The Game of Love and Death (9 page)

A
N
apple. An apple that has been plundered by a worm
. That’s what Ethan’s cousin Helen Strong thought of herself. There was something wrong with her, something on the inside. How had everyone else grown up clean and pure? she wondered.
How dare they?
This bewildering resentment made her prone to lash out at everyone around her. She did not want to be like this, but she could not figure out any other way to be.

And it had been a bad couple of weeks. Helen didn’t regret the incident at the debutante ball. Jarvis Bick deserved to be kneed in a certain trouser seam, particularly when he told her no one would marry her after he walked in on her kissing Myra Tompkins in the coat closet — just when the getting had started getting good. (Myra had the sweetest mouth. Like fresh cherries.)

Helen had never wanted to be married in the first place, but how dare he say such a thing. It was his fault she was being shipped west to be dangled like a piece of chocolate in front of icky old Ethan. Let’s just say there was a reason she’d intended to be blind drunk and irredeemably late for her train. She’d wait in the Kissing Room beneath the Biltmore Hotel in Grand Central Terminal until the last possible moment and see what happened.

“I’d rather be dead than doing this,” she muttered. She glanced up. Someone who looked exactly like her, right down to the polka-dot travel suit, looking altogether too pleased to see her. Helen took a drink from a pewter flask she kept in her pocketbook. She squinted and tried to fix whatever was wrong with her eyes.

Her second self didn’t scram like a good little hallucination. Instead, she sat next to Helen, removed her gloves, and held Helen’s hand. Something flowed out of her. Something heavy and awful she was glad to be rid of.

“Follow me,” the Other Helen said.

Helen was delighted to. It felt good, what had just happened. What had been troubling her before? She could not remember. They walked beneath Grand Central’s soaring turquoise ceiling with its strange backward constellations. A lone helium balloon pressed against the stars. The women approached the track, and the rumble of the approaching train shook the ground beneath their feet. It pushed a gust of cool wind toward them, stirring their hair, lifting their hems. Helen put a hand on her forehead and stumbled. Other Helen wrapped an arm around Helen’s waist.

“This,” Helen said. “I don’t … what?” It was all so confusing.

They stood at the edge of the track. The wheels of the oncoming train squealed in the distance. The woman turned to face her. It was strange, seeing herself in someone else like this. But it was also wonderful, almost as if she might finally be understood. She extended her hand to touch her reflection. They stood, palm to palm. Helen’s knees buckled and the woman, her eyes white, held her gaze. Helen felt her life drain away; she saw scenes from her own past travel through the eyes of this strange other.

And then she stood on the platform in numb confusion as a woman who looked like someone she ought to know boarded the train.

The girl — what was her name? — could not remember what she was doing there. Where she had meant to be going. She remembered nothing of her future plans, but also none of her past sorrows. Not even the look of her own face.

People came for her, people who put her in a white room in a quiet hospital with barred windows. They whispered that someone so finely dressed would have family searching for her. But for the longest time, no one came for this girl. Not until it was far too late.

W
HEN
the train pulled into the King Street Station five days later, screaming and billowing steam, Death could barely contain herself. She could have traveled back to Seattle instantaneously, but she did not wish to face Love so full of souls from the
Hindenburg
, or so charged with what she’d consumed of Helen’s life. She rode west on the train as a human would, drinking tea and eating stale sandwiches, looking at a crowd of souls through their flesh cases, pretending they held no appeal, making conversation whenever she was called to.

Her self-control was not aided by the fact that the station in Seattle had been modeled after the Campanile in Venice, reminding her that the Game would end where it began. What’s more, it was just blocks from the Domino, and not much farther from the Thorne mansion, where she would be living, or the small green house she’d first visited so long ago. Every element was gathering in the neck of an hourglass, and it would not be long before the ground opened up for the final plunge.

She stepped out of the train, one delicate shoe at a time. Henry and Ethan were there, waiting, and ready to welcome her into their home.

“Kiss kiss,” Death said.

Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and faked a peck on her cheeks.

“Don’t look too happy to see me or anything, cousin,” she said.

Behind them, the huge train breathed steam on their hands and faces.

“I’m always happy to see you, Helen,” Ethan said. “Shin-kicking, name-calling, things done with spiders in the middle of the night. You’re a treat. I can’t believe so many years have passed since your last visit.”

“We were
children
,” Death replied. The name
Helen
had long held significance for her, and Love had never forgiven her for the whole business with the thousand ships. How was she to know the war would last ten years and kill a demigod? “We’re all grown up now.”

“That’s an awful lot of luggage you brought,” Ethan said. “Just how long are you planning to stay?”

“As long as it takes,” Death replied. Then she looked toward Henry and gave him her most seductive smile. “Who’s your friend?”

Death was happy to devour Henry with her eyes. He wasn’t movie-star pretty, like Ethan. But there was something about him she liked even better, from the slight gap between his front teeth to the way his dark hair refused to obey a comb. She liked the curve of his cheekbones and the square of his jaw, all the better to envision the skull beneath the skin.

