Jack of Spades

by Oates, Joyce Carol

Easily, the wife’s skull might be broken in a fall.

  In the night, on the steep steps—easily.

  Quickly I laid down my pen, and pushed away the yellow legal pad so that, if Irina came to me, she could not glance down—(as if innocently)—and see what I’d been writing.

  Irina respects my need for privacy, when I am writing; it is rare for her to enter my writing room uninvited.

  So too, when they were growing up, the children respected Daddy’s need for privacy. Though it was rare to punish them, only rather to discipline them.

  Ridiculous, to be playing “Daddy”!

  Too many years of playing Daddy!

  No more Daddy than Jack of Spades is Daddy.

  “Well. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Andrew. Come to bed when you can.”

  Irina spoke uncertainly. She must have wanted to come to me, to touch my shoulder, the back of my neck—a wifely gesture. Was there something in my face that discouraged her?

  A woman is particularly desirable when she feels, or imagines that she feels, subtly rebuked. In that instant of turning away, glimpsed in profile, when you might still call her back . . .

  “Irina, darling—wait!”

  I pushed away from the little table—I hurried after my dear wife of nearly a quarter-century. My heart beat quickly with desire and hope and a wish to hold the woman tightly and to be held by her tightly.

  The hell with “Jack of Spades”—that night.

  Entering my study in the morning I perceived that something had been altered. Almost I’d thought that an intruder had been here!

  At first I could not make out what was wrong or out of place, then I saw that the lamp on the smaller worktable lay on its side, as if it had been pushed over; the lightbulb had shattered. When I checked the switch, the light was still on.

  A six-ounce (empty) glass smelling of whiskey had left a faint ring on the antique wood of the table.

  A dozen or more pages of yellow legal paper were covered in an indecipherable scrawl barely recognizable as my own and the pen with which I’d been writing had fallen to the floor and lay several feet away as if it had been flung down in fury.

  “How does it feel to be a ‘local celebrity’? The ‘most famous writer’ in Hecate County? One of the ‘bestselling’ writers in New Jersey?”—so I have been asked by well-intentioned interviewers, who seem not to notice that such questions are deeply embarrassing to any writer of integrity.

  Quickly and quietly I aver that I am very grateful for the “modest success” I’ve had, and try to change the subject.

  However, it is true that my writing “success” has changed the lives of myself and my family considerably. I have hoped to express my gratitude by being generous to others less fortunate.

  For instance, I have endowed one of those “emergency” funds for writers administered by the Writers Guild. I have endowed scholarships at Harbourton High where I’d graduated in the Class of ’79. Irina and I have made contributions to the local animal shelter and we’ve helped build a new wing of the Harbourton Public Library which has a permanent exhibit titled BESTSELLING MYSTERIES BY HECATE COUNTY’S OWN ANDREW J. RUSH. (Embarrassing! But I don’t interfere in the operations of the library.) We’ve given annually to literacy programs in such beleaguered New Jersey cities as Newark, Trenton, and Camden and we’ve participated in NJN-TV (New Jersey Network) literacy fund-raisers. We’ve helped refurbish the funky old Cinema Arts Theatre on South Main where, on occasional Friday evenings, Andy Rush acts as an amateur M.C. introducing classic mystery and noir films like Shadow of a Doubt, Vertigo, Diabolique, Niagara, The Shining, The Vanishing. We’ve given money for the new softball field and to the Harbourton Little League in which I’d once played (not badly) as a boy. (Indeed, it is embarrassing to acknowledge that the new softball field is named after me—Andrew J. Rush Field.) Now that the children are grown and gone from us Irina has returned to work (part-time) at the progressive Friends School in nearby Hadrian where she teaches art and where she is active in the PTA. Irina Rush has been a tutor in the New Jersey Literacy Program for several years.

  In 2010, I received a Citizen’s Award from the New Jersey Association for Responsible Citizenship. Just last year, I received a Governor’s Medal from the State of New Jersey for my philanthropic contributions. And next year, it has been promised—(that is, there is a rumor to this effect)—that I will be honored by induction into the New Jersey Hall of Fame as one of the state’s “most cherished” contributors to the arts.

