Page 644 - A Little Life: A Novel

this were a movie, he thinks, the face would start speaking to him. If this
were a movie, he would look up and Willem would be standing before him.
Sometimes he thinks: I am doing better. I am getting better. Sometimes

he wakes full of fortitude and vigor. Today will be the day, he thinks. Today
will be the first day I really get better. Today will be the day I miss Willem
less. And then something will happen, something as simple as walking into
his closet and seeing the lonely, waiting stand of Willem’s shirts that will
never be worn again, and his ambition, his hopefulness will dissolve, and he
will be cast into despair once again. Sometimes he thinks: I can do this. But
more and more now, he knows: I can’t. He has made a promise to himself to

every day find a new reason to keep going. Some of these reasons are little
reasons, they are tastes he likes, they are symphonies he likes, they are
paintings he likes, buildings he likes, operas and books he likes, places he
wants to see, either again or for the first time. Some of these reasons are
obligations: Because he should. Because he can. Because Willem would
want him to. And some of the reasons are big reasons: Because of Richard.

Because of JB. Because of Julia. And, especially, because of Harold.
A little less than a year after he had tried to kill himself, he and Harold
had taken a walk. It was Labor Day; they were in Truro. He remembers that
he was having trouble walking that weekend; he remembers stepping
carefully through the dunes; he remembers feeling Harold trying not to
touch him, trying not to help him.
Finally they had sat and rested and looked out toward the ocean and

talked: about a case he was working on, about Laurence, who was retiring,
about Harold’s new book. And then suddenly Harold had said, “Jude, you
have to promise me you won’t do that again,” and it was Harold’s tone—
stern, where Harold was rarely stern—that made him look at him.
“Harold,” he began.
“I try not to ask you for anything,” Harold said, “because I don’t want

you to think you owe me anything: and you don’t.” He turned and looked at
him, and his expression too was stern. “But I’m asking you this. I’m asking
you. You have to promise me.”
He hesitated. “I promise,” he said, finally, and Harold nodded.
“Thank you,” he said.
They had never discussed this conversation again, and although he knew
it wasn’t quite logical, he didn’t want to break this promise to Harold. At

times, it seemed that this promise—this verbal contract—was the only real