Page 652 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 652

“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
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