The Game of Love and Death (7 page)

T
HE
next day, after baseball practice ended, Henry and Ethan traveled to Hooverville in pursuit of their story.

“Father was right. This is a big encampment.” Ethan shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. He shaded his eyes and scanned the nine acres of dried mud and misery. The air reeked of sweat and waste and burning wood. A nearby train rumbled by, spewing black smoke.

“Can you imagine trying to sleep through that noise?” Henry said.

“I’m sure they’re used to it.” Ethan reached into his satchel and handed Henry a fresh notebook and pencil. The two walked past flimsy plywood houses, small fires in metal barrels, and staring men. “Which one do you suppose is James Booth?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Somewhere, someone strummed an out-of-tune guitar. A small group tossed dice in the dust, occasionally lifting their hats from their heads, wiping away perspiration. People stopped whatever they were doing to stare as Henry and Ethan passed in their clean, well-constructed clothing. Every so often, a whistle rose above the crunch of gravel underfoot. It took Henry a moment to realize these whistles were a signal to let someone know they were there.

“Welcome, newcomers!” a clear, sharp voice called out. Henry and Ethan turned toward its owner.

A golden-haired man who couldn’t be more than twenty walked toward them, his arms extended as if he were Christ on the cross. Despite his youth, there was something powerful about him, something you couldn’t help but stare at. His voice was almost hypnotic, even if his suit had seen better years. Embarrassed, Henry looked down at the man’s shoes, and noticed they were oddly clean.

“I’m James Booth,” the man said. “Mayor of Hooverville. I welcome you to our community, although I can tell from your attire you’re not looking to move in.”

James Booth clasped his hands over Ethan’s and gave them an enthusiastic shake. Ethan’s expression changed, and Henry felt something effervesce from his scalp to his fingertips.

“Do you have a name?” Mr. Booth said.

Ethan looked flustered. “Ethan. Ethan Thorne.”

“And who’s your friend?”

Feeling Mr. Booth appraise him, Henry stood straighter as Ethan introduced him. Mr. Booth did not offer his hand, and the whole experience left Henry feeling pinned like a butterfly under a lepidopterist’s magnifying glass.

“We’re from the
Inquirer
,” Ethan said. “Here to do a feature story. If that’s all right by you, sir.”

“It’s more than all right,” Mr. Booth said. “But you must call me James. I insist.”

Henry glanced around, wondering whether he was the only one who felt unsettled about this welcome. The other residents of Hooverville had resumed their business tending their fires, flinging dice, mending the soles of their shoes with cardboard, leaving Ethan and Henry to talk with the mayor.

“You and I — we’ll go someplace private.” James put a lightly freckled hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Your friend can walk where he likes, taking notes, making observations. That’s how it’s done, isn’t it?” He addressed someone behind Henry. “Will, show this young man around.”

Henry expected Ethan to object. He couldn’t very well write down what was said in an interview that he didn’t hear. But Ethan nodded and allowed Mr. Booth to steer him toward one of the larger shacks Henry had seen in the encampment. It was made of straight, sturdy boards and capped with a roof of corrugated tin. There was even a small porch on the front.

Henry tried to tamp down his anxiety as Ethan disappeared inside. He’d come with Ethan on newspaper reporting jobs before, although nothing this important or — he realized — this dangerous. What if Mr. Thorne was right and James Booth was a mobster? Up until now, the greatest danger they’d faced was covering the Shriners’ parade, when an irritated llama spit on Ethan.

Feeling ill and overwhelmed, Henry turned to face a man who looked about forty-five. He wore a moth-bitten three-piece suit, along with an old hat pulled low over his forehead. His entire wardrobe appeared held together by nothing more than dirt. Behind him stood a few more men who looked equally destitute.

“Got any jobs at that paper of yours?” The man pushed his hat up.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I’m just —”

“Figures,” the man said. “Careful with what you write. All the stuff before’s been lies. We want work, not charity.” He paused and looked away from Henry. “We’re not criminals. Not most of us, anyway. Will Barth.”

