Page 317 - A Little Life: A Novel

from them—could feel so difficult. He feels about Caleb the way he once
felt about Brother Luke: someone in whom he had, rashly, entrusted
himself, someone in whom he had placed such hopes, someone he hoped

could save him. But even when it became clear that they would not, even
when his hopes turned rancid, he was unable to disentangle himself from
them, he was unable to leave. There is a sort of symmetry to his pairing
with Caleb that makes sense: they are the damaged and the damager, the
sliding heap of garbage and the jackal sniffing through it. They exist only to
themselves—he has met no one in Caleb’s life, and he has not introduced
Caleb to anyone in his. They both know that something about what they are

doing is shameful. They are bound to each other by their mutual disgust and
discomfort: Caleb tolerates his body, and he tolerates Caleb’s revulsion.
He has always known that if he wanted to be with someone, he would
have to make an exchange. And Caleb, he knows, is the best he will ever be
able to find. At least Caleb isn’t misshapen, isn’t a sadist. Nothing being
done to him now is something that hasn’t been done to him before—he

reminds himself of this again and again.
One weekend at the end of September, he drives out to Caleb’s friend’s
house in Bridgehampton, which Caleb is now occupying until early
October. Rothko’s presentation went well, and Caleb has been more
relaxed, affectionate, even. He has only hit him once more, a punch to the
sternum that sent him skidding across the floor, but had apologized directly
afterward. But other than that, things have been unremarkable: Caleb

spends Wednesday and Thursday nights at Greene Street and then drives
out to the beach on Fridays. He goes to the office early and stays late. After
his success with Malpractice and Bastard, he had thought he might have a
respite, even a short one, but he hasn’t—a new client, an investment firm
being investigated for securities fraud, has come in, and even now, he feels
guilty about skipping a Saturday at work.

His guilt aside, that Saturday is perfect, and they spend most of the day
outdoors, both of them working. In the evening, Caleb grills them steaks.
As he does, he sings, and he stops working to listen to him, and knows that
they are both happy, and that for a moment, all of their ambivalence about
each other is dust, something impermanent and weightless. That night, they
go to bed early, and Caleb doesn’t make him have sex, and he sleeps deeply,
better than he has in weeks.