Page 72 - A Little Life: A Novel

“I promise,” he said. He had seen Andy a few times over the years, and
had always sensed his frustration, which often seemed directed toward
many people at once: at himself, at Jude, and especially at Jude’s friends,

none of whom, Andy always managed to suggest (without ever saying it
aloud), were doing a good enough job taking care of him. He liked this
about Andy, his sense of outrage over Jude, even as he feared his
disapproval and also thought it somewhat unfair.
And then, as it often did once he had finished rebuking them, Andy’s
voice changed and became almost tender. “I know you will,” he said. “It’s
late. Go home. Make sure you give him something to eat when he wakes

up. Happy New Year.”

They rode home in silence. The driver had taken a single, long look at
Jude and said, “I need an extra twenty dollars on the fare.”
“Fine,” Willem had said.
The sky was almost light, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. In
the taxi, Jude had turned away from Willem and looked out of the window,
and back at the apartment, he stumbled at the doorway and walked slowly

toward the bathroom, where Willem knew he would start trying to clean up.
“Don’t,” he told him. “Go to bed,” and Jude, obedient for once, changed
direction and shuffled into the bedroom, where he fell asleep almost
immediately.
Willem sat on his own bed and watched him. He was aware, suddenly, of
his every joint and muscle and bone, and this made him feel very, very old,
and for several minutes he simply sat staring.

“Jude,” he called, and then again more insistently, and when Jude didn’t
answer, he went over to his bed and nudged him onto his back and, after a
moment’s hesitation, pushed up the right sleeve of his shirt. Under his
hands, the fabric didn’t so much yield as it did bend and crease, like
cardboard, and although he was only able to fold it to the inside of Jude’s
elbow, it was enough to see the three columns of neat white scars, each

about an inch wide and slightly raised, laddering up his arm. He tucked his
finger under the sleeve, and felt the tracks continuing onto the upper arm,
but stopped when he reached the bicep, unwilling to explore more, and
withdrew his hand. He wasn’t able to examine the left arm—Andy had cut
back the sleeve on that one, and Jude’s entire forearm and hand were