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 smeltedâit'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, friendâlove 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 goâfelt admiration for her, affection. On Friday of that weekâthe first in AprilâKitty 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 lunchâasparagus, 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, yieldedâhe felt her thighs grow soft, part. Dubin went in hard; she received him gently.
Afterward when she asked if she could lieâsimply lieâin 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 herâto 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 canâit'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 togetherâsome of it wasn't so good but a lot has been fun for both of us. We're happy when we are together, natural, relaxedâwe really are. And we get along swell in bedâwe 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 beenâas 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 goâfor 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.”
Dubin said he was not only for himself. “My dear Fannyâ”
The telephone rang shrilly.
He grabbed for it in the dark.
“Hello, dearâ” Kitty was on the phone, her voice affectionate. Though he had been expecting her call Dubin was displeased to have it come as he was lying in bed with Fanny.
His wife sounded distraught. “Gerald has disappeared. I spoke to everybody I could locate who might know him, but nobody would say where he is now. I can't tell you what yesterday was like. Finally I met a young Swedish couple who said he had joined the Communist Party and gone into the Soviet Union. I'm told other deserters have. I feel desolate.”
She wept on the phone. His teeth were on edge.