Page 177 - A Little Life: A Novel

“This reminds me,” said Harold, looking at him and Willem, “when are
you two ever going to settle down?”
“I think he means you,” he smiled at Willem.

“Harold, I’m thirty-two!” Willem protested, and everyone laughed again
as Harold spluttered: “What is that, Willem? Is that an explanation? Is that a
defense? It’s not like you’re sixteen!”
But as much as he enjoyed the evening, a part of his mind remained
abuzz and anxious, worrying about the conversation Harold and Julia
wanted to have with him the next day. He had finally mentioned it to
Willem on the ride up, and in moments, when the two of them were

working together (stuffing the turkey, blanching the potatoes, setting the
table), they would try to figure out what Harold might have to say to him.
After dinner, they put on their coats and sat in the back garden, puzzling
over it again.
At least he knew that nothing was wrong with them—it was the first
thing he had asked, and Harold had assured him that he and Julia were both

fine. But what, then, could it be?
“Maybe he thinks I’m hanging around them too much,” he suggested to
Willem. Maybe Harold was, simply, sick of him.
“Not possible,” Willem said, so quickly and declaratively that he was
relieved. They were quiet. “Maybe one of them got a job offer somewhere
and they’re moving?”
“I thought of that, too. But I don’t think Harold would ever leave Boston.

Julia, either.”
There weren’t, in the end, many options, at least many that would make a
conversation with him necessary: maybe they were selling the house in
Truro (but why would they need to talk to him about that, as much as he
loved the house). Maybe Harold and Julia were splitting up (but they
seemed the same as they always did around each other). Maybe they were

selling the New York apartment and wanted to know if he wanted to buy it
from them (unlikely: he was certain they would never sell the apartment).
Maybe they were renovating the apartment and needed him to oversee the
renovation.
And then their speculations grew more specific and improbable: maybe
Julia was coming out (maybe Harold was). Maybe Harold was being born
again (maybe Julia was). Maybe they were quitting their jobs, moving to an

ashram in upstate New York. Maybe they were becoming ascetics who