King of Hearts
by Devin James Leonard
“Okay, kids, same game, same rules. We’re looking for the ace of spades and the suicide king.”
The children gathered around Mitch, sitting on the floor with their legs crossed, hands clasped, chins raised, and he dealt the deck of cards face down at their feet. Three girls and one boy, their ages varied somewhere from seven to fourteen, an estimation on Mitch’s part, since they weren’t his kids. The eldest appeared to be Stephanie, who sat up straight and proper while biting her lip to suppress her excitement, and announced that if she won the game, she would pick the soda pop as her prize. The boy, Tommy, somewhere in the middle of all their ages, wanted the can of soup. Sarah had her eyes on the multi-pack of chips, and Emma, the smallest and noticeably the youngest, always chose what Stephanie wanted, and therefore also proclaimed possession of the soda if she were to win.
Since Mitch was the adult and the game’s creator, he would always opt out of playing and remain the dealer. Watching gave him more of a thrill than participating ever could.
Staring at their piles, waiting for the go-ahead, the children quivered with anticipation.
“Now Emma,” Mitch began, “do we remember which one is the spade?”
Emma had gotten her suits confused in the past and had to be reminded what was what. The red ones were easy to remember—even a toddler could learn the hearts and diamonds—but the black ones she couldn’t wrap her head around. She would always confuse the clubs with spades and the spades with clubs.
“The spade,” Emma said with a hum, “is the one that looks like an upside-down heart.”
“And the club is…”
“The other black one.”
Mitch chuckled. “Okay, fair enough, sweetheart. What about the suicide king?”
“That’s the red one.”
“Which red one…?”
“The heart,” Emma said with an elated smile of pride.
“Very good,” Mitch said, reciprocating the girl’s beam of delight. “Now, who remembers why it’s called that?”
Tommy raised his hand and answered, “Because it looks like the king is stabbing himself in the head.”
“That’s right. And we all know why the king of hearts is the losing card, don’t we?”
Stephanie raised a hand. “Because the king isn’t really killing himself. There are three hands in the picture. Somebody else stabbed the king.”
“Good, good,” Mitch said. “Since Tommy won last time, he gets to choose how the cards are shown. All at once or flip them one at a time?”
Tommy considered the other children. Could see every minuscule flinch as they jittered. “All at once,” he said.
“All right, on my count,” Mitch said, and the children readied themselves by dropping their chins to the floor, eyes glued with laser focus on their stacks of cards.
Tommy interlocked his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and wiped the charcoal and sweat from his forehead.
“Three,” Mitch began.
Sarah rubbed her slick dusted palms on the thighs of her pants, only getting more dirt on her hands.
“Two.”
Stephanie swept her hair out of her face, tucking the greasy, blood-stained locks over her ears. Emma mimicked Stephanie’s hair-parting even though no hair clung to her face.
“One—”
A muffled grunt echoed from the room behind Mitch, the closed door shuddering slightly. He waved it off with an eyeroll and said, “Annnnd—go!”
At once, the children snatched up their cards and quickly hunted through them, the papers scuffling as fingers jumbled in a frantic search. Eyes lit with hope, darted with suspense. Nobody spoke until Emma bolted up onto her knees and shrieked, “I got it!” Her arm shot skyward, with the card pinched between her small fingers. The rest of her stack plopped to the floor.
None of the other kids grumbled or so much as made a sigh of disappointment, for Emma had been known to jump the gun more often than not. Even though she’d been reminded which suit was which mere moments ago, she’d still get them confused amidst her excitement. The others wouldn’t declare defeat until they saw it for themselves.
Tommy reached up and swiped the card from the little girl’s clutches. Looked at it and dropped his shoulders. “Ace of spades,” he huffed, and the other two girls hissed their displeasure.
“We have a winner,” Mitch chanted like a game show host. He got up and walked to the table in the corner of the shack. “Emma, come on down and pick your prize.”
Emma sprinted over and had to put her hands out to stop herself from plowing into the edge of the table and knocking her teeth out of her skull.
“What’ll it be?” Mitch inquired.
