Once he had cleaned and straightened up the place—Fanny hastily made the bed before leaving—he was in a mood for work. It did not bother him that he was not in his study; this was, after all, a holiday, and allowing himself to work, gravy. He laid out his cards, jotted down notes, and began to write careful sentences. Dubin loved sentences. He worked all morning, getting up every so often to watch the elderly Jews reading or at prayer.
After lunch he rode the Fifth Avenue bus to the Public Library and read in the reference room. One day he took the train to Newark to see where he had lived as a child; he felt no nostalgia; but it occurred to him he hadn’t visited his father’s and mother’s graves in years. Charlie Dubin had bought his wife’s grave in a cemetery in the Bronx and his own in a huge graveyard in Queens. “I got a bargain for my plot.” Most often in thinking of him Dubin saw the father of his childhood, younger than he himself was now. His mother he usually thought of as she had looked after she became insane. Only once had he been to his drowned brother’s grave in Newark but could not bear to go that day. After the library, he usually walked home—up Fifth, through Central Park to West 96th, then back on West End to Fanny’s on 83rd. That was almost the equivalent of the long walk in Center Campobello. He did not dwell on other equivalents of his New York experience.
Fanny lived in a walk-up graystone with a partly semicircular façade. A fenced yellow steam-stack on the far side of the street spouted a cloud of white steam all day and night. Diagonally across the street were a few stores; and above a florist’s shop, the second-floor synagogue, under a roof with a raised skylight. It was not a hot August, and Fanny, if Dubin shopped for her, would rather prepare supper than go out. She fed him large quantities of food. Fanny wasn’t a talented cook but she was not a bad one and dared cook fish, giggling and groaning. Dubin liked fish but Kitty rarely cooked it. Kitty loved snails, clams, mussels, and frog’s legs; but Dubin did not. Fanny avoided snails and oysters but enjoyed lobster. Dubin had mastered shrimp and crabmeat and stayed clear of other shellfish. He had had none as a child. Fanny, one night in a fish restaurant, got him to share her lobster.
After supper if the apartment was stuffy they usually went out. They saw A Comedy of Errors in the park; once attended her weekly summer evening class in government at the New School. On Saturday afternoon Dubin took her to the Metropolitan Museum and told her what he knew about painting. He explained what Kitty had told him about Chinese pottery. She listened as though memorizing. Her bookcase was varied: he noticed books on psychology, political theory, music, ecology. “Fanny,” he said, “you’re a hidden intellectual.” “I’m smarter than I look,” she answered, “but not always organized. I’m fairly well organized at work but not when it comes to making decisions for myself. That’s where I am missing a cylinder. I wish you could help me make up my mind what I ought to be doing with myself.” Dubin said he would. “I am better controlled when you’re around,” she said. “Do you know what I mean?” On a framed bulletin board in the kitchen she tacked up snippets of sayings: “Be kind to yourself.” He remembered.
“Morality begins when one can control experience.”
He wondered if she had once that week thought of Kitty. Probably she would say that was his business. Dubin had attended to his business.
From his H. D. Thoreau she had copied this sentence: “There is no other land; there is no other life but this or the like of this.”
He gave her credit.
He was careful with her, considerate of her pace and qualities. He liked to do things she suggested. At twilight, one evening, they walked into Central Park and listened, amid a circle of people in a variety of dress, some standing there with their dogs, to the steel drums played by two West Indians who beat up high haunting melodies in their gleaming pots and let them flow into dusk. Afterward they walked to the east side of the park; there were lovers lying in the grass. Fanny slipped her hand into Dubin’s back pocket and felt his ass as he walked. They wandered, as the street lights came on, up Madison, seeing themselves in store windows when they stopped to look. There was this fine-figured girl in a light-orange summer dress; and with her an erect slightly self-conscious middle-aged type, smoking a cigarillo, in bell-bottoms, blazer, and Panama hat. Each stared at the reflection of the other as though neither could believe they were together. They locked fingers as they walked.
She called him Bill, tried Will, went back to William. William could sound funny when she said it. When he read poetry to her she sat close in a chair, her bare legs resting on his thighs. She told him personal things: why her periods were late; confessed to occasional problems of constipation, for which he advised her to cook up a pot of prunes with lemon rind and have a plateful each morning. She wrote left-handed, he discovered to his surprise; was otherwise right-handed. She typed beautifully, retyped his Lawrence pages for him. Fanny created little favors for Dubin. At night she drew down the white shades and they turned to each other with passion. She slept heavily. He too slept deeply, lying against her strong young sweet-smelling body.
One night he woke from deep sleep to find himself being sucked off. The pleasure was all but unbearable. Fanny moved her moist mouth patiently until he came with a cry, almost of protest.
“What was that for?”
“I woke up and wanted to.”
In the morning they woke making love. Fanny stayed home from work and they slept till noon. He had tried to break through sleep to get up but couldn’t. Afterward they rose, showered, ate leisurely, went back to bed. Dubin loved her body, was conscious of her sensuality, aroused by the force of her sexual being. She was embarrassed by nothing, named her pleasures. He responded to her desire by running his tongue along her pudgy clitoris as she squirmed happily. A first for Dubin; he felt like a god.
