Page 197 - A Little Life: A Novel

and Julia’s favorite dishes, and he is glad to make them, glad to have
something to give them, however small. Throughout the evening, Harold
and Julia wander in and out, and although he tells them not to, they wash

dishes and pans as he dirties them, pour him glasses of water and wine, and
ask if they can help him, even though he tells them they should relax.
Finally they leave for bed, and although he promises them that he will as
well, he instead stays up, the kitchen bright and silent around him, singing
quietly, his hands moving to keep the mania at bay.
The past few days have been very difficult, some of the most difficult he
can remember, so difficult that one night he even called Andy after their

midnight check-in, and when Andy offered to meet him at a diner at two
a.m., he accepted the offer and went, desperate to get himself out of the
apartment, which suddenly seemed full of irresistible temptations: razors, of
course, but also knives and scissors and matches, and staircases to throw
himself down. He knows that if he goes to his room now, he won’t be able
to stop himself from heading directly to the bathroom, where he has long

kept a bag, its contents identical to the one at Lispenard Street, taped to the
sink’s undercarriage: his arms ache with yearning, and he is determined not
to give in. He has both dough and batter left over, and decides he’ll make a
tart with pine nuts and cranberries, and maybe a round flat cake glazed with
slices of oranges and honey: by the time both are done baking, it will almost
be daylight and he will be past danger and will have sucessfully saved
himself.

Malcolm and JB will both be at the courthouse the next day; they’re
taking the morning flight. But Willem, who was supposed to be there,
won’t; he called the week before to say filming had been delayed, and he’ll
now be coming home on the eighteenth, not the fourteenth. He knows
there’s nothing to be done about this, but still, he mourns Willem’s absence
almost fiercely: a day like this without Willem won’t be a day at all. “Call

me the second it’s over,” Willem had said. “It’s killing me I can’t be there.”
He did, however, invite Andy in one of their midnight conversations,
which he grew to enjoy: in those talks, they discussed everyday things,
calming things, normal things—the new Supreme Court justice nominee;
the most recent health-care bill (he approved of it; Andy didn’t); a
biography of Rosalind Franklin they’d both read (he liked it; Andy didn’t);
the apartment that Andy and Jane were renovating. He liked the novelty of

hearing Andy say, with real outrage, “Jude, you’ve got to be fucking