Small Demon
Jan 112009
 

If Flannery O’Connor known for her her cruelty toward her characters, Andre Dubus is known for his kindness. Of if not kindness, sympathy. (He is also better at writing women than O’Connor is at writing men, but I’m not really interested in a comparison that, carried any farther, would quickly become tendentious.) I’ve been reading Dubus’s Selected Stories over the last few weeks with real enjoyment. Some of my pleasure is derived from the fact that Dubus’s characters inhabit various working class worlds familiar to me from my childhood and youth. But that, I would tell my students, is a personal association — fine & natural, but not of any general critical use.

So what is it that Dubus’s stories actually do? Many don’t have conventional plots & you can’t even say that the characters are wiser at the end of the story than they were at the beginning. There is often a Chekhovian sense of incompleteness in the action of a Dubus story. The main character of “The Pitcher” simply drives away from the town where he has been playing minor league ball at the end of the season, leaving his wife behind, who has taken up with a married dentist — “straight through to San Antonio,” the radio playing. He’s lost the final game of the season 1 to 0 because his team couldn’t hit behind him. Still, he’s pretty sure he’s going to make it to the majors, unlike his teammates, or his wife for that matter. The pitcher has lost his wife and lost the final game of the season, but he is moving forward, driving straight through.The story reminds me of Chekhov’s “The House with the Mansard” in its optimism in the face of human unhappiness.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve read most of the way through Dubus’s Selected Stories, reading them for what I can learn from them about writing fiction. A Dubus story dramatizes the inner life of a character and that dramatization becomes something that is stable enough for the reader to hold in mind — not a symbol because not generalized, but operating something like a symbol. Here’s a list of the Dubus stories I’ve read so far, with brief comments, mostly intended to jog my own memory.

  • “Miranda Over the Valley” — This story never grabbed me, though it is evocative in its parts — seems amorphous as a whole & in fact that is one of the risks Dubus seems willing to run in his fiction: a looseness that can often be a virtue.
  • “The Winter Father” — This one is deftly plotted & hangs together memorably, but lacks the emotional depth of “Miranda.”
  • “Waiting” — A very short story, almost a prose poem, about a waitress who is widowed young by the Korean war and who comes to understand, to sense, that she is surrounded by a great and meaningless indifference. As do several of Dubus’s characters, she is an ocean swimmer.
  • “Killings” — More a schematic drawing of a story than a story, about the perfect crime. Perfect both morally & technically.
  • “The Pretty Girl” — Almost a novella my least favorite piece in the Selected Stories. My own bias prefers short stories at the shorter end of the range, so that my affect my judgment. This has a great fight scene, but too many of the pieces fail to fall together. Unusual for this writer, all the characters are ugly, even the pretty girl of the title.
  • “Graduation” — Dubus has great sympathy for sluts. This seems like a nearly perfect story to me, but then I love redemption in all its aspects.
  • “The Pitcher” — A story about doing one’s job, grace under pressure. Redemption doesn’t often take the form we think it should.
  • “After the Game” — In the same voice as “The Pitcher,” a brief mediation on how things go wrong even for the gifted & lucky among us.
  • “Cadence” — Cutting it & not cutting it in boot camp turns out to be a matter of character rahter than of physical strength. A parable that warns against thinking too highly of one’s self.
  • “If they Knew Yvonne” — My favorite story in the book. Structurally all over the place, that looseness I mentioned earlier a virtue. Spans more time than most short stories.
  • “The Fat Girl” — Dubus at his compassionate best. The narrative technique here summarizes big stretches of time & only dramatizes occasionally, at the moments of highest intensity. Virtually all the dialogue is indirect.
  • “They Now Live in Texas” — Short, mysterious, three strands: A couple comes home from a party drunk, a friend of theirs who has given up drinking, a horror movie the woman watches after her husband has gone to bed. These elements are braided together without comment.
  • “Leslie in California” — A young working-class couple moves to California; he’s a fisherman who can’t get a boat, she stays at home; he drinks & on three occasions he strikes her, though he is contrite afterward; finally he gets a chance to go out & earn some money — their electricity has been turned off — but the night before he drinks & hits his wife. In the morning she cooks breakfast for him and he goes. He will be gone several days. What will she do? Chekhov says that it is the writer’s duty to present the problem, not solve it.
  • “The Curse” — A bartender blames himself because he fails to prevent a rape that occurs right in front of him, in his own bar. Both he & the girl are overpowered. The beauty of this story emerges in the small relationships between the main character, the bartender, and his family & friends, after the fact.
  • “Sorrowful Mysteries” — Dubus is at his best imagining characters unlike his readers that nevertheless draw readers to them. This reader, anyway. Another of Dubus’s loosely jointed stories, its protagonist at first appears too good to be true, but turns out to be just good.
  • “Delivering” — A small gem from the point of view of a fifteen year old paperboy, another ocean swimmer. He has listened, the night before, while his parents had a final, drunken fight before his mother leaves for good — listened while his younger brother slept. In the morning, they deliver his papers, swim, eat doughnuts, and return home, where they play catch. An act of betrayal balanced by a series of small acts of mercy.