Dubin's Lives

by Bernard Malamud

  Dubin was disheartened that he had only this ragged self to offer on her short visit home. And that Maud had appeared almost unrecognizable, the fiery flame of her dyed black. She had walked into the house masked. What is she hiding? Had she seen him, after all, with Fanny in Venice? Had it been she in the gondola with the old man? Who is she, nervously clumping around in boots and poncho, who comes as my child, though I can hardly recognize her? What have we become to each other, who were once so much more than we presently are?

  When they were alone during the evening after her arrival, Dubin asked his daughter why she had dyed her hair black.

  She answered, “Because I’m me”; then said, “I wanted to see how I look in black hair, I know how I look in red.”

  “How do you look in black?”

  She was for a moment uneasy. “Pretty much as I expected.”

  “Couldn’t you have imagined it?”

  “I’m not good in imagining. I’m good in seeing.”

  He said he sensed a symbol in her mask. “This sort of thing a bit extended could hurt you.”

  She was annoyed. “Please don’t read symbols in everything I do, Papa. I’m not a book. And if I’m masked I’m not the only one.”

  “Am I?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, let’s not go ape on this. Everybody overanalyzes in this house.”

  He called it an occupational problem.

  “If you want a symbol, be satisfied with something simpler—maybe somebody looking for herself.”

  Dubin therefore apologized.

  He recalled, the week she was there, other dissatisfactions of hers: she had, for instance, from childhood, complained about her name. Kitty had suggested her own grandmother’s name—Christina—for her, which Dubin had doubted. After considering Crystal they had settled on Maud, later discovered it derived from Magdalene; but Maud was by then Maud. Her middle name was his mother’s, Hannah. Who’s in a name?

  “Maud, Maud, the birds cawed,” she had parodied Tennyson when she was in high school. “Boy, what a jackass name.”

  “On you it sounds good.”

  “It sounds like a cow call. I’m maudlin is what it amounts to. In grade school the kids made it ‘Muddy’ and now all I hear is ‘Moody.’ What a shitty thing to do to your little girl.” She laughed at that.

  Once as he followed her on a trail in the woods, she complained, “Too many of my habits are like yours.”

  Dubin would not apologize.

  “You were always yawking about work, going to bed early so you could be early to work—all that sort of thing, and it took me years before I stopped being afraid to waste time.”

  “Waste what you want,” he said. “I do what I have to. If Mark Twain had applied himself to his writing instead of piddling time away trying to make money on things that didn’t work, he’d have been a greater writer. F. Scott Fitzgerald, before he caught himself near the end, had wasted much of his talent. I’m telling you what I learned from their lives.”

  She laughed scornfully. “Why didn’t you learn about some of the fun they had, especially Fitzgerald?”

  “Someone once said, no valuable work is accomplished except at the expense of a life.”

  Maud bet it was Thoreau. “I’m sick of him. Also it depends what you mean by valuable.”

  Dubin said one had to make choices.

  “I’m trying to,” she shouted.

  He remembered having run over her black-and-white cat in the driveway and hastily burying the animal before she could see its maimed body. When he told her later what he had done she was inconsolable he hadn’t given her the kitty to bury. He sometimes felt she had never forgiven him.

  One day she had accused him of having favored Gerald over her.

  He told her not to believe it.

  She reddened, yet insisted it was true. “He was the interesting one you were always going up to talk to, and I was fluff and yum-yum.” She complained he had never really understood her. Dubin looked at her to see if she was kidding; she wasn’t. It hurt. He thought he had communicated with her better than with almost anyone. Another illusion. When she was fifteen he had sensed a growth of antagonism in her without being able to define it more than generally. Perhaps she had changed faster than he had imagined? It happens so quickly with kids. While I was out for a walk she became someone else.

  “You were a good enough father,” she once defined it, not noticing the tense or qualifier. “You cared and provided but we could have been closer as a family.”

  “Propaganda—we were close and attentive to each other.”

  “Not that close.”

  Who remembered better? Close? He sometimes thought his life had pressed hers too strongly. He was too intensely aware of Maud, had made her self-conscious.

  He wondered what kind of father he had been. A decent one, Dubin had thought, but who was he to say? God, the impression one made without knowing it. What had he ultimately given them?—Much willingly but they made unconscious choices from his daily offerings—or non-offerings, simply being who or what he was. Some take from that what they will never be able to use. The father of Maud’s childhood and Gerald’s, being in essence little known to them, ultimately a mystery because other—love to the contrary notwithstanding—had left his mark as mythological father; but the historical Papa they had discovered and felt some affection for as they grew was, as self, recognizable, measurable, predictable, vulnerable. They knew reasonably well his strengths and limitations and sensed how they themselves were bound by them. By definition he was as parent—more than Kitty—the opposing self; and in subtle ways they opposed him. They opposed him best by changing.—Ah, fooled you! Overnight, it had seemed, they had changed and gone, each to pursue an unpredictable destiny.—Who would have thought so, contemplating them as kids? Yes, you said love, they said love, but each lived a world apart. They saw him differently as they changed, and against the will he was a changed man. Dubin felt, as much as he could, that he had been himself to them, defined himself as he was; and they would therefore, sooner or later, return to claim his friendship. But either they hadn’t listened, or had and forgot; or hadn’t he spoken?

