Page 110 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 110

“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
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