Dubin's Lives

by Bernard Malamud

  Dubin did not for a minute speak. “What makes you think so?”

  “I know Fanny admires your biographies and yourself. Also I sort of know that you helped her put herself together after she had a shaky time in Europe last year. She has a different emphasis than since I first met her. She’s a lot more serious about herself in a way she didn’t use to be. I also know you have this mutual friendship that means a lot to her.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Not in so many black-and-white words but it’s what I guess. At first I thought it might be something sort of non-sexual, only now I don’t think that any more, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Dubin. I don’t think of you as that kind of a person.”

  “What kind of person am I?”

  “I wish I really knew.”

  “What do you want from me, Roger?”

  They had stopped walking. Each peered into the other’s face.

  “I admit you’ve been helpful in advising Fanny, but otherwise the fact is you’re married, Mr. Dubin, with two grownup kids and a wife who happens to need you,” Roger said, looking down at Dubin’s galoshes. “What’s more, you’re a good thirty or more years older than Fanny. When we first met she liked me an awful lot, and I honestly and sincerely think she still has a real affection left that might get to be permanent under different circumstances. I figure if you weren’t around I might stand a good chance to marry her, although I also admit she has this affinity for older men. Mr. Dubin, I’m speaking to you as if I were your own son—I’m not proud. I thought I would respectfully tell you how I feel about her, hoping you might make some decision that would give me a fair shake, or at least a halfway decent chance in the future.”

  “To marry her?”

  “To marry her if I could—if she wants to get married. Not everybody does nowadays, though I and both my sisters honestly do. What I’m trying to say to you is I love Fanny very much.” His voice shook.

  “So do I.”

  Roger, to Dubin’s embarrassed surprise, sank down on one knee in an awkward gesture of supplication, or despair. In his left hand he still held his shotgun.

  Dubin walked on, then broke into a trot.

  He hadn’t seen Fanny in weeks, felt inertia, lassitude, stasis, wanted not to see her. Was he therefore feeling less for the girl? Less what? He had got used to her, knew her too well? Some of the excitement, the surprise, was gone? Only her presence, in truth, surprised and she was not present. Though Kitty and he had resolved his temporary mishap and were again comfortable in bed, Dubin felt he wasn’t that much interested in the sexual life. She had postponed going away because of him. She didn’t seem to understand how much he wanted to be alone, left alone; he wanted to be, at least for now, without challenge to emotion, attention, thought; if possible, also, without desire. Who needs that forever goad? Fanny seriously complicated his life. Having one major problem was enough for him—the Lawrence biography. That continued to go well: at times it carried Dubin aloft as if he were in a balloon with a spy glass surveying the floating earth. It was the “complication” —the task he wanted most to be concerned with. Gerry and Maud were an ongoing other; he was used to their problems, and to Kitty’s tangled skein. But Fanny was a complication coming on too fast and strong. She was, in his life, unique; still he didn’t want her pressing him to go abroad with her, urging him to move to New York; he didn’t want her suggesting they live together, implying divorce. It was all right for Kitty to bring up divorce but not Fanny.

  Was what he felt for Fanny love? It wasn’t the way he had felt toward women in his youth. Do men of more than fifty love less keenly than young men? He thought the opposite was true: the years deepened the need, the force, the channel of love. At fifty there had to be more at stake: love as a breakwater against age, loss of vital energy, the approach of death. Dubin enjoyed the girl’s feeling for him but how much was he offering in return? Obviously not too much at the moment although they shared a real enough friendship. He sometimes felt as if he was waiting for her to say it didn’t seem to be working and why didn’t they simply call it quits? There were moments when he thought breaking it up now might be a relief—a lot less to worry about; he’d be freer to concentrate on his work. Maybe she was expecting him to make a decision—more Fanny, less Kitty; or vice versa; or simply no Fanny at all? There was a real problem, did he have a real choice?

