Free Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

Updike and John Grisham, Norman Mailer and Dean Koontz, Peter Straub and James Patterson— and Dan Brown!—all without success.”
    We laughed together. Well, this was funny—wasn’t it?
    Slowly I was deflating. Like a balloon that has been pierced by a pin.
    “Quite a virtuoso, your ‘Ms. Haider’! Impressive range of styles and themes.”
    “Yes—well . . . I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise.”
    It is a total surprise. And not a flattering surprise.
    “So, Andrew, I’d like to file a complaint against her . As I’d said, the next step should be ours.”
    I understood, this was probably so. A lawyer would know, and would have my best interests at heart. Grossman was only being reasonable and yet, my instinct was to resist.
    “But—do you know how she is? It’s possible that she isn’t even alive . . .”
    “My paralegal made inquiries. She was taken to New Brunswick for ‘observation’—she may have some sort of congenital epileptic condition, that causes her to throw fits when she’s frustrated or angry. There’s a family caretaker with whom my paralegal spoke, who was very helpful. He told the paralegal that ‘fighting her enemies’ was what kept Ms. Haider going after her father died and she was left alone in the world. Not just her literary enemies but neighbors on Tumbrel Place and town officials. Incidentally, she’s sixty-seven years old.”
    Sixty-seven! I’d hoped she was older. This seemed dismayingly young. With the steely resolve of the mad, C. W. Haider could be my nemesis for the next twenty years.
    “If you don’t disapprove, Andrew, I’m going to move ahead with my plans. We’ll get an injunction against her to ‘cease and desist harassing’ you and we’ll file for charges. You don’t have to be involved except to sign a document or two.”
    But still I felt an instinct to resist, to demur. In this unpleasant situation, Andrew J. Rush had to behave nobly.
    “I’ve told you, Elliot—I don’t want to be punitive. This incident has left a sour taste in my mouth.”
    “But you’ve been the victim! Imagine if you didn’t have a publisher who was willing to protect you, and you’d had to hire a lawyer—a Manhattan, not a Harbourton, New Jersey, lawyer. (I don’t come cheaply, Andrew—which is why you should follow my counsel.) Imagine if the local judge hadn’t been reasonable, and the case had gone to trial. Imagine if the judgment had gone against you, who knows what the settlement might’ve been—millions? You’d have to appeal to the New Jersey State Court of Appeals—none of this a bargain, I can tell you. More bizarre and unjust things have happened in the history of US law.”
    “But—what exactly would you do? How much would she have to pay?”
    Patiently Grossman explained his plans another time. He estimated a sum—far more than I’d anticipated.
    “I told you, Andrew— we’ll bury her. ”
    For a moment I felt this temptation. It was like creeping out onto a diving board—a high diving board—to (gently, almost unobtrusively)—press against the bare back of another, to urge him into space.
    A temptation to give in to the aggressive lawyer’s advice, to sue and to punish. To further defeat the enemy. Bury her .
    But I heard myself say:
    “I understand, Elliot. But—I still don’t want to sue.”
    “Jesus! Are you some sort of—Christian? Quaker? Is it fair to your publisher, to expect the company to pay?”
    “I’ve told you, I will pay the fees and the costs myself. I just want to forget this sorry episode, and get back to my life.”
    “Well—that’s very noble of you. Gentlemanly.”
    (Was Grossman sneering? I could imagine his mouth twitching in disdain.)
    “I feel sorry for the woman, that’s all. Mental illness isn’t a choice or an option, and it shouldn’t be confused with criminal behavior. From Haider’s point of view, she believed that she was right.”
    “Exactly what one might have said about Hitler, or Genghis