Taking her time, she removed an enameled compact from her bag. She snapped it open and appraised the face in the mirror from a variety of angles. It was a face she’d grown to like. She powdered her nose, applied a swipe of red lipstick. Then she reached for Henry’s arm and readied herself. She was nearly home.

The Thornes no longer had a houseboy due to the changing nature of the times, just a maid and a cook, so Ethan and Henry carried Helen’s luggage upstairs to her suite of rooms. When they finished, Helen and Mrs. Thorne were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Thorne held a basket of cut tulips.

“Yes, those are divine,” Helen said. “Very fresh. Almost as if they’re unaware they’ve been cut.” She smiled coyly at Henry. “I’m just going to dash upstairs and change.”

“Ethan, dear,” Mrs. Thorne said. She shoved the basket of flowers at him. “I’ll need you to hold these while I make arrangements. Helen is changing into her tennis garb. She said she’d so love to play. I thought Henry —”

As Helen glided up the steps, Ethan held his hands behind his back, as a soldier might stand at ease. His mood was anything but. “You know what Father would say if he saw me arranging flowers with you.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Thorne replied, too irritated even to get out a sentence.

“I’ll help,” Henry said. He reached for the basket. Mrs. Thorne held tight.

“I’d rather play tennis,” Ethan said. “Even with Helen.”

“Ethan,” she said. “How rude.”

“I’d love to help.” Henry held out his hands once more, and Mrs. Thorne reluctantly set the basket in them. Helen reappeared at the top of the steps, dressed in a white skirt and sleeveless blouse.

“Who’s up for a match?” she said. “I’d kill for some fresh air.” She looked pointedly at Henry.

He shrugged and held up the tulips. “I’m afraid I have my hands full.”

“On second thought, I can surely manage this myself,” Mrs. Thorne said. She picked up a leaded glass vase and nodded toward the flowers. “Just set them on the console, Henry.”

“I’ll play,” Ethan said. “Give me a moment.”

“You too, Henry,” Mrs. Thorne said. “I insist.”

“After we’re finished here,” Henry said. The truth was, Helen made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But he wasn’t inclined to spend any more time with her than he had to.

“Do you ever wonder,” Helen said, walking down the stairs toward him, “if flowers feel pain when someone cuts them?” She lifted one from the basket. “Does it look like it suffered?”

“Oh, Helen,” Mrs. Thorne said, “what a curious thing to say. I’m sure Henry has thought no such thing.”

It was true. But, he realized, he would not be able to look at a flower again without wondering whether it had suffered, and whether anyone had cared.

A minute later, Ethan bounded down the stairs holding two racquets and a fresh box of Slazenger tennis balls.

“Don’t you have any Dunlops?” Helen said. Ethan shot her a look of disgust. “Oh, but I’m just teasing. I’ll play with any old thing.”

“You’re stuck with me,” Ethan said. “Henry’s busy.”

Helen took one of the racquets from Ethan’s hand, tipped it over her shoulder, and looked back at Henry with a wink.

“Isn’t she lively?” Mrs. Thorne said, after Helen and Ethan had disappeared outside. “Lively and intelligent.” She slid one tulip after another into the vase. “This whole thing with the — it’s just — she comes from good stock,” Mrs. Thorne said. “That should be what matters. But back east, they’re a little —” She sniffed, and somehow managed to elongate the space between her nose and lips just enough to look like an insulted horse.

Even with all the half-finished sentences, Mrs. Thorne’s meaning was clear. The prospect made him feel — he looked at the tulips before him — as if he were about to be severed from something vital.

“Did I tell you about the school she attended?” Mrs. Thorne chattered as she led Henry to Mr. Thorne’s office. She wiped her already dry hands on her white linen apron.

“You did,” he said.
Twice.
“It sounded like a rigorous environment.”

“And she would’ve had top marks there.” Mrs. Thorne tilted her head to examine her work. She nudged one flower to the left and moved the vase to the corner of Mr. Thorne’s desk.

Henry nodded and watched the flower drift back to its original spot.
Top marks but for all the time she spent in the office of the headmistress accused of things for which they had no proof.
He’d heard Ethan’s parents whisper about it.

Seeming satisfied with her arrangement, Mrs. Thorne lifted the old photograph of Helen off the shelf. She held it up and regarded Helen’s and Henry’s faces side by side. “Well,” Mrs. Thorne said, after she’d set the photograph down. “I think we’re finished here. Can you please send Ethan inside to do his schoolwork?” She smoothed her apron and left the room with the empty basket, a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Of course.”

He walked to the west-facing window. Late-afternoon sun spilled across the grass and through the trees, bathing everything in a green-gold light. Helen returned a serve, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Ethan lobbed it over the net and Helen threw her racquet at it. Both the racquet and the ball made it over the net. Ethan picked them up, looking exasperated, as Helen flopped down on the grass, laughing, her cigarette in her left hand. Ethan tossed the ball at her. She caught it with her right, and winged it into the cypress hedge.