  And my most acclaimed works of fiction lie before me. I am sure.

  God damn you I am not a thief, and I am not a plagiarist and I am not to be vilified by anyone.

  6 “We Will Bury Her”

  “It’s a nuisance suit, Andrew. The judge will toss it out. We’ll demand legal costs, and an injunction to block such ‘harassment of the artist’ in the future.”

  He spoke with such lawyerly confidence, and such solicitude for me, I felt a wave of relief but also the faint incredulity of one who has expected to hear a death sentence and has heard instead that he has been reprieved.

  In the morning I’d done what I should have done as soon as I’d received the summons from the Harbourton court the previous day: I called my editor in New York City who referred me to the legal department at my publishing house and within minutes I was being reassured by a lawyer named Elliot Grossman that there was nothing to worry about, absolutely—“Don’t give this ridiculous ‘complaint’ a second thought. It won’t go any further, I predict. Andrew? Are you listening?”

  Am I listening? I was gripping the phone receiver so tightly, my fingers ached.

  “Yes, I—I’ve heard, Elliot. Thank you . . .”

  My voice trailed off in wonderment. Was the summons such a trivial matter, were my fears totally unfounded? “C. W. Haider” wasn’t a threat to my reputation? My career? My life?

  On the phone, Elliot Grossman sounded like an eminently reasonable man. We had never met at the publishing house—we had never had any reason to confer together before this on any matter. He’d asked me to fax the summons to him and after he’d read it carefully he called me back to allay my fears. He seemed to understand that I was one of those persons who, however they know themselves to be “innocent” of any crime, are thrown into a state of anxiety at the mere possibility of a lawsuit.

  “I’ll be happy to take the case, Andrew. Of course! I’m a great admirer of your novels.”

  To this, I murmured a vague Thank you.

  Whether Elliot Grossman was sincere or otherwise, it was a courteous thing for him to say. Especially to a writer as uncertain of his worth as Andrew Rush.

  “I’ll be in Harbourton on Monday morning for the hearing, promptly at nine A.M., Andrew. But I’ll go alone, you needn’t attend. As long as you are ‘represented’ there is no reason for you to attend, and I advise you not to.”

  “Really? I thought the summons stipulated . . .”

  “No. This is just a hearing, not a trial. The judge will be impressed that anyone shows up at all for such a frivolous suit. I seriously doubt that any ‘warrant’ would have been made out for your arrest—that’s ridiculous. The judge will be flattered that a publishing house as distinguished as ours is sending ‘legal ­counsel’—he’ll dismiss within five minutes. Complaints like these are not uncommon, and frivolous lawsuits against purportedly famous or wealthy persons are not uncommon. It’s a form of blackmail with which the law is well acquainted, and the Harbourton judge will recognize it for what it is. Given the nature of the complainant, as you’ve described her to me, I’d guess that she might be already known to the court—a classic crank.”

  Grossman spoke zestfully in the way of one whose profession is such speech: staccato bursts of words, and a pleasure in words that was virtually kinetic.

  “I’ve represented a number of writers, over the year
s, who’ve been sued for ‘theft’—‘plagiarism’—more often ‘libel’ and ‘invasion of privacy.’ With our First Amendment it’s damned hard to make a case even when there is a case—which there isn’t here, I’m sure.”

  I’m sure. This did not sound vehement enough to me.

  “Andrew, you say you don’t know this ‘C. W. Haider’—yes? You’ve never visited her home, you’ve never read anything she has written?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Well, sometimes strangers send writers manuscripts, and it’s not advised to read these manuscripts but, if you can, return them immediately to the sender with a notification, signed and dated, that you have not read them. If you keep a manuscript, that might indicate that you’ve read it; and the writer might peruse whatever you write afterward, to see if you’ve ‘plagiarized’ from him—or her. It isn’t uncommon, Andrew. You’re lucky to have been spared until now.”

