attended?” Mrs. Thorne chattered as she led Henry to Mr. Thorne’s office. She wiped her already dry hands on her white linen apron.

  “You did,” he said. Twice. “It sounded like a rigorous environment.”

  “And she would’ve had top marks there.” Mrs. Thorne tilted her head to examine her work. She nudged one flower to the left and moved the vase to the corner of Mr. Thorne’s desk.

  Henry nodded and watched the flower drift back to its original spot. Top marks but for all the time she spent in the office of the headmistress accused of things for which they had no proof. He’d heard Ethan’s parents whisper about it.

  Seeming satisfied with her arrangement, Mrs. Thorne lifted the old photograph of Helen off the shelf. She held it up and regarded Helen’s and Henry’s faces side by side. “Well,” Mrs. Thorne said, after she’d set the photograph down. “I think we’re finished here. Can you please send Ethan inside to do his schoolwork?” She smoothed her apron and left the room with the empty basket, a satisfied smile on her lips.

  “Of course.”

  He walked to the west-facing window. Late-afternoon sun spilled across the grass and through the trees, bathing everything in a green-gold light. Helen returned a serve, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Ethan lobbed it over the net and Helen threw her racquet at it. Both the racquet and the ball made it over the net. Ethan picked them up, looking exasperated, as Helen flopped down on the grass, laughing, her cigarette in her left hand. Ethan tossed the ball at her. She caught it with her right, and winged it into the cypress hedge.

  “Hey!” Ethan yelled. “That’s practically new.” He jogged after the ball. Helen caught Henry staring through the window. He ducked into the shadows, and then realized this made him look more foolish. When he looked out again, she blew him a kiss, holding her nearly spent cigarette between her fingertips. By the time he thought to wave, she’d already turned back to Ethan, who’d emerged from the hedge, looking ready for revenge.

  When Henry went outside to fetch him, Helen came inside as well. He wondered if he’d ever grow used to her arm in his — stiff and cold, even through his sleeve. It wasn’t what he thought it would feel like, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, he didn’t care much for her perfume or how it smelled mixed with tobacco. But maybe this was what a person was supposed to get used to. Maybe accepting it was what it meant to grow up.

  At dinner, Henry sat across from Helen, who took the seat of honor at Mrs. Thorne’s right.

  “You must be starving, my dear, after your long journey,” Mrs. Thorne told Helen, who’d changed out of her tennis whites and into a black-and-white-striped dress with an enameled red rose pinned over her heart.

  “I confess I am rather hungry,” Helen said. She sipped red wine from a goblet. “Though I did eat quite well on the way.” She lifted her fork, letting it hover over her plate.

  “It’s curried lamb,” Mrs. Thorne said. “And Waldorf salad. There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”

  Annabel pointed at the lamb dish. “I don’t want … the yellow. May I just eat bread and butter?”

  “That’s prison food, Annabel,” Mr. Thorne said. “You’ll eat what your mother planned and you’ll like it. Even if it is … never mind. I don’t know why you didn’t just have Gladys bake a ham. Everybody likes ham.”

  “I think it’s terribly modern,” Helen said. “Well, except for the salad. That’s been in New York for ages and ages. But curried lamb! My!”

  Henry marveled. Everything that came out of Helen’s mouth in front of the elder Thornes was perfectly polite. And yet something about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself — maybe it was her slow, wide smile — felt off. Dangerous, even, as silly as that notion felt.

  “It looks like cat food,” Ethan said.

  “Ethan!” Mr. Thorne choked back a laugh, even as he rebuked his son.

  “Well, then I must be part cat,” Helen said. “I think it’s delicious.” She put a huge forkful in her mouth and chewed, closing her eyes with pleasure.

  Mrs. Thorne looked pleased to have found an ally. “Henry,” she said, “don’t you have anything to say to Helen? Ask her about her journey?”

  “I’d rather talk about ham,” Ethan said. “Helen, is ham also terribly modern?”

  “Or bread.” Annabel slid down in her chair until only her eyes were visible above the tablecloth. “I like rye bread best. It is terribly delicious.”

  Henry tried to think of a question for Helen, preferably one that didn’t involve food. He felt Helen’s gaze, looked up, and had to turn away in embarrassment. She laughed and emptied her wine glass. Her lips and teeth were stained.

  “How was the weather on your journey?” It was the best question he could conjure.

  “Inside the train?” Helen dabbed her red lips with a napkin. “No storms, I suppose. Though there was some bad weather on the East Coast just as we were leaving. Thunder and lightning. I was frightened half to death.”

  “Electrical storm,” Mr. Thorne said. “Took down the Hindenburg. If they’d launched it here, where those sorts of storms are a rarity, that tragedy might have been averted. But no, it was Germany, and Rio, and New Jersey. New Jersey!” He said it as if New Jersey were the waiting room of Hell itself.

  Everyone was silent for a moment, except for the scraping of forks against china. Henry glanced out the window into the twilit sky, and he felt something tug at his core, as though someone had called his name from a great distance.

