Page 356 - A Little Life: A Novel

For a while we said nothing. “Can I ask you a question?” I said, and after
a second or two, he nodded again. I didn’t even know what I was going to
say until I was saying it, and as I was saying it, I didn’t know where it had

come from, other than I suppose it was something I had always known and
had never wanted to ask, because I dreaded his answer: I knew what it
would be, and I didn’t want to hear it. “Were you sexually abused as a
child?”
I could sense, rather than see, him stiffen, and under my hand, I could
feel him shudder. He still hadn’t looked at me, and now he rolled to his left
side, moving his bandaged arm to the pillow next to him. “Jesus, Harold,”

he said, finally.
I withdrew my hand. “How old were you when it happened?” I asked.
There was a pause, and then he pushed his face into the pillow. “Harold,”
he said, “I’m really tired. I need to sleep.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, which jumped, but I held on. Beneath my
palm I could feel his muscles tense, could feel that shiver running through

him. “It’s okay,” I told him. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” I
said. “It’s not your fault, Jude, do you understand me?” But he was
pretending to be asleep, though I could still feel that vibration, everything in
his body alert and alarmed.
I sat there for a while longer, watching him hold himself rigid. Finally I
left, closing the door behind me.
I stayed for the rest of the week. You called him that night, and I

answered his phone and lied to you, said something useless about an
accident, heard the worry in your voice and wanted so badly to tell you the
truth. The next day, you called again and I listened outside his door as he
lied to you as well: “A car accident. No. No, not serious. What? I was up at
Richard’s house for the weekend. I nodded off and hit a tree. I don’t know; I
was tired—I’ve been working a lot. No, a rental. Because mine’s in the

shop. It’s not a big deal. No, I’m going to be fine. No, you know Harold—
he’s just overreacting. I promise. I swear. No, he’s in Rome until the end of
next month. Willem: I promise. It’s fine! Okay. I know. Okay. I promise; I
will. You too. Bye.”
Mostly, he was meek, tractable. He ate his soup every morning, he took
his pills. They made him logy. Every morning he was in his study, working,
but by eleven he was on the couch, sleeping. He slept through lunch, and all

afternoon, and I only woke him for dinner. You called him every night. Julia