The little girl’s chin barely reached the tabletop, so she stood on tippy toes to get a better view. Her eyes moved back and forth, pondering with wonderment. There was a six-pack of sodas, cherry vanilla flavored, encased in the plastic rings that held them together. The soup Tommy had mentioned wanting had lost its label, so who knew what was really inside the aluminum tin? Might not even be food. There were five different flavors in the big bag of assorted chips, and they sure did look delicious. There was also a suitcase full of clothes, but not only were they far too large for a child to wear, but they were men’s attire. Among other things of disinterest were a paperback novel and some travel-size containers of soap, shampoo, conditioner, and toothpaste. No need to waste a top prize pick on any of the personal care products, for Mitch would force them to share that stuff, anyway.
Emma just couldn’t decide. She spun around, considering the other kids, mainly Stephanie, whom she’d grown to admire the most. Stephanie gave a decisive, knowing nod, and Emma turned to Mitch and said, “The soda.”
Mitch nodded his approval, clutched the cans, and placed them in the child’s arms. She meandered back to her spot on the floor, holding the sodas in her lap.
Returning to his position on the floor, Mitch said, “Now the not-so-fun part. The suicide king. Who has it?”
The speed with which the children scooped up their cards greatly differed this time. They moved almost in slow motion, their excitement drained. They skimmed through their hands so quietly that the stomping and moaning from the next room grew louder and more frequent.
“Ahh,” Tommy groaned as he lifted the King of Hearts and slapped it on the floor in front of Mitch. The three girls expelled their relief with simultaneous giggles.
“Oooh,” Mitch said. “Tough break.”
He collected all the cards. Reshuffled them. Pointed to Sarah. “The four suits in a deck represent what?”
“The seasons,” the girl said.
“Also?”
“Elements.”
“The hearts representing?”
“Water.”
“Correct.” Mitch considered Tommy. “The clubs?”
“Fire,” the boy said.
Mitch swung his finger at Emma. “Diamonds?”
“Hmm. Earth?”
“Very good. Spades, Stephanie?”
“Air.”
“You kids are getting good at this.” Mitch finished reshuffling, squeezed the deck of cards in his hands, tightening them up into a neat stack, and gingerly set them at the boy’s feet. “What’ll it be, sonny?”
Tommy’s eyes wavered hesitantly. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and reached forward, swiping the top card off the deck. He took his time bringing it to his face, and when he glanced at it, he threw it down angrily. “Frigging spade!”
“Air,” Emma said. “That’s air.”
“I know what it is,” the boy hissed.
“That’s an easy one,” Sarah said. “It’s better than getting fire.”
“Earth is the easiest,” Tommy countered.
“How is earth the better one?” Stephanie said, frowning. “You have to dig a hole! That’s way more work and takes longer!”
“We have to dig a hole anyway!” Tommy screeched.
Mitch clapped twice, silencing them. “All right, kids, game time’s over. Everybody, congratulate the winner.”
They applauded Emma, who tightened her hold on her sodas and smiled while blushing.
Mitch got up and went to the closet. Inside were all the weapons that coincided with the elements of the suits: a shovel for earth, a metal canister of gasoline for fire, a plastic bag for air. For the water sign, they used the bathtub, which was not in the closet but in another room, for obvious reasons.
Mitch handed the boy a crinkled two-gallon shopping bag, a yellow smiley face insignia printed over the light blue plastic.
“Can’t I dig the hole first?” Tommy asked while glancing at the shovel leaning in the closet. “I like to get the hard part out of the way first.”
Mitch shook his head. “Normally I’d say sure, but—” He pursed his lips and hooked a thumb at the door. “This one’s a little too antsy for my liking. Better to take care of it right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Tommy opened the door to the next room, the man who was bound to a chair suddenly flailed more erratically. His grunting and moaning were loud and annoying, though not as irritating to Tommy as the sound of the soda cans cracking and the slurping that followed.
Tommy stood behind the chair, draped the bag over the man’s head, and reared back. The muffled cries of suffocation were deafening, but still not as loud or infuriating as the girlish celebratory giggles in the next room.