  She hadn’t telephoned lately, nor he her. He thought she might still be annoyed by the barn incident with Kitty though her two or three short letters hadn’t mentioned it. He had more than once expressed regret. Her letters outlined what she was doing, reading, experiencing; they made no request nor persuasion. She was, she said, “tired,” but not of what. What good am I for her? the biographer asked himself. Her letters were contained, muted, saying nothing very personal. She did not say, lately, that she loved him. He wrote innocuous replies. Let’s be friends, Dubin thought, and from time to time, lovers. That would diminish complication and make life easier to manage. He never broached this to her. Lawrence had distastefully spoken of “merely companionate sex.”

  But with the change of season Dubin was glad he had made no serious negative statement to Fanny. Winter broke, retreated, cold waning although greedily lingering; spring was immanent-tied hand and foot but softly exhaling its herbal breath; mysteriously freed, spying out—stalking—the land as well as memory. Spring lights spring within. My spring gives birth to yours—to you. The girl blossomed, bloomed, in his thoughts. Dear God, what have I done? Why have I allowed myself to doubt my true feeling for her? He missed her company, easy laughter, warmth, intimate voice—whatever it said was intimate—her touch, vibrance, their acceptance and enjoyment of each other. He missed her desire, giving, the flower of their embrace in bed. He thought of her, trying not to, between stitches of biographical sentences; on his long and short walks; as he lay in bed with his wife. He thought of their best times, joyfully together. He wanted, he spoke it aloud, to be with her; but heard no sound. He did not visit her in the city; she did not come to him, one way or another, in Center Campobello.

  As the season advanced Dubin grew restless, irritable; life was unchanged, confined, reduced. He tried unsuccessfully to hide his mood from Kitty. “You aren’t with me,” she chided him; “you are elsewhere. Where are you?” He didn’t say; flipped his fingers as if there was no answer, why ask? He wanted her to sense his abstinence; instead she sensed his absence, still said they seemed to be drifting apart. It took two to drift together; Dubin was in no mood to. They disagreed, argued, sometimes bitterly over trivialities: he had forgotten to remind her, though he had promised he would, when a television program began; she had sent out special delivery a letter he had wanted certified. He did not listen when she talked, Kitty complained. She could not follow directions, he said. He listened, Dubin responded, past all possible listening. “Who the hell are you to give directions?” Kitty said. She walked out with her fingers in her ears.

  She accused him of destroying their social life by turning down every invitation; he accused her of not offering any. She did little entertaining. They went at each other face to face; but Dubin noticed she no longer threatened divorce, as if she had sensed it was now, for him, a viable option.

  His sleep became surface-thin; he dreamed endlessly: how can one swim in shallow water? One night Kitty woke him out of a dream of Fanny to say she smelled something. Was it a fire? Gas escaping? Had she left a burner on?

  Half asleep, he sniffed the air and smelled nothing.

  “Are you sure, William?”

  “What can I be sure of?”

  Barefoot, he plodded dully through the house but could smell no smoke nor locate any. Dubin, muttering, sniffed at the burners in the kitchen, bitter to be awake at this miserable hour engaged in idiotic sniffing. A mad woman makes a man mad.

  Kitty was standing at the bedroom window in her nightgown, inhaling the night air. It had rained.

  “It was the wet earth I must have sm
elted—it’s so refreshing. Forgive me, it waked me out of sound sleep. How fresh, how fragrant the earth is.”

  He got into bed, chilled. Fanny did not reappear in his dreams. In the morning they quarreled over what he called her punitive sense of smell. Kitty said she thought a vacation from each other would do them both good. She’d been thinking of Stockholm again, wanted to see Gerald. Maud was writing more often lately, but from Gerald, during the winter months, had come wintry silence. She was worried.

  Later, her eyes uncertain, downcast, Kitty asked Dubin, “Would you care to come with me?”

  He had expected it. “What’s the good of it if I go with you? We need time away from each other.”

  He had had, that morning, a loving note from Fanny: “Lover, father, friend—love me, I love you.” The self-conceived defensive ice had broken; the river of feeling flowed.

