Page 236 - A Little Life: A Novel

Harold was silent, and when he spoke next, his tone was different. “Jude,
are you in any kind of trouble? You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is,
I’ll help you.”

“No,” he said, but he wanted to cry. “No, Harold, I’m fine.” He wrapped
his right hand around his bandaged calf, with its steady, constant ache.
“Well,” said Harold. “That’s a relief. But Jude, what could you possibly
need so much money for, besides an apartment, which Julia and I will help
you buy, do you hear me?”
He sometimes found himself both frustrated and fascinated by Harold’s
lack of imagination: in Harold’s mind, people had parents who were proud

of them, and saved money only for apartments and vacations, and asked for
things when they wanted them; he seemed to be curiously unaware of a
universe in which those things might not be givens, in which not everyone
shared the same past and future. But this was a highly ungenerous way to
think, and it was rare—most of the time, he admired Harold’s steadfast
optimism, his inability or unwillingness to be cynical, to look for

unhappiness or misery in every situation. He loved Harold’s innocence,
which was made more remarkable considering what he taught and what he
had lost. And so how could he tell Harold that he had to consider
wheelchairs, which needed to be replaced every few years, and which
insurance didn’t wholly cover? How could he tell him that Andy, who
didn’t take insurance, never charged him, had never charged him, but might
want to someday, and if he did, he certainly wasn’t not going to pay him?

How could he tell him that this most recent time his wound had opened,
Andy had mentioned hospitalization and, maybe, someday in the future,
amputation? How could he tell him that if his leg was amputated, it would
mean a hospital stay, and physical therapy, and prostheses? How could he
tell him about the surgery he wanted on his back, the laser burning his
carapace of scars down to nothing? How could he tell Harold of his deepest

fears: his loneliness, of becoming the old man with a catheter and a bony,
bare chest? How could he tell Harold that he dreamed not of marriage, or
children, but that he would someday have enough money to pay someone to
take care of him if he needed it, someone who would be kind to him and
allow him privacy and dignity? And then, yes, there were the things he
wanted: He wanted to live somewhere where the elevator worked. He
wanted to take cabs when he wanted to. He wanted to find somewhere