Fanny asked if he had liked doing it. She was sitting cross-legged in bed. How intimate strangers can be.
“For the effect it has on you, yes.”
“Don’t do anything you are not comfortable with.”
That night she massaged his back with lotions, unguents, kneading his shoulders, pressing her strong fingers into his flesh, working down his legs, rubbing, stroking. His heart beat like a drum. “Does your wife massage you too?” “No.” “Never?” “Never.” “Too bad,” said Fanny. She was subtle, cunning, gifted in touch, wet him exquisitely. She seemed to watch her effect on him. Dubin cherished their intimacy.
But when he asked whether she was teaching him the orthodontist’s repertory, Fanny denied it.
“What he taught me has got nothing to do with what I want to give you or want you to give me. One man is a hunk of wood in bed, another is a fire. At first I thought you’d be a loaf of rye bread but now there’s something wild in you that I like.”
“A wild rye bread or wildfire?”
“A wild flower,” Fanny laughed. “I want you to have a lot of fun.” Dubin replied it was what he wanted. He felt satisfied in a way he hadn’t since early in his marriage. The intensity of pleasure, of possibility, was greater now. Live and learn.
I want her to teach me, he thought. I want to know everything she does. I’m more than twice her age.
Her orgasm, she swore, spaced her. “It’s like coming full blast out of a cannon.” She let go in surprise. “Will-yam,” she sang as to a friend far away. His ended in a slow drop from the bursting sky; knowing it would end safely in a warm bed. He was fulfilled, relieved, as though he had feared what had happened to them might never have; then magically it had happened. Something good, fortunate, had come into his life. With this girl I know the flowering pleasure, heathen innocence, of the natural life. I live in her sun-strong garden. He was grateful to her; they held each other close and kissed affectionately.
As Fanny slept Dubin lay awake thinking of his Passion of D. H. Lawrence. He was glad the pleasures of this week had come to him as they had: this long careless giving of oneself in sex. His experiences with Fanny, in variety, intensity, excitement heightened by her watchful
curious knowing, sureness of her sexual self, willingness to give, couldn’t have come at a better moment. He understood Lawrence more fully, his religion of sexuality: a belief in the blood, the flesh, as wiser than the intellect. I think I know what he means by “the unknown God brought into consciousness”—“the slow invasion in you of the vast invisible God that lives in the ether”—“the old Pagan vision.” “This is very important to our being, that we should realise that we have a blood-being, a blood-consciousness, a blood-soul, complete and apart from the mental and nerve consequences.” I can’t say I fully believe it, Dubin thought, but understand more clearly where it came from in his nature and why he said it in these words. I think—I feel I understand him.
Unable to sleep, he rose hyped up, his imagination pouring ideas like rain. He felt like working but had better not if he could work longer later. He stood at the bedroom window, one shade raised, gazing above the steaming smokestack at the synagogue. The building was darkened except for a small candlelit room where a black-bearded black-hatted Jew, his white shawl glowing on his shoulders, bent back and forth in prayer. Once in a while Dubin prayed. It was a way of addressing the self; God had a tin ear. Who wanted to listen to human complaints within the heavenly music?
Whom shall I pray for?
He thought of Gerald and Maud but this time prayed a moment for Fanny, then got into bed with the girl, who did not stir. He moved close to her sex-scented body, and as she sighed, fell into sleep.
He was awakened by the sound of rain, or a distant sobbing, as though someone was lost and he wasn’t sure who. Dubin fought against waking but it sprang out of him like an idiot tearing at the roots of sleep. Protesting the task, he ascended a ladder, rising step by gluey step until he miraculously thrust his head through a foggy hole. In his confusion he called her Kitty. He lay with eyes open trying to understand what Fanny was complaining about. He felt her twisting in her sleep. With an effort he turned on the bed lamp. Her eyelids were twitching, arms moved in spasms, her mouth tormented; she seemed to be locked in a nightmare.
“Fanny.” He shook her gently. “Take it easy.” She whimpered yet drunkenly slept on. Dubin shook her again. With a groan Fanny quickly sat up, astonished to see him there. She fell into his arms in relief.
“Jesus,” she shuddered, “I had this mind-blowing god-awful dream—it was one of those awful ones with blood and shit in it—that I’d been killed in an accident. I saw myself dead and couldn’t wake until you made me.” She wept in bed. “I don’t want to die young. I hate that book you wrote. Why did you give it to me?”
“Forgive me,” Dubin said.
Afterward she was depressed. Dubin got up to brew her a cup of tea. As he was waiting for the water to boil he looked uneasily out of the window for a sign of dawn. Wanting to sleep, he did not want it to be dawn; neither did the night—black, heavy, inert. Across the silent street the candlelight was out in the synagogue. Fanny sipped tea in bed. For a while they talked, then put out the light and quietly talked. She turned on her side, resting on his arm.
“I dreamed I saw someone with a crazy crippled face watching us from the fire escape.”
“What fire escape?”
