Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates
Seeing fear in the woman’s eyes. Why the hell is a wife of mine frightened—of me?
“I am not angry, Irina! That’s an insult.”
Still Irina shrank from me, and would have hurried away except my hand leapt out to seize her shoulder—she gave a little cry of surprise and pain—and at once I released her.
For a moment we stared at each other, both of us shocked, and panting. I could not believe that my wife had provoked me to behave in a way totally contrary to my nature, nor that she would exacerbate the situation by saying, half-sobbing, “I hate it when you drink, Andrew. You’re not yourself—you frighten me.”
“That’s an insult. I haven’t been drinking.”
Irina ran from me, upstairs. Damned if I would follow her.
She is jealous of you. Your talent, your success.
That you are a man, and superior to her. That alone, the woman can’t bear.
Later, I returned to the secret library.
Wanting to check the lock on the door. Wanting to check the dehumidifier. Wanting to admire the new acquisitions of which I was so strangely proud—as if I’d salvaged these rare books from Hell itself.
The house was darkened. Irina had gone to bed. I imagined her eyes swollen from weeping. Damned if I would seek her out another time.
Too often lately, these inexplicable scenes sprang up between us. As if Irina were daring to provoke me, to see how far she could push her good-natured husband before he’d snap.
Her behavior had something to do with the fall term at the Friends School. As if her emotional center of gravity had shifted and was no longer in this house, but there.
And not you, the husband. But him.
I’d had just a glimpse of the man—“Huang Lee.” We’d been driving on a road just outside Harbourton and Irina had waved out the window of the station wagon at a bicyclist—male, jet-black-haired, in tight blue spandex shorts and T-shirt—whom I’d assumed to be a student at the Friends School until Irina identified him as a math teacher colleague.
When he recognized Irina, he’d waved in reply.
My vehicle sped past missing him by a wide margin.
Since that time I realized: often over the past several months I’d been hearing Irina on her cell phone, in odd parts of the house. Or outdoors, a distance from the house. As if she were hiding from me—from me, the husband.
And it seemed too that Irina was going out of her way to provoke me. As if she were tempting me to anger. Tempting me to lay a hand on her.
I am not the sort of man who eavesdrops on his wife, or on anyone. I am not the sort of man who lays a hand on his wife, or on anyone.
In the secret library, taking care to shut and lock the door behind me. Splashing an inch or two of Scotch whiskey into a glass, out of a bottle kept here for such a purpose.
She knows nothing of you.
None of them do.
Recalling Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Black Cat” in which the wife is strangled as well as the pet cat, and both are sealed up in a wall out of which a terrible wailing rises.
18 The Repentant
Take care! You are in great danger.
For a night and a part of the next day Irina avoided me. In my writing room above the old stable I was unable to work. Sick in the gut, and sick at heart. The very thought of Jack of Spades filled me with dismay.
“I will have to stop. No more ‘Jack of Spades.’”
I waited, apprehensive. As one who has felt a tinge in his heart waits for a greater tinge, and cardiac catastrophe.
Waited for the jeering threatening voice.
And yet—there was nothing. Outside the opened windows a soughing of wind in the tall trees that surrounded the house, a beautiful sound that brought tears to my eyes.
“I will give back the books I’ve taken from that poor woman. I will apologize to Irina. I will never drink again.”
Early that morning before I was fully awake Irina had left for the Friends School. For the first time in our marriage one of us had left the house without saying good-bye to the other.
It was a small thing, I knew. It was a chasm.
I’d fallen into a stuporous sleep in the basement room the previous night. The empty bottle of Scotch at my feet.
When I came upstairs groggy and uncertain at nearly 9:00 A.M. my wife was gone, the house was empty and in all the rooms a sharp white autumn sun shone through the windows, meaninglessly—a premonition of Mill Brook House empty of its inhabitants.
“Irina? Where are you . . .”
My head ached. Pulses in my eyes pounded with ominous intent. As if someone, some thing, were trying to speak to me.
That day, which was an interminable day, I could not write a coherent sentence. In my writing room that had been the setting of more than one admiring feature in local publications—(“airy”—“spacious”—“gorgeous rural views”—“private, secluded”—“a writer’s dream”)—I’d been unable to concentrate. How mechanical, the plot of Criss-Cross! And how hollow-sounding, the title of which I’d been so proud. Sentences careened through my brain like deranged beetles. Words became detached from their meanings. When I tried to read aloud passages that needed particular attention—which I have always done—it was the jeering voice of the wild-white-haired woman that rang in my ears.
Thief! Plagiarist! Murderer!
“I am not a—murderer . . .”
In your heart, you are a murderer. You want your enemy dead.
“I don’t want anyone dead. I—I am terrified of hurting another person . . .”
You are terrified only of being exposed of your crimes, and punished. That is all.
“This is not true! In my heart, I am not that way at all.”
Ugly din of voices. C. W. Haider, Jack of Spades. In my confusion I could not tell them apart.
