Page 499 - A Little Life: A Novel

certain there is no evidence, that he has hidden every clue, although without
context, the clues—salt, matches, olive oil, paper towels—are not clues at
all, they are symbols of their life together, they are things they both reach

for daily.
He still hasn’t decided what he will do. He has until the following
Sunday—he has begged nine extra days from Andy, has convinced him that
because of the holidays, because they are driving to Boston next Wednesday
for Thanksgiving, that he needs the time—to either tell Willem, or
(although he doesn’t say this) to convince Andy to change his mind. Both
scenarios seem equally impossible. But he will try anyway. One of the

problems with having slept so much these past few nights is that he has had
very little time to think about how he can negotiate this situation. He feels
he has become a spectacle to himself, with all the beings who inhabit him—
the ferret-like creature; the hyenas; the voices—watching to see what he
will do, so they can judge him and scoff at him and tell him he’s wrong.
He sits down on the living-room sofa to wait, and when he opens his

eyes, Willem is sitting next to him, smiling at him and saying his name, and
he puts his arms around him, careful not to let his left arm exert any
pressure, and for that one moment, everything seems both possible—and
indescribably difficult.
How could I go on without this? he asks himself.
And then: What am I going to do?
Nine days, the voice inside him nags. Nine days. But he ignores it.

“Willem,” he says aloud, from within the huddle of Willem’s arms.
“You’re home, you’re home.” He gives a long exhalation of air; hopes
Willem doesn’t hear its shudder. “Willem,” he says again and again, letting
his name fill his mouth. “Willem, Willem—you don’t know how much I
missed you.”

The best part about going away is coming home. Who said that? Not him,
but it might as well have been, he thinks as he moves through the

apartment. It is noon: a Tuesday, and tomorrow they will drive to Boston.
If you love home—and even if you don’t—there is nothing quite as cozy,
as comfortable, as delightful, as that first week back. That week, even the
things that would irritate you—the alarm waahing from some car at three in
the morning; the pigeons who come to clutter and cluck on the windowsill