The Human Stain

by Philip Roth

  And now the phone was dead. In running across the lawn, he’d inadvertently touched the off button. That, or Lisa had deliberately broken the connection. When he redialed, a man answered. “Is this Josh?” Coleman asked. “Yes,” the man said. “This is Coleman Silk. Lisa’s father.” After a moment’s silence, the man said, “Lisa doesn’t want to talk,” and hung up.

  Mark’s doing. It had to be. Could not be anyone else’s. Couldn’t be this fucking Josh’s—who was he? Coleman had no more idea how Mark could have found out about Faunia than how Delphine Roux or anyone else had, but that didn’t matter right now—it was Mark who had assailed his twin sister with their father’s crime. For crime it would be to that boy. Almost from the time he could speak, Mark couldn’t give up the idea that his father was against him: for the two older sons because they were older and starred at school and imbibed without complaint their father’s intellectual pretensions; for Lisa because she was Lisa, the family’s little girl, indisputably the child most indulged by her daddy; against Mark because everything his twin sister was—adorable, adoring, virtuous, touching, noble to the core—Mark was not and refused to be.

  Mark’s was probably the most difficult personality it was ever Coleman’s lot to try, not to understand—the resentments were all too easy to understand—but to grapple with. The whining and sulking had begun before he was old enough to go off to kindergarten, and the protest against his family and their sense of things started soon after and, despite all attempts at propitiation, solidified over the years into his core. At the age of fourteen he vociferously supported Nixon during the impeachment hearings while the rest of them were rooting for the president to be imprisoned for life; at sixteen he became an Orthodox Jew while the rest of them, taking their cue from their anticlerical, atheistic parents, were Jews in little more than name; at twenty he enraged his father by dropping out of Brandeis with two semesters to go, and now, almost into his forties, having taken up and jettisoned a dozen different jobs to which he considered himself superior, he had discovered that he was a narrative poet.

  Because of his unshakable enmity for his father, Mark had made himself into whatever his family wasn’t—more sadly to the point, into whatever he wasn’t. A clever boy, well read, with a quick mind and a sharp tongue, he nonetheless could never see his way around Coleman until, at thirty-eight, as a narrative poet on biblical themes, he had come to nurse his great life-organizing aversion with all the arrogance of someone who has succeeded at nothing. A devoted girlfriend, a humorless, high-strung, religiously observant young woman, earned their keep as a dental technician in Manhattan while Mark stayed home in their Brooklyn walk-up and wrote the biblically inspired poems that not even the Jewish magazines would publish, interminable poems about how David had wronged his son Absalom and how Isaac had wronged his son Esau and how Judah had wronged his brother Joseph and about the curse of the prophet Nathan after David sinned with Bathsheba—poems that, in one grandiosely ill-disguised way or another, harked back to the idée fixe on which Markie had staked everything and lost everything.

  How could Lisa listen to him? How could Lisa take seriously any charge brought by Markie when she knew what had been driving him all his life? But then Lisa’s being generous toward her brother, however misbegotten she found the antagonisms that deformed him, went back almost to their birth as twins. Because it was her nature to be benevolent, and because even as a little schoolgirl she had suffered the troubled conscience of the preferred child, she had always gently indulged her twin brother’s grievances and acted as his comforter in family disputes. But must her solicitousness toward the less favored of their twosome extend even to this crazy charge? And what was the charge? What harmful act had the father committed, what injury had he inflicted on his children that should put these twins in league with Delphine Roux and Lester Farley? And the other two, his scientist sons—were they and their scruples in on this too? When had he last heard from them?

  He remembered now that awful hour at the house after Iris’s funeral, remembered and was stung all over again by the charges that Mark had brought against his father before the older boys moved in and physically removed him to his old room for the rest of the afternoon. In the days that followed, while the kids were all still around, Coleman was willing to blame Markie’s grief and not Mark for what the boy had dared to say, but that didn’t mean that he’d forgotten or that he ever would. Markie had begun berating him only minutes after they’d driven back from the cemetery. “The college didn’t do it. The blacks didn’t do it. Your enemies didn’t do it. You did it. You killed mother. The way you kill everything! Because you have to be right! Because you won’t apologize, because every time you are a hundred percent right, now it’s Mother who’s dead! And it all could have been settled so easily—all of it settled in twenty-four hours if you knew how once in your life to apologize. ‘I’m sorry that I said “spooks.”’ That’s all you had to do, great man, just go to those students and say you were sorry, and Mother would not be dead!”

