Page 194 - A Little Life: A Novel

although the earth was frozen and chipped up into pottery-like shards as he
did. After they’d gotten it deep enough, Harold handed him lengths of
twine, and he tied the center stalks of the bush to the stake, snugly enough

so they’d be secure, but not so snug that they’d be constricted. He worked
slowly, making sure the knots were tight, snapping off a few branches that
were too bent to recover.
“Harold,” he said, when he was halfway down the bush, “I wanted to talk
to you about something, but—I don’t know where to begin.” Stupid, he told
himself. This is such a stupid idea. You were so stupid to think any of this
could ever happen. He opened his mouth to continue and then shut it, and

then opened it again: he was a fish, dumbly blowing bubbles, and he wished
he had never come, had never begun speaking.
“Jude,” said Harold, “tell me. Whatever it is.” He stopped. “Are you
having second thoughts?”
“No,” he said. “No, nothing like that.” They were silent. “Are you?”
“No, of course not.”

He finished the last tie and brought himself to his feet, Harold
deliberately not helping him. “I don’t want to tell you this,” he said, and
looked down at the forsythia, its bare twiggy ugliness. “But I have to
because—because I don’t want to be deceitful with you. But Harold—I
think you think I’m one kind of person, and I’m not.”
Harold was quiet. “What kind of person do I think you are?”
“A good person,” he said. “Someone decent.”

“Well,” said Harold, “you’re right. I do.”
“But—I’m not,” he said, and could feel his eyes grow hot, despite the
cold. “I’ve done things that—that good people don’t do,” he continued,
lamely. “And I just think you should know that about me. That I’ve done
terrible things, things I’m ashamed of, and if you knew, you’d be ashamed
to know me, much less be related to me.”

“Jude,” Harold said at last. “I can’t imagine anything you might have
done that would change the way I feel about you. I don’t care what you did
before. Or rather—I do care; I would love to hear about your life before we
met. But I’ve always had the feeling, the very strong feeling, that you never
wanted to discuss it.” He stopped and waited. “Do you want to discuss it
now? Do you want to tell me?”
He shook his head. He wanted to and didn’t want to, both. “I can’t,” he

said. Beneath the small of his back, he felt the first unfurlings of