by Andre Dubus
“You’re sure I won’t leave?”
“Yes.”
“Me too. I guess that’s why I came to see my mommy.”
Then he pushed back his chair, started to rise, but she reached across the table and held his wrist till he eased into the chair and slid it forward.
“Stay a while,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
“All right.”
“I’m going to keep you here till you smile.”
“What time do they close?”
“Time enough. I’ll tell you something you don’t have to believe tonight, or for a long time. You’ll keep working for your father and, after a while, it’ll be all right. You’ll see him at the store, and you won’t think of him with Brenda. There might be a twitch, like some old injury that reminds you it was there. But you won’t see the pictures. You probably feel that twitch whenever you see your father anyway, because you’ve always fought, you two, and you’ve always loved each other.” He nodded, and she saw, so joyfully that she had to force her words to be slow and calm, that he was listening, truly listening, and how many times had she ever been able to tell one of her children something she knew, and to help the child? So much of motherhood was casting lines to children beyond reach, that she could count with less than two digits the times their hands had clutched the rope and pulled. “Finally, at the store, it’ll be the same. You’ll go get Richie the way I do, sitting in the car, tooting the horn, and you’ll bring him to my place for dinner. I’ll get a third chair for the table. Then one evening your father will come out to the car while Richie’s still inside. He’ll look sinful as a scolded boy, and he’ll ask you in for a beer. You’ll want to curse or cry, but you’ll go have the beer instead, and Brenda won’t be in the house. Because he will be planning this, because he loves you. You’ll just pass the time of day over your beer, and you’ll have a second, and when you leave with Richie he’ll offer you his hand. You’ll shake it. One day after work he’ll take you out for drinks and dinner. He’ll show up at a play or a dance concert, just him and Richie, and afterward they’ll take you someplace for a beer. He’ll invite you to Sunday dinner, and you’ll go, and everyone will have tense stomachs and be very polite, and Brenda won’t kiss or touch your father, but she’ll kiss you hello and goodbye. Soon you’ll be dropping in and someday it won’t even hurt anymore. You and your father will be able to laugh and fight again. Everyone will survive. I told you I’d make you smile.”
“Was I?”
“You have tears in your eyes. But there was a smile.”
“You know why?”
“No.”
“Because I knew all that. When I heard it, I knew I had known it since I woke up this morning.”
“Good. You know why I like my waitress friends so much? And what I learned from them? They don’t have delusions. So when I’m alone at night—and I love it, Larry—I look out my window, and it comes to me: we don’t have to live great lives, we just have to understand and survive the ones we’ve got. You’re smiling again.”
“Tears too.”
“Wipe them fast, before my friends think something terrible is happening.”
NINE
AT TEN O’CLOCK Richie’s father phoned to say he was still at Carol’s and would be home around midnight.
“Are you all right?” his father said.
“Sure.”
“Are you going to bed now?”
“After a while.”
He put the phone back on the receiver on the kitchen wall and looked at it, then at the clock on the stove. He went down the stairs to his room and took his key ring with the keys to his bicycle lock and the front door and back door; he was passing the open bathroom when he stopped and looked at Jim Rice over the toilet with its raised seat. He went in and brushed his teeth, and his rump tightened against the danger of the bristles and the flavor in his mouth, and his careful brushing of his hair, and tucking in and smoothing of his shirt. He started to pray Lead us not into temptation but stopped at Lead and hurried out of the house, leaving on lights for his coming back.
Houses were lighted, and leaves of trees near the streetlight, but beneath him the grass was dark and he walked carefully, like a stranger on his lawn. Then he was on the road under the trees, and he could see objects now, distinct in the darkness: shrubs and flowers, and mailboxes near doors, and above him the limbs of trees. He watched the trees where that morning they had talked; then the blacktop ended, and clumsily he stepped through weeds and in and out of ruts, and started to sweat in the warm, close air whose density made him feel he moved through smoke he could neither see nor smell nor taste. He did not risk stumbling loudly through the trees, approaching her like someone frightening or, worse, an awkward boy. He looked up at the treetops against the stars and sky, then left the trail, and went around the trees and stood beside them, in their shadows, and looked at the infield through the backstop screen, and scanned the outfield.
First he saw Conroy, the dog, a blond motion, then a halted silhouette in left center field. He looked to both of Conroy’s sides, saw only the expanse of dark grass and the woods past the outfield. Then he stepped out of the shadows, stood in the open, and peered down the edge of the trees. He saw the brightening glow of her cigarette, then it moved down and away from the small figure that was Melissa, profiled, sitting on the ground. Above her, cicadas sang in the trees. At once he moved and spoke her name. Her face jerked toward him, and he said: It’s Richie; then he was there, standing above her, looking down at her forehead and her eyes. He could not see their green. He sat beside her, crossed his legs like hers.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said.
