Page 202 - A Little Life: A Novel

There is no etiquette for such a party, and so their guests have invented
their own: Malcolm’s parents have sent a magnum of champagne and a case
of super Tuscan from a vineyard they partly own outside of Montalcino.

JB’s mother sent him with a burlap sack of heirloom narcissus bulbs for
Harold and Julia, and a card for him; his aunts have sent an orchid. The
U.S. Attorney sends an enormous crate of fruit, with a card signed by
Marshall and Citizen and Rhodes as well. People bring wine and flowers.
Allison, who had years ago revealed him to Harold as the creator of the
bacteria cookies, brings four dozen decorated with his original designs,
which makes him blush and Julia shout with delight. The rest of the day is a

binging on all things sweet: everything he does that day is perfect,
everything he says comes out right. People reach for him and he doesn’t
move or shy away from them; they touch him and he lets them. His face
hurts from smiling. Decades of approbation, of affection are stuffed into
this one afternoon, and he gorges on it, reeling from the strangeness of it all.
He overhears Andy arguing with Dr. Kashen about a massive new proposed

landfill project in Gurgaon, watches Willem listen patiently to his old torts
professor, eavesdrops on JB explaining to Dr. Li why the New York art
scene is irretrievably fucked, spies Malcolm and Carey trying to extract the
largest of the crab cakes without toppling the rest of the stack.
By the early evening, everyone has left, and it is just the six of them
sprawled out in the living room: he and Harold and Julia and Malcolm and
JB and Willem. The house is once again messy. Julia mentions dinner, but

everyone—even he—has eaten too much, and no one, not even JB, wants to
think about it. JB has given Harold and Julia a painting of him, saying,
before he hands it over to them, “It’s not based on a photo, just from
sketches.” The painting, which JB has done in watercolors and ink on a
sheet of stiff paper, is of his face and neck, and is in a different style than he
associates with JB’s work: sparer and more gestural, in a somber, grayed

palette. In it, his right hand is hovering over the base of his throat, as if he’s
about to grab it and throttle himself, and his mouth is slightly open, and his
pupils are very large, like a cat’s in gloom. It’s undeniably him—he even
recognizes the gesture as his own, although he can’t, in the moment,
remember what it’s meant to signal, or what emotion it accompanies. The
face is slightly larger than life-size, and all of them stare at it in silence.
“It’s a really good piece,” JB says at last, sounding pleased. “Let me

know if you ever want to sell it, Harold,” and finally, everyone laughs.