The man extended his hand and Henry shook it, feeling stares from all directions. The place was a regular melting pot. People who’d come from around the world and across the country looking for something better only to end up here because they had no place else to go, no family to turn to, no Ethan Thorne as a best friend.

“Boy’s from the newspaper,” Will said. “He’s going to tell our story. Maybe then people that got jobs and such will think about hiring the likes of us.”

“Fat chance,” said one with an Irish accent.

“Don’t mind Rowan,” Will said.

“How do you know he isn’t a copper?” Rowan shoved himself away from the shack he’d been leaning against and advanced toward Henry. “Gatherin’ up information that’ll be used to bust this place up.”

“He’s not,” Will said, “he’s a kid.” He gave Henry a hard look. “Right?”

Henry felt uneasy, knowing what Mr. Thorne wanted. “I’m not with the police,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside were the two dollars he hadn’t spent the previous night at the Domino. Rowan snatched the bills, inspecting them before tucking them into the pocket of his coveralls.

Will shook his head. “Come on, Henry. Watch where you walk. The ground isn’t level and not all of the men use the privy at the end of the dock.”

As they wove through the maze of shacks, across depleted, gray soil scarred with ruts, Henry learned Will’s story. He’d grown up in the Skagit Valley, where his family had a tulip farm. He’d fought with the Second Infantry Division in the Great War, and lost the farm a couple of years after the Depression. He’d come to Seattle to find work, and had ended up in Hooverville.

They stopped walking. “Each of these,” he said, “is a house for one man or two, depending. Duck your head in here. No one’ll mind.”

Henry peered inside a small, mud-spattered shack with a tar-paper roof. It had no windows, and at night would be as dark as a cave.

“Bed’s there,” Will said, pointing to a piece of plywood covered with a well-worn scrap of burlap and a few sheets of newsprint. “There’s the table and chairs.” By those, he meant two overturned boxes that had once contained apples.

“A man can have a house for twelve dollars or so — four if the seller’s drunk.” Will chuckled grimly. “No women and children. Not anymore, anyway, although from time to time you do see one. Found a little tyke all curled up in a crate once, but took him back to the orphans’ home. Wouldn’t have lasted two weeks here, not with some of the characters who mix with us.”

They made their way to the center of the once vacant lot, where the largest building in Hooverville stood.

“This here’s the church,” Will said. More care and better building materials had gone into its construction. On the front stood a porch with wide, horizontal rails. The front rose to a shallow peak, where a cross had been nailed above a decorative lattice capped with a curving beam. “Most days, though, doesn’t feel like God bothers to show up, even though our new mayor acts like he’s God’s gift, if I do say so.”

Nearby, men argued. When it became clear the dispute was getting worse, Will held up his hand. “Wait here a moment.”

He strode toward the source of the scuffle, which now included grunts and the thuds of fists meeting flesh. Henry followed, intending to sneak back to the church once he learned what was going on. Peering around the rough edge of a shack, he saw Will holding two red-faced men apart. In the air, the sharp scent of alcohol. In the background was a contraption with rusting pipes and barrels. A still.

Henry slipped back to the church and wrote a quick description of what he’d seen and where. If he could prove the men weren’t paying taxes — and they almost certainly weren’t — Ethan would have his story. But Henry wished he wouldn’t want it.

Will returned and registered Henry’s stricken look. “A dozen gallons a day pays for a lot of bread and meat. Those soup kitchens? Dinner only and not much of it. Without this, these men would starve.” He paused. “It’d be better if they drank less and sold more. But I’d challenge any man to live here and not want to take the edge off a bit. What we want is a chance, not charity. So you’ll keep that part out of your story, right?”

Henry considered this, and thought about all the alcohol that was consumed at the Domino, and even the glasses of wine and tumblers of Scotch at Ethan’s house. What made this so very different, aside from the matter of taxes?

Before he’d worked out his opinion, Ethan and James returned.

