Page 321 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 321

far enough from the house to be safe, he begins to shake, so badly that the
                car  swerves  beneath  him,  and  he  pulls  off  the  road  to  wait,  leaning  his
                forehead against the steering wheel.

                   He waits for ten minutes, twenty. And then he turns, although the very
                movement  is  a  punishment,  and  finds  his  phone  in  his  bag.  He  dials
                Willem’s number and waits.
                   “Jude!” says Willem, sounding surprised. “I was just going to call you.”
                   “Hi, Willem,” he says, and hopes his voice sounds normal. “I guess I read
                your thoughts.”
                   They talk for a few minutes, and then Willem asks, “Are you okay?”

                   “Of course,” he says.
                   “You sound a little strange.”
                   Willem, he wants to say. Willem, I  wish you were here. But instead he
                says, “Sorry. I just have a headache.”
                   They  talk  some  more,  and  as  they’re  about  to  hang  up,  Willem  says,
                “You’re sure you’re okay.”

                   “Yes,” he says. “I’m fine.”
                   “Okay,” says Willem. “Okay.” And then, “Five more weeks.”
                   “Five more.” He wishes for Willem so intensely he can barely breathe.
                   After  they  hang  up,  he  waits  for  another  ten  minutes,  until  he  finally
                stops shaking, and then he starts the car again and drives the rest of the way
                home.
                   The next day, he makes himself look at his reflection in the bathroom

                mirror  and  nearly  cries  out  in  shame  and  shock  and  misery.  He  is  so
                deformed,  so  astoundingly  ugly—even  for  him,  it  is  extraordinary.  He
                makes himself as presentable as he can; he puts on his favorite suit. Caleb
                had kicked him in his side, and every movement, every breath, is painful.
                Before  he  leaves  the  house,  he  makes  an  appointment  with  the  dentist
                because he can feel that one of his upper teeth has been knocked loose, and

                an appointment at Andy’s for that evening.
                   He goes to work. “This is not a good look for you, St. Francis,” one of
                the  other  senior  partners,  whom  he  likes  a  lot,  says  at  the  morning
                management committee meeting, and everyone laughs.
                   He  forces  a  smile.  “I’m  afraid  you’re  right,”  he  says.  “And  I’m  sure
                you’ll  all  be  disappointed  when  I  announce  that  my  days  as  a  potential
                Paralympic tennis champion are, sadly, over.”
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