  “Mother,” Ethan said. He had his hand on his chest and his face was pale. “I’m not feeling well all of a sudden.”

  “Why, Ethan,” Mrs. Thorne said, “whatever is the matter?”

  Ethan reached for his water goblet and drank until he coughed. “I might go outside and get some air. Maybe even go for a drive.” He did look unwell.

  “May I come?” Helen asked.

  Mrs. Thorne looked alarmed. “Ethan, if you’re feeling ill, then you should go straight to bed.”

  “All right, Mother,” Ethan said. He laid his napkin on the table, pushed in his chair, and left.

  “What about you, Henry?” Helen asked. “Would you take me for a drive?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Thorne said.

  Henry panicked. That would scotch his plans to go to the Domino.

  “You can use my car,” Mr. Thorne said. “Special treat.”

  “After the cake,” Mrs. Thorne said. “It was made especially for Helen.”

  “Lovely,” Helen said.

  “It’s your grandmother’s recipe, dear,” Mrs. Thorne said. “God rest her soul.”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “God rest her soul.”

  Henry steered Mr. Thorne’s car along Fairview Avenue and toward downtown.

  “Are you nervous?” Helen asked. “You seem twitchy.”

&nbs
p; “Nervous? No. Just thinking about schoolwork, I suppose.” Henry wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, but what Helen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He’d resolved to keep her away from his usual haunts, and instead, was driving her to Queen Anne, where they could ride a cable car to the top of the hill and see the city lights and the waterfront from above.

  She laughed lightly, but Henry could feel her watching him. They parked at the bottom of the hill, and he guided her onto one of the cable cars, his hand lightly — politely — on her elbow.

  “I don’t understand how they run,” Helen said. She covered his hand with her gloved one.

  “Think opposing forces.” Henry took the opportunity to liberate his hand as he demonstrated how these particular cable cars worked. “There’s a counterbalance underneath. It’s sort of a weighted car that runs through an underground tunnel about three feet high. At the top of the hill, they release the weighted car. As it travels down, it pulls the passenger cars up. Then, when the streetcar goes down, it pulls the counterbalance up.”

  “Interesting,” Helen said. “I do love opposing forces. They keep things exciting, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.” It seemed like a lot of bother when so many people had automobiles. They boarded the cable car and took their seats. Helen leaned her head out the window. The wind pushed her hair behind her, and Henry couldn’t help but notice how lovely she looked in the evening light.

  She came back inside. “It seems terribly dangerous.”

  “The cable breaks sometimes,” Henry said. “That’s why they have all those sandbags down there. They stop the crash. As long as you plan ahead, you can manage the danger pretty well.”

  “Sandbags,” Helen laughed. “Sacks of sand against an elemental force and a cable car that weighs thousands of pounds.”

  “Well, it’s not going to break now, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Henry felt as though he should reassure her, even though he had no idea whether it would break. If that could be predicted, then there would be no need for the sandbags and other precautions.

  Helen seemed to consider the likelihood of such a disaster. “No,” she said, her hands in her lap. “I don’t believe it will.”

  They made their way down from the crown of the hill to Kerry Park, which had been given to the city by friends of the Thornes a decade earlier.

  “What are we looking at?” Helen said.

  Henry pointed out Elliott Bay and downtown. “In the daylight, you can sometimes see Mt. Rainier.” His gaze swept the mud flats and he considered mentioning Hooverville and James Booth and the story they were researching, but something made him hold back.

  “Don’t you just love the feeling of being on top of the world?” Helen said. “I adore heights.”

  Henry didn’t feel any particular need to impress Helen, but neither did he care to say the truth.

  She persisted. “Such a romantic view. Thank you for bringing me.”

  Henry swallowed. “It’ll be dark soon. I should be getting us home.”

  “Only if you can’t think of anything else to do.” She looked up at him with her dark eyes. He looked away.

  He hoped his discomfort wasn’t obvious. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you out too late.”

  At some point, maybe he’d become used to her, or less embarrassed by the see-through scheme of Mrs. Thorne. Yet he felt no connection to Helen. Nothing in common, besides maybe their age. And there was this sharpness to her, not just in the line of her smile, but somehow beneath her. It reminded him of the smell of food that had just turned bad. There was an underlying menace to it.

  And, though she was clearly on best behavior with Henry, she’d been prickly with Ethan. She didn’t seem like someone he could trust.

  “It was a lovely tour,” she said, when they returned home again. The dark, chilly sky was moonless and thick with high clouds. A row of streetlamps lit the driveway. The air smelled of fresh earth and spring blossoms. Even a hint of lily, though none grew in that part of Mrs. Thorne’s garden.

  Helen stopped to pick a tulip. She ran her fingers down its pale green stem. Then she put her nose inside the cup of the flower and inhaled.

  “I’m not sure you should be doing that,” Henry said. “Mrs. Thorne is pretty particular about her garden.”

  She bent and picked several more. Each, she placed in Henry’s arms, until he held a bouquet. “She won’t notice. And you look darling standing there with your arms full of dead flora.”