“I’m glad to see you’ve shown our guest the church,” James said. “We do like a spiritual moment now and again in Hooverville.” He turned to Ethan, extending his hand. “I’ll see you again next week?”

Henry expected Ethan to decline. They had all the information they needed, and Ethan was never the sort to come to a place like this when he didn’t have to. But Ethan tucked his notebook into his shirt pocket and said, “Next week. See you then.” His voice was nonchalant, and Henry knew him well enough to know that meant he was anything but.

Inside the car, Ethan shut Henry down before he had a chance to say what he’d seen. “We’re not writing about the booze. James told me all about that. I’m interested in something different. It’s hard to explain. And do me a favor,” he said, casting Henry a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell my father.”

Henry glanced at Ethan, curious about the look in his eyes. It wasn’t one he’d seen before. But he didn’t question it, he felt so relieved.

“I won’t say a word.”

H
ENRY
and Ethan came home after a disappointing baseball game to the spectacle of Annabel in a sobbing, facedown heap by one of the columns holding up the porte cochere. With anyone else, Henry would have worried there had been a death in the family. In all likelihood, Annabel had stubbed her toe.

“What’s wrong this time, Bell?” Ethan said.

“Mother. She’s what’s wrong.” She rolled onto her back to sob sunny-side up, flinging an arm across her forehead.

“Don’t say that so loudly,” Ethan said, laughing.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Ethan’s right.” Henry stifled his chuckle. “She might make you eat Brussels sprouts. Or worse.”

“She won’t teach me how to ride a bicycle,” Annabel said. “She said ladies don’t do that.”

“She doesn’t know how to ride a bicycle is why,” Ethan said. “But I’ll teach you this weekend.”

“I need to know
now
,” Annabel said. She sat and brushed gravel from her dress.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Ethan said. “It’s a school night. And we’re worn out from our game.”

“I’ll teach you, Bell,” Henry said.

“Really?” Annabel asked. She stood, wiped her nose, and launched herself into Henry’s arms. He caught her and pretended to stagger backward, but really, she was as light as anything.

Ethan shrugged. “You’re spoiling her. Not that I give a darn about that.”

“Dry your face,” Henry said, offering her his handkerchief. “Let’s get Ethan’s old bicycle and go to the park.” He felt like having a little adventure before drilling calculus into his skull.

Once they’d arrived and he’d helped her carry the bicycle down the steps leading to the path, Henry explained to Annabel how her feet were meant to push the pedals, and how forward momentum would make it easier for her to keep her balance as she rode from one of the circular ponds to the other, landmarks that reminded him of the day he’d seen Charles Lindbergh. He’d been about Annabel’s age at the time. Strange. He hadn’t thought of that moment in years.

“I’m not a dummy,” she said. “I know how a bicycle works. I’ve watched you and Ethan do it a thousand times. I just need you for the push.”

“All right, then,” Henry said. He helped Annabel onto the seat. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“On the count of three.”

“Don’t let go.”

“I thought you knew how to ride a bicycle.”

“I do,” she said. “I just don’t want you to get lost from me.”

“One,” Henry said.

“And don’t go too fast.”

“Two.”

“And don’t let go,” she said.

“Three!” Henry started jogging beside the bicycle, holding tightly to the seat. “You have to pedal, Annabel.” He had visions of her tipping and falling into the pond and getting tangled in the lily pads.

“I am.”

“You’re just moving your feet,” he said. “I can tell. Use your muscles.”

“Is this better?”

“Perfect,” he said, running faster to keep up.

“I think I am a natural,” she said.

“You certainly are. Keep going.” His plan was to have her pedal from one pond to the other, down the straight sidewalks connecting the two.

As Annabel pedaled, a sparrow trilled. Henry looked up and caught a glimpse of a young woman in a green coat, white gloves, and black hat. It was Flora, coming down the steps just ahead. Of course it was. It felt as though he’d willed this moment into being. She was all he could see when he closed his eyes, and he knew at some point or another, he’d open them and find her in the real world, away from the club and away from Ethan, where they could just be two people together, standing under the same sky.

