A Little More Human by Fiona Maazel

Author:Fiona Maazel
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55597-963-8
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2017-06-20T16:00:00+00:00

And to think that just a day before, Phil might have been crazed with fear. After so many weeks, another threat in the guise of an envelope, this one taped to his front door, in which was a note—We’re watching you—and a news clipping about a woman who’d been raped in the park, assailant and victim names still being held for now. He read the article a few times, numb to the proposition that it was about him. Because it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He had told Effie about that night. He’d confessed. And when she didn’t respond, he’d told her more. Not about the pictures, just what was depicted therein. He’d tried to read her face. He’d tried to read her mind but once again saw only a sandstorm of feeling. If he had to put a name to what he thought she was, she was confused. He asked if she remembered any of what he described, but she demurred. At some point, he began to despair of it not being her, of having to start from scratch, which also presented the heart of his despair with cause to rejoice because if not her, then he could disregard his memory of that night and return to a point of view that said: the pictures, the chafing, the gnarled pubic hair—they only suggested a crime but did not confirm it. Not with her, not with anyone. No jury would convict him based on that alone, so why should he?

Finally, she said, “Look, I think you should just leave all this alone. Stop asking questions. Have a drink.” She held up the bottle.

“Please,” he said. “This can’t go on. I remember your tattoo.”

His face was pitiable. He was pitiable. Effie frowned and shook her head. “I really can’t tell you anything.”

“What does that mean?” But now Effie looked pitiable. “Just tell me what happened,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“P.M. are my mom’s initials,” she said. “I got the tattoo last year when it seemed like she was going to die. Then I felt stupid about it. But now I suppose it makes sense again.” Her face fell. She looked like she might cry but instead reached into her purse and glanced down furtively, like a kid texting in class.

“Anyway, if you really want to know, then, yes, probably we slept together, but it was fine. No harm, no foul. Happy now? Can we just drop it?”

He looked at her blankly. But then experienced such an onslaught of joy, he was killed with joy, released from his body and left to float, for whole minutes at a time, above the span of his life and to regard its highs as but overture to this rush of great feeling. It was just as he’d hoped, prayed, but could not believe without confirmation: It had been fine. Fine! He hadn’t hurt her. He just didn’t have it in him. The photos were fake. The blood was fake. Or planted. Remember the vet who

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