The Human Stain Page #7

That'll be my birthday present

five years from now.

And you know I'll be there.

But aren't you taking

a risk having children?

The suspense will be unbearable.

Suppose they don't pop out

of her womb as white as you?

Won't you have some

explaining to do?

Will you accuse her

of adultery with a Negro?

I have to go now, Mom.

Coleman

you think

like a prisoner.

You're white as snow

and you think like a slave.

Murderer.

- Is that the doorbell?

- I'll get it.

Don't you ever

come near Mom again.

You don't call, you don't write,

you don't nothing.

I never want to see

your lily-white face again.

And your mother obeyed Walter.

All the Silk men, from my father on down,

are very decisive.

Yes, she did it.

But I didn't.

I was trying to reach him two days ago.

It was his birthday.

The day after he was killed.

I don't blame Walter.

He was only trying to protect Mother.

And was he successful?

Just before she died,

she was delirious.

She kept saying, "Oh, nurse,

get me to the train.

I've got a sick baby at home."

Did you know why your brother

resigned from the college?

I gather he was accused of racism.

That beats it all,

doesn't it?

For using the word "spooks."

Sounds like from what I heard today,

almost anything goes nowadays.

People are just getting dumber

but more opinionated.

You know what's sad,

Mr. Zuckerman?

Nowadays,

it's hard to imagine

that anyone would do

what Coleman felt he had to do.

Constructing his whole life

around a lie.

Coleman could have stopped that

racism charge in its tracks,

if he'd only told the truth.

But that's the one thing

he couldn't do.

Do you think

he ever told anyone?

Maybe.

Maybe someone.

So finally,

I guess my mother was right.

I wanted to be free,

but I became a prisoner instead.

And you never

told anyone?

Not even my wife. She...

I have not said a word about it

to anyone until tonight.

I haven't told anyone until...

you.

Why me?

Why did you tell me now?

It was during my conversation

with Ernestine

that I decided to

write this book.

A book that Coleman

couldn't write himself.

The story of his mother and father,

of Walter and Ernestine,

of Steena Paulsson

and of Faunia Farley.

Who ran from

a world of privilage

just as Coleman had run

from a world bound by race

And finally, there was

one thing I had to do.

Beautiful spot.

It's peaceful.

Long as I can keep it secret.

Only now I know.

- You're the writer, aren't you?

- That I am.

Any luck?

Not much.

What do you think about out here

when the fish aren't biting?

I was thinking if I had a son,

he'd be out here with me now, fishing.

That's what I was thinking about

when you walked out here.

What kind of books you write?

I write about people like you.

Their problems.

You live at

Mike Dumouchel's place, right?

The cabin on the lake.

What's the name

of one of your books?

The Human Stain.

- Can I get it?

- It's not finished.

I'll send you a copy.

You know, I started ice fishing

after my wife left me.

All you need is warm clothes

and the right equipment.

Like this auger.

You drill

a hole through the ice.

This'll cut through

just about anything.

Then you drop your line with

your favorite lure right through.

Any flash down there,

fish are attracted, even in the dark.

And it's way dark down there.

And if I had a son

little Les, a son of my own,

I reckon I'd be telling him

all this stuff instead of you.

- It's cold out here.

- You better believe it.

I should be going.

Yeah, well, you know your

ice fishing now, don't you?

- You can put it in your book.

- I will.

And you know my secret place.

You know everything now,

don't you, Mr. Zuckerman?

But you won't tell, will you?

And, hey!

The book.

Send me one.

It's in the mail.

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