The Human Stain

Up in the room in Seeley Falls. The month after the children died, twice tried to kill myself in that room. For all intents and purposes, the first time I did. I know from stories the nurse told me. The stuff on the monitor that defines a heartbeat wasn't even there. Usually lethal, she said. But some girls have all the luck. And I tried so hard.

I remember taking the shower, shaving my legs, putting on my best skirt, the long denim skirt. The wraparound. And the blouse from Brattleboro that time, that summer, the embroidered blouse. I remember the gin and the Valium, and dimly remember this powder.

I forget the name. Some kind of rat powder, bitter, and I folded it into the butterscotch pudding. Did I turn on the oven? Did I forget to? Did I turn blue? How long did I sleep? When did they decide to break down the door? I still don't know who did that. To me it was ecstatic, getting myself ready. There are times in life worth celebrating.

Triumphant times. The occasions for which dressing up was intended. Oh, how I turned myself out. I braided my hair. I did my eyes. Would have made my own mother proud, and that's saying something. Called her just the week before to tell her the kids were dead. First phone call in twenty years. "It's Faunia, Mother." "I don't know anybody by that name. Sorry," and hung up. The bitch. After I ran away, she told everyone, "My husband is strict and Faunia couldn't live by the rules. She could never live by the rules." The classic cover-up. What privileged girl-child ever ran away because a stepfather was strict? She runs away, you bitch, because the stepfa-ther isn't strict—because the stepfather is wayward and won't leave her alone. Anyway, I dressed myself in the best I owned. No less would do. The second time I didn't dress up. And that I didn't dress up tells the whole story. My heart wasn't in it anymore, not after the first time didn't work. The second time it was sudden and impulsive and joyless. That first time had been so long in coming, days and nights, all that anticipation. The concoctions. Buying the powder.

Getting prescriptions. But the second time was hurried. Uninspired.

I think I stopped because I couldn't stand the suffocating.

My throat choking, really suffocating, not getting any air, and hurrying to unknot the extension cord. There wasn't any of that hurried business the first time. It was calm and peaceful. The kids are gone and there's no one to worry about and I have all the time in the world. If only I'd done it right. The pleasure there was in it.

Finally where there is none, there is that last joyous moment, when death should come on your own angry terms, but you don't feel angry —just elated. I can't stop thinking about it. All this week. He's reading to me about Clinton from the New York Times and all I'm thinking about is Dr. Kevorkian and his carbon monoxide machine.

Just inhale deeply. Just suck until there is no more to inhale.

"'They were such beautiful children,' he said. 'You never expect anything like this to happen to you or your friends. At least Faunia has the faith that her children are with God now.'" That's what some jerk-off told the paper. 2CHILDREN SUFFOCATE IN LOCAL HOUSE FIRE. "'Based on the initial investigation,' Sergeant Donaldson said, 'evidence indicates that a space heater...' Residents of the rural road said they became aware of the fire when the children's mother..."

When the children's mother tore herself free from the cock she was sucking.

"The father of the children, Lester Farley, emerged from the hallway moments later, neighbors said."

Ready to kill me once and for all. He didn't. And then I didn't.

Amazing. Amazing how nobody's done it yet to the dead children's mother.

"No, I didn't, Prince. Couldn't make that work either. And so," she whispered to the bird, whose lustrous blackness beneath her hand was warm and sleek like nothing she had ever fondled, "here we are instead. A crow who really doesn't know how to be a crow, a woman who doesn't really know how to be a woman. We're meant for each other. Marry me. You're my destiny, you ridiculous bird."

Then she stepped back and bowed. "Farewell, my Prince."

And the bird responded. With a high-pitched noise that so sounded like "Cool. Cool. Cool," that once again she broke into laughter. When she turned to wave goodbye to the girl, she told her, "Well, that's better than I get from the guys on the street."

And she'd left the ring. Coleman's gift. When the girl wasn't looking, she'd hid it away in the cage. Engaged to a crow. That's the ticket.

"Thank you," called Faunia.

"You're welcome. Have a good one," the girl called after her, and with that, Faunia drove back to Coleman's to finish her breakfast and see what developed with him next. The ring's in the cage. He's got the ring. He's got a three-hundred-dollar ring.