The Game of Love and Death

by Martha Brockenbrough

  “As I understand my mythology, she was the daughter of a god who was abducted from her husband.”

  “She didn’t mind in the least.”

  “You have firsthand knowledge?”

  “And what if I did?”

  “Then I’d say you were remarkably well preserved.”

  “How lovely of you to notice,” she said, looking more amused than anything. “As the story goes, she did not survive long after her husband reclaimed her. Death is cruel to lovers, is it not?”

  “Love is a bad thing if it starts a ten-year war,” Ethan said. “Home-wrecking aside.”

  Henry wished he knew more about the story. Mythology and philosophy were always more Ethan’s thing. He had to hand it to his friend, though. He wasn’t kidding about James’s intelligence.

  “There is no such thing as terrible love,” James argued, leaning close to Helen.

  “It’s all terrible,” Helen said, leaning right back.

  “I can think of something worse,” James practically spat at her.

  The pair pulled apart when Ethan coughed politely, and Henry was relieved when his friend switched on the radio again. The news program had ended and the announcer was telling the story of a woman, her maid, a love made possible through the magic of Ivory soap.

  “They’re playing your commercial, Helen,” Ethan said. He quoted the jingle: “ ‘Hilda will never get a Grecian nose by using a beauty soap, but we do hope she gets Henry.’ ”

  “Hilda!” Helen said. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting their pronunciation. Either that, or Henry has some explaining to do.”

  They arrived at the Majestic. Henry expected to escort Helen inside, but Ethan and James flanked her instead, leaving Henry to walk by himself into the club.

  It was just as well. It gave him a chance to catch his breath, to take in the lighted marquee, the thump of the band, the weight of the clouds. There was no bouncer, so Helen, James, and Ethan walked in while Henry stood on the sidewalk, relieved to have a moment alone. The air around him pulsed with energy, and if he’d still been a little kid, he would have wanted to run up and down the street yelling at the top of his lungs, just to release the feeling. As unsettling as it was, it beat the sadness.

  The rain started. As the first drops soaked his skin, the atmosphere shifted. He dabbed the water away with his handkerchief and breathed deeply, savoring the mysterious scent the drops had drummed from the soil. Light footsteps tapped the sidewalk behind him. He turned and saw her.

  “Flora.” He took a half step toward her before he remembered himself. She stood alone, a black umbrella hooked over her arm.

  “Henry. I —” She pressed her lips together. She looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else.

  After a moment, she looked away, and Henry realized he would let Flora break his heart a million times, if he could look at her face every day.

  “What’s keeping you, Henry?” Helen stood in the open doorway of the Majestic. She stroked the head of her mink. “We’re all waiting.”

  He swallowed. “Excuse me,” he said to Flora.

  He walked into the club, knowing she was behind him, knowing she was watching. But he wouldn’t let himself turn around or speak to her again. He was here with Helen. He’d honor that. He’d also keep Flora away from Helen, who could be a pill and a half. Besides, Flora didn’t want him anyway. He owed it to his pride to steer clear.

  Henry had wanted to lose himself inside the music, a complicated song being played in 5/4 time, a polyrhythm that felt murderously hard to pull off. But Helen and James had started in again about the Trojan War and the many other victims of the other Helen’s treachery: the deaths of Achilles and his lover Patroclus, the isolation of Ajax, the endless journey of Odysseus. They shouted at each other to be heard over the music, with a glum-looking Ethan interjecting to referee.

  “Love killed all those people,” Helen said.

  “The war did that. War.” James finished his drink. “War is the machinery of death.”

  “The machinery was started by love.” Helen slipped a cigarette between her lips and leaned toward Ethan to light it.

  “You talk about love as though it’s the root of all evil,” James said.

  “And you’ve failed to prove that it isn’t.” The look on her face surprised Henry: hurt and angry and scared. What had happened to Helen to make her turn out this way?

