Jack of Diamonds (9 page)

To my surprise, the first thing she asked was, ‘Has Mac ever touched you, Jack?’

‘Touched me, how?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘You know, somewhere private . . . on your body.’

‘No!’ I cried indignantly. ‘We shake hands when we meet and say goodbye, just like grown-ups do.’ I couldn’t understand why she’d ask me such a thing. Mac wasn’t a stranger and if he’d been to jail, everyone would have known about it. You couldn’t hide your past in Cabbagetown. Someone would have seen him in prison. If he’d gone in for sexually molesting a child, he wouldn’t have been coming back to Cabbagetown. And now with the Depression, and homeless men all over the place, kids had been warned to be extra careful.

Of course, looking back, sexual molestation must have been common enough, with drunken fathers sexually abusing their children. But wives and kids were too ashamed or too frightened to talk about such matters. My mom had been right to ask the question. Mac could have been abusing the twins, although I couldn’t imagine it. If he had been, Dolly wouldn’t be like those other moms who hid the truth. I reckon she’d have simply beaten him to death. Fortunately, as it turned out, Mac was as good as he seemed.

‘And Mac takes you when you go to this warehouse and then brings you back?’ she asked, still somewhat suspicious.

‘Most times we go together or he meets me there and we walk home after. But not always,’ I admitted. ‘Some days he gets a job and works overtime.’ I told her about us parting as we reached the beginning of Cabbagetown, in case someone saw us and told Dolly McClymont.

‘Yes, I agree that’s sensible. If that nasty piece of work upstairs knew about you and him being together, she’d give him a thrashing he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.’

Although she hadn’t said so yet, I could see she was dead worried about my being away from home every weekday until early evening, especially in the winter when it was often dark before five o’clock.

‘Mom, I promise to be careful. I can see you’re worried, but there are kids out much later, stealing coal from the railway yards along the Don. I promise I’ll be home by half-past seven every night.’ Then I added, ‘Even in winter that’s not real late.’

‘So you like learning jazz, Jack?’ she said, ignoring my reassurances.

‘I love it, Mom! It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Better even than books!’

‘Oh, Jack, you’re not going to neglect your reading because of jazz?’

‘No, Mom, I wouldn’t do that.’ Reading had been the mainstay of my life. It had more or less conquered my loneliness after my mother had landed her job as a night cleaner.

‘Good. I can tell you love it by the way you sway and tap your foot. I’ve never seen you put so much into your music.’

‘Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.’

‘Why didn’t you, Jack? I thought we shared everything. I’m really disappointed. Working nights, I simply
have
to trust you and I always have done.’ I could see she was pretty upset.

‘Sorry, Mom,’ I repeated.

‘Jack, if anything happens with Mac, you are to tell me immediately, you hear? We have to be honest with each other. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Mom, I promise.’ So she really was worried about Mac perhaps being a pervert. But she didn’t know him like I did.

She handed me the King George for her second cup. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ She looked at me, her eyes suddenly welling. ‘Jack, you’re all I’ve got, my precious boy. You do understand the world can be a dangerous place, especially at night, so you will be on your guard all the time, won’t you?’

I wanted to give her a big hug but I was holding the King George.

They say confession is good for the soul, and I have to say I felt a whole lot better for telling my mom what I’d been doing. I resolved that henceforth I would tell her everything. After all, if you didn’t count Mac, we only had each other.

Nine months or so after that first time I went with Mac to the Jazz Warehouse, I could actually jam along with the musicians. It was almost the beginning of fall. Fall is one of the best times in Toronto, with the weather perfect and the maple leaves changing colour. Quite often now, Mac would sit with me under the stairs and listen to me playing along. Sometimes when the music stopped indoors, he would shake his head like he was truly impressed. ‘Brother Jack, you got what it takes, man! Yessiree! You can jam with the best, Brother Jack! You got the true gift!’ he’d say in his phoney black accent.

I didn’t take him too seriously. Mac was like my mother, over-generous with his praise. My own ear told me I was still a beginner.

