Page 535 - A Little Life: A Novel

end, he didn’t fall. He moved toward the bookshelves, examining the books,
which were paperbacks, swollen and buckling from heat and moisture and
smelling sweetly of mildew. He found a copy of Emma, which he had been

reading in class at the college before he ran away, and carried the book
slowly up the stairs with him, where he found the place he’d left off and
read as he ate his breakfast and took his pill. This time there was a
sandwich as well, wrapped in a paper towel, with the word “Lunch” written
on the towel in small letters. After he had eaten, he went downstairs with
the book and sandwich and lay in bed, and he was reminded of how much
he had missed reading, of how grateful he was for this opportunity to leave

behind his life.
He slept again; woke again. By evening, he was very tired, and some of
the pain had returned, and when Dr. Traylor held open the door for him, it
took him a long time to mount the stairs. At dinner, he didn’t say anything,
and neither did Dr. Traylor, but when he offered to help Dr. Traylor with the
dishes or the cooking, Dr. Traylor had looked at him. “You’re sick,” he said.

“I’m better,” he said. “I can help you in the kitchen if you want.”
“No, I mean—you’re sick,” Dr. Traylor said. “You’re diseased. I can’t
have a diseased person touching my food,” and he had looked down,
humiliated.
There was a silence. “Where are your parents?” Dr. Traylor asked, and he
shook his head again. “Speak,” Dr. Traylor said, and this time he was
impatient, although he still hadn’t raised his voice.

“I don’t know,” he stammered, “I never had any.”
“How did you become a prostitute?” Dr. Traylor asked. “Did you start
yourself, or did someone help you do it?”
He swallowed, feeling the food in his stomach turning to paste.
“Someone helped me,” he whispered.
There was a silence. “You don’t like it when I call you a prostitute,” the

man said, and he managed, this time, to raise his head and look at him.
“No,” he said. “I understand,” the man said. “But that is what you are, isn’t
it? Although I could call you something else, if you like: a whore, maybe.”
He was quiet again. “Is that better?”
“No,” he whispered again.
“So,” the man said, “a prostitute it is, then, right?” and looked at him, and
finally, he nodded.