The Game of Love and Death (14 page)

L
ATER
that evening, after he had wrestled down his last calculus proof and finished a paper comparing Athens and Sparta to the North and South during the Civil War, Henry shaved for the first time in three days. He took his time mixing the soap, brushing it along his jaw, and scraping it with the straight razor. His jugular throbbed in the mirror. So little flesh between that and the blade. The right cut would be lethal. And yet there wasn’t a chance he’d do it. It was one thing to be sad enough to want to die, but an entirely other thing to be mad enough to kill one’s self. The thought, dark as it was, made him feel better — and the prospect of hearing music again was proof that he very much wanted to be among the living, that in this regard, he was not his father’s son.

He finished shaving, rinsed bits of soap from his earlobes and neck, and splashed aftershave against his cheeks. Then he dressed, straightened the books and papers on his desk, and glanced out the window. It had been a cloudy afternoon, and as a result, sunset was a slow fade to black. The quarter moon was little more than a pale dimple behind a curtain of clouds. Rain was on the way, but that was common in Seattle. The sky could hang heavy with moisture for days.

Ethan paced at the base of the stairs, fussing with his cuff links.

“Need a hand?” Henry said.

“What? No.” Ethan looked up. “Just burning off energy.”

“Don’t burn it all off.” Helen appeared in a white dress that hit her in the best of places. She wore a pair of black satin elbow gloves and a mink stole around her shoulders, the sort where they left the animal’s head on. A hidden clasp fed its tail into its mouth, and its eyes sparkled cruelly. Henry was glad he’d cleaned himself. He offered his arm. As they walked down the stairs together, he caught a whiff of her perfume, and he remembered why he despised that scent. Lilies made up the sole arrangement of flowers at his father’s sparsely attended funeral. Henry never knew whether it was the sudden poverty or the suicide that had driven away all of his fami­ly’s former friends. Ever since, lilies had reminded him of despair.

It would simplify so much if he wanted Helen. But while her skin was pale and creamy, and her elegant collarbones were visible over the neckline of her dress, the sight only reminded him that she had a skeleton beneath her flesh. He wanted love, and when he looked at her, he could only think of death.

“The Majestic isn’t far,” Ethan said. “We could walk, even. But there’s someone we have to pick up first.”

“A girl?” Helen said. “Does Ethan have a steady?”

Ethan shook his head and smirked. “Don’t you wish I could give you something to gossip about with my mother? But no. This is business. Something related to the newspaper. You couldn’t possibly understand. It’s an assignment from my father. You can ask him about it, if you’d like.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t be able to understand. It’s that I couldn’t possibly be
interested
.” Helen unclasped her pocketbook and removed a cigarette from a silver case.

“Not in here,” Ethan said. “You know what Mother would say.”

“And Ethan would never do something that would cost him the approval of one of his parents.” Helen removed the unlit cigarette from her lips. “Ethan is a perfect puppet. Sit up, Ethan. Walk this way, Ethan. Bow to us, Ethan.”

“Not in the car either,” Ethan said, pointedly ignoring her remark. “You’ll burn holes in the seats.”

Helen rolled her eyes and put the cigarette back in its case. Its tip had been stained red by her lips, and Henry found the sight of it both repellent and fascinating.

The night air was cool and damp, and made Henry feel somewhat more himself. In the cloud-filtered moonlight Helen looked like a figure in a painting. He could not tell if the sensation it gave him was pleasant or troubling.

“Anything else I’m not allowed to do tonight?” she said.

“An entire list,” Ethan said. “Use your imagination.”

“Oh, I am.” She waited for Henry and reached for his arm, but Ethan swooped between them and guided her to the backseat.

“Henry, you don’t mind riding up front, do you?”

“Not at all.” Henry appreciated that Ethan was trying to spare him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be spared anymore. In the backseat, Helen played with her lighter, making flames appear and disappear. Henry expected her to light a cigarette, but she didn’t.

She wouldn’t leave Ethan alone. “Who are we picking up? Is it anyone I know?”

“No.” Ethan turned on the radio, which was broadcasting news about Neville Chamberlain’s election as prime minister of the United Kingdom.

Helen objected. “Ugh, how impossibly dull.”

“It’s international news, Helen. It’s good to care about events that shape the future of humanity.”

“Please,” Helen said. “I’ve had enough for a thousand lifetimes.”

Henry looked out the window, eager to avoid the cross fire. Ethan switched off the radio. Hooverville was just ahead, lit with smudgy campfire light that gave the air a thick, sad smell. Ethan pulled over. From the darkness, James Booth appeared in a clean gray suit, looking as if he might be one of their classmates. Perhaps his fortunes had improved; Henry could certainly imagine where he’d made some money. Ethan got out, and the pair shook hands. He opened the back door, and James slid in beside Helen, grinning more broadly than seemed possible.

“Is this some sort of joke?” Helen looked at James as though he were a smelly dog.

“Don’t be a snob, Helen,” Ethan said. “This is the mayor of Hooverville. Had he been born into money, he might even be the mayor of the city itself in a few years. He’s a terrific political talent. Full of smart ideas.”

Henry watched in the rearview mirror as she lit a cigarette and exhaled in James’s face.

“Helen.” James extended his hand. “Ethan’s said so much about you.”

“Funny. He hasn’t said a thing about you.” Helen barely squeezed his fingertips. Her lit cigarette threatened to drop ash on the back of his hand.

“History has a famous Helen,” James said. “Her face launched a thousand ships. You have a face that might launch a solid dozen, which I mean as a compliment on the grandest scale. The warships today are much bigger.” He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it in the ashtray. “There, now. We wouldn’t want to set anything on fire.”

Helen laughed. “We’ll see about that.”

Henry glanced at Ethan, wondering if Helen and James could possibly have met before. Their antipathy had such familiarity.

“Helen,” Ethan said. “Mind your manners. James might not come from money, but he’s got ideas and a gift for persuasion. You might even call that the wealth of the modern era.”

“Oh, there’s a lot I’d call the likes of him,” she said.

“Go on.” James leaned against the seat, cradling his head in his hands, as if he enjoyed being abused. “I’m all ears.”

She raked her eyes over him. “The Helen in your story was a home wrecker, for starters.”

“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.