During the summer school break I’d arrive half an hour early and wait across Dundas Street to see the musicians arriving, instead of hitting the steps at the usual time. The first time I saw them, I was amazed to discover that only two of them seemed to be proper Negroes. One was a very tall and stooped old man with grey frizzy hair who walked with a limp, and the other was a guy about the same age as Mac; neither carried an instrument. One of them, I knew, must be the piano player. This wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. I’d hardly ever seen a proper black person and all my ideas about them came from
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
and other books, like
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
. The most surprising thing was that white people could play black people’s music. It was pretty exciting, even if the musicians did look like everyone else. It meant I didn’t need to be black to be a jazz musician one day.

Of course, the musicians didn’t know me from any other kid hanging around the street. They had no idea I was under the steps outside the stage door each day, jamming along with them, so no matter how good I got, I knew I’d never have the opportunity to do an actual solo, and that started to matter to me. Sometimes, at home on my own, I’d have the whole jam session going on in my head and when I came to a part where a solo would fit, I’d pick up my harmonica and invent one just for fun, imagining all the other musicians stopping to listen, smiling and nodding their heads, tapping their feet, then joining in again after my solo ended with a bluesy
‘Whap-whap-whap-woo-whaaaa!’
It was an impossible dream but that didn’t stop me dreaming it.

During the two months of the summer vacation I practised for hours on end, and my lips became so accustomed to the blow and suck of the harmonica that I could play for longer and longer periods. One day I worked out all the hours I’d ever practised jazz, and it came to almost a thousand.

Once Mac said, ‘Jack, I’d love you to perform in front of the brothers and sisters, just to see their faces.’

I hated to disappoint him, but I was scared that someone in the group might know my dad, and if it got back to him, I’d be in real trouble. As soon as I explained, he understood. Mac was good like that.

And then on a Wednesday evening in the last week of the summer vacation, when the jam session was just wrapping up, the music suddenly grew just a fraction louder for a few moments then returned to normal. I did my own
‘Whap-whap-whap-woo-whaaaa!’
and we ended perfectly in sync. Almost immediately, the steps above me creaked and shook slightly. I glanced up to see someone descending, although I could make out only the soles of their shoes. I sat very still, my heart pounding, hoping whoever it was didn’t notice me and would keep on walking once he reached the bottom. But then two long legs came to a halt on my side of the steps and I saw that the shoes were black and white two-tone patent leather, and the pants were shiny and light blue with a black stripe down the side.

Then a deep voice spoke. ‘For the past few months I reckoned I bin dreamin’. I heard a harmonica somewhere way back but still comin’ through in the jam. “Joe,” I says to myself, “You’re gettin’ old and you is hearin’ things. There ain’t no harmonica player in the band.” Then I’m backstage one day, lookin’ for some sheet music, and I hear it clear, this fine jazz harmonica coming through the floorboards. Whoever you are, I’d be much obliged if we could meet, sir. That a real nice sound you got yourself there.’

The legs stepped backwards about four feet, and with my heart still pounding and my face burning with embarrassment and fear at having been found out, I crawled out from under the steps and looked up, then rose to my feet, still holding my harmonica. Standing in front of me was the old Negro musician with the frizzy grey hair and the limp. I’ll never forget the look of amazement on his face. ‘Oh my!’ he said, ‘Ain’t I just got me a big surprise!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, looking down at my feet. Above the blue pants he wore a starched white shirt, matching blue suspenders and a blue bow tie.

‘Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about, nothin’ whatsoever, young man. You got a gift from the Lord above and that a matter of joy and jubilation. What’s your name, Jazzboy?’

I looked directly up at him like you are supposed to when you talk to adults. ‘Jack . . .’ I hesitated because kids usually give only their first name, but then added my surname, ‘Spayd.’

‘Spade?’ His eyes widened and his head jerked back. ‘Now that ain’t a nice word, son.’

I looked at him, puzzled. ‘What word, sir?’

‘Spade! S-P-A-D-E! It a bad word to call a Negro person.’

