JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

Magda was the first one to see him. She’d heard the sickening thud as he landed on the carpeted floor, and turned to see him trying to sit up before he fainted. Her scream echoed through the open foyer. She was at his side before she knew what she was doing—panic stricken—not knowing what to do, or how she should hold him. His face was ashen, his lips turning blue, and then she looked down the length of his body seeing the damage to his leg.

The left leg appeared shorter than the right.

Chernetsov came out of the kitchen almost as soon as she was at Anatloy’s side. He was followed by Greggson, the cook, the kitchen staff, even the Jazz band. A part of her wondered where the magician and the juggler were; the children would be so disappointed. Greggson was quick to push his way through the growing crowd, and looking down at Anatoly, appeared visibly shaken at the sight of Anatoly.

“Someone get the phone—we need help!” Chernetsov railed, looking at Greggson. The cook nodded, pushing his way back through the crowd, looking grateful for any excuse to leave.

Chernetsov fell to his knees beside Magda looking at the broken man that was her husband. She felt him putting an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him and trying his best to comfort her while she could feel his own desolation shuddering through him. He was sobbing against her shoulder. Anatoly was unconscious, probably from the pain, she told herself, and for some reason she was thankful for that.

“Can anyone help us?” Chernetsov called out weakly, looking up at no one, everyone, anyone; he was looking at the faces of the staff around them.

“I’m thinking that maybe I can help?” one of the musicians spoke up, and Magda looked up at the man. He was tall and sparse, his bones sticking out at all angles inside a jacket that was too big, and pants with a too large belt cinched tight. He had a thin, angular face, with large eyes that were both red and swollen. There were dark circles under his eyes that almost looked as if they might be bruises. His hair was cut short, in the style of the day, and he had a thin moustache over thick, cracked lips.

“How?” she asked in a near whisper.

“I drove in an ambulance at the Front. I see’d a lot. I might maybe be able to do something. We had to do that sometimes,” he said, holding his hat and bowing his head politely.

“What are you suggesting?”

“We gotta get him on his back. We gotta assess his injuries,” the man said.

“You’ll hurt him,” Magda said, her protest faltering, but then, she didn’t know what else to say.

“You can’t just leave him like that, ma’am,” the man said, taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the other musicians. He put his hat on his head.

“I’ll help you roll him over,” Chernetsov said to the man.

The man was quick to call his bandmates, two of whom stepped forward, looking down at Anatoly and hesitating a moment. They were lucky he wasn’t spitting up blood, the man explained. That meant he wasn’t bleeding inside. Chernetsov looked at the man, nodding, as if he agreed with the man’s assessment; he looked at Madga to make certain she understood. She nodded.

Anatoly’s leg looked twisted over on itself, and she realized the bones would have to be set—as much as circumstance allowed, the man said.

“What does that mean, as much as circumstances allow?” Chernetsov asked.

“One leg’s shorter than the other,” Magda said softly. “That can’t be good.”

The man looked up at the railing above and saw the swaying chandelier.

“He jump?”

“Jump?” Magda asked, distracted. “Why would you ask?” she said, looking up at the swaying chandelier.

“The way the light’s shaking? That means he hit it—no other way it’d be movin’ like that. Did he jump out an’ try an’ catch hol’ of it, you think?”

“Did anyone see what happened?” Chernetsov asked, but no one spoke up.

“We needa make a splint for his leg,” the man said.

“How?” she asked, thinking maybe there was something she could finally do.

“You got wood stakes, like from a fence, but smaller? Can’t be no bigger than from his ankle to his knee. An’ a rope, or strip of cloth, or some such thing to tie it around the wood. We gotta pull his ankle down and into place.”

“Are you mad!” Magda said, turning to look at the man. “It’s one thing to turn him over. But pull on his leg?”

“His leg done got pushed up into his gut, ma’am. It’ll kill him if we don’t do anythin’. He could lose his leg if we don’t splint it. You can’t sit an’ wait for no doctor to show up. He’ll be gone by then. We gotta do it.”

“You can’t pull on his leg! You’ll kill him. You’re not a doctor!”