There was a marshy area on our property, in a low-lying field not far from Mill Brook, that smelled strongly of rot, manure. Very likely it was a cesspool into which animal waste had once drained from the barnyard. Irina and I had discovered the “marsh”—as we (euphemistically) called it—and had thought we might have the area filled in with topsoil. But we’d never gotten around to ordering the topsoil. Even in high boots you wouldn’t want to walk in the “marsh”—you would fear being sucked into the soft mucky earth. And the stench of rot, organic decay. And the clouds of gnats, flies, butterflies that hovered above the marsh, a terrifying teeming of life.
Nonetheless there were beautiful creatures in the marsh. Butterflies of many sizes and colors. Red-winged blackbirds, snowy egrets.
Copperhead snakes, snapping like miniature whips.
Jack of Spades was the soft sinking treacherous marsh. You could dump solid topsoil into it—but the topsoil would be sucked down. You could lay planks across the marsh—but the planks would be sucked down.
Best to avoid the marsh. The poisonous fumes were intoxicating, addictive.
“Irina? I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me . . . I hadn’t realized I’d been drinking so much. I hadn’t realized I’d been drinking at all.”
Taking Irina’s small-boned hands in my hands. Stroking her fingers that were stiff in my fingers, not quite resisting, yet not yielding.
It was so: I had no clear idea what had come over me the previous night. Why I’d been so suddenly furious with my dear wife whom I loved very much—whom I adore.
“Do you forgive me, Irina? I swear it won’t happen again.”
Irina’s eyes were downcast. Her manner was subdued, wary.
“It’s this strain I’ve been under, that I haven’t wanted to tell you about . . .”
This caused Irina to glance up at me, as I’d hoped it would.
“. . . I’ve been shielding from you since it’s both very petty and very destructive.”
“What
“Just something to do with my writing—my ‘career.’ The vicissitudes of Andrew J. Rush.”
“But ‘Andrew J. Rush’ is you. Please tell me what has happened . . .”
I felt a pang of love for my wife of so many years. Dear Irina who’d fallen in love with “Andy Rush” who was so much her inferior, hadn’t she known?
These many years, I’d managed to deceive her.
My career, not hers. Why hadn’t Irina Kacizk struggled more assertively, why had she subordinated herself to me?
Irina had been gone all that day—from approximately 8:00 A.M. until 6:00 P.M.—and hadn’t answered her cell phone despite my numerous calls. Of course, I had hurt her feelings. A woman too has pride, and must not allow herself to seem over-submissive in a marriage. Yet my dear Irina was so devoted to me, and her livelihood so bound up with Andrew J. Rush, she’d become unhesitatingly sympathetic.
“Darling, do you know the name ‘Haider’?”
“‘Hater’—what a strange name!”
“Not ‘Hater’—‘Haider.’ They’re a local family.”
Irina frowned, and thought a moment. “Well, yes—‘Haider’—that name is familiar. They’ve made contributions in Harbourton—there’s a park named for them, and a scholarship fund at the Friends School. I think there’s a student in the school right now in the upper form. But no one I know.”
In a sudden rush of words I confessed: an older woman named Haider, a resident of Harbourton, and a failed, would-be writer, had attempted to sue Andrew J. Rush early in the summer. But the suit had been dismissed.
Irina waited for me to continue. “And—?”
“And—that’s all. She’d initiated a lawsuit on some ridiculous claim of invasion of privacy, but the case was thrown out of court.”
Invasion of privacy was more plausible than theft, plagiarism, as it was less painful.
“‘Invasion of privacy’—how absurd. How could she make such a claim?”
“It was a typical nuisance suit, my publisher’s lawyer told me. The sort of thing that happens often to successful high-profile writers usually, like Stephen King.”
“But you are ‘successful’ and ‘high-profile’ also, Andrew! I’m so sorry that this upset you, and you hadn’t even told me about it. I can understand why you’ve been distracted.”
“Even more outrageous, she tried to sue me for ‘stealing’—‘plagiarizing’—from her.”
“My God! What a joke.”
Irina’s warm brown eyes filled with tears of angry commiseration. She had many wifely questions to ask but I assured her that there was nothing more to be said—really. “The lawsuit was considered groundless, and the case was dismissed by Judge Carson.”
Now Irina took my hands in hers, to quell their tremor.
“But why are you so agitated, Andrew? If it has been dismissed?”
19 Tumbrel Place II
No one will know! You will be spotless as a lamb.
Another time, I drove to Tumbrel Place, Harbourton. Except this time, it was after midnight.
Dark as a tar pit, the old “historic” neighborhood near the courthouse.
And now, it was well into autumn, the first week of November, and the nights frankly cold. Very sensible of anyone who ventured out after midnight to wear gloves, leather jacket, a fedora pulled low over his forehead.
All of my clothes were dark-hued. And my Nike running shoes, black.
Irina had no idea where I was. No idea I’d gone out. I’d waited until my dear wife had gone to bed, and was soundly asleep well before midnight. And then I’d slipped away from the house unobserved.
Overhead, a faint red moon. Some rogue impulse inspired me to smile at the moon, and wink.
Only you, my witness.
And you will never tell.
My heart beat quickly, pleasurably!