  Ethan signaled to the waiter for another round of drinks, but Helen shook her head. “I’ve had enough of this.” She stood.

  “Helen, don’t be that way,” Ethan said. Henry wanted to echo the sentiment, but couldn’t.

  “Be what way?” she said. “It’s just a friendly debate. Mr. Booth here thinks there is something magical about love; I say it’s one of the swifter routes to ruin.”

  “I’m glad you and your cousin are not of the same mind,” James said.

  Ethan stammered. “Let’s — let’s just listen to the music.”

  Helen wasn’t swayed. “I’ve enjoyed meeting your friend.” She reached for her clutch. “What a charmer. But I really must be getting home.”

  Ethan stood. James put his hand on Ethan’s forearm. “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “I feel responsible for the unpleasantness.”

  “Let me.” Henry stood.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Ethan said. The waiter rushed forward, as if concerned they were going to skip out on their bill.

  “Sit,” Helen said. “Both of you. Mr. Booth can walk me out, although I doubt he can pay for my cab.”

  “I can, believe it or not,” James said.

  Henry tried to step away from the table to escort Helen, but he found himself feeling rooted to the floor. It was the most curious sensation. He glanced at Ethan, who shrugged, then sat and sipped his drink. Helen and James walked out together, still arguing.

  “Forget them,” Ethan said. “What a bust this has been. She’s the kiss of death to good times. Always has been. Sorry, pal.”

  Henry, dazed, fell into the chair next to him. He gulped his drink. What a strange evening, strange and terrible.

  Across the room, he spotted Flora. She’d just set down her empty glass of champagne. She looked back at him, but as he smiled and lifted his hand to wave, she closed her eyes. As much as he wanted to be able to look at her and have it mean something to her, he didn’t mind. She was beautiful lit up with song. So beautiful. And never to be his.

  STUCK as eternal companions, Love and Death never worked as allies. But in that moment they left the Majestic, they worked toward a shared goal of keeping the humans inside the club, each for reasons of their own. Death slowed time, and Love dimmed the hearts of Henry and Ethan so they would stay complacently in their seats. This accomplished, their antagonism returned.

  “What you’re doing to that boy,” Death said. “It’s vicious. Irresponsible.”

  “Henry? You’re the one toying with him.”

  “I meant Ethan,” she hissed. “He’s a little close, don’t you think?”

  “I’m playing the Game. Ethan loved Henry. Now he loves me. You, though — you’re going straight for the kill. It’s appalling. Never in the history of the Game —”

  She interrupted. “I don’t think you’re entitled to make accusations along those lines. I carried those deaths to spare you that. You’re not strong enough.”

  The words silenced Love.

  She spoke again, more softly this time. “I, however, have not yet succeeded at love. Henry hardly looks at me. And to think that I’ve made him at least thirty-seven sandwiches.”

  Her confession made Love laugh. Death laughed too. Around them, the rain thickened. Steam rose from their shoulders, tangling with the mists of night. Love put his arm around Death’s shoulder. “Go home. Dry off. Drink something warm.”

  “Home,” she said. “Wh
ich do you mean?”

  “Ethan’s, of course. If you were to disappear now, James Booth would swing from the gallows.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Her glee pleased Love, even though it was at his expense. “But I can’t go home just yet. Business to attend to.” Her eyes darkened. She was gone before he could ask what she meant.

  Setting aside his anxiety about her swift departure, he approached Flora’s car. He considered opening its hood and removing some necessary part, some greasy cog, or one of those little sparking wonders that made the beast roar. But for his plan to work best, his vandalism had to be visible.

  To guard against witnesses, he shifted his guise. His pants and coat were now black, as was the cap that covered his golden hair. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket — every man in Hooverville had some sort of blade — and drove its tip into each tire. He stood in the cobblestone street, watching the car sink. As the rain spiraled down, he turned his face to the stars, the stars that always hung there, even when they could not be seen. Stars that burned their eternities in the cold solitude of space, piercing the darkness for as long as they could.

