The Feather of Truth

Hand on Feathers by Martial Raysse

She has the scale, and she has the feather of truth (her Egyptian great grandmother had left it to her, saying, "It's my most precious possession, dear one"). So, all she needs now is the heart itself. Sometimes she feels like just ripping it out of his chest and tossing the bloody piece of meat right on the scale, but that would defeat the entire purpose of her experiment because what she wants to understand is: exactly who is this man and should she stand by him or not? Because the therapist with whom she shares an office space and conducts popular workshops on family life with had confessed to her that he’d been having affairs with his patients. And he had gone on to explain that he was telling her because one of the women, feeling betrayed by him after he had left her for yet another woman, had not only told his wife “everything” but had also hired a lawyer.

So she had decided to write down what she knew about him on index cards and weigh that stack of cards against the feather of truth. But now, alone in her office, when she places the evidence on the scale, the stack of cards begins to sink dangerously low, well below the feather of truth. And she knows what that means. "It's bad, dear one," her great grandmother had told her. "When the heart drops below the feather of truth, it is a bad one."

Then she suddenly remembers something she had forgotten to include, how he had freely given his home phone number to all his patients—something she herself had never done—and how he had taken all those emergency calls—3:00 am or not—unstintingly. And when she adds that card to the stack, his “heart” begins to rise up and the scale begins to balance evenly. And she knows what that means, too. "Mostly good, dear one," her great grandmother had said, "and mostly good is good enough."

Then she recalls something else she had forgotten to include, how she had overheard him lying to his wife on the phone one afternoon—an emergency evening appointment so he wouldn’t be home for dinner, he had said, but he’d left the office after ending the call. And he done it all with an ease that chilled her now in retrospect. And when she adds that card to the stack, his heart drops back down below the feather.

Then she returns to the time when she first met him. He had approached her after her first seminar, telling her how much he (with his three books and his big reputation) had admired her work. And how after they’d been close friends, having lunch together every Friday afternoon—God, how she loved talking to him—and his support made it possible for her to cut back on her hours to spend more time with her family. And with this card his heart rises up again.

Then she pictures his patient, the one whose heart he had broken. She had seen that young woman in the waiting room many times, beautiful surely, but also obviously suffering from depression. And though he had not caused her depression—she couldn’t blame him for that—he had not helped her, when he could have helped her, should have helped her. And with this card his heart drops back down again.

Suddenly her phone rings—glancing at it, she sees it’s his wife calling her—oh, shit—but she’d better take the call. “Hi, Emily,” she says, “How are you doing?”


by Nina Zolotow


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