“Annabel, let’s practice stopping,” he said, trying to mask his nerves.

“I don’t want to.”

“Annabel,” he warned, “you’re going to have to.” He tugged gently on her seat, but she pedaled harder, breaking away. He took off after her, but wasn’t fast enough to stop her before she crashed spectacularly in front of Flora.

Annabel turned on the waterworks. “Henry. You let go of me. You let go.”

Henry crouched next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He glanced up at Flora and remembered a long-forgotten moment from that day in the park. He’d nearly run over a girl on his bicycle. In his mind’s eye, that girl’s face and Flora’s were one and the same. They had the same name too. The coincidence of it seemed equally impossible and necessary. Did she remember? Had it been her? He couldn’t bear to ask. And there was also the matter of Annabel’s dramatic meltdown. She had a definite future as a radio star. The situation was feeling more like a disaster every moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping Annabel’s tears.

“Girl’s got a good voice.” Flora looked even better than she did onstage. Definitely less serious as she crouched down to talk to Annabel. “Do you know any songs?”

“Lots,” Annabel said, hiccuping.

“Like what? Can you sing me one?”

“No,” Annabel said. “Ladies don’t sing in public. Mother says.”

Flora laughed. “Some do. I’m pretty sure of it.”

“Henry sings sometimes,” Annabel said, “because he is not a lady.”

Flora laughed again. “You look as if you could use something to clean up that flood on your face.” She opened her pocketbook and took out a handkerchief with her name embroidered on it.

“Flora,” Annabel read. “Henry talks in his sleep about someone named Flora, even though he is supposed to marry cousin Helen the Hellion.”

“Annabel!” Henry said. “That’s not true!” He wondered what the odds were that the earth might open up and swallow him then.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “I heard you last night when I was getting a drink of water. And Mother says you and Helen are a perfect match even if I am not to say
hellion
.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t do any such thing.” Flora looked as if she’d like to be anyplace else.

Henry stood and brushed off his slacks. This was not going well, and he wanted to make a quick escape. Maybe a unicorn would materialize and he could gallop away in style. “It’s been swell to run into you again. I mean, not the almost crashing part. But just seeing you. I hope you liked the article.”

“Are you a maid?” Annabel said.

“Annabel!” He wished for invisibility or time travel or just a really big box to climb inside.

“I’m not a maid,” Flora said. “I fix planes and I fly them. And yes, I did like it. Ethan got most of the facts right.”

“Well, you
look
like our maid.”

“Flora’s a singer too,” Henry sputtered, wondering which facts he’d botched, feeling a shameful level of relief that Ethan was taking the blame for the errors. “A great one. And your mother is wrong about ladies singing onstage, just as she was wrong about girls riding bicycles.” This was not how he’d imagined telling Flora that he admired her voice. Oh, God.

“You and our maid are both colored,” Annabel said. “And Mama says the colored people make the best maids. Sometimes our maid sings. She only knows church songs, though.”

“Well!” Flora said. “Isn’t that an interesting story.” She looked as finished with the meeting as Henry. He hoped Annabel had exhausted the opportunities to mortify them.

Almost, but not quite.

“Can I keep this?” Annabel held the handkerchief out.

Flora’s face softened. “Yes, you may keep it.”

“I’ll share with Henry. I promise.”

Flora laughed again. “I’m sure he’d love that.” She adjusted her hat, tugged at her gloves, and gave a relieved smile that almost countered the strange look in her eyes. “And now I have to be off. It’s been nice to see you again.”

She turned toward the nearby cemetery, and as she walked away, Henry called after her.

“Flora! It was —” What did he want to say? That it was nice seeing her too? He’d already said that, and it would ring false anyway. He pushed his hair off of his forehead. “I’ll — I’ll see you around. I hope.”

She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a small wave. He wanted to say something else, something more definitive. Or even suave, to salvage the scraps of his dignity. But he couldn’t find the words. Though they stood only a few yards apart, what felt like miles of embarrassment stretched between them.

She turned toward the path and was on her way.