‘It’s my surname, sir.’ Then, following his example, I spelled it, ‘S-P-A-Y-D.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘I thought you said Jack was your name and then you called me Spade. I apologise, son. Hey, now a white jazz musician wid a name like that maybe ain’t all that bad. Black musicians, they sure going to remember you, Jack Spayd.’

‘I didn’t know “spade” was a bad word for Negro people. I’ve never heard that before, sir.’

‘Now you learned a derogatory word you didn’t need to know. You know what derogatory mean?’

‘Yes, sir, it means rude.’

‘Hey, smart boy, Jack Spayd. Now it’s my turn to introduce myself.’ He extended his hand. ‘Name is Joe Hockey. I play piano.’ We shook hands. His fingers were long and bony, and I decided they must have become that way from playing the piano. ‘Now we introduced ourselves, Jack, I’d sure like you to meet someone who’ll want to know you. Can you spare a few minutes so we can step inside?’

‘Kids can’t go into a nightclub, sir. It’s against the law.’ It was something Mac had told me.

‘Well now, that is correct. But only through the front door after it’s showtime.’ He indicated the red door. ‘We can go through the backstage door, though.’

Mac hadn’t made it to the jam session so I would have to walk home alone that night. ‘Sir . . . I don’t think I can,’ I apologised. ‘I promised my mom I’d be home by half-past seven and it’s a half-hour walk if I start right off.’

‘Now, Jack, my name is Joe. No need to call me sir.’

‘Sorry, s— Joe,’ I said, blushing all over again because it still felt strange to call a grown-up by their first name.

‘Where do you live, son?’

‘Cabbagetown . . . er, Joe.’

‘Cabbagetown? Why, that’s five, ten minutes the most by streetcar.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only about five-past seven.’

I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t have streetcar money, so I said, ‘I like to walk, Joe.’

He paused a moment. ‘Oh, I see. Most careless of me.’ He dug into his blue pants and produced a small leather change purse, removed a quarter and handed it to me. ‘Take the streetcar home tonight, Jack.’

I looked at the coin. ‘The fare is only ten cents, Joe.’

He smiled. ‘Well, now you got two trips, tonight and tomorrow and five cents over to buy candy, Jazzboy Jack.’

I handed him back the quarter. He didn’t look like a pervert but I wasn’t taking any chances going in alone with him through the red door. I didn’t like the sound of backstage, either. ‘Joe, I can’t go in with you tonight. I promised my mom. But I could do it tomorrow afternoon, anytime before the jam session starts.’

He accepted the coin. ‘You got pride, Jack. That’s good in a jazz musician. Pride don’t let you lose sight of the true black music, so you don’t end up playing hokey music to please the patrons in some downtown cocktail lounge, or like Joe Hockey in a two-piano nightclub act. Okay, what say half-past four tomorrow? Come to the front and ask for me. Oh, and bring your harmonica, Jazzboy Jack!’

I agreed and we shook hands again, and I hurried away with my head full of questions going round and round. The biggest one of all was what was going to happen now I’d been discovered under the steps. The next question was easy, but made me feel scared. I was pretty sure Joe wasn’t a pervert but I reckoned he was going to haul me up before his boss, Miss Frostbite, and maybe she’d be angry and stop me from hitting the steps. And what if she saw what we’d done to the burlap on the hot-water pipe? I’d have to lie and say I’d done it so as not to get Mac into trouble. The third question was why had Joe told me to bring my harmonica. At school the teachers confiscated things if you were caught playing in class. Could they confiscate my harmonica?

This time I knew I had to tell my mom, so when she got home that night I made her a cup of tea and as I handed it to her, I said, ‘Mom, something’s happened.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Nothing bad, I hope. Don’t tell me “her upstairs” has found out about you and Mac.’

‘No, nothing like that. I got discovered at the Jazz Warehouse . . . under the steps, by this old man, Joe Hockey.’ I then proceeded to tell her the whole story, including my speculation that I was going to meet Miss Frostbite, but I didn’t mention the pervert part.