Page 232 - A Little Life: A Novel

wanted to have a baby, and they needed to make money. Money, money: it
was all they spoke of sometimes.
He, too, thought of money—it was impossible not to. Every time he came

home from a party at one of JB’s or Malcolm’s friends’ apartments,
Lispenard Street seemed a little shabbier, a little less tolerable. Every time
the elevator broke and he had to walk up the flights of stairs, and then rest
on the floor in the hallway, his back against their front door, before he had
the energy to let himself in, he dreamed of living somewhere functional and
reliable. Every time he was standing at the top of the subway stairs,
readying himself for the climb down, gripping the handrail and nearly

breathing through his mouth with effort, he would wish he could take a taxi.
And then there were other fears, bigger fears: in his very dark moments, he
imagined himself as an old man, his skin stretched vellum-like over his ribs,
still in Lispenard Street, pulling himself on his elbows to the bathroom
because he was no longer able to walk. In this dream, he was alone—there
was no Willem or JB or Malcolm or Andy, no Harold or Julia. He was an

old, old man, and there was no one, and he was the only one left to take
care of himself.
“How old are you?” asked Voigt.
“Thirty-one,” he said.
“Thirty-one’s young,” said Voigt, “but you won’t be young forever. Do
you really want to grow old in the U.S. Attorney’s Office? You know what
they say about assistant prosecutors: Men whose best years are behind

them.” He talked about compensation, about an accelerated path to
partnership. “Just tell me you’ll think about it.”
“I will,” he said.
And he did. He didn’t discuss it with Citizen or Rhodes—or Harold,
because he knew what he’d say—but he did discuss it with Willem, and
together they debated the obvious benefits of the job against the obvious

drawbacks: the hours (but he never left work as it was, Willem argued), the
tedium, the high probability he’d be working with assholes (but Citizen and
Rhodes aside, he already worked with assholes, Willem argued). And, of
course, the fact that he would now be defending the people he’d spent the
past six years prosecuting: liars and crooks and thieves, the entitled and the
powerful masquerading as victims. He wasn’t like Harold or Citizen—he
was practical; he knew that making a career as a lawyer meant sacrifices,

either of money or of moralities, but it still troubled him, this forsaking of