Page 689 - A Little Life: A Novel

and if you were on the back deck of the house, you were facing the bench
straight on. “It’s such a beautiful house,” I said, as I always did, and as I
always did, I hoped he was hearing me say that I was proud of him: for the

house he built, and for the life he had built within it.
Once, a month or so after we all returned home from Italy, we were
sitting on this bench, and he said to me, “Do you think he was happy with
me?” He was so quiet I thought I had imagined it, but then he looked at me
and I saw I hadn’t.
“Of course he was,” I told him. “I know he was.”
He shook his head. “There were so many things I didn’t do,” he said at

last.
I didn’t know what he meant by this, but it didn’t change my mind.
“Whatever it was, I know it didn’t matter,” I told him. “I know he was
happy with you. He told me.” He looked at me, then. “I know it,” I
repeated. “I know it.” (You had never said this to me, not explicitly, but I
know you will forgive me; I know you will. I know you would have wanted

me to say this.)
Another time, he said, “Dr. Loehmann thinks I should tell you things.”
“What things?” I asked, careful not to look at him.
“Things about what I am,” he said, and then paused. “Who I am,” he
corrected himself.
“Well,” I said, finally, “I’d like that. I’d like to know more about you.”
Then he smiled. “That sounds strange, doesn’t it?” he asked. “ ‘More

about you.’ We’ve known each other so long now.”
I always had the sense, during these exchanges, that although there might
not be a single correct answer, there was in fact a single incorrect one, after
which he would never say anything again, and I was forever trying to
calculate what that answer might be so I would never say it.
“That’s true,” I said. “But I always want to know more, where you’re

concerned.”
He looked at me quickly, and then back at the house. “Well,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll try. Maybe I’ll write something down.”
“I’d love that,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“It might take me a while,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “You’ll take as long as you need.” A long time was
a good thing, I thought: it meant years, years of him trying to figure out

what he wanted to say, and although they would be difficult, torturous