In Their Own Words: The Tuskegee Airmen Page #4

and they'd hire anyone

who could string a few words together.

It was a good place to learn.

He married Celia two weeks later.

Six pounds and three ounces,

eyes like her mother.

That was his moment,

not that he knew it at the time.

Maybe one never does.

She used to cry so much.

At times, he could barely think,

let alone write.

Sir?

She was sick.

The wife?

My daughter.

There was nothing he could do.

Celia was never the same.

And he wasn't the same either,

even though he tried to pretend.

I'll be back later.

Celia?

She said she'd gone home

to her mother's in the country.

Needed time to think.

She needed to be apart.

He couldn't remember

sleeping or eating.

The words simply poured out of him.

A stream that he could not control

nor question where they came from.

The words became form,

the form became whole,

and after two weeks, it was finished.

And then?

Then he slept.

Dreamless sleep.

When he woke, he cleaned the

apartment and went to find his wife.

She looked like a child to him,

sitting in the room she grew up in.

She begged him

to go back to Paris without her.

Just go. Go.

A few weeks later,

she finally came home.

He was so grateful to have her home.

Thank you.

He just wanted to hold her,

see her laugh again.

So you...? You read my story?

No, I'm not ready yet.

She said she wanted to start life over.

Well, that's okay.

Said it like it would be the

easiest thing in the world to do.

It's in the valise here.

No.

I don't understand,

I had it with me on the train.

What?

I had it with me on the train.

But it was in a different case?

It shouldn't have meant anything,

but writing that story

had somehow saved him.

How could she not understand?

For years, he'd never forgive himself

for caring about those stupid words.

You know what?

You are not the only one who lost her.

She left something.

Listen to me, okay?

For a time, they tried

to patch things up together,

but you can't erase the past,

no matter how much you want to.

And for the first time,

the young man began to long for home.

Soon the longing grew so strong he...

He left.

Never went back to Paris.

Never saw Celia again.

But after he lost those pages...

he was never able

to set down one word...

that looked right to him.

Maybe he was afraid

of going that deep again.

Perhaps he just lost the knack.

Anyway, he stopped trying.

And after a time...

he found a little town up north,

settled there.

Found a kind of peace.

How's that feel?

Wait.

It's not over yet.

This is where it really

gets interesting.

Long after all of this

faded into the past,

the young man, who was now an old man,

wandered into a bookstore.

The blurb said that the author

of the story is a new fresh voice

who had something new to say.

I opened the book and began to read.

Your book.

And the narrator

was standing over a crib.

His child was dying,

and there was nothing he could do.

Look...

I...

A misunderstanding, I...

No, no, my friend,

there's no misunderstanding, no.

I found...

You can't slide out of it now.

These are my words,

my stories.

What the f*** is a window tear anyway?

I don't know how you did it.

To be brutally honest, I don't care.

I just thought

you should know the story

behind these stories

in case anyone was to ask.

Maybe now you've got your next book.

"And he sat on that bench,

unaware of the world,

or of time passing around him.

After a few hours, the sun finally set

and Rory Jansen slowly rose,

searching for his way home."

Thank you.

If you wanna know

the rest of the story,

you'll just have to buy the book.

Your work, you seem hesitant to draw

any conclusions about our moral behavior.

- Do you make any statements about that?

- Yes, I am hesitant.

What I think is great

about art and artists

is that we get to ask the questions...

even though

we may never know the answers.

Excuse me a minute.

Excuse me, Miss,

may I seem some ID first?

You looked like you were drowning.

No, no. I'm in my element.

You wanna get out of here?

Well, ahem, I'm supposed to be

over there, mingling, taking pictures,

and smiling. Raising all that money

in these troubled economic times.

That's too bad.

Well, okay, you talked me into it.

Okay, I thought you'd never ask.

Let's slam these.

I wanna see where you write.

I can assure you,

it's not that exciting.

Why don't you let

me be the judge of that?

This place, it's...

Empty.

Empty, yeah.

Somehow it's exactly

the way I imagined it.

Really? So you imagined me

living in a place for eight months

and barely unpacking a box?

It's very elegant,

Mr. Hammond.

May I take your jacket?

Yes.

See, I told you

it's not all that exciting.

Are you kidding?

I could write my entire

dissertation on your view.

That was hit by Babe Ruth.

Unfortunately, it was when

he was a goddamn Red Sock,

but what can you do?

I've got a bottle

of Bordeaux downstairs

that's just been screaming

for an occasion like this.

You know, that sounds good.

Come on.

Can we drink it here?

What, at my desk?

Yeah. Can we?

We can do anything we want.

We're grown-ups.

Then get the wine.

Your wine.

Thank you.

So, what should we drink to?

Your new book, of course.

How about we drink to...?

Your book.

Will you tell me something?

What happens?

What happens to Rory

after the old man finds him?

Will you tell me something?

If I can.

Why would such a beautiful,

intelligent girl such as yourself

wanna be something

so silly as a writer?

Silly?

Don't you know words ruin everything?

I don't believe you for a second.

You love words.

I'm young, spoiled, impetuous

and American. Humor me.

Please? Pretty, pretty, pretty please?

Close your eyes.

And so, like so many of the great

clichs in the history of civilization,

Rory Jansen decided

the only thing to do was

drink on it.

And so he gets rip-roaring,

death-defyingly drunk,

and now he's got his nerve.

And he starts to think.

He allows himself to think

the whole thing through.

Maybe for the first time in his entire life.

And he comes to the conclusion,

or more appropriately, this myth

that he's heard so many times before,

that the truth shall set you free.

Hey. Guess what, I

spoke to the realtor today,

and she said that we can move in

as early as the 6th.

Isn't that awesome?

We'll need to buy

some carpets and stuff...

Why do you love me?

Dora?

Are you drunk?

I need to know why you love me.

Okay.

I love you because

you have beautiful eyes.

I love you because

you're serious all the time,

but deep, deep down,

you're nothing but a goofball.

I just love you.

Rory, what's going on?

You really think my eyes are beautiful?

I think your eyes are beautiful, yes.

They're not mine.

Okay.

I'm a liar.

I don't...

What are you doing right now?

What's wrong?

I didn't write the book.

What do you...?

The book, I stole it.

I just found it.

I didn't even change any of it.

I mean, I...

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