Jack of Diamonds Read Online Free PDF Page A

returned from the tavern in his usual state. For some reason, my mom and I hadn’t yet escaped into our bedroom, and she mentioned to him that it was my birthday in two days’ time, adding that she would bake a cake and hoped he might come home sober to share it with his son.
    ‘Birthday? What’s this? It’s the fucking Depression. We don’t have money for fancy cakes, woman,’ he’d replied.
    ‘And whose fault is that?’ my mom couldn’t resist muttering, but then she added quickly, ‘I’ve saved a bit, it’ll be nothing fancy, just a small cake. Try to come home sober, Harry.’
    ‘Don’t! Don’t do it, woman!’ he’d roared, then stomped off to bed.
    But my little mom could be stubborn and knew how excited I’d been when she’d first mentioned the birthday cake. While I now insisted I didn’t need a cake, she nevertheless baked what she referred to as a ‘plain cake’ and iced it with chocolate icing, saving a bit of white icing to write ‘Happy 8th Birthday Jack’. Then she decorated it with eight red, white and blue candles. I got to lick the bowl.
    I must say, it looked splendid sitting in the centre of the kitchen table, with a small white doily placed under it. I’d never had a cake for my birthday before and was pretty excited. I’d entirely forgotten my father’s drunken warning two days previously.
    We waited anxiously on the big birthday night. Neither of us said anything as it drew close to closing time at the tavern. But, of course, he arrived in his usual state. He entered the kitchen and glared, his red-rimmed eyes bulging more than ever at the cake resting resplendent on the table with a box of matches beside it.
    Lighting the small candles, we’d previously decided, would be his special task. Mom had done the baking, icing and decorating. Dad would perform the candle-lighting ceremony, and I the blowing out and making a wish. (I’d already practised blowing out the unlit candles in a single breath.) Then, wearing her special white lace apron from her grandmother, Mom would cut the cake.
    ‘What’s this?’ he barked, pointing at the cake. ‘I thought I told you, woman!’ His anger flared in the familiar way and, if possible, his eyes popped even more. Then he took a step towards the table and drove his fist down hard into the centre of the cake, and kept hammering the broken pieces until the kitchen table was covered in bits of yellow cake, chocolate icing and smashed red, white and blue candles. He even crushed the matchbox, which burst and scattered matches all over the place. ‘Jesus Christ, woman! Don’t ya ever listen?’ he roared, ignoring the birthday boy, who stood in front of his silent mom, frightened enough to piss his pants but attempting to protect her.
    I was aware of the backhand that might at any moment drop her to the floor but, even when drunk, he was reluctant to hit me in the face, so if I stood in front of her, I might save her. A wife-beater was one thing; a child-beater was a much lower creature. While, like many other fathers, he qualified on both counts, he’d sometimes be just sufficiently aware to leave me alone. Now, swaying and cussing, he turned towards us, and I stiffened and closed my eyes, expecting his vicious knuckles to crack into my face. But he hesitated, turned again and rinsed his hands under the kitchen tap, then grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Git!’ he snarled, hurling me across the tiny kitchen to crash into the wall. Next he dried his big red-knuckled hands on my mom’s white lace apron, his ugly, pugnacious face inches from her own. ‘Yer don’t fuckin’ listen, do yer, yah stupid bitch!’ he growled, before staggering off to bed, thankfully without his signature goodnight backhander. Never mind the cake, this would turn out to be the best birthday I’d ever had.
    Two weeks later, my dad returned from the tavern, reached into his trouser pocket and held out a harmonica, its polished silver shape resting on his huge