Page 179 - A Little Life: A Novel

plates to take them to the kitchen, but Harold stopped him. “Leave them,
Jude,” he said. “Maybe we should have our talk now?”
He felt himself go fluttery with panic. “I should really rinse them off, or

everything’s going to congeal,” he protested, lamely, hearing how stupid he
sounded.
“Fuck the plates,” said Harold, and although he knew that Harold
genuinely didn’t care what did or didn’t congeal on his plates, for a moment
he wondered if his casualness was too casual, a simulacrum of ease rather
than the real thing. But finally, he could do nothing but put the dishes down
and trudge after Harold into the living room, where Julia was pouring

coffee for herself and Harold, and had poured tea for him.
He lowered himself to the sofa, and Harold to the chair to his left, and
Julia to the squashed suzani-covered ottoman facing him: the places they
always sat, the low table between them, and he wished the moment would
hold itself, for what if this was the last one he would have here, the last time
he would sit in this warm dark room, with its books and tart, sweet scent of

cloudy apple juice and the navy-and-scarlet Turkish carpet that had buckled
itself into pleats under the coffee table, and the patch on the sofa cushion
where the fabric had worn thin and he could see the white muslin skin
beneath—all the things that he’d allowed to grow so dear to him, because
they were Harold and Julia’s, and because he had allowed himself to think
of their house as his.
For a while they all sipped at their drinks, and none of them looked at the

other, and he tried to pretend that this was just a normal evening, although if
it had been a normal evening, none of them would be so silent.
“Well,” Harold began at last, and he set his cup down on the table,
readying himself. Whatever he says, he reminded himself, don’t start
making excuses for yourself. Whatever he says, accept it, and thank him for
everything.

There was another long silence. “This is hard to say,” Harold continued,
and shifted his mug in his hand, and he made himself wait through Harold’s
next pause. “I really did have a script prepared, didn’t I?” he asked Julia,
and she nodded. “But I’m more nervous than I thought I would be.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’re doing great.”
“Ha!” Harold replied. “It’s sweet of you to lie to me, though,” and smiled
at her, and he had the sense that it was only the two of them in the room,