  “I’ll go alone,” Kitty said.

  He approved, shame contained. She had rarely, since she’d married him, traveled by herself. It would do her good. What if she were widowed again and had to travel alone?

  He knew she’d go—felt admiration for her, affection. On Friday of that week—the first in April—Kitty packed a suitcase and flew to Stockholm.

  There were green shoots in her garden, shades of yellow and green, flowers to follow. He waited a day, called Fanny at 8 a.m., on Saturday. She was at once alert, had been expecting a call. Dubin told her Kitty had gone to Stockholm. “Your note meant a great deal to me.”

  “I’ll bomb up there right away.”

  Fanny arrived shortly after twelve, expansive, happy, vital. Every time he saw her, especially after weeks gone by, she seemed more womanly. She stepped out of her Volvo, carrying a tote bag, her purse slung over her shoulder. Fanny entered the house unself-consciously. “I know this place like the palm of my hand.” It excited Dubin to have her with him where he had first desired her. He said they would sleep in the guest room on the third floor.

  “Should we go up now?”

  “We’ve got two days together, Fanny. Let’s eat first.”

  “It’s just that we haven’t seen each other so long.”

  He put his arm around her. She nuzzled close, reminded him this was their first spring together. “And not our last.”

  He had prepared lunch—asparagus, a salmon salad, white wine. They ate at the dining table, knees touching. Afterward she rinsed the dishes as Dubin stacked the dishwasher, conscious of her in Kitty’s kitchen, domain. Having her in the house was part of the adventure.

  “Don’t sweat it, William,” she said, sensing something. “I’ve handled nearly everything in this kitchen and will put everything back in place.”

  He trusted her instincts. They went outside. The silver maples were still leafless and the grass hadn’t come to green life but the blue-skyed day embraced the earth. They went through the field into the warm wood. Dubin pulled down branches of opening tree buds. They found white hepatica in bloom and full-grown purple and gold crocus and one paper-thin narcissus amid last year’s dead leaves. He thought of the wild flowers they had lain in.

  “Come on,” Fanny said, taking his hand. They left the woods and she began to run ahead of him on the path. Dubin trotted amiably after her. In the house she ran up the stairs. He followed, thinking she was heading for the third floor. Instead she darted into the master bedroom.

  He called to her. “Not in that bed, please, Fanny.”

  “Why not?” she laughed, her face flushed, eyes very green.

  “Kitty wouldn’t like it. Come upstairs.”

  “I want to sleep with you in your bed. You sleep with me in mine.”

  She tugged down the bedspread. Dubin grabbed and held her. Fanny, twisting in his arms, pulled down the zipper of his fly. He drew off her shirt. She had nothing on under her jeans. Dubin undressed. Fanny, naked, flipped down the blankets on the double bed.

  “I said no.” He pulled her to him, holding her tightly. She struggled forcefully but he maneuvered her away from the bed. Fanny tried to shake him off. She was strong, sweated. Dubin, enjoying the struggle, forced her to the floor, lowering himself on her on the rug. Fanny squirmed, rocking from side to side, trying to fend him off with her knees.

  “Get off me, you ape.”

  Dubin froze. Her body smoldered under his. Neither of them moved. As he was getting up, Fanny, grasping his shoulders, pulled him down. They kissed to their teeth. She bit his lip, drawing blood, then as he cried out, yielded—he felt her thighs grow soft, part. Dubin went in hard; she received him gently.

  Afterward when she asked if she could lie—simply lie—in the bed he permitted it. He slid under the blanket with her, lying on Kitty’s side as Fanny lay in his place.

  They lay together, palms touching. Dubin felt a great gratitude to her—to life for all it offered. He tried to think of a gift for Fanny, something durable, valuable, beautiful. He wished he had a ring to give her. Perhaps he would have something made. Fanny slept heavily; Dubin slept with her.

