Page 221 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 221

people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical
                attraction  or  money  or  children  or  property,  but  only  by  the  shared
                agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never

                be codified. Friendship was witnessing another’s slow drip of miseries, and
                long bouts of boredom, and occasional triumphs. It was feeling honored by
                the  privilege  of  getting  to  be  present  for  another  person’s  most  dismal
                moments, and knowing that you could be dismal around him in return.
                   More  troubling  to  him  than  his  possible  immaturity,  though,  were  his
                capabilities as a friend. He had always taken pride in the fact that he was a
                good  friend;  friendship  had  always  been  important  to  him.  But  was  he

                actually any good at it? There was the unresolved JB problem, for example;
                a good friend would have figured something out. And a good friend would
                certainly have figured out a better way to deal with Jude, instead of telling
                himself, chantlike, that there simply was no better way to deal with Jude,
                and if there was, if someone (Andy? Harold? Anyone?) could figure out a
                plan, then he’d be happy to follow it. But even as he told himself this, he

                knew that he was just making excuses for himself.
                   Andy  knew  it,  too.  Five  years  ago,  Andy  had  called  him  in  Sofia  and
                yelled at him. It was his first shoot; it had been very late at night, and from
                the moment he answered the phone and heard Andy say, “For someone who
                claims to be such a great friend, you sure as fuck haven’t been around to
                prove it,” he had been defensive, because he knew Andy was right.
                   “Wait a minute,” he said, sitting upright, fury and fear clearing away any

                residual sleepiness.
                   “He’s sitting at home fucking cutting himself to shreds, he’s essentially
                all scar tissue now, he looks like a fucking skeleton, and where are you,
                Willem?” asked Andy. “And don’t say ‘I’m on a shoot.’ Why aren’t you
                checking in on him?”
                   “I call him every single day,” he began, yelling himself.

                   “You knew this was going to be hard for him,” Andy continued, talking
                over  him.  “You  knew  the  adoption  was  going  to  make  him  feel  more
                vulnerable. So why didn’t you put any safeguards in place, Willem? Why
                aren’t your other so-called friends doing anything?”
                   “Because he doesn’t want them to know that he cuts himself, that’s why!
                And I didn’t know it was going to be this hard for him, Andy,” he said. “He
                never tells me anything! How was I supposed to know?”

                   “Because! You’re supposed to! Fucking use your brain, Willem!”
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