  Out on his lawn, Coleman was seized suddenly with the sort of indignation he had not felt since the day following Markie’s outburst, when he’d written and submitted his resignation from the college all in an hour’s time. He knew that it was not correct to have such feelings toward his children. He knew, from the spooks incident, that indignation on such a scale was a form of madness, and one to which he could succumb. He knew that indignation like this could lead to no orderly and reasoned approach to the problem. He knew as an educator how to educate and as a father how to father and as a man of over seventy that one must regard nothing, particularly within a family, even one containing a grudge-laden son like Mark, as implacably unchangeable. And it wasn’t from the spooks incident alone that he knew about what can corrode and warp a man who believes himself to have been grievously wronged. He knew from the wrath of Achilles, the rage of Philoctetes, the fulminations of Medea, the madness of Ajax, the despair of Electra, and the suffering of Prometheus the many horrors that can ensue when the highest degree of indignation is achieved and, in the name of justice, retribution is exacted and a cycle of retaliation begins.

  And it was lucky that he knew all this, because it took no less than this, no less than the prophylaxis of the whole of Attic tragedy and Greek epic poetry, to restrain him from phoning on the spot to remind Markie what a little prick he was and always had been.

  The head-on confrontation with Farley came some four hours later. As I reconstruct it, Coleman, so as to be certain that no one was spying on the house, was himself in and out the front door and the back door and the kitchen door some six or seven times in the hours after Faunia’s arrival. It wasn’t until somewhere around ten, when the two of them were standing together inside the kitchen screen door, holding each other before parting for the night, that he was able to rise above all the corroding indignation and to allow the really serious thing in his life—the intoxication with the last fling, what Mann, writing of Aschenbach, called the “late adventure of the feelings”—to reassert itself and take charge of him. As she was about to leave, he at last found himself craving for her as though nothing else mattered—and none of it did, not his daughter, not his sons, not Faunia’s ex-husband or Delphine Roux. This is not merely life, he thought, this is the end of life. What was unendurable wasn’t all this ridiculous antipathy he and Faunia had aroused; what was unendurable was that he was down to the last bucket of days, to the bottom of the bucket, the time if there ever was a time to quit the quarrel, to give up the rebuttal, to undo himself from the conscientiousness with which he had raised the four lively children, persisted in the combative marriage, influenced the recalcitrant colleagues, and guided Athena’s mediocre students, as best he could, through a literature some twenty-five hundred years old. It was the time to yield, to let this simple craving be his guide. Beyond their accusation. Beyond their indictment. Beyond their judgment. Learn, he told himself, before you die, to live beyond the jurisdiction of their enraging, loa
thsome, stupid blame.

