It was true, I’d been drinking only white wine at the table. Only white wine, so far as the boys knew.
Too bad you don’t have a firearm in this house.
The boys would never disrespect their father if he was properly armed.
Pushed back my chair. Managed to stand, and to exit the room with dignity.
Of course, they called after me—“Dad? Hey—Dad . . .”
Of course, they followed after me—“Dad? Please, we just want to talk . . .”
And Irina as well, following after me, but at a careful distance—“Andrew? Darling, please . . .”
Outside, and in the Jaguar. Out to get some air.
You don’t love them, that’s bullshit.
Never did, and you know it.
Given up enough for them, Mr. Nice-Guy.
Now—it’s your turn.
And then—I saw!—a bicyclist traveling in the same direction in which I was traveling, on East Elm Road. And no witnesses in sight.
It was Huang Lee. Immediately I knew. Lanky, long-limbed, in a Friends School maroon sweatshirt (Irina had one just like it), wearing a shiny yellow crash helmet. As I approached him, pressing my foot on the gas pedal in quick increments, I could see, or begin to see, his flat Asian face—as he turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder, suddenly aware of danger—but too late.
God damn your soul to hell. All of you.
30 Hit and Run
“My God. No.”
Even as the bicyclist turned his head, I’d seen—my brain had registered—this was not an adult male but a teenager—Asian features, jet-black hair visible beneath the shiny yellow helmet—dark eyes widened in terror—not Huang Lee. Yet, it was too late: the Jaguar sped into the bicyclist, into a tangle of flailing human limbs, screams, a clatter of metal against metal as the bicycle crumpled beneath the lethal weight of the car . . .
Limp as a rag doll the boy was flung onto the side of the road. Abruptly as he’d begun screaming he ceased screaming.
A thin line of red beneath the shiny yellow helmet, trickling out onto the pavement. Thin line of red that would become a gushing stream within seconds—if anyone had remained to observe.
31 Change of Venue
Next morning, I telephoned my agent in New York City.
That is, the longtime agent of Andrew J. Rush.
Quickly repeating the words I’d memorized, as if to forestall emotion:
“I—I’ve decided to retire, Barney. I won’t be finishing this final novel. It’s been too much for me, frankly. I don’t even have a title, after nearly a year.”
Barney was astonished. He’d known “Andy Rush” for more than thirty years—always the optimist, perennially good-natured—what was this?
“Which novel is this, Andy?—Criss-Cross? Isn’t that the title?”
“No. It has no title. I never thought of a title.”
“But, Andrew, we should discuss this. Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
But then I thought, yes.
“You don’t actually sound like yourself, Andy. Are you—ill? Has something happened out there?”
Out there was my New York City friend’s way of speaking of quasi-rural New Jersey. A tone of very gentle derision, which ordinarily I would counter with a witty wisecrack about the frenetic pace of the city, prohibitive price of real estate, trendy deafening restaurants. But today, Andy Rush was silent.
“Andy? Have you talked this over with Irina?”
“Irina isn’t here right now, Barney. I’m going to hang up.”
“Wait! Where is Irina?”
“I said—Irina isn’t here right now, Barney. If you want to speak to her, that’s between you and her.”
“Andy, what does that mean? Are you and Irina—separated?”
“I’m going to hang up, Barney. Please don’t call back.”
“Andy, for God’s sake let me come out to see you—I’ll take a train today. Afternoon? Is that good for you? Around four P.M. Andy?”
Just hang up. And don’t answer when he calls back.
Just delete the e-mails. Barney will catch on.
Spent much of the day in my writing room sketching out the next several Jack of Spades novels. These will be set in exotic locales with classy cinematic backgrounds: Tangier, Lisbon, Haiti, Amalfi coast of Italy, or maybe Sicily. Shanghai?
Since Jack of Spades has exhausted his interest in New Jersey a change of venue is prescribed.
Very exciting! My fingers are flying on this keyboard, my heart is racing.
These Jack of Spades novels will combine some of the intricacies of plot of A. Rush with the crude, quick-moving, visceral power of Jack of Spades. Blend DNA of Stephen King, Mickey Spillane, Clive Barker, Jack Ketchum, Chuck Palahniuk plus sheer gut-wrenching carnage . . . Euphoria swept through me like flame.
32 Auto-Erasure
This morning, I have made my decision.
Staring appalled at the photograph of seventeen-year-old Benjamin Chang in the newspaper: hit-and-run Friends School senior bicycling home on East Elm Ridge Road, in critical condition at New Brunswick hospital. No witnesses have come forward.
The only way to rid the world of Jack of Spades is to rid the world of Andrew J. Rush.
“He must be stopped. I must be stopped.”
It must be Catamount Park. The quarry, the boulders above the deep water, the high diving board.
A perfect circle.
Dearest Irina,
Remember me as I was when you loved me.
Please know—I have never ceased to love you.