  In his dream a storm woke them. They woke in a thunderstorm. Through the east window they could see lightning streak through massive clouds, bathing the black sky in forked flickering light. Thunder rumbled, ripped through the cloud mass, crashed over their heads. Fanny clung to him.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I would be if I were alone.”

  The white curtains were blowing, whipping in the wind.

  “Jesus, the windows!” Dubin hopped out of bed. He ran to Maud’s room to close hers and was about to race upstairs but remembered those were shut. Naked, he hurried down to the living room to close the open window there. Dubin wiped the sill and wet floor with a kitchen towel as thunder roared overhead. Excited by the storm, the biographer watched through the window as lightning flared in a circle. He saw himself pursuing the storm to catch it in a basket.

  Rain hissed in the fireplace. He shut the vent and ran up the stairs.

  Fanny was not in the double bed.

  “Are you in the bathroom?”

  She was not. A crackling explosion lit the bedroom. Dubin waited for thunder to crash but heard it rumbling in the distance.

  “Fanny, where are you?”

  No answer. He pulled open the door of Kitty’s dress closet and found the girl, in his wife’s African robe, crouched against the wall. Dubin offered his hand but Fanny refused it and rose awkwardly, her complexion pale. “Please don’t ask me any questions.”

  “I won’t except are you all right?”

  “It’s a question.”

  “Come to bed.”

  Fanny stepped out of Kitty’s robe and slipped under the bedcovers. She was shivering. Dubin held her. As her body grew warm a calm settled in him.

  It rained steadily, heavily, still poured. He listened to the water gushing from gutter spouts. Soon it rained lightly and as the storm departed he listened to it lessening; then to the raindrops dripping from the eaves of the roof and to the plop-plop of drops from the chestnut tree in front of the house.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked her.

  “I want you to know I don’t hide in a closet every time there’s a storm.”

  “Why did you now?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s don’t talk about it.”

  Her hand caressed his thigh. “I’m in the mood, are you?”

  “I could be but upstairs-not in this bed.”

  “You can have the sheets laundered. Also the rug cleaned where we fucked on the floor, and her bathrobe dry-cleaned.”

  “Don’t be angry, Fanny. I never mentioned the robe.”

  “Scared as I was, I could see you didn’t want me to wear it.”

  “Kitty’s senses are sharp. She might know if someone had worn it.”

  “I never heard of anyone who goes around smelling everything.”

  “You have your thing, she has hers.”

  Fanny, after a moment, in a quieter voice spoke of Athens. “Do you think we can go there this month or maybe in
May, William? I have another week of vacation coming to me. They might give it to me in May.”

  “Don’t push it. I’ll go if I can—it’s on my mind.”

  Fanny sat up in the dark. “I really can’t understand where we stand,” she said angrily. “We have been through a lot together—some of it wasn’t so good but a lot has been fun for both of us. We’re happy when we are together, natural, relaxed—we really are. And we get along swell in bed—we enjoy each other in good ways. Sometimes the sex is fantastic. Then why do you let so long go by before we meet again, William? There are times I think all you want is a lay every couple of months or so, just to change the scenery.”

  Dubin denied it.

  “Don’t you love me?” she asked.

  He said he must.

  “What do you mean by that word?”

  “I do.”

  “Then how can we go on like this? I had to hide from her in the goddamn barn, and now I can’t even love you in your bed. Why are you so tight-assed?”

  Dubin didn’t say.

  “When do you think you will leave her?”

  He said, after a moment, that he had no plans to.

  “What plans do you have?”

  “Mostly to get on with my Lawrence.”

  “You expect us to go on as we have been—as we are right now?”

  “If possible. I confess I worry about you. I have more than once asked myself whether I ought to let you go—for your sake.”

  “What do you answer yourself?”

  “I honestly don’t want to.”

  “Are you afraid to leave her?”

  “It’s not fear I feel.”

  “Then why do you stay with her?”

  “There are commitments in marriage. It takes a while to reconsider each.”

  “I don’t think you reconsider anything,” Fanny said. “You may want to but you don’t. You keep what you have and use anything else you can get.”