  The encounter with Farley. The encounter that night with Farley, the confrontation with a dairy farmer who had not meant to fail but did, a road crew employee who gave his all to the town no matter how lowly and degrading the task assigned him, a loyal American who’d served his country with not one tour but two, who’d gone back a second time to finish the goddamn job. Re-upped and went back because when he comes home the first time everybody says that he isn’t the same person and that they don’t recognize him, and he sees that it’s true: they’re all afraid of him. He comes home to them from jungle warfare and not only is he not appreciated but he is feared, so he might as well go back. He wasn’t expecting the hero treatment, but everybody looking at him like that? So he goes back for the second tour, and this time he is geared up. Pissed off. Pumped up. A very aggressive warrior. The first time he wasn’t all that gung ho. The first time he was easygoing Les, who didn’t know what it meant to feel hopeless. The first time he was the boy from the Berkshires who put a lot of trust in people and had no idea how cheap life could be, didn’t know what medication was, didn’t feel inferior to anyone, happy-go-lucky Les, no threat to society, tons of friends, fast cars, all that stuff. The first time he’d cut off ears because he was there and it was being done, but that was it. He wasn’t one of those who once they were in all that lawlessness couldn’t wait to get going, the ones who weren’t too well put together or were pretty aggressive to start off with and only needed the slightest opportunity to go ape-shit. One guy in his unit, guy they called Big Man, he wasn’t there one or two days when he’d slashed some pregnant woman’s belly open. Farley was himself only beginning to get good at it at the end of his first tour. But the second time, in this unit where there are a lot of other guys who’d also come back and who hadn’t come back just to kill time or to make a couple extra bucks, this second time, in with these guys who are always looking to be put out in front, ape-shit guys who recognize the horror but know it is the very best moment of their lives, he is ape-shit too. In a firefight, running from danger, blasting with guns, you can’t not be frightened, but you can go berserk and get the rush, and so the second time he goes berserk. The second time he fucking wreaks havoc. Living right out there on the edge, full throttle, the excitement and the fear, and there’s nothing in civilian life that can match it. Door gunning. They’re losing helicopters and they need door gunners. They ask at some point for door gunners and he jumps at it, he volunteers. Up there above the action, and everything looks small from above, and he just guns down huge. Whatever moves. Death and destruction, that is what door gunning is all about. With the added attraction that you don’t have to be down in the jungle the whole time. But then he comes home and it’s not better than the first time, it’s worse. Not like the guys in World War II: they had the ship, they got to relax, someone took care of them, asked them how they were. There’s no transition. One day he’s door gunning in Vietnam, seeing choppers explode, in midair seeing his buddies explode, down so low he smells skin cooking, hears the cries, sees whole villages going up in flames, and the next day he’s back in the Berkshires. And now he really doesn’t belong, and, besides, he’s got fears now about things going over his head. He doesn’t want to be around other people, he can’t laugh or joke, he feels that he is no longer a part of their world, that he has seen and done things so outside what these people know about that he cannot connect to them and they cannot connect to him. They told him he could go home? How could he go home? He doesn’t have a helicopter at home. He stays by himself and he drinks, and when he tries the VA they tell him he is just there to get the money while he knows he is there to get the help. Early on, he tried to get government help and all they gave him was some sleeping pills, so fuck the government. Treated him like garbage. You’re young, they told him, you’ll get over it. So he tries to get over it. Can’t deal with the government, so he’ll have to do it on his own. Only it isn’t easy after two tours to come back and get settled all on his own. He’s not calm. He’s agitated. He’s restless. He’s drinking. It doesn’t take much to put him into a rage. There are these things going over his head. Still he tries: eventually gets the wife, the home, the kids, the farm. He wants to be alone, but she wants to settle down and farm with him, so he tries to want to settle down too. Stuff he remembers easygoing Les wanting ten, fifteen years back, before Vietnam, he tries to want again. The trouble is, he can’t really feel for these folks. He’s sitting in the kitchen and he’s eating with them and there’s nothing. No way he can go from that to this. Yet still he tries. A couple times in the middle of the night he wakes up choking her, but it isn’t his fault—it’s the government’s fault. The government did that to him. He thought she was the fucking enemy. What did she think he was going to do? She knew he was going to come out of it. He never hurt her and he never hurt the kids. That was all lies. She never cared about anything except herself. He should have known never to let her go off with those kids. She waited until he was in rehab—that was why she wanted to get him into rehab. She said she wanted him to be better so that they could be together again, and instead she used the whole thing against him to get the kids away from him. The bitch. The cunt. She tricked him. He should have known never to let her go off with those kids. It was partly his own fault because he was so drunk and they could get him to rehab by force, but it would have been better if he’d taken them all out when he said he would. Should have killed her, should have killed the kids, and would have if it hadn’t been for rehab. And she knew it, knew he’d have killed them like that if she’d ever tried to take them away. He was the father—if anybody was going to raise his kids it was him. If he couldn’t take care of them, the kids would be better off dead. She’d had no right to steal his kids. Steals them, then she kills them. The payback for what he did in Vietnam. They all said that at rehab—payback this and payback that, but because everyone said it, didn’t make it not so. It was payback, all payback, the death of the kids was payback and the carpenter she was fucking was payback. He didn’t know why he hadn’t killed him. At first he just smelled the smoke. He was in the bushes down the road watching the two of them in the carpenter’s pickup. They were parked in her driveway. She comes downstairs—the apartment she’s renting is over a garage back of some bungalow—and she gets in the pickup and there’s no light and there’s no moon but he knows what’s going on. Then he smelled the smoke. The only way he’d survived in Vietnam was that any change, a noise, the smell of an animal, any movement at all in the jungle, and he could detect it before anyone