The Game of Love and Death by Martha Brockenbrough Read Free Book Online Page A

silence. Then she went to find her uncle.

 
     
    O NE morning, when she was a newly minted second grader, Flora stood over her nana’s bed. She wasn’t supposed to wake her grandmother, but a small, scared part of her wondered whether Nana had gone to heaven in the night. Flora watched carefully until she saw her grandmother’s chest rise and fall under the quilt. The relief at the sight felt as sweet as water on an August afternoon.
    Perhaps she would stir if someone made the tiniest noise. Flora whistled, clapped, and stomped her foot. Just the one time. Then she stood as still as a statue, hardly even daring to breathe. Even so, Nana lay on her back, her chest rising and falling, a little quicker now, but still her eyes stayed closed. Flora moved closer to the bed. And then, like lightning, Nana’s hand shot out from under the covers. Her papery fingers gripped Flora’s wrist, and one of the old woman’s eyes popped open.
    “Caught you.” She grinned and pulled Flora under the covers. It was the softest thing, and Nana was warm and cozy, the way she’d always been when Flora had bad dreams. But bed was the last place she wanted to be. Charles Lindbergh was going to land his Spirit of St. Louis in the city and visit Volunteer Park later that morning. Flora’s school was going. It was her first field trip, and she was to take lunch in a pail and to wear her second-best dress, and there was a chance that Mr. Lindbergh would stop and shake some of the children’s hands. She aimed to be one of those children, knowing that if her hand touched his, it would be a blessing on her that meant she’d learn to fly a plane and be up there in the blue sky herself.
    “Why so squirmy?” Nana said. “And heavens to Betsy if your feet haven’t been carved from a block of ice. I’m shivering from my toes to my teeth!”
    “Nana,” Flora said. “It is time to get up.”
    “Oh, but I thought I’d keep you home from school today,” Nana said. “There’s laundry to wash. All of Uncle Sherman’s underclothes. And so many socks to mend. You’d think they were aiming to join the hallelujah choir, they’re so holey.”
    “But Nana!” Flora sat up.
    “Oh, and the last of the pickling,” Nana said. “I know how you hate the way it shrivels up your hands and makes your eyes water, but it has to be done.” She sat up next to Flora and turned the girl’s face toward hers. “Where should we start? Socks, britches, or cucumbers?” Flora was too stunned to speak. “My goodness it’s a lucky thing your jaw has that hinge on it, or we’d be scraping your chin off the floor.”
    She pulled Flora in closer and started laughing, and that’s when Flora knew Nana was teasing.
    “Let’s start with the britches,” Flora said. “There are only thirty pairs, after all.” It was Sherman’s bachelor notion that he’d do less laundry if he had underthings for every day of the month. It worked, in a way: Nana did all of his wash.
    “On second thought,” Nana said, sliding Flora out of bed, “I think we had better pack you a pilot-size lunch.”
    While Flora ate a bowl of porridge, Nana’s practiced hands heated the iron, straightened Flora’s hair, and smoothed it into a pair of braids. Then she buttoned Flora into her dress, put the pail in her hands, and shoved her out the door.
    “You say hello to Mr. Lindbergh for me,” she said. “I packed an extra square of gingerbread in case he looks hungry.”
    “I will, Nana! I will!” There might have been sidewalk beneath Flora’s feet as she ran, holding her pail as steady as she could. But she did not feel it.
    At Volunteer Park, there was so much noise — the shuffle and murmur of the thirty thousand children in the crowd, the bright urgency of the marching band. Even so, the sound Flora heard most was her own heartbeat thumping in her fingertips and ears. She looked up. The sky was a perfect blue, with just a pair of clouds sliding across, as if swept along by