Page 259 - A Little Life: A Novel

more ambitious than Willem. (He didn’t count Jude in this race, as Jude’s
profession was one that operated on an entirely different set of metrics, one
that didn’t much matter to him.) He was prepared to be the rich one, or the

famous one, or the respected one, and he knew, even as he was dreaming
about his riches and fame and respect, that he would remain friends with all
of them, that he would never forsake them for anyone else, no matter how
overwhelming the temptation might be. He loved them; they were his.
But he hadn’t counted on them abandoning him, on them outgrowing him
through their own accomplishments. Malcolm had his own business. Jude
was doing whatever he did impressively enough so that when he was

representing JB in a silly argument he’d had the previous spring with a
collector he was trying to sue to reclaim an early painting that the collector
had promised he could buy back and then reneged on, the collector’s lawyer
had raised his eyebrows when JB had told him to contact his lawyer, Jude
St. Francis. “St. Francis?” asked the opposing lawyer. “How’d you get
him?” He told Black Henry Young about this, who wasn’t surprised. “Oh

yeah,” he said. “Jude’s known for being icy, and vicious. He’ll get it for
you, JB, don’t worry.” This had startled him: His Jude? Someone who
literally hadn’t been able to lift his head and look him in the eye until their
sophomore year? Vicious? He simply couldn’t imagine it. “I know,” said
Black Henry Young, when he expressed his disbelief. “But he becomes
someone else at work, JB; I saw him in court once and he was borderline
frightening, just incredibly relentless. If I hadn’t known him, I’d’ve thought

he was a giant asshole.” But Black Henry Young had turned out to be right
—he got his painting back, and not only that, but he got a letter of apology
from the collector as well.
And then, of course, there was Willem. The horrible, petty part of him
had to admit that he had never, ever expected Willem to be as successful as
he was. Not that he hadn’t wanted it for him—he had just never thought it

would happen. Willem, with his lack of competitive spirit; Willem, with his
deliberateness; Willem, who in college had turned down a starring role in
Look Back in Anger to go tend to his sick brother. On the one hand, he had
understood it, and on the other hand—his brother hadn’t been fatally ill, not
then; even his own mother had told him not to come—he hadn’t. Where
once his friends had needed him—for color, for excitement—they no longer
did. He didn’t like to think of himself as someone who wanted his friends to

be, well, not unsuccessful, but in thrall to him, but maybe he was.