Hours of the day each day trapped in my writing room, forced to work, or try to work, on the mystery novel formerly titled Criss-Cross, with damned little to show for it.
Nighttimes, writing as Jack of Spades, were much more productive.
But Andrew J. Rush was me. Damned if I would give up me.
Which is why I felt so—exhilarated! Outside in the night, invisible. In my dark disguise.
I’d known almost from the first what must be done. What reparations must be made to the wronged party.
I am not a common thief. I will admit, I was overcome by the rare books on C. W. Haider’s shelves that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years; I’d given in to temptation, which was a mistake.
And so now, I was a repentant. Yet something of a coward too, for I’d hoped to return the purloined books to C. W. Haider weeks ago.
Since my first visit to 88 Tumbrel Place in September I’d been obsessively checking local media for news of C. W. Haider as well as tracking Stephen King online, to determine if (maybe) C. W. Haider had reacted in fury against Stephen King for the little prank I’d played on her in his name. Halfway I expected to see headlines—Stephen King Threatened by New Jersey Stalker. Better yet—Stalker of Stephen King Arrested.
Or—Beloved Bestselling Novelist Stephen King Murdered by Madwoman Stalker.
Or—Madwoman Stalker Killed in Attempt on Life of Beloved Bestselling Novelist Stephen King.
But none of this had happened. With each week that passed it was less likely to happen.
I could only assume that Haider had been discharged from the psychiatric hospital in New Brunswick weeks ago, and was living again at Tumbrel Place. Of course, I had no idea if she’d recovered from her derangement—perhaps she was still seriously ill. Perhaps she was in a clinically depressed state and had no interest in avenging herself on her old nemesis Stephen King, or anyone.
She might have undergone electric shock treatment. She might be massively sedated. By now, she might have totally forgotten Andrew J. Rush.
In the Harbourton Weekly there’d been no news of a robbery at 88 Tumbrel Place. Each issue I read eagerly and with dread, sure that I would see an accusatory headline—Rare Books Stolen from Tumbrel Place Residence—Police Investigating Rare Book Theft from Haider Residence—but again, there’d been nothing.
Had Haider not noticed the gaping absences on her bookshelves? Had I so cunningly covered my tracks, there was not much to notice? It seemed implausible that a collector who owned such valuable books could be so negligent, but then C. W. Haider was an enigma to me. I had no right to imagine her as some sort of (reasonable, rational) extension of myself.
And so, it was my plan to return to the house by night, and to replace the missing books unobtrusively, carried in my duffel bag. Frankenstein, The Lair of the White Worm, The Turn of the Screw, Le Fanu’s In a Glass Darkly and one other, Wells’s The Island of Dr. Moreau.
And, not least, though I’d come to be particularly fond of it, the slender Imp of the Perverse.
C. W. Haider’s own novella The Glowering, which so curiously anticipated King’s The Shining, I’d decided to keep since there were spare copies of the novella in Haider’s bookshelf and she would certainly never miss one.
Indeed, a long-unpublished writer like C. W. Haider would be flattered to know that a long-established writer like Andrew J. Rush cared to take the time to read her vanity-press effort.
Fortunately I must have anticipated returning to the house back in September, and had unlocked two windows.
Not you, Andy. Don’t deceive yourself.
You would ask—why didn’t I simply just mail the purloined books back to their owner? Of course, I had thought of this. But to mail them to C. W. Haider via the U.S. Postal Service, or UPS or FedEx, even to leave them carefully wrapped on the front step, would be to call the excitable Haider’s attention to the fact that the books had been taken; and it was quite possible that, in ill health, distracted b
Not that anyone would pay the slightest attention to C. W. Haider’s paranoia. Andrew J. Rush in particular had “immunity” from the woman’s imaginary charges. Haider was a local crank known to law enforcement and the judiciary: Grossman had secured an injunction against her, to prevent her harassing me.
This was an act of mercy, kindness. I did not want to think that it was a reckless act which I might regret.
For some time now, Jack of Spades had been silent. When I anticipated his jeering wit, often there was silence.
Had he abandoned me? Was that a good thing?
My drinking was limited to a glass or two of white wine at dinner. No longer was there whiskey in the house. Irina seemed less wary of me, lately. We were lovers again—or nearly. For our thirtieth wedding anniversary we were planning a long-deferred trip to Spain. I was planning to buy her a beautiful black pearl necklace. Our sons, from whom I’d been somewhat estranged, for no reason I could comprehend, were friendlier now, at least in their e-mails and text messages.
Take care! A misstep now could be fatal.
Of course, I didn’t park anywhere near the dignified old Edwardian house, which looked like a mausoleum by night. In fact, the entire neighborhood looked like a graveyard of large, ornate sepulchers.
There were a few scattered lights shimmering in the dark. But they were dim lights, that didn’t “light up” any significant space. I carried a flashlight with a powerful but narrow beam, which I took care to use sparingly.
Swiftly and silently I made my way from the wrought iron gate and across the darkened lawn. And along the side of the house, ducking evergreen boughs. My breath steamed faintly in the sharp cold air. The narrow little beam of light guided me faultlessly, like a laser.