The Game of Love and Death

by Martha Brockenbrough

  “I know.” Henry’s voice hardly felt like his own.

  “Do you? Do you know how it feels to have someone you’ve raised — almost as a son — commit an act of violence against a man whose job it is to uphold the law?”

  “But he’d framed —”

  “Don’t even say her name. I don’t want to hear another word about her. Please tell me there hasn’t been any” — he waved his hand dismissively — “congress.”

  “No,” Henry whispered, mortified even to be talking about such things in front of other people.

  “Small blessings. It means this isn’t a permanent disaster.” Mr. Thorne lowered himself into his chair again, rubbing his hand along his bare scalp as he leaned back. “The newspaper will have to cover the attack and the arrest. Because you’re under eighteen, you’re not an adult. Your name won’t be used. But your link to my family will be disclosed. Journalistic ethics require it. It’s an embarrassment, an enormous embarrassment.”

  Henry swallowed. He’d considered this already and it only made him feel worse to hear Mr. Thorne spell it all out.

  “And it goes without saying that you will not graduate with your class. We spoke with them already. They told us about your plummeting grades, and with today’s escapade, you’ve been expelled.”

  Henry felt ill.

  “And you have lost your scholarship to the university.” Mr. Thorne leaned forward again on his elbows. “Obviously.”

  The scholarship was his future, or it had been. And now that was gone. The loss horrified him, but in a way, he felt like he’d been expecting such a thing his entire life. As hard as he’d tried to make himself useful, to follow the rules, to earn his place, a part of him knew he was an impostor in this world. A part of him was always waiting to be cast out.

  But he knew this too: There was a future he’d rather have. One he’d always wanted more. And that was one with the possibility of love.

  “Father —” Ethan put his hands on the desk, pleading.

  Mr. Thorne spun toward him, his index finger raised. “Not a word out of you, Ethan. So far, you seem blameless, but you don’t want to provoke me to dig below the surface and become aware of any shenanigans on your part, do you?”

  “No, sir.” Ethan stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “Out of consideration for the friendship I had with your father, and the pleasure I’ve had seeing you grow up under my roof, I’m not going to cast you out entirely,” Mr. Thorne said. He pulled a cigar out of the humidor and lit it, exhaling a stream of blue smoke. “You may have a job, if you’d like, working on the press crew.” He paused. “But you’ll have to find another place to live. It won’t do to have you here, particularly not with someone vulnerable like Helen being put at risk by your behavior and associates. And then there are Ethan and Annabel to consider. They have their own reputations that need protection.”

  Ethan sucked in his breath, and Henry felt sorrier for him than he did for himself.

  “I understand,” Henry said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Thorne lifted his cigar from the crystal ashtray whose edges gleamed like liquid in the soft library light. “You’re welcome,” he said, extending his other hand. “Stay out of trouble. And good luck.”

  Ethan followed him upstairs. “Henry, you have to reconsider.”

  “Reconsider?” Henry scanned the room to see what he should pack. Not much. A few items of clothing. Photographs of his parents and sister. His bass, which was still out in the carriage house. “There’s not a chance of that. Could I trouble you for a ride, though?”

  “A ride? Where will you go?” Ethan closed the door behind him. “Henry, this is insanity. If you take that job working the press, it’s a dead end. You’ll never get out. You’ll never be able to afford a home, you’ll —”

  “It’s not the only thing I’ll be doing,” he said. He opened a drawer and removed a small stack of folded undershirts, which he placed on the bed. “There’s the Domino. Flora’s asked me to join the band, and I said yes.”

  “But that’s — beg for a second chance,” Ethan said. His voice sounded strained, not like his own. “Promise you’ll stay away from Flora and the Domino. Give up the music altogether. There’s no security in that. You know it, I know it. It’s time to face that.”

  Henry opened another drawer and pulled out his pants. The school uniform ones, he could leave behind. A good thing. They were itchy. He turned to look at his friend. “Ethan, I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth. Weren’t you the one telling me to seize the day? Live the life I dreamed of living?”

  “I know, I know,” Ethan said quietly. He took the undershirts off the bed and moved to put them back in the drawer, but Henry blocked him. “And I still believe it, I suppose, in the abstract. But this … finding a rented room in a boarding house somewhere, and working inside a noisy pressroom until your hands are permanently stained black and you’re crippled and deaf? I’ve seen those pressmen. I know what happens. And how can you possibly do that and then play music at night? Can’t you please just see if there’s a way for you to finish school? Graduate? You’re days away from it, and I — I’ll —”

  “A diploma isn’t going to get me where I want to be,” Henry said. “And this job, it’s a place to start.” He held out his hands for the undershirts. Ethan relinquished them, and Henry set them on top of his bureau and pulled his father’s old suitcase from beneath his bed. It still bore stickers of his travels. Italy, France, England, Brazil — all places that seemed forever out of reach.

  He walked to his closet for his one suit. “Don’t count me out just yet,” he said. “Though I don’t have any money for a room. I spent all but twelve cents on bail. What if I look up James in Hooverville? Do you suppose he’d help?” Ethan’s face reddened as he nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” Henry said. “Just until the first paycheck comes in. How’s that story coming, by the way? Do you need my help with the writing yet? And what did James think of the music? We never had a chance to talk about it.”