  Henry shuddered.

  “Cold?” Helen said.

  “No. Just tired, I suppose. Either that, or a bird flew over my grave.”

  “What an expression,” she said. She feigned a yawn and held out her arm. “I’ll no doubt sleep like the dead tonight. I haven’t adjusted to this new time zone. My body thinks it’s midnight already.”

  “Let me take you inside, then.” Henry felt the lightness of sudden possibility, adjusted the bouquet, and took Helen’s arm. They walked to the house. “I’m going to put these in water.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Helen said, as she turned to head upstairs. Henry hurried into the kitchen, in search of a vase. But as soon as he was alone, he changed his mind about what he’d do with the flowers. He still had Mr. Thorne’s car keys. He found some paper, wrapped the tulips, and slipped out the side door. He headed for the Domino, wondering what little thing nagged at him as he drove.

  He’d just arrived at the club when he figured out what it was.

  Ethan’s Cadillac was missing. Wherever could he have gone?

  LOVE had felt his opponent return to the city hours earlier. And disguised as the cousin. No wonder the face had been recognizable. It was clever, devilishly so. When her train pulled in, he and a small group of men at Hooverville were standing around a burning barrel full of wood scraps and trash, discussing the best meals they’d ever eaten. He could hardly mention oysters in Paris or chocolate in San Francisco, so he’d made something up about his mother’s biscuits. He felt a darker sort of hunger, and he knew it was hers.

  His first impulse was to join her. He was desperate to harangue her for what she’d done to the zeppelin. This would not change what had happened, though. He stilled himself by watching the flames gorge themselves on the sad heap of scraps. Then Love directed his heart toward Ethan’s, calling him across the miles.

  He was fond of the young man, surprisingly so. But he was equally conscious of the fact that Ethan stood in the way of the players. It wasn’t just Ethan’s unspoken attraction to Henry, but also his growing interest in an alliance between Henry and Helen. Love wouldn’t break the rule against interfering with the players’ hearts directly. But with one close to them? Especially one so full of charm? It would be his pleasure.

  Ethan knocked on James’s door at sunset, still pushing the ruse that he was researching the newspaper piece.

  “You’re not writing anything down,” Love said, after they’d spent two hours inside his shack discussing philosophy and politics.

  “I have a good memory.”

  “Just what the forgotten men of Hooverville need. Your memory.”

  Even in the weak light that found its way through the doorway, Love could see Ethan did not know what to make of the remark. He touched the young man’s forearm to reassure him it was not meant as a jab. He meant it truly: to be seen, to be remembered, to matter. It was what these men, and all others, needed.

  The gesture undid Ethan. Love meant no harm by it, and he’d so sunk into the skin of James Booth that he’d forgotten the power of his touch, particularly on skin as electrified as Ethan’s. Love removed a small lantern from its spot on the framing of the shack. The Zippo clicked, the flame caught, and there was a smell of burning oil and smoke. Ethan held his breath.

  “There,” Love said, his voice low and soft. “A bit of light.”

  Et
han exhaled. His hands shook. Love regarded him in a way that said, I see you. Ethan looked downward, then back at Love. Their hearts began to keep time with each other. Henry would have appreciated the rhythm, the connection. Love did. More than he had anticipated. It meant there were more depths to Ethan.

  “I should go,” Ethan said. “I —”

  “Or you could stay,” Love said.

  Ethan did not object as Love ran a knuckle down his cheek, slightly sandpapered with stubble where his beard was beginning to come in. Like a rope, the air pulled tight between them. The tension was excruciating; Love could almost feel the fibers snap.

  He closed the makeshift plywood door, sealing the space so Ethan would not have to hear any sounds from the outside world: not the voices of men, not the scream of steam engines as they arrived at the nearby station. The only sounds would be of their bodies breathing, of their clothing rustling, of skin moving against soft skin.

  The shack was small and humble, but it was cozy and private, and lit with a light that did not seem to come entirely from the lantern.

  Afterward, Ethan wept, and Love whispered things meant to make him feel safe. Were it possible, he would have traded his immortality to remain with this beautiful soul, to concentrate all that love on a human who needed it so.

  THE bouquet of tulips sat next to Henry on the front seat. He was having second thoughts. What was he going to do, give them to the bouncer and ask him to deliver them? Better to throw them away.

  The air outside blushed with humidity. Summer was coming, with its long, hot days. He slipped into the alley behind the club and found a trash can by the door where he’d first encountered Flora’s uncle. As Henry lifted the lid, a black cat dashed from behind the can and looped around his ankles. He nearly had a heart attack; he wasn’t much of a fan of cats.

  “Sorry,” he said, not unkindly. “I don’t have any food for you.”

  The animal meowed plaintively. Henry turned to discard the flowers. The door opened, and Flora emerged holding a saucer of milk. She wore a robe, though her hair and makeup were done. Seeing Henry, she started, spilling liquid on the cobbles. They stared at each other a moment until Flora broke the silence.