Tales of Mystery & Suspense

Joyce Carol Oates

Some things to note about this collection of short stories:

• Each story previously appeared in some periodical, from Ellery Queen Mystery mag to the Kenyon Review. All the mags are American. On this side of the Atlantic there are not sufficient outlets for a writer to do this.
• In a review I recall seeing many months ago in some Irish paper, the book appeared under the rubric Thrillers.
• Unlike her other recent books, the usual bio is omitted, at least on my edition: “JCO is on the faculty of Princeton University” etc.
• Cover blurbs are from the Guardian, Sunday Telegraph, and Sunday Times.

My favourite stories here were So Help Me God, The Haunting, and Angel of Wrath. I’ll put down a few notes on The Haunting.

This story reads like something inspired by a song that drums in & out of mind. A female child wakes up from at night hearing rabbits crying, in this strange place, their new home, where they have moved since daddy died.

Daddy is dead. Dead Daddy. Daddy-dead.

Daddydeaddead. Deaaaaaaddaddy.

If you say it enough times faster and faster you start giggling. Calvin shows me.

Calvin is in fourth grade, her older brother.

The rhythmical prose is partly like a rock song lyrics, partly a child’s chant, and partly the studied naiveness of My First Storybook. The place they move to is Cuyahoga – Cuy-a — hoga — which brings to mind the insistent refrain of a Talking Heads song. The “Daddy-dead” line above could be the Violent Femmes. The mother takes up singing in a bar: it’s worth while doing a google on the songs/lyrics mentioned, they’re part of the story. (though lost on this reader) Beyond the backyard the railroad provides another insistent beat.

The story is steeped in rhythm: Like Mommy says, it gets into your blood, says the girl child.

And when she asks where Daddy is now, these are the words a 5-year old cannot possibly understand, but will remember for ever and for ever.

He has gone to hell to be with his own cruel kin.

Say it aloud 10 times. Say it under your breath.

Taking influence from scraps of songs knocking about in your head is something a 21-year-old writer would do. Deuce to Oates for this story that draws straight from the well-springs. And for those hard nuggets of insight that sparkle in the text: “But now Daddy is gone, it’s Mommy whose eyes are like a cat’s eyes jumping at us. It’s Mommy whose fingers twitch like they want to be fists.” “the man from the sheriff’s office, calling us Cavin, Marybeth, like a trick to make us think he knew us”