  “No — it’s fine, I — here, let me at least make myself useful.” He wrapped the photographs of Henry’s family in a wool sweater and laid them across the top of all the other items in the case. Then he walked to the closet for the borrowed tuxedo Henry had been wearing to the Domino. “You’re going to need this,” he said. “And I’ll give you a ride if you’d like. Of course.”

  “I’m not taking that,” Henry said, looking at the tuxedo. “It’s your father’s.”

  As he folded his life into a suitcase, he felt as he sometimes did in dreams, wanting to run but feeling as though his legs had turned to cement. But maybe that was what it meant to grow up and have the seemingly infinite possibility of childhood vanish in an instant. You had to press on, no matter how dark and narrow the path ahead seemed.

  Ethan slipped the tuxedo and white shirt off the hanger. “Look, I want you to stay. To ask my parents for one more chance. You just can’t leave now. You can’t.” He put the clothing down and sat on Henry’s desk, resting his forehead on his palm. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Henry.”

  “We’ll still see each other,” Henry said. “Your parents haven’t forbidden that. And once you’re running the newspaper, you can give me a promotion.”

  Ethan laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Here this is your misfortune, and I’m making it seem as though it’s mine. I’m sorry. You and I both know I’m doomed when it comes to the paper. It’s just a matter of time before my father learns the truth. I knew it was coming eventually.”

  “I can still help,” Henry said. “Let’s write that Hooverville story together.”

  “I can’t.” Ethan paused to catch his breath. “If I can’t read and write competently on my own, I have no business running the paper. It’s strange, but I used to think that was the worst thing i
n the world. Now I know it isn’t, and I’m almost eager for the inevitable. I might be asking you for a spot on the floor of your new place once you’ve got one.”

  Henry snapped the suitcase shut and moved it off the bed. “What if we did leave together? As soon as I have the money to pay my share?”

  Ethan looked up at him. “My father would never permit it.”

  Henry immediately felt guilty. “I’m sorry. I know. And I’d never want for you to leave all this. You’re lucky, you know.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way most of the time.”

  Henry lifted his suitcase. Everything he had, minus his bass, he could carry in one hand. “You’ll come visit me. I won’t be far. And I can help you with anything you need. Your father — he never needs to know.”

  “Henry,” Ethan said, his voice growing strained. “I admire your courage. You should have your music. But you must look the part, if you’re to play.” He opened Henry’s suitcase and slipped the tuxedo inside. Then he picked up the case. “You get your bass. Hang my father and whatever he has to say about it.”

  Annabel burst in. She crashed into Henry, her face pink and wet from crying. “Henry! You can’t leave! I won’t let you!”

  He squatted so they were eye to eye with each other.

  “I won’t be going far,” he said. “We’ll ride bicycles together in the park.”

  “Promise?” she said.

  “I promise. And I’ll send you loads of letters. Now where’s your handkerchief? Let’s get you cleaned up.” She took Flora’s hankie out of her pinafore and Henry pressed it against her cheeks, his fingers touching the letters of the name sewn into the fabric. He wondered what Flora was doing, whether she was thinking of him. He’d had no time to contact her since that awful moment at the jail, and he didn’t know when he’d next be near a telephone or able to walk to her house.

  He folded Annabel into his arms. She smelled like grass and peanut butter, and the thought of not hearing her noise every morning and answering her annoying questions and watching her grow up in slow motion … He exhaled quickly, released her, and stood.

  Ethan was waiting outside the door with his suitcase.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Helen waited at the bottom of the stairs. She wore a white skirt and sweater set, and a rope of pearls, which she held between her teeth. She spit them out to ask him a question. “Where are you two going with that suitcase?”

  “None of your business,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you already know, anyway.”

  Henry felt embarrassed by his situation. Not that he’d ever seriously considered Helen. But this would mean he’d never be with a girl like her, one with pearls and a soft sweater and shining hair. In the most superficial way, she reminded him of his mother, although without the warmth that suffused his memories. He couldn’t tell what he felt about her, or anything else. The numbness went all the way through. Knowing she’d find out at some point, he opted for the truth. A quick drop of the guillotine, forever severing his life from hers.

  “I’m moving to Hooverville,” he said.

  The look on her face was puzzling. Dismay and then anger.

  “Excuse me,” she said. Her breath and the air around her smelled of smoke. She started up the stairs, pausing halfway. “I’ll be seeing you again. Soon. That’s a promise.”

  He doubted that. He doubted it very much. He lifted his suitcase. On their way to his car, Ethan tried to talk Henry out of staying in Hooverville. “I have some money saved up. That place isn’t fit for any man.”

  “James lives there,” Henry said, putting his suitcase in the trunk.

  “James — he’s different.” Ethan grabbed Henry’s arm, as if he could physically keep him from leaving. “Things don’t seem to bother him as much.”

  He slipped out of Ethan’s grip and walked to the carriage house to get his bass, hoping it wouldn’t be stolen or turned into kindling the second he turned his back on it in the shantytown. “It won’t be long before I have enough saved up for a room somewhere. Hooverville isn’t my destiny.”

