The Game of Love and Death (29 page)

T
HE
telephone rang as Flora was getting ready to leave. She’d dressed in something she rarely wore: a daring red dress with black buttons up its back. Too fancy for most days, not quite fancy enough for a performance, but perfect for a life-changing day like today. She had her sponsor. She’d make her flight. Her dream was coming true. She didn’t feel quite the way she’d thought she would, but maybe a bit of tarnish was the price of reality.

The ringing continued. Strange. She could not imagine who might be calling her so early in the morning. Or at all, really. She considered answering it, but she had an appointment with Helen. That, and no desire to talk with anyone. No desire for any human connection at all.

Even as she knew that hunger for solitude was how Death had shaped her heart, she didn’t see a need to change it. Ironically, it had served her well. Just as no one could hurt her if she did not form attachments, keeping to herself also meant she would not hurt anyone else, most especially Henry. The expression on his face when she turned him away was one she never wanted to see again, on anyone, as long as she lived.

She slung his coat over her arm and walked to the door. Her plan was to get to the airstrip at least two hours early to make sure the plane — and her nerves — were in fine shape. After their flight together, Helen could return Henry’s coat. She tried to ignore the pang that image gave her.

Helen. She shuddered a bit to think of the girl. She appreciated what Helen had to offer her: a way out. Flora was to stay away from Henry, and Helen would fund her trip. In return, Henry would be loved. It made perfect sense. But it didn’t mean Helen was someone she wanted to be around. The last time they’d been together, Flora had suffered that awful vision of her parents’ death. She wasn’t worried such a thing would happen again, as it had happened neither before nor since. But in the same way that certain scents evoke memories, the prospect of seeing Helen again, of being dependent on her in an even greater way, put Flora on edge.

The ringing continued. Flora locked the door behind her and walked down the steps to the street, and soon she was too far away to hear or care.

At least it was a beautiful day for a flight. Pale blue sky. No wind. Not a cloud to be seen, so no chance of thunderstorms, and it was the wrong time of year for ice. She couldn’t have asked for better conditions.

She sat in the cockpit of the new plane, polishing the wood until it glowed. Helen wasn’t due for another hour yet, and Flora had already checked everything she could off her list. Frustrating. She put her hands on the yoke and looked around, making sure everything was tidy. Something glinted underfoot. Flora bent to pick it up. A penny, and it was faceup. Lucky.

“I’m rich,” she said, to no one in particular.
If only.

What would it be like to live as Helen did, to pull thousands of dollars out of a bottomless trust fund at a moment’s notice? To wear a dress only once before discarding it? To be considered a fair match for someone like —

Flora crushed the thought before it bloomed. She closed her hand around the penny. Flipped it in the air. Heads, she got a wish. Tails, she didn’t. The coin crested its arc. She snatched it, holding it a moment in her closed fist.

What did she want?

She glanced at the sky, knowing that she was supposed to want the freedom of that blue beyond. Knowing that she wasn’t so certain of that anymore. Knowing, in fact, that she wanted something else. Someone else.

What if it were Henry she was meeting? What if she could show him what it was like to own the sky? From above, one couldn’t see the mess of life. Not the chipped paint on the houses. Not the cracks in the sidewalk. No signs of imperfection or decay. Everything was clean lines and vivid colors. What’s more, the engine was too loud for idle conversation or even for much thought. The focus that flight required consumed her. It felt safe. And yet she wanted to share it, at least with him. As he had showed her that love was nothing to fear, she could show him the embrace of the beyond.

She wished on the penny until it felt warm, and then she opened her hand. Heads. She’d won. The ridiculousness of it made her laugh out loud. She dropped the penny into the pocket of her dress and decided to turn the props and check for oil. She’d have to do it once more before takeoff, but at least it would keep her hands busy.

Her boots had just touched ground when she heard his voice. Not wanting to believe it, Flora slowly turned around. And there he was, wearing the same clothes he’d been in the night before.

“Back for your jacket?” she said. “I have it with me. I was going to give it to Helen.”

“My jacket?” He looked momentarily puzzled. And then: “Oh, of course. Very kind of you.”

Something seemed strange about him, strange and formal, but she wasn’t surprised, given how things had ended.

He stepped closer, and a lock of hair slid down his forehead. He didn’t push it away. He looked as though he hadn’t slept well. She knew the feeling.

“I’ll just get it for you, then,” she said.

“I want to fly,” Henry said. He walked closer. “In the plane.”

“You’re sure about that?” Flora tilted her head, scarcely wanting to believe he’d had a change of heart about heights.

“Yes.”

She smiled, tentatively. “I happen to know a pilot who doesn’t have anything to do for the next hour.”

Henry smiled back. It was pinched-looking, but it was better than nothing. She deeply regretted what had happened between them before. If she could take those words back, she would. It wasn’t that she was ready to accept what he offered, ready to choose him. But love and a life together: Maybe it could be possible someday.

Her head began to throb. The best thing for that, though, was to take to the skies.

“Ready?” she asked. “The conditions are perfect.”

She stopped herself before she started rambling. Best just to show him what she loved. Perhaps it could be the beginning of forgiveness.

