Page 631 - A Little Life: A Novel

his obligations. But there is something about Richard’s steadiness, his
complete reliability, that—coupled with his height, his very size—makes
him think of him as some sort of massive tree-god, an oak come into human

form, something solid and ancient and indestructible. Theirs is not a chatty
relationship, but it is Richard who has become the friend of his adulthood,
who has become, in a way, not just a friend but a parent, although he is only
four years older. A brother, then: someone whose dependability and sense
of decency are inviolable.
Finally, he is able to stop, and apologize, and after he cleans himself up
in the bathroom, they eat, slowly, drinking the wine, talking about Richard’s

work. At the end of the meal, Richard returns from the kitchen with a
lumpy little cake, into which he has thrust six candles. “Five plus one,”
Richard explains. He makes himself smile, then; he blows out the candles;
Richard cuts them both slices. The cake is crumbly and figgy, more scone
than cake, and they both eat their pieces in silence.
He stands to help Richard with the dishes, but when Richard tells him to

go upstairs, he is relieved, because he’s exhausted; this is the most
socializing he has done since Thanksgiving. At the door, Richard hands him
something, a package wrapped in brown paper, and then hugs him. “He
wouldn’t want you to be unhappy, Judy,” he says, and he nods against
Richard’s cheek. “He would hate seeing you like this.”
“I know,” he says.
“And do me a favor,” Richard says, still holding him. “Call JB, okay? I

know it’s difficult for you, but—he loved Willem too, you know. Not like
you, I know, but still. And Malcolm. He misses him.”
“I know,” he repeats, tears coming to his eyes once more. “I know.”
“Come back next Sunday,” Richard says, and kisses him. “Or any day,
really. I miss seeing you.”
“I will,” he says. “Richard—thank you.”

“Happy birthday, Jude.”
He takes the elevator upstairs. It’s suddenly grown late. Back in his
apartment, he goes to his study, sits on the sofa. There is a box that he
hasn’t opened that was messengered over to him from Flora weeks ago;
inside it are Malcolm’s bequests to him, and to Willem—which are now
also his. The only thing Willem’s death has helped with is blunting the
shock, the horror of Malcolm’s, and still, he has been unable to open the

box.