The Human Stain

'em. My pleasure. "Yes, stupid Faunia has been paying attention," she says. "How else does stupid Faunia get through? Being stupid Faunia—that's my achievement, Coleman, that's me at my most sensible best. Turns out, Coleman, I've been watching you dance.

How do I know this? Because you're with me. Why else would you be with me, if you weren't so fucking enraged? And why would I be with you, if I wasn't so fucking enraged? That's what makes for the great fucking, Coleman. The rage that levels everything. So don't lose it."

"Keep dancing."

"Till I drop?" she asks.

"Till you drop," he tells her. "Till the last gasp."

"Whatever you want."

"Where did I find you, Voluptas?" he says. "How did I find you?

Who are you?" he asks, tapping the button that again starts up "The Man I Love."

"I am whatever you want."

All Coleman was doing was reading her something from the Sunday paper about the president and Monica Lewinsky, when Faunia got up and shouted, "Can't you avoid the fucking seminar? Enough of the seminar! I can't learn! I don't learn! I don't want to learn!

Stop fucking teaching me—it won't work!" And, in the midst of their breakfast, she ran.

The mistake was to stay there. She didn't go home, and now she hates him. What does she hate most? That he really thinks his suffering is a big deal. He really thinks that what everybody thinks, what everybody says about him at Athena College, is so life-shattering.

It's a lot of assholes not liking him—it's not a big deal. And for him this is the most horrible thing that ever happened? Well, it's not a big deal. Two kids suffocating and dying, that's a big deal.

Having your stepfather put his fingers up your cunt, that's a big deal. Losing your job as you're about to retire isn't a big deal. That's what she hates about him—the privilegedness of his suffering. He thinks he never had a chance? There's real pain on this earth, and he thinks he didn't have a chance? You know when you don't have a chance? When, after the morning milking, he takes that iron pipe and hits you in the head with it. I don't even see it coming—and he didn't have a chance! Life owes him something!

What it amounts to is that at breakfast she doesn't want to be taught. Poor Monica might not get a good job in New York City?

You know what? I don't care. Do you think Monica cares if my back hurts from milking those fucking cows after my day at the college?

Sweeping up people's shit at the post office because they can't bother to use the fucking garbage can? Do you think Monica cares about that? She keeps calling the White House, and it must have been just terrible not to have her phone calls returned. And it's over for you? That's terrible too? It never began for me. Over before it began.

Try having an iron pipe knock you down. Last night? It happened.

It was nice. It was wonderful. I needed it too. But I still have three jobs. It didn't change anything. That's why you take it when it's happening, because it doesn't change a thing. Tell Mommy her husband puts his fingers in you when he comes in at night—it doesn't change a thing. Maybe now Mommy knows and she's going to help you. But nothing changes anything. We had this night of dancing. But it doesn't change anything. He reads to me about these things in Washington—what, what, what does it change? He reads to me about these escapades in Washington, Bill Clinton getting his dick sucked. How's that going to help me when my car craps out? You really think that this is the important stuff in the world? It's not that important. It's not important at all. I had two kids. They're dead. If I don't have the energy this morning to feel bad about Monica and Bill, chalk it up to my two kids, all right? If that's my shortcoming, so be it. I don't have any more left in me for all the great troubles of the world.

The mistake was to stay there. The mistake was to fall under the spell so completely. Even in the wildest thunderstorm, she'd driven home. Even when she was terrified of Farley following behind and forcing her off the road and into the river, she'd driven home. But she stayed. Because of the dancing she stayed, and in the morning she's angry. She's angry at him. It's a great new day, let's see what the paper has to say. After last night he wants to see what the paper has to say? Maybe if they hadn't talked, if they'd just had breakfast and she'd left, staying would have been okay. But to start the seminar.

That was just about the worst thing he could have done. What should he have done? Given her something to eat and let her go home. But the dancing did its damage. I stayed. I stupidly stayed.

Leaving at night—there is nothing more important for a girl like me. I'm not clear about a lot of things, but this I know: staying the next morning, it means something. The fantasy of Coleman-and-Faunia. It's the beginning of the indulgence of the fantasy of forever, the tritest fantasy in the world. I have a place to go to, don't I?