Page 652 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Laurence and Gillian are always coming through the city; so is everyone
else.” Harold studies him again. “You don’t seem very happy about this,
Jude.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down. “But I just hope you’re not moving
here because—because of me.” There’s a silence. “I don’t mean to sound
presumptuous,” he says, finally. “But if it is because of me, then you
shouldn’t, Harold. I’m fine. I’m doing fine.”
“Are you, Jude?” Harold asks, very quietly, and he suddenly stands,
quickly, and goes to the bathroom near the kitchen, where he sits on the
toilet seat and puts his face in his hands. He can hear Harold waiting on the

other side of the door, but he says nothing, and neither does Harold. Finally,
minutes later, when he’s able to compose himself, he opens the door again,
and the two of them look at each other.
“I’m fifty-one,” he tells Harold.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harold asks.
“It means I can take care of myself,” he says. “It means I don’t need

anyone to help me.”
Harold sighs. “Jude,” he says, “there’s not an expiration date on needing
help, or needing people. You don’t get to a certain age and it stops.”
They’re quiet again. “You’re so thin,” Harold continues, and when he
doesn’t say anything, “What does Andy say?”
“I can’t keep having this conversation,” he says at last, his voice scraped
and hoarse. “I can’t, Harold. And you can’t, either. I feel like all I do is

disappoint you, and I’m sorry for that, I’m sorry for all of it. But I’m really
trying. I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry if it’s not good enough.” Harold
tries to interject, but he talks over him. “This is who I am. This is it, Harold.
I’m sorry I’m such a problem for you. I’m sorry I’m ruining your
retirement. I’m sorry I’m not happier. I’m sorry I’m not over Willem. I’m
sorry I have a job you don’t respect. I’m sorry I’m such a nothing of a

person.” He no longer knows what he’s saying; he no longer knows how he
feels: he wants to cut himself, to disappear, to lie down and never get up
again, to hurl himself into space. He hates himself; he pities himself; he
hates himself for pitying himself. “I think you should go,” he says. “I think
you should leave.”
“Jude,” Harold says.
“Please go,” he says. “Please. I’m tired. I need to be left alone. Please

leave me alone.” And he turns from Harold and stands, waiting, until he