Page 178 - A Little Life: A Novel

would live in a remote Kashmiri valley. Maybe they were having his-and-
hers plastic surgery. Maybe Harold was becoming a Republican. Maybe
Julia had found God. Maybe Harold had been nominated to be the attorney

general. Maybe Julia had been identified by the Tibetan government in exile
as the next reincarnation of the Panchen Lama and was moving to
Dharamsala. Maybe Harold was running for president as a Socialist
candidate. Maybe they were opening a restaurant on the square that served
only turkey stuffed with other kinds of meat. By this time they were both
laughing so hard, as much from the nervous, self-soothing helplessness of
not knowing as from the absurdity of their guesses, that they were bent over

in their chairs, pressing their coat collars to their mouths to muffle the
noise, their tears freezing pinchingly on their cheeks.
In bed, though, he returned to the thought that had crept, tendril-like,
from some dark space of his mind and had insinuated itself into his
consciousness like a thin green vine: maybe one of them had discovered
something about the person he once was. Maybe he would be presented

with evidence—a doctor’s report, a photograph, a (this was the nightmare
scenario) film still. He had already decided he wouldn’t deny it, he
wouldn’t argue against it, he wouldn’t defend himself. He would
acknowledge its veracity, he would apologize, he would explain that he
never meant to deceive them, he would offer not to contact them again, and
then he would leave. He would ask them only to keep his secret, to not tell
anyone else. He practiced saying the words: I’m so sorry, Harold. I’m so

sorry, Julia. I never meant to embarrass you. But of course it was such a
useless apology. He might not have meant to, but it wouldn’t make a
difference: he would have; he had.
Willem left the next morning; he had a show that night. “Call me as soon
as you know, okay?” he asked, and he nodded. “It’s going to be fine, Jude,”
he promised. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry, all right?”

“You know I will anyway,” he said, and tried to smile back at Willem.
“Yeah, I know,” said Willem. “But try. And call me.”
The rest of the day he kept himself busy cleaning—there was always
plenty to clean at the house, as both Harold and Julia were unenthusiastic
tidiers—and by the time they sat down to an early dinner he’d made of
turkey stew and a beet salad, he felt almost aloft from nervousness and
could only pretend to eat, moving the food around his plate like a compass

point, hoping Harold and Julia wouldn’t notice. After, he began stacking the