Andre Dubus - Selected Stories

Selected Stories

Andre Dubus

CONTENTS

A LL THAT DAY she thought of Michaelis: as she packed for school in Boston and confirmed her reservation and, in Woodland Hills, did shopping which she knew was foolish: as though she were going to some primitive land, she bought deodorant and bath powder and shampoo, and nylons and leotards for the cold. At one oclock she was driving the Corvette past cracked tan earth and dry brush, it was a no smoking zone and she put out her cigarette and thought: Now he has finished his lunch and they have gone back to the roof, hes not wearing his shirt, he has a handkerchief tied around his head so sweat wont burn his eyes; hes kneeling down nailing shingles. She saw them eating dinner, her last good Mexican food until she flew west again at Thanksgiving, but she could not see the evening beyond dinner. She saw enchiladas and Margaritas, she saw them talking, she talked with him now driving to the shopping center, but after that she saw nothing. And she was afraid. In the evening she brushed her long dark hair and waited for him and she opened the front door when he rang; he was tall, he was tanned from his summer work, and he shook her fathers hand and kissed her mothers cheek. Miranda liked the approval in her parents eyes, and she took his arm as they walked out to the driveway, to his old and dented Plymouth parked behind the Corvette. They went to dinner and then drove and then stopped on Mulholland Drive, high above the fog lying over the San Fernando Valley, and out her window she saw stars and a lone cloud slowly passing the moon. She took his thick curly hair in one hand and kissed him and with her tongue she told him yes, told him again and again while she waited for him to know she was saying yes.

The next day her parents and Michaelis took her to the airport. She met Holly at the terminal and they flew to Boston. She was eighteen years old.

She lived with Holly in a second-floor apartment Holly found on Beacon Street. It was large, and its wide, tall windows overlooked the old, shaded street. They put a red carpet in the living room and red curtains at the windows. Hollys boyfriend, who went to school in Rhode Island, built them a bar in one corner, at the carpets edge. Holly was a year older than Miranda, this was her second year at Boston University, and the boys who came to the apartment were boys she had known last year. There were also some new ones, and soon Holly was making love with one of them. His name was Brian. When he came to the apartment Miranda watched him and listened to him, but she could neither like him nor dislike him, because she could not understand who he was. He was a student and for him the university was a stalled escalator: he leaned against its handrails, he looked about him and talked and gestured with his hands, his pale face laughed and he stroked his beard, and his hair tossed at his neck. But there was no motion about him.

When he spent the night, Holly unfolded the day bed in the living room and Miranda had the bedroom to herself. She lay on her twin bed at the window and listened to rock music from an all-night FM station; still there were times when, over the music, she could hear Holly moaning in the next room. The sounds and her images always excited her, but sometimes they made her sad too; for on most weekends Tom drove up from Providence and on Friday and Saturday nights Miranda fell asleep after the same sounds had hushed. Brian knew about Tom and seemed as indifferent to his weekend horns as he was to an incomplete in a course or the theft of his bicycle, which he left on the sidewalk outside a Cambridge bar one Sunday afternoon.

Tom knew nothing about Hollys week nights. The lottery had spared him, so he was a graduate student in history and, though he tried not to, at least once each visit he spoke of the diminishing number of teaching jobs. He was robust and shyly candid and Miranda liked him very much. She liked Holly very much too and she did not want to feel disapproval, but there it was in her heart when she heard the week night sounds and then the weekend sounds, and when she looked at Toms red face and thick brown moustache and thinning hair. One night in late September Miranda and Holly went to a movie and when they came home they sat at the bar in the living room and drank a glass of wine. After a second glass Miranda said Tom had built a nice bar. Then she asked if he was coming this weekend. Holly said he was.

Id feel divided, Miranda said, and she looked at Hollys long blonde hair and at the brown, yellow-tinted eyes that watched her like a wise and preying cat.

Then it was early October and she was afraid. At first it was only for moments which struck her at whim: sometimes in class or as she walked home on cool afternoons she remembered and was afraid. But she did not really believe, so she was only afraid when memory caught her off guard, before she could reassure herself that no one was that unlucky. Another week went by and she told Holly she was late.

You cant be, Holly said.

No. No, it must be something else.

What would you do?

She didnt know. She didnt know anything except that now she was afraid most of the time. Always she was waiting. Whether she was in class or talking to Holly or some other friend, even while she slept and dreamed, she was waiting for that flow of blood that would empty her womb whether it held a child or not. Although she did not think of womb, of child, of miscarriage. She hoped only for blood.

Then October was running out and she knew her luck was too. Late Halloween afternoon she went to the office of a young gynecologist who had the hands of a woman, a plump face and thin, pouting lips. He kept looking at his wrist watch. He asked if she planned to keep the child and when she told him yes he said that if she were still in Boston a month from now to come see him. As she was leaving, the receptionist asked her for twenty dollars. Miranda wrote a check, then went out to the street where dusk had descended and where groups of small witches, skeletons, devils, and ghosts in sheets moved past her as she stopped to light a cigarette; she followed in the wake of their voices. Holly was home. When Miranda told her she said: Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus.

Im all right, Miranda said. She noticed that she sounded as if she were reciting something. Im all right. Im not in trouble, Im only having a baby. Its too early to call Michaelis. Its only three oclock in California. Hell still be at school. Id like to rest a while then eat a nice meal.

We only have hamburger. Ill go out and get us some steaks.

Here.

No. Its my treat.

While Holly was gone, Miranda put on Simon and Garfunkel and the Beatles and lay on the couch. The doorbell rang and she went downstairs and gave candy to the children. She and Holly had bought the candy yesterday: candy corn, jelly beans, bags of small Tootsie Rolls, orange slices, and chocolate kisses; and now, pouring candy into the childrens paper bags, smiling and praising costumes, she remembered how frightened she was yesterday in the store: looking at the cellophane bags of candy, she had felt she did not have the courage to grow a minute older and therefore would not. Now as she passed out the candy she felt numb, stationary, as though she were suspended out of time and could see each second as it passed, and each of them went on without her.