else—alert in the jungle like he was born there. Couldn’t see the smoke, couldn’t see the flames, couldn’t see anything it was so dark, but all of a sudden he could smell the smoke and these things are flying over his head and he began running. They see him coming and they think he is going to steal the kids. They don’t know the building is on fire. They think he’s gone nuts. But he can smell the smoke and he knows it’s coming from the second story and he knows the kids are in there. He knows his wife, stupid bitch cunt, isn’t going to do anything because she’s in the truck blowing the carpenter. He runs right by them. He doesn’t know where he is now, forgets where he is, all he knows is that he’s got to get in there and up the stairs, and so he bashes in the side door and he’s running up to where the fire is, and that’s when he sees the kids on the stairs, huddled there at the top of the stairs, and they’re gasping, and that’s when he picks them up. They’re crumpled together on the stairs and he picks them up and tears out the door. They’re alive, he’s sure. He doesn’t think there’s a chance that they’re not alive. He just thinks they’re scared. Then he looks up and who does he see outside the door, standing there looking, but the carpenter. That’s when he lost it. Didn’t know what he was doing. That’s when he went straight for his throat. Started choking him, and that bitch, instead of going to the kids, worries about him choking the fucking boyfriend. Fucking bitch worries about him killing her boyfriend instead of about her own goddamn kids. An
d they would have made it. That’s why they died. Because she didn’t give two shits about the kids. She never did. They weren’t dead when he picked them up. They were warm. He knows what dead is. Two tours in Vietnam you’re not going to tell him what dead is. He can smell death when he needs to. He can taste death. He knows what death is. They—were—not—dead. It was the boyfriend who was going to be fucking dead, until the police, in cahoots with the government, came with their guns, and that’s when they put him away. The bitch kills the kids, it’s her neglect, and they put him away. Jesus Christ, let me be right for a minute! The bitch wasn’t paying attention! She never does. Like when he had the hunch they were headed for an ambush. Couldn’t say why but he knew they were being set up, and nobody believed him, and he was right. Some new dumb officer comes into the company, won’t listen to him, and that’s how people get killed. That’s how people get burned to hell! That’s how assholes cause the death of your two best buddies! They don’t listen to him! They don’t give him credit! He came back alive, didn’t he? He came back with all his limbs, he came back with his dick—you know what that took? But she won’t listen! Never! She turned her back on him and she turned her back on his kids. He’s just a crazy Vietnam vet. But he knows things, goddamnit. And she knows nothing. But do they put away the stupid bitch? They put him away. They shoot him up with stuff. Again they put him in restraints, and they won’t let him out of the Northampton VA. And all he did was what they had trained him to do: you see the enemy, you kill the enemy. They train you for a year, then they try to kill you for a year, and when you’re just doing what they trained you to do, that is when they fucking put the leather restraints on you and shoot you full of shit. He did what they were training him to do, and while he was doing that, his fucking wife is turning her back on his kids. He should have killed them all when he could. Him especially. The boyfriend. He should have cut their fucking heads off. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. Better not come fucking near him. If he knows where the fucking boyfriend is, he’ll kill him so fast he won’t know what hit him, and they won’t know he did it because he knows how to do it so no one can hear it. Because that’s what the government trained him to do. He is a trained killer thanks to the government of the United States. He did his job. He did what he was told to do. And this is how he fucking gets treated? They get him down in the lockup ward, they put him in the bubble, they send him to the fucking bubble! And they won’t even cut him a check. For all this he gets fucking twenty percent. Twenty percent. He put his whole family through hell for twenty percent. And even for that he has to grovel. “So, tell me what happened,” they say, the little social workers, the little psychologists with their college degrees. “Did you kill anyone when you were in Vietnam?” Was there anyone he didn’t kill when he was in Vietnam? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do when they sent him to Vietnam? Fucking kill gooks. They said everything goes? So everything went. It all relates to the word “kill.” Kill gooks! If “Did you kill anyone?” isn’t bad enough, they give him a fucking gook psychiatrist, this like Chink shit. He serves his country and he can’t even get a doctor who fucking speaks English. All round Northampton they’ve got Chinese restaurants, they’ve got Vietnamese restaurants, Korean markets—but him? If you’re some Vietnamese, you’re some Chink, you make out, you get a restaurant, you get a market, you get a grocery store, you get a family, you get a good education. But they got fuck-all for him. Because they want him dead. They wish he never came back. He is their worst nightmare. He was not supposed to come back. And now this college professor. Know where he was when the government sent us in there with one arm tied behind our backs? He was out there leading the fucking protesters. They pay them, when they go to college, to teach, to teach the kids, not to fucking protest the Vietnam War. They didn’t give us a fucking chance. They say we lost the war. We didn’t lose the war, the government lost the war. But when fancy-pants professors felt like it, instead of teaching class some day they go picketing out there against the war, and that is the thanks he gets for serving his country. That is the thanks for the shit he had to put up with day in and day out. He can’t get a goddamn night’s sleep. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in fucking twenty-six years. And for that, for that his wife goes down on some two-bit kike professor? There weren’t too many kikes in Vietnam, not that he can remember. They were too busy getting their degrees. Jew bastard. There’s something wrong with those Jew bastards. They don’t look right. She goes down on him? Jesus Christ. Vomit, man. What was it all for? She doesn’t know what it’s like. Never had a hard day in her life. He never hurt her and he never hurt the kids. “Oh, my stepfather was mean to me.” Stepfather used to finger her. Should have fucked her, that would have straightened her out a little. The kids would be alive today. His fucking kids would be alive today! He’d be like all the rest of those guys out there, with their families and their nice cars. Instead of locked up in a fucking VA facility. That was the thanks he got: Thorazine. His thanks was the Thorazine shuffle. Just because he thought he was back in the Nam.