Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page B

fall. The father who has taken her into the park is an evil man who is in fact the little girl’s stepfather, not her father. He resents his wife’s children and plots to kill them, through ‘accidents.’”
    Vaguely I recalled the plot of A Kiss Before Killing . It was characteristic of the pseudonymous novels that, rapidly written as they were, in a kind of white-heat of inspiration in the early hours of the morning, I could not remember them in much detail even by the time they were published, let alone a few years later.
    “Julia said that the plot of the novel was very clever—but repulsive. The evil stepfather is never suspected of arranging any of the ‘accidents’—he is always stricken with guilt, it seems genuinely, and feels remorse; until another ‘accident’ happens to another child. Julia said she couldn’t continue reading the novel any further, to see how it ended.”
    “Well, good! Just throw ‘Jack of Spades’ out.”
    “‘Jack of Spades’? Is that the name of the—writer?”
    Irina blinked at me as if a bright blinding light were shining in her face. Though I love my dear wife very much there are moments when Irina’s very sweetness—the simplicity of her sweetness —is deeply annoying.
    “Yes, darling. You’ve been talking about ‘Jack of Spades’ for the past ten minutes—how Julia has been upset by a novel of his.”
    “Yes. Julia is upset. And I am upset, to think that a private, very personal incident in our lives has been exploited by a stranger . . . If that is what happened.”
    “Well, darling—that’s a big ‘if’! I doubt we could sue ‘Jack of Spades’ for invasion of privacy on such slender evidence.”
    “No one wants to sue anyone. But . . .”
    I was feeling edgy, impatient. I wanted to protest to Irina that I was in no way responsible for this latest crisis of Julia’s.
    Since they became teenagers, and now that they are adults, there are too often crises of some kind in our children’s lives. A call home, a conversation with Irina, the latest debacle, the latest disappointment or reversal of fortune or betrayal, a need for emotional support, a need for money —all too familiar.
    Though I am the quintessential American father—dear old Dad with open arms, dimpled smile, checkbook.
    Dimply-smiling Dad. Asshole.
    Hadn’t I warned Julia not to read Jack of Spades? Hadn’t I hidden the damned books away? Obviously, Julia had disobeyed me—as she, and her older brothers, had so often disobeyed their clueless Daddy when they’d lived in this house.
    I wanted to protest to Irina that I was not a friend of Jack of Spades and even if I were, I’d never have spoken to him about our little daughter’s near-fatal accident in Catamount Park. And in any case Julia hadn’t died—had she?
    How strange I was feeling! Perspiration on my face, beneath my arms, inside my clothes. Between my fingers a glass of wine—tart white wine, from a local New Jersey winery whose owner is a “great admirer” of Andrew J. Rush—which I didn’t remember pouring.
    Or maybe, Irina had brought me the glass of wine. To placate me, to make me less anxious.
    I was remembering now: not Catamount Park, but Battlefield Park.
    And Julia hadn’t died. Had not.
    Irina was telling me that Julia would be joining us for dinner that evening, but was really coming over to speak with me about A Kiss Before Killing. Irina didn’t plan to be part of the conversation—“It’s between you and her. You know how emotional Julia can be, and how she depends upon your advice. I hope you’ll be patient with her, Andrew.”
    This too was annoying. Subtly insulting for my wife to suggest that I am less patient with the children than she is.
    “Daddy, it can’t be just a coincidence! I don’t believe that.”
    Julia looked at me with an expression of childish hurt and exasperation. As if somehow, but how would Julia know how, Daddy was to blame.
    It seemed that, though Julia had forgotten to