  Yet every so often the father had the feeling he had lost or misplaced his daughter at a specific time in another country, a foreign experience. Had he, indeed, lost her in Venice, although he did not, in truth, know whether she’d ever been there?

  Kitty, after a quiet devastation over the dyed hair, had revived her good spirits in Maud’s presence. “She’s home rarely, let’s not be so critical of what she did. She’s been a good kid.” She and Maud had got along well. Kitty admired her good looks, independence, sense of adventure; she wished she had been similarly endowed. Maud respected her mother’s taste and strength. Kitty pooh-poohed “strength” but the girl insisted. “You do what you have to even with your doubts.” Kitty looked emotionally away.

  Now they were shopping together, Maud mostly to please her mother because she wanted no more than a pair of bluejeans and two pairs of socks And Kitty loved cooking for Maud though she had asked her to go easy. “I’m into organic foods and brought a batch with me.” “Then let’s cook them up,” said Kitty. Maud laughed till it hurt.

  About her dyed hair Kitty said to Dubin, “It’s not forever, the black will grow out.”

  “What have you told her about me?” he asked. “I’d rather she didn’t know what a mean winter I’ve had.”

  “She always complained we keep secrets from them.”

  “There are some things I’m entitled to keep private.”

  “I’ve told her nothing she wouldn’t guess on laying eyes on you.”

  He asked her what.

  “I said you were having some trouble with Lawrence. I also said you had lost twelve pounds on your diet—was that all right?”

  He thanked her.

  Maud went to see a high school friend living with an unemployed mechanic in a shack up the side of Mt. No Name. They had rapped about Eastern religions. She
had also cross-country skied with Roger Foster—Kitty’s dubious arrangement; Dubin had, as usual, his doubts about the librarian. And Maud was restless, prowled around the house; tightened water taps; lowered the thermostat if Kitty permitted; convinced her mother to use cloth napkins instead of paper. “We have got to save trees, Mother.” She spent hours looking through things in the attic, searching for something she couldn’t find.

  One morning when Dubin came downstairs, Maud was eating a granola she had mixed of rolled oats, wheat germ, sesame seeds, other ingredients. Formerly she had eaten a soft-boiled egg almost every morning of her life. The world had changed. He pictured her with red hair.

  She studied him as he sipped his coffee. When he looked at her her gaze shifted.

  Dubin asked her if she had heard from Gerry lately.

  “A card. He’s working on an excursion boat. He’s moved, I think.”

  “Again?”

  “He can move if he wants.” Her voice wavered angrily.

  “What’s with you?”

  She filled her teacup. “Why did you walk away from me the minute I came into the house, Papa?”

  He said her black hair had upset him. “I sensed you had changed in a way that excluded me. I guess I didn’t want you to see how bad I felt.”

  “Are you used to me now?”

  He said a stupidity had got into him; he regretted it.

  She rose, washed the cup and cereal bowl in the sink, then sat down and lit a cigarette. She eats health foods then smokes, Dubin thought.

  “Just one,” Maud said. “It’s snowing,” she said, looking out of the window. “I love winter. I don’t think I want to spend my life in California.”

  That seemed good news. Dubin imagined her home again: they were sitting at this table talking and Maud had red hair.

  “You haven’t said what’s been happening to you.”

  “Not much.” She listened to herself say that, then put out her cigarette and said, “Not very much.” After a moment Maud asked him if he would like her to recite a poem. She often recited to him poems she had learned. Once she had tried to write verse but had given it up, though he had asked her not to. She said they weren’t very good poems; and sounded like Kitty.

  Maud recited gravely, her voice expressive, face softened, seriousness deepened:

  O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s Wind,

  Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,

  And the black elm-tops ‘mong freezing stars,

  To thee the spring will be a harvest time.

  Moved, Dubin said, “Keats.”

  She went on, ending: “‘To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.’”

  He thanked her for her kindness.

  “Do you remember reading me ‘Bright Star’ after I had read about Keats in Short Lives?”

  He remembered. Keats spoke in youth’s voice and Dubin had listened with youth’s ear.

  She seemed gently embarrassed.

  Each then left the room. Dubin worked upstairs for a while. The snow had stopped and it was white and still outside. He knocked on Maud’s door and asked her to walk to the bridge with him. They trudged along the snowy road, Maud in ski pants and boots, wearing a white padded parka. Dubin had on his black galoshes and red wool hat.

  As they stood under the snow-covered bridge, resting, their white breaths intermingling, Maud quietly began another sonnet of Keats’. It was “To Fanny.” She spoke the poem feelingfully.

