Page 250 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Now you’re interested in practicalities? The man who wanted me to live
in a five-thousand-square-foot space with no walls?” He stopped. “I’m
sorry, Mal.”

“It’s okay, Jude,” Malcolm said. “I understand. I do.”
Now, Malcolm stands before him, grinning. “I have something to show
you,” he says, waving the baton of rolled-up paper in his hand.
“Malcolm, thank you,” he says. “But should we look at them later?” He’d
had to schedule an appointment with the tailor; he doesn’t want to be late.
“It’ll be fast,” Malcolm says, “and I’ll leave them with you.” He sits next
to him and smooths out the sheaf of pages, giving him one end to hold,

explaining things he’s changed and tweaked. “Counters back up to standard
height,” says Malcolm, pointing at the kitchen. “No grab bars in the shower
area, but I gave you this ledge that you can use as a seat, just in case. I
swear it’ll look nice. I kept the ones around the toilet—just think about it,
okay? We’ll install them last, and if you really, really hate them, we’ll leave
them off, but … but I’d do it, Judy.” He nods, reluctantly. He won’t know it

then, but years later, he will be grateful that Malcolm has prepared for his
future, even when he hadn’t wanted to: he will notice that in his apartment,
the passages are wider, that the bathroom and kitchen are oversize, so a
wheelchair can make a full, clean revolution in them, that the doorways are
generous, that wherever possible, the doors slide instead of swing, that there
is no cabinetry under the master bathroom sink, that the highest-placed
closet rods lower with the touch of a pneumatic button, that there is a

benchlike seat in the bathtub, and, finally, that Malcolm won the fight about
the grab bars around the toilet. He’ll feel a sort of bitter wonderment that
yet another person in his life—Andy, Willem, Richard, and now Malcolm—
had foreseen his future, and knew how inevitable it was.
After their appointment, where Malcolm is measured for a navy suit and
a dark gray one, and where Franklin, the tailor, greets him and asks why he

hasn’t seen him for two years—“I’m pretty sure that’s my fault,” Malcolm
says, smiling—they have lunch. It’s nice taking a Saturday off, he thinks, as
they drink rosewater lemonade and eat za’atar-dusted roasted cauliflower at
the crowded Israeli restaurant near Franklin’s shop. Malcolm is excited to
start work on the apartment, and he is, too. “This is such perfect timing,”
Malcolm keeps saying. “I’ll have the office submit everything to the city on
Monday, and by the time it’s approved, I’ll be done with Doha and be able

to get started right away, and you can move into Willem’s while it’s being