“Is that why you came late?”
“No. I had to wait for my Dad to call.”
“Where is he?”
“Visiting my sister in Boston.”
“Can you see Conroy?”
He looked at left field.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Straight that way.”
He pointed his right arm and she touched it with her cheek, sighting down it. Slowly he tightened his bicep so her face would feel its muscles.
“I don’t want him in those woods. Once he went in there and wouldn’t come out for an hour.”
“Look where my finger is.”
“Okay, I see him.”
“I think he’s coming this way.”
“He is.”
She drew on her cigarette, then tossed it arcing in front of them, and he watched it burn in the grass. He could see its thin smoke, but he could still not see the color of her eyes. She wore the cut-off jeans from this morning and the blue denim shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and the shirttails knotted in front; her skin looked darker. He had not noticed her shifting, but she had, when she looked down his arm, and now her knee still touched his, and her left arm his right, till one of them moved; and her shoulder rubbed his or rested against it. Beneath the sound of cicadas, his breath was too quick, audible; he tried to slow it, held it for moments after inhaling, and breathed through his nose.
“Why did you have to wait for your father to call?”
“He wanted me to. So I’d know when he’d be home.”
“Oh. I thought maybe she was sick or something. Your sister.”
“No.”
“He sounds nice.”
“My dad?”
“Yes.”
“I hope so.”
“That’s a funny thing to say.”
He nodded. In her eyes now was a shade of green. Except for tobacco smoke and lipstick, her scents had faded since morning: the cologne or cosmetic was gone. Her clothes and skin too, morning-fresh when she had kissed him, held the smells of the day: its long hot sunlit air, and the restful and pleasant odor of female sweat.
“Why did you say it?”
“Because I want him to be.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
He was wat
ching her mouth, and he swallowed, and knew he was lost. If only he could be lost without fear. If only his heart could keep growing larger and larger until he had to hold her, else it would burst through his ribs, if only he could look to the stars—and he did: abruptly lifted his face to the sky—and find in them release from what he felt now, or release to feel it. He looked at her eyes, her nose, her lips.
“You know,” she said. “What you told me this morning. That you’d tell me sometime.”
“Last night—”
“Go on,” she said. “Last night.”
“My brother came over, to see my dad. He’s twenty-five, and I was in bed. But I got up to tell him hello. I was on the stairs going up to the kitchen, but then I heard what they were saying. So I just stayed and listened. After a while I went back to my room. It’s under the living room, and they were right over me, so I heard it all.”
He lay on his back. Then she was beside him, her arm touching his, and he slid his hand under her palm. Slowly and gently he squeezed, and her fingers pressed. When he found that he was trembling, he did not care. He watched the stars, and talked. When he paused after telling her of that morning, of his father’s tears he never saw, she said: “You poor guy.”
He did not correct her. But he did not feel that way at all. He did not even have to control his voice, for there were no tears in it, nor in his breast. What he felt was the night air starting to cool, and the dew on the grass under his hand holding Melissa’s, and under his arms and head and shirt, and only its coolness touching his thick jeans, and the heels of his shoes. He felt Melissa’s hand in his, and the beating of his heart she both quickened and soothed, and he smelled the length of her beside him, and heard in the trees the song of cicadas like the distant ringing of a thousand tambourines. He saw in the stars the eyes of God too, and was grateful for them, as he was for the night and the girl he loved. He lay on the grass and the soft summer earth, holding Melissa’s hand, and talking to the stars.
A BIOGRAPHY OF ANDRE DUBUS
Andre Dubus (1936–1999) is considered one of the greatest American short story writers of the twentieth century. His collections of short fiction, which include Adultery & Other Choices (1977), The Times Are Never So Bad (1983) and The Last Worthless Evening (1986), are notable for their spare prose and illuminative, albeit subtle, insights into the human heart. He is often compared to Anton Chekhov and revered as a “writer’s writer.”
Born on August 11, 1936, in Lake Charles, Louisiana, Dubus grew up the oldest child of a Cajun-Irish Catholic family in Lafayette. There, he attended the De La Salle Christian Brothers, a Catholic school that helped nurture a young Dubus’s love of literature. He later enrolled at McNeese State College in Lake Charles, where he acquired his BA in English and journalism. Following his graduation in 1958, he spent six years in the United States Marine Corps as a lieutenant and captain—an experience that would inspire him to write his first and only novel, The Lieutenant (1967). During this time, he also married his first wife, Patricia, and started a family.