  That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—

  Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,

  Withhold no atom’s atom or I die,

  Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,

  Forget, in midst of idle misery,

  Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind

  Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

  His voice was heavy when he asked her why she had recited that particular poem.

  “I loved it when I was sixteen.”

  “So you recite it now?”

  “I just thought you might be in a mood to hear it; I am.”

  “It’s appropriate,” he offered. “It helps.”

  “Helps what?”

  “My mood.” He thanked her for the poem.

  “Mother says you’re having trouble with your work?”

  Dubin confessed he had been writing without authority.

  “Do you really like Lawrence? You’re not much like him.”

  “I like him well enough; he’s an interesting man. Not all his books are good, some are very good. He had genius. I doubt he loved mankind but he relished life though he explained it insufficiently.”

  “But isn’t it hard for somebody like you to write about somebody like him?”

  “Nobody I’ve written about is like me though they all are.”

  “Aren’t some more congenial than others? I don’t think you had much trouble with Thoreau.”

  “He came at a better time.”

  “Why did you pick Lawrence to write on?”

  “He picked me. There’s something he wants me to know.”

  After studying him a minute, she said, “You’ve had bad periods before. You’ll soon be back into your rhythm of work.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  The next morning at breakfast Maud said she had learned her first poem by D. H. Lawrence. She recited it with eyes closed.

  Desire may be dead

  and still a man can be

  a meeting place for sun and rain

  wonder outwaiting pain

  as in a wintry tree.

  She treats me with poetry, he thought. “Bravo,” Dubin said.

  Maud reddened.

  He worked in his study later in a calm mood.

  On Friday of the week Maud was home, as they were again returning from the short walk, he considered telling her what had happened to him in Venice. He had wanted to all week. Dubin said his trouble with work had started after an experience there.

  “What kind of experience?”

  “Unexpected. I thought I was fairly good facing up to what happens unexpectedly, but apparently less than I thought.”

  He did not elaborate; she didn’t ask him to.

  As he was following her along the path through Kitty’s Wood Dubin stopped and said, “Maud, I love you.”

  She turned to him. “I love you.”

  “I love you more than anyone.”

  “Papa,” Maud said, “I’m not your wife.”

  Dubin said he hadn’t asked her to be.

  “You neglect Mother. She’s lonely.”

  “It’s a long story,” he said, “but I’m addressing you. You’re my daughter, I need you. Let’s stay more closely in touch.”

  “You have me.”

  They embraced on the path in the white wood. Maud kissed him quickly.

  Though he had warned himself not to, Dubin asked her if it was she he had seen with an old man in Venice.

  “Please don’t ask me questions like that.”

  The next day Maud flew back to California.

  One freezing night Dubin drove through the white silent streets to Oscar Greenfeld’s. He had had to get out of the house, could not stand being alone with Kitty.

  Flora had called a week ago. She said she had wanted to talk with him about a book she was reading, but they had never got to it. On the phone Dubin wasn’t sure what they were talking about. Oscar was in Europe.

  “Are you all right?” he had asked Flora.

  “More or less. Listen, William,” she said with mellifluous intensity, “you and I ought to be better friends.”

  “How would that work?”

  Flora hung up on him.

  “Who was that?” Kitty had asked. She’d been in the bathroom. Dubin rarely answered the telephone; it was her instrument.

  “Flora.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She wanted to talk about a book she was reading.”

  “What boo
k?”

  He said he had forgotten to ask.

  “I think she’s been lonely since she’s given up traveling with Oscar,” Kitty said. “I had that feeling when I saw her at Myra’s burial.”

  “Should we invite her over?”

  “If you want.”

  “You don’t want?”

  “God knows I’ve tried, but I simply don’t take to her.”

  That very cold night, a week after Flora’s call, Dubin parked his car in the driveway by the birch trees, and rang her bell.

  “What a nice thing to do,” Flora said.

  “This isn’t the wrong time to come?”

  She insisted it wasn’t. Flora was wearing a tight pleated white blouse and a long burgundy skirt. Her voice was chesty, throaty, musical. She said Oscar was in Prague.

  “Are you dressed to go out?”

  “I dress to practice.” She took up her bow and went on with a Bach violin sonata. She played zestfully, a little wildly, her body swaying. The Bach was lively, vibrant, earthy. He had heard her say Bach should not be played like Bach. “He should be played like a gypsy.”

  Flora then went into the first movement of a Vivaldi violin concerto, playing him like a gypsy.

  Afterward they sat in silence, he in a rocker by the fireplace, Flora on the sofa.

  “Were you angry when I hung up on you?”

  Dubin said he wasn’t.

  She laughed throatily. “Dear William, how little surprises you. Your understanding surpasseth surprise. Don’t you sometimes feel cheated?”

  He said he sometimes did.

  “You look low,” Flora said sympathetically. “You looked like hell at your birthday party.”

  “It was Kitty’s party.”

  “It certainly wasn’t yours.”

  “How long has Oscar been gone?”

  “Three weeks tomorrow. He’ll be back in a week.”

  “Why don’t you travel with him any more?”