I am leaving you & the children for I am a danger to you.
If you are reading this, I am already departed.
You know the details of my will, you are my executrix.
I will leave specific instructions in this envelope.
I want to say—I am not to blame.
And yet—I am to blame.
Please forgive me!
Your loving husband
Andrew
It is remarkable how much time there is, in an empty house.
Time spreads out to fill a large vacuum-space.
More than enough time for me to draft letters to the Harbourton authorities confessing to the ax-slaying of C. W. Haider and the theft of the precious books; and to the “hit-and-run” of Benjamin Chang. More than enough time for me to take down the purloined books from my shelves and place them, with the purloined The Glowering, on a table close by in plain sight.
In the envelope for Irina I will leave checks—$500,000 each—made out to Esdra Staples and Benjamin Chang. I will explain to Irina the purpose of these checks and beg her to honor my request, which I have no doubt she will do.
God knows, this is a small enough reparation.
Stop! Are you insane? You are bluffing.
A stupid futile ploy of Andrew J. Rush. A desperate attempt to wrest the ending of the story from Jack of Spades . . .
The badly dented Jaguar will remain in the garage, no longer in use. It has become a vehicle of shame which (I seem to know) Irina will quickly sell.
The little silver flask is filled, for the final time.
That’s it—take a drink! Two drinks.
A little whiskey to clear a muddled brain.
But the clearer the brain, the more adamant I am about the matter of auto-erasure.
At Catamount State Park, I have parked my station wagon near the entrance to the swimming quarry. On this chilly day in early spring the park is deserted.
A sky so vivid-blue my eyes well with tears.
It is a farther hike to the quarry than I recall. Already I am short of breath as I begin to climb above the quarry, making my crab-like way across the clay-colored misshapen boulders (defaced now with graffiti),
not so easy for me at fifty-four as it was at twelve, the last time I was here.
Don’t be sentimental! You don’t give a damn for your dead brother, in fact you’ve forgotten his face.
There, the makeshift diving board. It seems hardly to have changed over the years.
But not so high above the water as I recall. Fifteen feet? Twelve?
An icy crust on the dark water like an eyelid shielding an eye.
What are you doing? Are you crazy?
Are you play-acting? Is that what this is?
I have weighed the numerous pockets of my nylon jacket and my khaki pants with large stones. I have laced up heavy hiking boots that tug at my ankles like weights. Very carefully I climb the metal rungs to the top of the ladder, and very carefully I make my way along the diving board. How cold the air is, suddenly! And not so still as it had seemed on the ground.
A stab of panic, that I might be blown off-balance by a gust of wind, and fall into the freezing-dark water, before I am prepared . . .
So many years have passed, and Evan has been dead all these years while I have been alive.
“I’m sorry, Evan. Whatever I did, or imagined doing, has been a shadow across my life.”
Bullshit. You resented your younger brother, and you pushed him off the diving board.
Maybe you didn’t want him to die but—he died.
I will step off the end of the diving board and I will fall straight down, arms flat against my sides. I will fall straight down, feet first.
Swift and sharp as a blade entering the water, disturbing the thin icy crust.
With just a few startled ripples, I will sink into the deep water. But no one will cry out, having seen.
The boy! He isn’t swimming, he’s sinking . . .
Somebody get help for him—the boy . . .
At the end of the diving board I am standing very still. A blackness comes over my vision, I am not seeing clearly. I have begun to shiver with cold and with the almost unbearable excitement of what is to come.
“There is no other way. This is the right decision.”
To destroy evil we must destroy the being which evil inhabits, even if it is ourselves.
I think that I will die of the sudden shock for I am no longer twelve years old. I am fifty-four, and my heart has sometimes hurt, like a muscle in spasm. I have told no one about this for I have been ashamed of my mortality and I have been frightened of what the very word mortality means. I will die of icy-cold water pressing against my chest, my face, my eyes. If I am fortunate the shock will cause me to lose consciousness within seconds. Like any desperate drowning creature I will gasp for breath but it will be water I will take into my lungs.
You won’t. You will not. To kill me, you must kill yourself. And you are weak, a coward. You will not.
At the very end of the high diving board. There is movement here, a just-perceptible movement of the board, a faint creaking beneath my weight. Above, the sky is so blue, my eyes are pierced. I am standing very still, very tall with my shoulders erect and my head high. In my pockets are heavy stones. Nylon jacket, khaki pants. Jack of Spades has been observing with disdain and mockery and yet he understands now that I am serious and his laughter turns harsh, incredulous. You can’t. You won’t. God damn your soul to hell, YOU WILL NOT.
But I am breathing deeply now, with conviction. I feel the movement, light as a breath, of someone or something close behind me.
Hairs stir on the nape of my neck, in an ecstasy of anticipation. I do not turn, and I do not flinch, as the fingers gently touch me and urge me out into the air.
Joyce Carol Oates, Jack of Spades
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