Page 322 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Well, I’m not sad,” says Lucien, as everyone around the table groans in
mock disappointment. “You get plenty of aggression out in court. I think
that should be your sole combat sport from now on.”

That night at his appointment, Andy swears at him. “What’d I say about
tennis, Jude?” he asks.
“I know,” he says. “But never again, Andy, I promise.”
“What’s this?” Andy asks, placing his fingers on the back of his neck.
He sighs, theatrically. “I turned, and there was an incident with a nasty
backhand.” He waits for Andy to say something, but he doesn’t, only
smears some antibiotic cream on his neck and then bandages it.

The next day, Andy calls him at his office. “I need to talk to you in
person,” he says. “It’s important. Can you meet me somewhere?”
He’s alarmed. “Is everything okay?” he asks. “Are you all right, Andy?”
“I’m fine,” Andy says. “But I need to see you.”
He takes an early dinner break and they meet near his office, at a bar
whose regular customers are the Japanese bankers who work in the tower

next to Rosen Pritchard’s. Andy is already there when he arrives, and he
places his palm, gently, on the unmarked side of his face.
“I ordered you a beer,” Andy says.
They drink in silence and then Andy says, “Jude, I wanted to see your
face when I asked you this. But are you—are you hurting yourself?”
“What?” he asks, surprised.
“These tennis accidents,” Andy says, “are they actually—something

else? Are you throwing yourself down stairs or against walls, or
something?” He takes a breath. “I know you used to do that when you were
a kid. Are you doing it again?”
“No, Andy,” he says. “No. I’m not doing this to myself. I swear to you. I
swear on—on Harold and Julia. I swear on Willem.”
“Okay,” Andy says, exhaling. “I mean, that’s a relief. It’s a relief to know

you’re just being a bonehead and not following doctor’s orders, which, of
course, is nothing new. And, apparently, that you’re a terrible tennis player.”
He smiles, and he makes himself smile back.
Andy orders them more beers, and for a while, they are quiet. “Do you
know, Jude,” Andy says, slowly, “that over the years I have wondered and
wondered what to do about you? No, don’t say anything—let me finish. I
would—I do—lie awake at night asking myself if I’m making the right

decisions about you: there’ve been so many times when I was so close to