“No ma’am, I ain’t. But you leave him to suffer like that, he’s gonna die from the sepsis as much as he will the pain. It’d be a welcome relieve for the pain he’ll be in.”

“Why would he jump?” Chernetsov said softly.

“Can’t rightly say, sir,” the man replied, his soft hands slowly removing Anatoly’s shoe.

“What about his other leg?” Magda asked.

“It’s pro’ly all busted up too, but it ain’t so bad as this one.”

Madame Chernetsov came running into the foyer, crying when she saw Anatoly on his back, a strange black man pulling on his ankle and telling her husband to hold Anatoly down in case he moved. She pushed her way through the staff who were quick to move aside once they heard her cry out.

“What are you doing!”

“Quiet, woman!” Chernetsov snapped without looking up.

Magda knew Chernetsov’s biggest fear was the moment his wife saw the condition her son was in; she hadn’t been looking forward to it herself. Now that she was here, there was no time to second guess what they were doing. She knew man had seen more death and wounds than either her or Chernetsov could say they’d seen, so she was willing to listen to anything the man said that made sense. Her husband would die if they did nothing, and might possibly live if they did. She watched a servant come running in with slender slats of wood, as well as what appeared to be a torn bed sheet.

“Okay, we gonna do it now,” the man said. He had Anatoly’s ankle in his hand, feeling the bones, then pulled it with a clean, hard jerk. Anatoly’s body spasmed quickly as Chernetsov tried holding him down; the man placed two of the wooden slats on each side of Anatoly’s calf, telling Magda to hold them in place while he tied a length of cloth around the leg.

“We wanna keep the leg as straight as we can. They’s two bones in there, and they’s pro’ly all busted up. If we can keep ‘em straight, we might save the leg.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Chernetsov asked.

The man looked at him and almost smiled as he shook his head.

“No sir, ain’t got a clue, but I seen lotsa men die with less than this, sir, an’ other’s live with worse,” he said slowly. “I ain’t no doctor, never claimed to be, but right now, sir, I’m the best chance you got for saving your son. All’s I can say is we gotta pull the leg down. It ain’t s’posed to be in his gut, you can see that,” and with that he looked up at Madame Chernetsov, who suddenly bit back a cry and tried to turn away.

Magda looked at Chernetsov, and he nodded. She stood up, putting her arms around her mother-in-law, and together they wept.

“Maybe it’s better if we don’t watch?” Bubbi suggested.

“I can’t not watch,” Magda replied. “I have to stay,” she added.

“I know.”

“His knee’s pretty busted up, Mister,” the man said, looking at Chernetsov. “I gotta pull it down from above the knee. It’s gonna cause him a lotta distress—”

“Distress?” Chernetsov almost laughed at the man’s choice of words.

“I don’t know lots about it, but the leg fits into the hip. It’s a joint. A ball and socket-like thing,” he explained, cupping his one hand around his fist. “The leg’s done broke the hip socket, an’ pushed through it. No telling how bad the break is, or if it’s fitted itself around the leg. They’s all sorts of wrong with this, but I see’d it done more ’n once, and I seen what happened when it weren’t done.”

“Do it!” Magda said firmly, looking at the man and Chernetsov with mounting fear. There were tears in her eyes.

Chernetsov nodded, and the man grabbed Anatoly’s thigh, gripping it tight and pulling hard, fast, and with determination.

Anatoly spasmed again, his body going rigid before he collapsed. The man reached his hand up Anatoly’s thigh, feeling the joint where the leg met the hip and sat back, visibly relieved.

“We should put him on something we can carry to one of those fancy automobiles you got out back there. Better to get him to a hospital than wait for the doctor to show. He could take a other hour.”

“Did it work?” Madame Chernetsov asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It moved,” Chernetsov replied, looking at the man sitting across from him, smiling in spite of himself. “I think so.”

“If you get him to a hospital, an’ x-ray the leg, we’ll know for sure,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Chernetsov smiled, holding his hand out to the man.

The man accepted his hand, trying hard to hide his smile.