  FLORA had heard what she needed to hear. Peaches was fine, but not good enough for the Domino, at least not long term. They might be able to work with Doc to borrow him temporarily while they advertised as planned. She resolved to work on it the next day, and felt better than she had since Grady died. The clarity of the decision combined with the buzz of the bubbly filled her with a streak of daring — the same compulsion she felt flying loop the loops over Lake Washington.

  On her way out, she veered past Henry’s table. The girl he was with had gone, probably to the powder room. Flora pretended not to notice Henry until the last moment. Then, when he looked up at her, she stopped and bent her lips to his ear, resting one gloved hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s good,” she whispered. “But nothing compared to you.”

  Her lips brushed down Henry’s earlobe. She wanted to stay there, inhaling him, or even turning his perfectly curved chin toward her so she could kiss his lips, just once. But she didn’t. That sort of thing … it couldn’t happen. Ever.

  She fetched her things from the coat check and stepped outside. The rain was coming down furiously, so she popped her umbrella and held it overhead. She’d nearly reached her car when she noticed something awful: all of her tires were flat. She stood staring at them for several minutes, torn between calling for a cab and walking home. A walk would cost less money. Just as she was about to set off, she heard footsteps. Behind her stood Henry, Ethan, and a fellow about their age. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

  “Looks as though you might have a flat tire,” Henry said.

  “Or four,” she replied.

  “We have a dry car,” Henry said, “if you’d like a lift. It’s no trouble.”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I could use the walk.”

  “Flora,” Henry said. “It’s almost midnight. It’s raining. You’ll get soaked.”

  “Nonsense.” She lifted her umbrella overhead. She held her pocketbook close to her ribs. It wasn’t much more than a mile. Even in her high-heeled shoes, it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. And, after her disclosure, it felt safer.

  “Let us take you.” Henry pleaded with his eyes.

  “Thank you, but no.” She turned and headed toward home. Her shoes would be ruined and she’d probably catch her death of cold, but she’d have her pride intact. That felt like enough. Wanting a safer distance between them, she walked faster.

  DEATH did not travel back to Ethan’s home. Instead, she slipped inside her black cat guise and meowed piteously until the old woman let her in. Flora’s grandmother tucked small, even stitches into a quilt. Game or no Game, it was this woman’s time. No one, not even Love, could fault her for that. She’d almost finished with the quilt, which melted over the edges of a table in front of her. It was a riot of color and fabric that had been cut from remnants of flour sacks and Marion’s own dresses over the years, reassembled into a blooming chrysanthemum pattern.

  A part of Death that had given way to being a cat felt an urge to bat at the silver needle and its fluttering tail of thread as it arced and looped in the woman’s fingertips. Death wouldn’t give in to that desire, but she did move closer and gaze up at the woman with her strange black eyes.

  “I see you there, watching me,” Marion said. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  Death licked a paw and ran it behind her ear.

  “When you get to my age,” Marion said, tucking a stitch into the fabric, “you see things more for how they are.”

  Death lowered her paw.

  “Of course, there’s no sense in talking about them.” Marion examined her work a moment, and then completed a line of stitches. “People would think you’d gone ’round the bend if you did. I didn’t expect that’s what you’d look like, though I was ready to bash in your skull if you did anything to my Flora. Bash your skull, you hear? I’d maybe even use that lamp over there.”

  She gestured at a heavy brass lamp shaped like a whistling boy.

  Flicking her tail, Death walked to the armchair by the window where Marion often sat waiting for Flora to return home. The chair smelled like the old woman, powdery and sweet. With grace, Death transformed herself into a human guise, one she hoped would give pleasure to Marion.

  The old woman dropped her needle. “Vivian?”

  “No, just someone who remembers her.” Death smoothed the folds of a dress that looked exactly like the one Marion’s daughter, Vivian, Flora’s mother, wore the night she died. “Think of this as my gift to you.”