“I dreamed there was one. I feel scared about something, I wish I knew what it was. I’m afraid something bad might happen to me. I don’t want to do the wrong thing with my life. Advise me, William. I’m afraid I’ll be anxious again. Tell me what to do about myself. You’re so serious about life, tell me what to do with mine.”
He said it wasn’t so simple, he didn’t know her that well.
“You know me well enough,” she said fiercely.
“You’re a late bloomer, Fanny. I was too. Keep your eye on yourself. Find out who you are. Watch what you do and tell yourself why. Try to use yourself well.”
“People have been saying something like that to me all my life. It drives me up a wall. Suppose I never find out who I am?”
“Then you’ll have to find out why or pay for it.”
“I don’t want to go back to a shrink.”
“I wasn’t talking about shrinks.”
“How did you find out you wanted to write biographies? If I knew what I wanted to do that would be half of it for me.”
Dubin said trial and error plus good luck. “I was writing obituaries. Finally I read someone’s life of somebody else and thought I could do better. My wife thought so too.”
Fanny yawned and grew quiet. For a minute he thought she had fallen asleep. “What about her?” she asked.
“What about her?”
“Did she know what she wanted to do when she was my age?”
“At your age she was about to be a widow.”
“I mean before that?”
“She was interested in music but not much came of it. She wanted to teach, she wanted to be a concert harpist, but she didn’t do either. She met this doctor and he asked her to marry him.”
“I don’t want to get married—at least not yet.”
“Not yet,” Dubin agreed.
“When did she start being afraid she would die of cancer, or something like that?”
“Before I met her.”
“Is that the reason she goes around smelling the gas burners?”
“I suppose so. It’s a kind of ritual against death.”
“Do you think I have one?”
“I don’t know. Do you have many nightmares?”
“I used to have more when I was a kid.”
“Maybe they’re your gas burners.”
“Maybe. What are yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about those long walks you always take?”
“I thought a walk was a walk.”
Fanny was silent a moment. “Did Thoreau have a ritual? I don’t remember whether you mentioned it in your book.”
“His journal was his ritual. For all I know he may have thrown handfuls of snow over his left shoulder as he was walking in the woods.”
“What about D. H. Lawrence?”
“Maybe his tuberculosis was psychosomatic, I don’t know. He would never admit he was seriously ill till after he finished The Plumed Serpent in Mexico. He called his sickness catarrh, bronchitis, influenza, a bad cold, finally malaria—everything but the deadly thing it was. He used to say it wasn’t his lungs, it was his bronchi; but his lungs were rotting.”
“Are you afraid to die, William?” Fanny asked in the dark.
Dubin drew up his knees. “My God, Fanny, how many times are you going to ask me that? I don’t want to talk any more. I’m worn out with all the sex we’ve had. I need sleep desperately. For God’s sake, let me sleep.”
“Are you sorry about us now?”
“No.”
“Are you glad?”
“Yes.”
“Is your wife good in bed, William?” Fanny then asked.
“Lay off, Fanny,” Dubin said irritably. “She wouldn’t want you to know.”
“Oh, come off it.”
“Obviously she’s different from you.”
“How different?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Do you love her—this minute?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
He waited for her to start punishing him but she had fallen asleep. Dubin couldn’t till dawn.
In the morning Fanny apologized for having kept him awake during the night. She was menstruating heavily. “That’s what gave me those lousy dreams,” she said almost gaily. “I always have nightmares before I get the curse.”
Sunday morning Dubin called his wife in Center Campobello from a public pay phone while he was out getting the newspaper. Kitty was angered.
“Where in Christ have you been? I was frantic. You weren’t registered at the Gansevoort. They had no idea where you were.”
Dubin said he was at the Brevoort.
“Why the Brevoort? You’ve
never liked it there.”
“For a change,” he lied. “Were you calling from Maine? Is something the matter?”
“We never got to Maine. Maud couldn’t make it. The night before we were to leave she got a long-distance call from a man she said was a friend, then asked out. She packed a bag and took a bus to New York. I can tell you she stopped being bored in a hurry.”
Dubin was worried. “Is she here now?”
“I would imagine so.”
“Where is she staying?”
“She hasn’t called. I don’t know where any of my family are.”
“I’m standing here talking to you. Did she say when she’d be home?”
“Vaguely—about a week. She apologized for having to go. I’m certain she’s having an affair.”
“You don’t know who he is?”
“No. Questions about her personal life annoy her.”
“There are some questions one has to ask.”
“Who she may or may not be sleeping with? You ask her.”
“Maybe I will.”
“When will you come home?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I thought you said you’d be home today?”
“I want to visit my father’s and mother’s graves this afternoon.”
“Yes, go,” she said.
Dubin asked her to meet him at the train tomorrow noon and Kitty said she would.
He said he was sorry he had forgotten to give her the name of the hotel he’d been staying in.
“That’s all right. Did you have a good time?”
“On and off.” Hearing that, he laughed nervously. “Pretty good.”
Kitty said she was glad.
After he had brought the paper to Fanny, Dubin hailed a cab to take him to the cemetery in the Bronx where his mother was buried. Her grave was overgrown with thick grass.
Dubin's Lives Page 27