Page 110 - A Little Life: A Novel

“No,” he said. He had worked for years to keep the apology out of his
voice when he said this.
Sullivan made a noncommittal grunting noise. “Well, whatever they gave

you should have offered at least some sort of protection against whatever
Harold Stein’s been filling your head with for the past few years,” he said.
He looked at his résumé. “You’re his research assistant?”
“Yes,” he said. “For more than two years.”
“A good mind, wasted,” Sullivan declared (it was unclear whether he
meant his or Harold’s). “Thanks for coming down, we’ll be in touch. And
thanks for the lied; you have one of the most beautiful tenors I’ve heard in a

long time. Are you sure you’re in the right field?” At this, he smiled, the
last time he would ever see Sullivan smile with such pleasure and sincerity.
Back in Cambridge, he told Harold about his meeting (“You sing?”
Harold asked him, as if he’d just told him he flew), but that he was certain
he wouldn’t get the clerkship. A week later, Sullivan called: the job was his.
He was surprised, but Harold wasn’t. “I told you so,” he said.

The next day, he went to Harold’s office as usual, but Harold had his coat
on. “Normal work is suspended today,” he announced. “I need you to run
some errands with me.” This was unusual, but Harold was unusual. At the
curb, he held out the keys: “Do you want to drive?”
“Sure,” he said, and went to the driver’s side. This was the car he’d
learned to drive in, just a year ago, while Harold sat next to him, far more
patient outside the classroom than he was in it. “Good,” he’d said. “Let go

of the clutch a little more–good. Good, Jude, good.”
Harold had to pick up some shirts he’d had altered, and they drove to the
small, expensive men’s store on the edge of the square where Willem had
worked his senior year. “Come in with me,” Harold instructed him, “I’m
going to need some help carrying these out.”
“My god, Harold, how many shirts did you buy?” he asked. Harold had

an unvarying wardrobe of blue shirts, white shirts, brown corduroys (for
winter), linen pants (for spring and summer), and sweaters in various shades
of greens and blues.
“Quiet, you,” said Harold.
Inside, Harold went off to find a salesperson, and he waited, running his
fingers over the ties in their display cases, rolled and shiny as pastries.
Malcolm had given him two of his old cotton suits, which he’d had tailored

and had worn throughout both of his summer internships, but he’d had to