  The drive to the encampment was short and silent. Hooverville looked much smaller than the first time Henry had seen it.

  “At least take some money for food,” Ethan said.

  Henry tucked the money into his billfold. “I’ll pay you back.” He hated owing Ethan any more than he already owed.

  “Not on your life.” Ethan looked around in dismay. “Why aren’t you at least asking for another chance?”

  Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t want to say the truth, that it was almost a relief that what he’d feared most had finally come to pass. As long as there was still Flora, as long as there was the Domino, then nothing else could hurt him.

  HENRY adjusted to the rattle and heat of the pressroom in less than a day. The chaos kept him from most of his own thoughts as he loaded rolls of newsprint into the oily flatbed press. The spinning, the noise, the flying of paper: All of it helped distract him from everything else. So much loss. For Flora, her grandmother. For himself, his home. It felt as though some unseen blade were slicing off the edges of their world, leaving them with little ground to stand on.

  He’d set up temporarily at Hooverville, where at least James had been helpful. Almost too helpful, really. He’d clung to Henry like a shadow, even giving him a small shack that smelled of sawdust and tar. In those moments when Henry did stop and listen and breathe, he felt a certain shiver in the air, as though everything solid were about to crumble.

  “Heads up, Bishop!”

  Henry jumped out of the way of his supervisor, Carl Watters, who was pulling a barrel of ink on a dolly past the chugging press. “No wonder you got those black eyes. You’re a klutz.”

  Henry, embarrassed, pushed a sweaty chunk of hair off his forehead and returned to the machine he was supposed to be oiling. He put the rag back in his pocket and tightened a pair of bolts that had come loose.

  Shouts came from behind. Henry turned. A sparrow had flown into the pressroom from one of the waxy windows that had been left open to siphon some heat out of the room. The bird wasn’t enough to stop the presses, but if it got pulled into the webbing, there’d be blood and feathers on the afternoon edition, the sort of thing that would get taken out of the crew’s paychecks.

  He found the hook-ended wooden pole they used to open and close the windows and did his best to shoo the creature out, but it flitted away and dropped out of sight where the day’s editions were being folded and bound. Henry followed, ducking behind a column. The way things had been going, the stupid creature would crap on top of the afternoon extra.

  There. Sitting on the ledge above the day’s paper. And then, just as if Henry had asked politely, the bird flew up and out a nearby open window. Feeling lucky for the first time in ages, Henry leaned the pole against the column and wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. A headline caught his eye.

  NEGRO NIGHTCLUB BURNS.

  He recognized the Domino straightaway from the picture, which had been shot during daylight hours. It was a total loss. He scanned the text, the paper shaking in his hands. No mention had been made of Flora. He stood in a stupor until Mr. Watters bellowed more insults in his ear. Henry dropped the paper and looked at the clock. Ninety-seven minutes until the end of his shift. Well, hang that. They could fire him if they wanted. He pulled off his canvas apron and dropped it on the floor.

  “I’m going to report you for this,” Mr. Watters yelled after him. “I don’t care who recommended you.”

  Outside, he turned toward Flora’s neighborhood and had taken three steps when he heard a voice call his name. It was Helen. From across the street, she leaned her head out of Mr. Thorne’s car, smiling as though nothing had changed. “Need a ride?”

  Henry looked at his rumpled pants and his ink-stained hands. He was aware of h
is bruised face and the dried sweat on his back and in his armpits, and he would have known he reeked even if his nose had been snipped off. He crossed the street to avoid having to shout, but stood away from her automobile so that she couldn’t get too close a look — or smell.

  “This is a surprise.” He didn’t want to give her the idea he was happy about it.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Ouch. Stupid hatpin.” She pulled her glove off and held her finger out to Henry. A bead of blood had welled up. “Come closer so you can kiss it and make it better.”

  “Er,” Henry stammered.

  “Don’t care for the sight of blood?” She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. Then she slipped her hand back inside her glove and set her fingers on the steering wheel. “Where to?”

  Henry hesitated. He hadn’t any money for a cable car, and he was almost too tired to walk. But he didn’t want Flora to see him anywhere near Helen — or for Helen to know where he was going. It was none of her business.

  “How about something to eat? I’m awfully hungry.”

  Henry grimaced. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have enough money to take her anyplace. He could barely feed himself.

  “My treat,” she said, patting her pocketbook. “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

  A hot meal. There was almost nothing in the world that he wanted more. Almost. “That’s all right. Thank you anyway.”

  “Just get in the car, Henry,” Helen said. She looked angry, almost dangerous. “We haven’t all day to waste.”

  From behind him, another familiar voice called out, “Henry!”

  Henry turned. James Booth stood a few feet away, holding a sign that read A HAND UP, NOT A HANDOUT.

  “This is quite the reunion,” James said.

  “What a coincidence,” Helen said. “My goodness.”

  “Yes,” James said. “The world and its mysterious ways and all.” He looked every bit as hostile as Helen.

  Henry wished he could disappear. “On second thought, I can walk. It’s not far.”