A Little Pig

Chapter 3: The List

I started a spreadsheet at work, because I knew how to make a mess look manageable.

Column one was the post date. Column two was the wording. Column three was what I could verify. Column four was who could have known. I kept my descriptions spare. "Yellow raincoat worn at meeting, April 12." "Argument about moving in, private, June 3." "Mother's medication schedule, not posted publicly." I avoided writing what each post made me feel. That column would have been too large.

The account had been active for six years. Some posts were only a sentence. Others were long threads, written in the voice of someone correcting a story that nobody had told.

"Some people call it ambition when they want credit for doing the work."

"Some people say they value history but only when it makes them look kind."

"Some people don't understand that not every silence is a challenge."

The posts didn't all name me. The account used phrases like "the museum girl," "the archivist," and "Eli's girlfriend." I could tell when a post was about me because of its details. A blue scarf from the winter I started at the museum. The way I bought a second slice of pie at a fundraiser because the first one had fallen off the plate. The name of a book I had borrowed from Eli and returned with a folded corner.

A few posts were wrong.

One said I had refused to attend Simon's mother's birthday dinner. I had been there. I remembered sitting on the back steps afterward, listening to Simon's mother tell a story about raising two boys who never put their shoes away.

Another said I had corrected Simon in front of his colleagues about a date in a local history talk. I had corrected him, but not in front of his colleagues. I had emailed him the source afterward. The talk had been recorded, and the archive proved it.

The errors made me feel worse than the accurate details. They showed that the account wasn't keeping a record. It was building a version of me that could be criticized no matter what I did.

At noon, my supervisor, Dana, stopped by my desk.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm tired."

"You've looked at the same page for a long time."

I shut the spreadsheet. "I'm working through something personal."

"Do you need to take the afternoon?"

I wanted to say no. The grant was due in three days, and I was the only one with the source list. I also knew the project would not improve because I sat at my desk pretending I could concentrate.

"I'll take lunch outside," I said.

Dana nodded. "Good. And Nora? The interview schedule is strong. Don't let the deadline convince you it isn't."

I walked down to the harbor and sat on a bench facing the water. I called Eli.

He answered on the second ring. "Hey."

"Did you tell Simon about the argument we had about moving in?"

A pause. "I don't remember."

"Did you tell him I was worried about my mother?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you tell him about the grant?"

"I might have. I was happy for you."

"Did you tell him I'd been correcting his history work?"

"I told him you were helping with the ferry project."

"That's not what I asked."

Eli exhaled. "I don't remember every conversation I've had with my best friend over the last few years."

I looked at the gray water. A small boat bounced against its mooring. "I'm not asking for a transcript."

"I just don't want this to become a trial."

"That's a phrase from the account."

"Maybe because it's the phrase you used when we argued."

"I didn't call it a trial. I said I didn't want to feel like I had to present evidence every time I asked you to make a decision."

"I remember."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I'm sure I talked about it."

My grip tightened around the phone. "What else did you tell him?"

"I don't know."

"Did you tell him personal things about my family?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm certain I didn't give him anything confidential."

"Confidential," I repeated. "That isn't the same thing as private."

He went quiet.

I heard a car pass behind me. I heard the gulls, the wind, and the soft hiss of the phone connection.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you found this. I just don't know what you expect me to do."

"I expect you to find out whether your friend did it."

"I can ask him."

"I already asked him."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"The truth, even if you don't like the answer."

When I hung up, I sat with my phone in my lap. I wanted to call Leah and ask her to tell me what to do. I didn't. I wanted Eli to come down to the water and sit beside me until the whole thing felt less real. I didn't ask him to.

That evening, I found a post from two years earlier about the small pink pig on my desk. The account called it "her emotional-support livestock." My grandmother had bought it at a flea market because I'd been homesick during my first year away from home. I had told Eli the story on a bad night after my grandmother died.

The post had been made the morning after.

I took a screenshot and saved it.

Then I wrote one more line in the spreadsheet: "Source: Eli, unless someone else overheard. No one else was present."

It was the first time I had written down what I believed.