Page 244 - A Little Life: A Novel

and we’ll have a huge, scarred wooden table big enough to seat all twelve
of us.”
“Thirteen,” said Willem, suddenly.

“Why thirteen?”
“Because—Jude’ll be living with us, too.”
“Oh, will I?” he asked lightly, but pleased, and relieved, to be included in
Willem’s vision of old age.
“Of course. You’ll have the guest cottage, and every morning Buster will
bring you your buckwheat waffles because you’ll be too sick of us to join us
at the main table, and then after breakfast I’ll come hang out with you and

hide from Oberon and Miranda, who’re going to want me to make
intelligent and supportive comments about their latest endeavors.” Willem
grinned at him, and he smiled back, though he could see that Philippa
herself wasn’t smiling any longer, but staring at the table. Then she looked
up, and their eyes met for half a second, and she looked away, quickly.
It was shortly after that, he thought, that Philippa’s attitude toward him

changed. It wasn’t obvious to anyone but him—perhaps not even to her—
but where he used to come into the apartment and see her sketching at the
table and the two of them were able to talk, companionably, as he drank a
glass of water and looked at her drawings, she would now just nod at him
and say, “Willem’s at the store,” or “He’s coming back soon,” even though
he hadn’t asked (she was always welcome at Lispenard Street, whether
Willem was there or not), and he would linger a bit until it was clear she

didn’t want to speak, and then retreat to his room to work.
He understood why Philippa might resent him: Willem invited him
everywhere with them, included him in everything, even in their retirement,
even in Philippa’s daydream of their old age. After that, he was careful to
always decline Willem’s invitations, even if it was to things that didn’t
involve his and Philippa’s couplehood—if they were going to a party at

Malcolm’s to which he was also invited, he’d leave separately, and at
Thanksgiving, he made sure to ask Philippa to Boston as well, though she
hadn’t come in the end. He had even tried to talk to Willem about what he
sensed, to awaken him to what he was certain she was feeling.
“Do you not like her?” Willem had asked him, concerned.
“You know I like Philippa,” he’d replied. “But I think—I think you
should just hang out with her more alone, Willem, with just the two of you.

It must get annoying for her to always have me around.”