After concluding his military service in 1964, Dubus moved with his wife and their four children to Iowa City, where he was to earn his MFA from the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. While there, he studied under acclaimed novelist and short story writer Richard Yates, whose particular brand of realism would inform Dubus’s work in the years to come. In 1966, Dubus relocated to New England, teaching English and creative writing at Bradford College in Bradford, Massachusetts, and beginning his own career as an author. Over an illustrious career, he wrote a total of six collections of short fiction, two collections of essays, one novel, and a stand-alone novella, Voices from the Moon (1984)—about a young boy who must come to terms with his faith in the wake of two family divorces—and was awarded the Boston Globe’s first annual Lawrence L. Winship Award, the PEN/Malamud Award, the Rea Award for the Short Story, and the Jean Stein Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, as well as fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations.
In the summer of 1986, tragedy struck when Dubus pulled over to help two disabled motorists on a highway between Boston and his home in Haverhill, Massachusetts. As he exited his car, another vehicle swerved and hit him. The accident crushed both his legs and would confine him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Plagued by residual pain, he sunk into a depression that was further exacerbated by his divorce from his third wife, Peggy, and subsequent estrangement from their two young daughters, Cadence and Madeleine. Buoyed by his faith, he continued to write—in his final decade, he would pen two books of autobiographical essays, Broken Vessels (1991) and Meditations from a Moveable Chair (1998), and a final collection of short stories, Dancing After Hours (1996), which was a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist—and even held a workshop for young writers at his home each week.
In 1999, Dubus died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two. He is survived by three ex-wives and his six children, among them the author Andre Dubus III. Since his death, two of Dubus’s short works have been adapted for the screen: “Killings,” which was featured in Finding a Girl in America (1980), became the critically acclaimed film In the Bedroom (2001), starring Sissy Spacek, Tom Wilkinson, and Marisa Tomei; and We Don’t Live Here Anymore (2004), starring Mark Ruffalo, Laura Dern, Peter Krause, and Naomi Watts, is based on Dubus’s novella of the same name from his debut collection, Separate Flights (1975).
Dubus Sr., with a sixteen-month-old Andre in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Andre’s sister Elizabeth is on the left and Kathryn is on the right. The family is bundled up for the Louisiana winter, which Kathryn remembers as being much colder during her childhood than it is now.
Dubus with classmates from his first- or second-grade class, around 1940. Dubus is second from the left, displaying what his father called his “ethereal face.”
The Dubus family in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, around 1941. Andre Jr., stands in front, while his father, Andre Sr.; mother, Katherine; and sisters, Elizabeth and Kathryn, from left to right, stand in the back.
Dubus’s freshman or sophomore school photo from Cathedral High School, around 1951. Dubus gave this photo to his recently married sister with a note on the back saying, jokingly, “To a good cook from the only one polite enough to eat her meals.”
A fifteen-year-old Dubus, seen here in 1952.
Dubus as a young Marine in Quantico, Virginia, where he received his training and became a commissioned officer in 1957.
Dubus around 1967, while he was working at Bradford College in Bradford, Massachusetts. This photo was taken by one of his students.
A photo of Dubus taken by a fellow student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City, around 1965. This photo was used as a dust jacket picture as well as in a newspaper story from Dubus’s hometown announcing the publication of his first novel, The Lieutenant (1967).
Dubus in Iowa with his daughter Cadence in 1983. Cadence was born on June 11, 1982.
Dubus with his sister Kathryn in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in October of 1987, the first time Kathryn saw Andre after the car accident that claimed his left leg.
The signatures of six participants in a lecture series organized by Seattle Arts & Lectures from 1989 to 1990. Among the participants were John McPhee, Joyce Carol Oates, and Andre Dubus.
A typed manuscript of Dubus’s personal essay “Love in the Morning,” which centers on Dubus’s spiritual experience of morning Mass while confined to a wheelchair. It features a note and his signature, dated September 20, 1994. He later said of the essay that he “knew before starting it that it was coming like grace to me, and I could receive it or bungle it, but I could not hold it at bay.”
Andre Dubus III with his dad in the mid- to late-1990s. Andre III has gone on to enjoy a successful literary career, publishing five books, including the National Book Award finalist The House of Sand and Fog (1999) and The Garden of Last Days (2008), both of which were New York Times bestsellers.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Andre Dubus
cover design by ORIM
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9938-8
This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
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