  Desperately I was trying to think: had I ever received anything from “C. W. Haider”? I was too embarrassed to tell Grossman that over the years I had occasionally read manuscripts sent to me by strangers, and, naïvely, I’d even written back to some of them with suggestions for revisions; in most cases, the writers expressed gratitude, though next they usually wanted an introduction to an agent or an editor, which took the correspondence to another level entirely—not always happily.

  I told Grossman that I was almost certain, I’d never received any manuscripts or letters from “C. W. Haider” nor had I written to her; and Grossman said, with a chuckle, “If you have, Andrew, we will soon find out. She’ll have the letters with her.”

  He went on to tell me that, of the writers he’d represented over the course of a twenty-year career, it was Stephen King who, not surprisingly, was the most frequent target of crank lawsuits; but that King had managed to avoid really serious litigation so far since the cases were usually demonstrably ridiculous.

  “You’ve represented Stephen King?”—this was encouraging to me.

  “Of course. More than once.”

  “Was he—upset at being sued?”

  “Initially. But Steve got used to it, as a ‘public figure’—it’s like wearing a large target on your back. The flip side of fame, drawing the attention of the mentally unstable. And the litigious, who are a separate category, though they can also be mentally unstable.”

  “Were you always successful in defending Stephen King?”

  Though it was not like me to be so rudely inquisitive I had to ask this question. Grossman laughed, obscurely.

  “Well, Andrew—I think, in fairness to Steve, I shouldn’t discuss his legal problems any further. Some of these cases are in the public record and you could look them up—others were settled out of court, and privately. And when Steve changed publishers, a few years ago, naturally I no longer represented him. I have no idea what has happened, if anything, in subsequent years. I just wanted you to know, to assuage your anxiety, because you’ve been sounding very anxious on the phone—I wanted you to know that you are not alone. Bestselling writers have always been targets for litigation.”

  “‘Settled out of court, privately’—does that mean that Stephen King had to pay? Why on earth would he have to pay?”

  “Andrew, please. It isn’t uncommon for a well-to-do client to settle with an aggressive plaintiff, just to clear the air and avoid ugly publicity. A settlement doesn’t have to be millions of dollars, as you might think from the media; I’ve managed settlements for as little as ten thousand, one notable time just nine hundred ninety-nine dollars.”

  “But if the writer is ‘innocent’—”

  “Of course! Of course the writer is ‘innocent’! Writers of the stature of Stephen King and Andrew J. Rush are hardly likely to ‘plagiarize’ their material from amateurs and lunatics.”

  Stammering I told Grossman that I thought, in this case, that the complainant was actually accusing me of breaking into her house and taking something . . .

  But a seasick sensation had come over me. I could not have said with any clarity what I did think and I could not have brought myself to re-examine the summons which by this time I’d read, reread and reread to the point of nausea.

  Grossman laughed. “Andrew, that’s wild! As long as it doesn’t get into the media, it’s really funny—you must admit. ‘Breaking and entering’—crawling through a window—to steal ideas for your novels from ‘C. W. Haider.’”

  I did not think this was funny. I did not laugh.

  As long as it doesn’t get into the media.

  Better to erase the accuser at once.

  In his exuberant way, no longer so reassuring to me as it had been, Grossman spoke for another half hour outlining his strategy for the hearing on Monday, which involved some emergency detective work, and reiterating his advice that I stay away. “The plaintiff will see you and no doubt recognize you and this will be exciting to her. If she’s mentally unbalanced as we think she is, it could provoke an ugly scene. It’s exactly what stalkers want—forcing a confrontation with the rich and famous.”

  Stalker? Rich and famous? Grossman’s words swarmed about me like buzzing gnats. I was trying to feel a small dim stir of pride at being called, however extravagantly, rich and famous; I was trying not to feel panic at hearing stalker.

  So far as I knew, so far as the summons indicated, and our brief phone conversation suggested, C. W. Haider wasn’t (yet) “stalking” me.