  “It is a gift.” Marion breathed the word out on a wobbly sigh. She lifted her spectacles and pushed at the welling tears. “I’m glad — I’m glad I’m not the only one who remembers. That’s what makes it worse, of course. Your child dies and no one wants to disturb you by talking about her, and then before you realize it, time has passed and everyone’s forgotten. Everyone but you.” She removed her spectacles. Tears fell. “Let me just look at you a moment.”

  She found her needle and tucked it beneath the topmost layer of the fabric, holding her place. Then she wiped her face and covered her mouth to hold back a sob. After a long while, she spoke. “I’ve missed you, child.”

  Death held still, hating this part of it. It won’t be much more time now.

  “You’d be proud of your girl,” Marion said. “Grown up. So independent. And she sings. Not like you, though. She has her own way. And she flies a plane and has this dream of going across the ocean, although I know that’ll be the death of her.” She caught herself, apparently remembering to whom she was talking. She put on her spectacles and picked up her quilt, scowling at it. “A practical question, if I may. Will I be able to finish this? There isn’t all that much left.”

  Death was tempted to adjust her face so that she was no longer the spitting image of Vivian, but rather, someone who looked like she could be a sister. It felt strangely intrusive being in costume at such a moment. But she held the form, not wanting to kill the woman’s hope. “Keep sewing,” she said. “I won’t stop you.”

  “Thank you. I never was one for unfinished business.” Marion slid the needle into the cloth. She looked at Death again. “You know, you didn’t quite get her eyes right.”

  “Yes, those.” Death shrugged. “My task requires a certain sort of vision. I always keep my own.”

  The two women sat in companionable silence until the mantel clock’s hands found another hour. Midnight. The first of twelve chimes rang out. Nana sighed. “A sensible woman would be in bed by now. But I knew I’d have to finish this tonight. I knew it.” She made three more stitches, as the clock chimed on, then paused and put a hand over her heart. “I knew you were coming. Felt it right here.”

  “It’s late,” Death said on the third chime. She grabbed the armrests of the
chair, readying herself to stand.

  “I’m not going to be able to finish.” Marion looked down at the spread of her quilt, millions of tiny stitches representing millions of moments that would never return.

  Death shook her head. “A life with all of its business finished is a life too cautiously lived.” She believed every word of that. She would never lie to someone, not at a time like this. “Come on, now.”

  Marion glanced toward the door, and Death made a scolding face. “Sherman isn’t coming. Neither is Flora. And if you run, I will follow.”

  “That wasn’t it,” Marion said, almost smiling. “If I run … the thought of it! I was trying to imagine how this will look to Flora. Isn’t there some way —”

  “I’m sorry.” And Death was, in her own fashion. She couldn’t get rid of the woman’s body. That would make Flora feel far worse.

  At the ninth chime, she stood. Pausing time for everyone except herself and Marion, she walked across the cozy parlor in Vivian’s form, and the memories of that life came rushing back, unbidden. Death felt a pang that Flora had been too young to know her mother. Marion ran her hands over the slightly puckered quilt fabric one last time. She made her way to the sofa and patted the space next to her.

  “Come sit beside me awhile,” she said.

  Sitting next to Marion, she could smell the woman’s soul, and it made her ravenous.

  “How will this work?” Marion said.

  Death took her hand. Marion’s soft arm wrapped around her shoulder, and her forehead touched Death’s as the two leaned into each other. At the moment of contact, there was an explosion of memories, Marion’s and Vivian’s, cut apart and stitched together …

  … and then Death’s eyes turned white as Marion’s life flowed into her, feeding that endless hunger until she felt as though she might burst.

  Marion said one last word: “Oh!”

  Her body grew heavy. Death eased herself out from beneath the old woman’s shoulder and arranged her on the davenport. She laid Marion’s head on a needlepoint pillow, slipped her still-warm shoes off her feet, and placed them neatly on the floor. She removed Marion’s spectacles, but left the old woman’s eyes open.