The Human Stain

have seen what he's seen, been where he's been, done what he's done and, if required to, can do again. He's murdered in Vietnam and he's brought the murderer back with him to the Berkshires, back with him from the country of war, the country of horror, to this completely uncomprehending other place.

The auger out on the ice. The candor of the auger. There could be no more solid embodiment of our hatred than the merciless steel look of that auger out in the middle of nowhere.

“We figure, okay, we're gonna die, we're gonna die. So we went up there and we homed in on their signals, we saw one parachute, and we went down in the clearing, and we picked that guy up with no trouble at all. He jumped right in, we dragged him right in and took off, no opposition whatsoever. So we said to him, ‘You have any idea?’ and he said, ‘Well, he drifted off that way.’ So we went up in the air, but by then they knew we were there. We went over a little farther looking for the other parachute, and all freakin' hell broke loose. I'm telling you, it was unbelievable. We never picked up the other guy. The helicopter was gettin' hit like you wouldn't believe it. Ting ping ping boom. Machine guns. Ground fire. We just had to turn around and get the hell out of there as fast as we could. And I remember the guy we picked up started to cry. This is what I'm getting at. He was a navy pilot. They were off the Forrestal. And he knew the other guy was either killed or captured, and he started to bawl. It was horrible for him. His buddy. But we couldn't go back. We couldn't risk the chopper and five guys. We were lucky we got one. So we got back to our base and we got out and we looked at the chopper and there were a hundred and fifty-one bullet holes in it. Never hit a hydraulic line, a fuel line, but the rotors were all pinged up, a lot of bullets hit the rotors. Bent them a little bit. If they hit the tail rotor, you go right down, but they didn't. You know they shot down five thousand helicopters during that war? Twenty-eight hundred jet fighters we lost. They lost two hundred fifty B-52S in high-altitude bombing over North Vietnam. But the government'll never tell you that. Not that. They tell you what they want to tell you. Never Slick Willie who gets caught. It's the guy who served who gets caught. Over and over. Nope, doesn't seem right. You know what I was thinking? I was thinking that if I had a son he'd be out here with me now. Ice fishin'. That's what I was thinking when you walked out here. I looked up and I saw someone comin', and I'm sort of daydreamin', and I thought, That could be my son. Not you, not a man like you, but my son.”

“Don't you have a son?”

“No.”

“Never married?” I asked.

This time he didn't answer me right off. He looked at me, homed in on me as though I had a signal that was going off like the two pilots bailing out, but he didn't answer me. Because he knows, I thought. He knows I was at Faunia's funeral. Somebody told him that “the author” was there. What kind of author does he think I am? An author who writes books about crimes like his? An author who writes books about murderers and murder?

“Doomed,” he said finally, staring back into the hole and jiggling his rod, jerking it with a flick of his wrist a dozen or so times. “Marriage was doomed. Came back from Vietnam with too much anger and resentment. Had PTSD. I had what they call post-traumatic stress disorder. That's what they told me. When I come back, I didn't want to know anybody. I come back, I couldn't relate to anything that was going on around here, as far as civilized living. It's like I was there so long, it was totally insane. Wearing clean clothes, and people saying hello, and people smiling, and people going to parties, and people driving cars — I couldn't relate to it anymore. I didn't know how to talk to anybody, I didn't know how to say hello to anybody. I withdrew for a long time. I used to get in my car, drive around, go in the woods, walk in the woods — it was the weirdest thing. I withdrew from myself. I had no idea what I was going through. My buddies would call me, I wouldn't call back. They were afraid I was going to die in a car accident, they were afraid I was—”

I interrupted. “Why were they afraid you were going to die in a car accident?”

“I was drinking. I was driving around and drinking.”

“Did you ever get into a car accident?”

He smiled. Didn't take a pause and stare me down. Didn't give me an especially threatening look. Didn't jump up and go for my throat. Just smiled a little, more good nature in the smile than I could have believed he had in him to show. In a deliberately light-hearted way, he shrugged and said, “Got me. I didn't know what I was going through, you know? Accident? In an accident? I wouldn't know if I did. I suppose I didn't. You're going through what they call post-traumatic stress disorder. Stuff keeps coming back into your subconscious mind that you're back in Vietnam, that you're back in the army again. I'm not an educated guy. I didn't even know that. People were so pissed at me for this and that, and they didn't even know what I was going through and J didn't even know — you know? I don't have educated friends who know these things. I got assholes for friends. Oh, man, I mean real guaranteed hundred percent assholes or double your money back.” Again the shrug. Comical? Intended to be comical? No, more a happy-go-lucky strain of sinisterness. “So what can I do?” he asked helplessly.

Conning me. Playing with me. Because he knows I know. Here we are alone up where we are, and I know, and he knows I know. And the auger knows. All ye know and all ye need to know, all inscribed in the spiral of its curving steel blade.

“How'd you find out you had PTSD?”

“A colored girl at the VA. Excuse me. An African American. A very intelligent African American. She's got a master's degree. You got a master's degree?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, she's got one, and that's how I found out what I had. Otherwise I still wouldn't know. That's how I started learning about myself, what I was going through. They told me. And not just me. Don't think it was just me. Thousands and thousands of guys were going through what I was going through. Thousands and thousands of guys waking up in the middle of the night back in Vietnam. Thousands and thousands of guys people are calling up and they don't call them back. Thousands and thousands of guys having these real bad dreams. And so I told that to this African American and she understood what it was. Because she had that master's degree, she told me how it was going through my subconscious mind, and that it was the same with thousands and thousands of other guys. The subconscious mind. You can't control it. It's like the government. It is the government. It's the government all over again. It gets you to do what you don't want to do. Thousands and thousands of guys getting married and it's doomed, because they have this anger and this resentment about Vietnam in their subconscious mind. She explained all this to me. They just popped me from Vietnam onto a C-41 air force jet to the Philippines, then on a World Airways jet to Travis Air Force Base, then they gave me two hundred dollars to go home. So it took me, like, from the time I left Vietnam to go home, it took about three days. You're back in civilization. And you're doomed. And your wife, even if it's ten years later, she's doomed. She's doomed, and what the hell did she do? Nothin'.”

“Still have the PTSD?”

“Well, I still tend to isolate, don't I? What do you think I'm doin' out here?”

“But no more drinking and driving,” I heard myself saying. “No more accidents.”

“There were never accidents. Don't you listen? I already told you that. Not that I know of.”

“And the marriage was doomed.”

“Oh yeah. My fault. Hundred percent. She was a lovely woman. Entirely blameless. All me. Always all me. She deserved a helluva lot better than me.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

He shook his head. A sad shrug, a sigh — complete bullshit, deliberately transparent bullshit. “No idea. Ran away, I scared her so. Scared the woman shitless. My heart goes out to her, wherever she may be. Completely blameless person.”

“No kids.”

“Nope. No kids. You?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Married?”

“No more,” I said.

“So, you and me in the same boat. Free as the wind. What kind of books do you write? Whodunits?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“True stories?”

“Sometimes.”

“What? Romance?” he asked, smiling. “Not pornography, I hope.” He pretended that that was an unwanted