  The woman lived on Tumbrel Place, however, not far from the courthouse and municipal buildings. By my estimate, less than five miles from Mill Brook House.

  This was a new fear, which Grossman had unwittingly put into my mind—stalker.

  Better to make the preemptive strike, friend.

  Better to kill at once.

  As if he’d just thought of it Grossman asked if I had ever spoken with “C. W. Haider”—on the phone, for instance?

  Now the seasick sensation deepened. For of course I should not have called the person whose name was on the summons as a complainant—I’d known better, and yet I had called her. Shamefaced now I told Grossman that yes, unfortunately I had called the woman yesterday afternoon, soon after receiving the summons. “I’d just wanted to know what the charge actually was—what I’ve been accused of stealing. The conversation did not go well.”

  For a stunned moment, Grossman was quiet. That so verbal a man was without words was not a good sign.

  “The woman did sound unbalanced—it was hard to understand her. She has a strange, high, wild laugh . . .”

  My voice trailed off, weakly. I felt like a child who has not only disobeyed an elder, but stupidly disobeyed.

  “Well. This is unfortunate, Andrew. You should never have tried to contact the plaintiff, of course. I would have thought that someone of your intelligence and experience . . .” Grossman paused, pointedly. I did not want to imagine the expression on his face.

  Guiltily I tried to explain: “I’d meant only to ask a few questions. It was a short exchange. I spoke very courteously. She said that I’d taken things ‘out of her house’—and that it ‘had to stop . . .’”

  “You didn’t threaten her, I hope?”

  “Of course not. I would not ever threaten anyone.”

  “We can pretend this didn’t happen. That might be for the best. If there were a trial—(which I’m sure there will not be, please don’t panic)—the phone record would be put into evidence, and you couldn’t deny it. But this isn’t a trial, and no one is sworn in. And you won’t even be there. So let’s just hope for the best. Maybe she won’t mention a call.”

  Still I blundered, shamefaced. Badly I wanted to regain Elliot Grossman’s regard for me. “The worst of it was, I’d known beforehand that I shouldn’t have called her. But I guess I hoped that she would listen to reason. That she would see that I’m a nice person . . .”

  I could not
bring myself to tell him—I wanted to avoid calling a lawyer. I am afraid of lawyers.

  “Andrew, you should know that your legal adversary does not want to perceive you as a nice person and there is nothing you can do to convince her that you are not her enemy but a nice person. It wasn’t a smart move to contact her, my friend, but at least you told me. I’m grateful for that. As long as you didn’t threaten her, or try to cajole her into withdrawing the complaint, and she hasn’t recorded the conversation—I think we will be fine.”

  Grossman’s voice had shifted its tone. He was businesslike, brusque.

  “I’ll call you immediately after the hearing, Andrew—no need to call me. Just put this out of your mind entirely. I assure you—nothing will come of ‘C. W. Haider.’ We will bury her.”

  7 A Kiss Before Killing

  “Andy, Julia is upset about something.”

  Irina spoke hesitantly. By her tone I understood that our youngest daughter’s distress had something to do with me and that Irina was being cautious in bringing the subject up to me as if—absurdly, and unfairly—she feared my reaction.

  It is very annoying to me when members of my own family approach me with caution. It is utterly baffling.

  “What? What is Julia upset about?”

  “A novel she read by someone who calls himself ‘Jack of ­Diamonds’—I think that’s the name. She says she thinks that this writer is someone who knows you, a mystery-writer friend of yours, and she thinks that the writer, whoever he is, used something that had happened to her in his novel.”

  “Wait, Irina. I don’t follow this. What are you saying?”

  It was the eve of the hearing. Sunday night, and less than twelve hours until nine o’clock Monday morning in the Hecate Municipal Courthouse.

  I had not told Irina, of course. My dear wife must be spared emotional upsets.

  My heart beat hard. Guilt, guilt.

  It is very hard to be a parent of integrity.

  “Julia will tell you herself, Andy. But she called me first, and she was crying. This awful ‘Jack of Diamonds’—”