Page 278 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 278

professor at Northeastern.
                   “Jude,”  she  says,  “it’s  lovely  to  see  you.  Thank  you  for  coming.”  She
                holds his hand. “My brother always talked about you, you know.”

                   “He was a wonderful teacher,” he tells her. “He gave me so much. I’m so
                sorry.”
                   “Yes,” she says. “It was very sudden. And poor Leo”—they look at Leo,
                who is gazing at nothing—“I don’t know how he’s going to deal with this.”
                She kisses him goodbye. “Thank you again.”
                   Outside,  it  is  fiercely  cold,  and  the  windshield  is  sticky  with  ice.  He
                drives  slowly  to  Harold  and  Julia’s,  letting  himself  in  and  calling  their

                names.
                   “And here he is!” says Harold, materializing from the kitchen, wiping his
                hands on a dish towel. Harold hugs him, which he had begun doing at some
                point,  and  as  uncomfortable  as  it  makes  him,  he  thinks  it’ll  be  more
                uncomfortable to try to explain why he’d like Harold to stop. “I’m so sorry
                about Kashen, Jude. I was shocked to hear it—I ran into him on the courts

                about two months back and he looked like he was in great shape.”
                   “He was,” he says, unwinding his scarf, as Harold takes his coat. “And
                not that old, either: seventy-four.”
                   “Jesus,” says Harold, who has just turned sixty-five. “There’s a cheery
                thought. Go put your stuff in your room and come into the kitchen. Julia’s
                tied up in a meeting but she’ll be home in an hour or so.”
                   He drops his bag in the guest room—“Jude’s room,” Harold and Julia call

                it; “your room”—and changes out of his suit and heads toward the kitchen,
                where Harold is peering into a pot on the stove, as if down a well. “I’m
                trying  to  make  a  bolognese,”  he  says,  without  turning  around,  “but
                something’s happening; it keeps separating, see?”
                   He looks. “How much olive oil did you use?”
                   “A lot.”

                   “What’s a lot?”
                   “A lot. Too much, obviously.”
                   He smiles. “I’ll fix it.”
                   “Thank god,” says Harold, stepping away from the stove. “I was hoping
                you’d say that.”
                   Over  dinner,  they  speak  of  Julia’s  favorite  researcher,  who  she  thinks
                might be trying to jump to another lab, and of the latest gossip circulating

                through the law school, and of the anthology of essays about Brown versus
   273   274   275   276   277   278   279   280   281   282   283