H
ENRY
tried telephoning Flora as soon as Mr. Thorne departed. He had to warn her about Helen, about who she really was. The phone rang and rang, but she did not pick up, and Henry feared she’d already left to take Helen up in her airplane. He burst out the door and ran down the steps before he stopped on the sidewalk, not sure where to go: to Flora’s house, to the airfield, to Hooverville to seek help from James, to confront the fake Helen wherever she might have run to.

Unable to decide, he stood paralyzed as cars zoomed by, kicking up clouds of dust on the cobbled streets. People hurried past him, giving him sidelong glances for his obvious distress. He decided to take his chances bargaining with Death. She’d as much as invited him to, only he hadn’t realized it. What if he had kissed her? Would it have saved Flora? He would have done it a thousand times were that the case.

To think, he’d turned away from Helen because it felt like death to live without Flora. He’d been right about that. He just hadn’t understood how right he was.

His pockets empty, he ran toward the airfield. He had miles to go, but already, his shirt stuck to his back and his lungs burned. He ran downhill on Twenty-Third Avenue, heading toward the bridge; the barest hint of a breeze blew from behind. A car pulled up. It was James, only not the version he’d known earlier. This James Booth sat behind the wheel of a Cadillac even finer than Mr. Thorne’s. His suit was new, finished with a gray silk tie worn over a snow-white shirt. It figured that Love was vain.

“Get in,” James said.

Henry obeyed, relieved, yet angry for what Love had done to him, to Ethan, to all of them. “We have to hurry. They’re at the airfield. If Helen gets there first …”

“I know.” James’s voice was quiet.

“You have to help me,” Henry said. “I want to trade. I want to take Flora’s place.”

James did not reply, though he turned for a quick glance as he held the steering wheel with both hands.

Henry yelled, “Will she take me instead? Tell me!”

James did not answer right away. The street curved and they approached the Montlake Bridge, whose copper-topped turrets reminded Henry of Rapunzel’s tower. Lights flashed and the guardrail dropped, signaling the bridge was to rise. The delay was agony. At last the bridge began to lower itself. They sped over the Montlake Cut past the University of Washington, veering toward Sand Point.

James finally spoke. “She’s never said yes to such a thing.”

“What else can we do?” Henry’s stomach felt full of snakes. “There has to be something. Anything. It can’t end like this.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” James’s voice was reassuring but distant, as if he were a school administrator explaining some foul-up with a test packet. “You played as well as I had hoped. I’m proud of you.”

Henry slammed his hands on the dashboard. “You’re talking as though it’s over. It’s not.”

“It is,” James said. “It’s over and we lost.”

Henry’s throat was so tight it hurt. “Then can nothing help? Can nothing save Flora? What about Death? What will kill her?”

“Nothing,” James said. “She’s immortal, as am I.”

“Then what makes her suffer? I want to hurt her as she’s hurt me.”

“Waiting. She’s been suffering all along, and she won’t wait anymore. I could turn back, Henry. No one would blame you. This could be terrible to watch.”

“Could be?”

“Depending on her method.”

“Henry curled his hands into fists. “Drive faster.”

D
EATH
leaned back as the plane rose, feeling the comfort of victory in hand. And it could not come soon enough. Her hunger had peaked. It threatened to burst outside of her, to lick the world with a tongue of fire.

The shivering sky filled the windshield. Flora gripped the yoke. Death wanted to touch those hands, to take just a little, but she forced herself to hold off a moment longer. She’d waited so long for this. The perfect time would soon arrive.

The girl leveled the plane, and the sky slid upward until it shared the windshield with the silver of the lake and the green of the trees around it. She turned toward Death, her face vulnerable, full of hope. Death had to look away. Flora would find out soon enough, but Death still felt shame at the fundamental truth of her existence. She wanted to hide it as long as she could. And she wanted, just once, to have someone look at her with love in their eyes.

The earth rushed below them, a patchwork of color and shape, a view humans weren’t meant to have but had somehow managed, through a combination of persistence and passion. Death would never understand the urge to fly. Why do something that was not your nature? Why waste time on a temporary thrill?

Flora pointed at something below. The lake, perhaps, as smooth as glass and sapphire blue. It was beautiful. And the girl had courage, Death realized. She knew about the Game. Knew about its end. Rather than choose Henry, she’d chosen something else, something that had no word, although integrity probably came close. That, or maybe truth. This quality seemed in increasingly short supply with humans. It was a shame that she was blind to how little time she had left. But that was the way with humans. They always thought there would be more days.

The moment arrived. Death exhaled, and as she did, her Henry guise melted away. She did not become Helen again, but rather, wore her true form. Flora deserved as much. The look on the girl’s face when she noticed: It was one Death would remember for the ages, even though she’d seen variations on it for the entirety of her existence.

Blanching, Flora turned back toward the windshield. The plane dipped and banked, and Death understood the girl was trying to land, most likely to save anyone on the ground who would be killed by a falling hunk of burning wreckage. Ah, well. Everybody was to die someday, whether by accident or act of time. Death reached for Flora’s hand, pushing away ill-timed memories of a Spanish flower seller and a German zeppelin pilot. One wanted to live for love; the other was willing to risk his life for his fellow man. She never should have spared these souls.