“Hey!” Ethan yelled. “That’s practically new.” He jogged after the ball. Helen caught Henry staring through the window. He ducked into the shadows, and then realized this made him look more foolish. When he looked out again, she blew him a kiss, holding her nearly spent cigarette between her fingertips. By the time he thought to wave, she’d already turned back to Ethan, who’d emerged from the hedge, looking ready for revenge.

When Henry went outside to fetch him, Helen came inside as well. He wondered if he’d ever grow used to her arm in his — stiff and cold, even through his sleeve. It wasn’t what he thought it would feel like, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, he didn’t care much for her perfume or how it smelled mixed with tobacco. But maybe this was what a person was supposed to get used to. Maybe accepting it was what it meant to grow up.

At dinner, Henry sat across from Helen, who took the seat of honor at Mrs. Thorne’s right.

“You must be starving, my dear, after your long journey,” Mrs. Thorne told Helen, who’d changed out of her tennis whites and into a black-and-white-striped dress with an enameled red rose pinned over her heart.

“I confess I am rather hungry,” Helen said. She sipped red wine from a goblet. “Though I did eat quite well on the way.” She lifted her fork, letting it hover over her plate.

“It’s curried lamb,” Mrs. Thorne said. “And Waldorf salad. There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”

Annabel pointed at the lamb dish. “I don’t want … the yellow. May I just eat bread and butter?”

“That’s prison food, Annabel,” Mr. Thorne said. “You’ll eat what your mother planned and you’ll like it. Even if it is … never mind. I don’t know why you didn’t just have Gladys bake a ham. Everybody likes ham.”

“I think it’s terribly modern,” Helen said. “Well, except for the salad. That’s been in New York for ages and ages. But curried lamb! My!”

Henry marveled. Everything that came out of Helen’s mouth in front of the elder Thornes was perfectly polite. And yet something about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself — maybe it was her slow, wide smile — felt off. Dangerous, even, as silly as that notion felt.

“It looks like cat food,” Ethan said.

“Ethan!” Mr. Thorne choked back a laugh, even as he rebuked his son.

“Well, then I must be part cat,” Helen said. “I think it’s delicious.” She put a huge forkful in her mouth and chewed, closing her eyes with pleasure.

Mrs. Thorne looked pleased to have found an ally. “Henry,” she said, “don’t you have anything to say to Helen? Ask her about her journey?”

“I’d rather talk about ham,” Ethan said. “Helen, is ham also terribly modern?”

“Or bread.” Annabel slid down in her chair until only her eyes were visible above the tablecloth. “I like rye bread best. It is terribly delicious.”

Henry tried to think of a question for Helen, preferably one that didn’t involve food. He felt Helen’s gaze, looked up, and had to turn away in embarrassment. She laughed and emptied her wine glass. Her lips and teeth were stained.

“How was the weather on your journey?” It was the best question he could conjure.

“Inside the train?” Helen dabbed her red lips with a napkin. “No storms, I suppose. Though there was some bad weather on the East Coast just as we were leaving. Thunder and lightning. I was frightened half to death.”

“Electrical storm,” Mr. Thorne said. “Took down the
Hindenburg
. If they’d launched it here, where those sorts of storms are a rarity, that tragedy might have been averted. But no, it was Germany, and Rio, and New Jersey. New Jersey!” He said it as if New Jersey were the waiting room of Hell itself.

Everyone was silent for a moment, except for the scraping of forks against china. Henry glanced out the window into the twilit sky, and he felt something tug at his core, as though someone had called his name from a great distance.

“Mother,” Ethan said. He had his hand on his chest and his face was pale. “I’m not feeling well all of a sudden.”

“Why, Ethan,” Mrs. Thorne said, “whatever is the matter?”

Ethan reached for his water goblet and drank until he coughed. “I might go outside and get some air. Maybe even go for a drive.” He did look unwell.

“May I come?” Helen asked.

Mrs. Thorne looked alarmed. “Ethan, if you’re feeling ill, then you should go straight to bed.”

“All right, Mother,” Ethan said. He laid his napkin on the table, pushed in his chair, and left.

“What about you, Henry?” Helen asked. “Would you take me for a drive?”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Thorne said.

Henry panicked. That would scotch his plans to go to the Domino.

“You can use my car,” Mr. Thorne said. “Special treat.”

“After the cake,” Mrs. Thorne said. “It was made especially for Helen.”

“Lovely,” Helen said.

“It’s your grandmother’s recipe, dear,” Mrs. Thorne said. “God rest her soul.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “God rest her soul.”

Henry steered Mr. Thorne’s car along Fairview Avenue and toward downtown.

“Are you nervous?” Helen asked. “You seem twitchy.”

“Nervous? No. Just thinking about schoolwork, I suppose.” Henry wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, but what Helen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He’d resolved to keep her away from his usual haunts, and instead, was driving her to Queen Anne, where they could ride a cable car to the top of the hill and see the city lights and the waterfront from above.