Page 446 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 446

“And why did it end?”
                   He thinks of how to answer this. “He didn’t like me very much,” he says
                at last.

                   He  can  feel  Willem’s  anger  before  he  hears  it.  “So  he  was  a  moron,”
                Willem says, his voice tight.
                   “No,” he says. “He was a very smart guy.” He opens his mouth to say
                something  else—what,  he  doesn’t  know—but  he  can’t  continue,  and  he
                shuts it, and the two of them lie there in silence.
                   Finally, Willem prompts him again. “Then what happened?” he asks.
                   He  waits,  and  Willem  waits  with  him.  He  can  hear  them  breathing  in

                tandem, and it is as if they are bringing all the air from the room, from the
                apartment, from the world, into their lungs and then releasing it, just the
                two of them, all by themselves. He counts their breaths: five, ten, fifteen. At
                twenty, he says, “If I tell you, Willem, do you promise you won’t get mad?”
                and he feels Willem shift again.
                   “I promise,” Willem says, his voice low.

                   He takes a deep breath. “Do you remember the car accident I was in?”
                   “Yes,”  says  Willem.  He  sounds  uncertain,  strangled.  His  breathing  is
                quick. “I do.”
                   “It wasn’t a car accident,” he says, and as if on cue, his hands begin to
                shake, and he plunges them beneath the covers.
                   “What do you mean?” Willem asks, but he remains silent, and eventually
                he feels, rather than sees, Willem realize what he’s saying. And then Willem

                is flopping onto his side, facing him, and reaching beneath the covers for
                his  hands.  “Jude,”  Willem  says,  “did  someone  do  that  to  you?  Did
                someone”—he can’t say the words—“did someone beat you?”
                   He nods, barely, thankful that he’s not crying, although he feels like he’s
                going to explode: he imagines bits of flesh bursting like shrapnel from his
                skeleton,  smacking  themselves  against  the  wall,  dangling  from  the

                chandelier, bloodying the sheets.
                   “Oh god,” Willem says, and drops his hands, and he watches as Willem
                hurries out of bed.
                   “Willem,” he calls after him, and then gets up and follows him into the
                bathroom, where Willem is bent over the sink, breathing hard, but when he
                tries to touch his shoulder, Willem shrugs his hand off.
                   He goes back to their room and waits on the edge of the bed, and when

                Willem comes out, he can tell he’s been crying.
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