Page 88 - A Little Life: A Novel

something akin to meditative, the only times he found himself truly
relaxing, his mind ceasing to scrabble forward, planning in advance the
thousands of little deflections and smudgings of truth, of fact, that

necessitated his every interaction with the world and its inhabitants? To no
one, he knew, not even to Willem. But he’d had years to learn how to keep
his thoughts to himself; unlike his friends, he had learned not to share
evidence of his oddities as a way to distinguish himself from others,
although he was happy and proud that they shared theirs with him.
Today he would walk to the Upper East Side: up West Broadway to
Washington Square Park, to University and through Union Square, and up

Broadway to Fifth, which he’d stay on until Eighty-sixth Street, and then
back down Madison to Twenty-fourth Street, where he’d cross east to
Lexington before continuing south and east once more to Irving, where he’d
meet Willem outside the theater. It had been months, almost a year, since he
had done this circuit, both because it was very far and because he already
spent every Saturday on the Upper East Side, in a town house not far from

Malcolm’s parents’, where he tutored a twelve-year-old boy named Felix.
But it was mid-March, spring break, and Felix and his family were on
vacation in Utah, which meant he ran no risk of seeing them.
Felix’s father was a friend of friends of Malcolm’s parents, and it had
been Malcolm’s father who had gotten him the job. “They’re really not
paying you enough at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, are they?” Mr. Irvine had
asked him. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me introduce you to

Gavin.” Gavin was one of Mr. Irvine’s law school friends, who now
presided over one of the city’s more powerful firms.
“Dad, he doesn’t want to work for some corporate firm,” Malcolm had
begun, but his father continued talking as if Malcolm hadn’t even spoken,
and Malcolm had hunched back into his chair. He had felt bad for Malcolm
then, but also annoyed, as he had told Malcolm to discreetly inquire

whether his parents knew anyone who might have a kid who needed
tutoring, not to actually ask them.
“Really, though,” Malcolm’s father had said to him, “I think it’s terrific
that you’re interested in making your way on your own.” (Malcolm
slouched even lower in his seat.) “But do you really need the money that
badly? I didn’t think the federal government paid that miserably, but it’s
been a long time since I was in public service.” He grinned.