Page 325 - A Little Life: A Novel

“You did this to him,” he says to Caleb, very slowly. And then to him, in
dismay, “It wasn’t tennis, was it, Jude. This man did this to you.”
“Harold, don’t,” he begins to say, but Caleb has grabbed his wrist, and is

gripping it so hard that he feels it might be breaking. “You little liar,” he
says to him. “You’re a cripple and a liar and a bad fuck. And you’re right—
you’re disgusting. I couldn’t even look at you, not ever.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” says Harold, biting down on each word. They
are all of them speaking in whispers, but the conversation feels so loud, and
the rest of the restaurant so silent, that he is certain everyone can hear them.
“Harold, don’t,” he begs him. “Stop, please.”

But Harold doesn’t listen to him. “I’m going to call the police,” he says,
and Caleb slides out of the booth and stands, and Harold stands as well.
“Get out of here right now,” Harold repeats, and now everyone really is
looking in their direction, and he is so mortified that he feels sick.
“Harold,” he pleads.
He can tell from Caleb’s swaying motion that he is really very drunk, and

when he pushes at Harold’s shoulder, Harold is about to push back when he
finds his voice, finally, and shouts Harold’s name, and Harold turns to him
and lowers his arm. Caleb gives him his small smile, then, and turns and
leaves, shoving past some of the waiters who have silently gathered around
him.
Harold stands there for a moment, staring at the door, and then begins to
follow Caleb, and he calls Harold’s name again, desperate, and Harold

comes back to him.
“Jude—” Harold begins, but he shakes his head. He is so angry, so
furious, that his humiliation has almost been eclipsed by his rage. Around
them, he can hear people’s conversations resuming. He hails their waiter
and gives him his credit card, which is returned to him in what feels like
seconds. He doesn’t have his wheelchair today, for which he is enormously,

bitterly grateful, and in those moments he is leaving the restaurant, he feels
he has never been so nimble, has never moved so quickly or decisively.
Outside, it is pouring. His car is parked a block away, and he shuffles
down the sidewalk, Harold silent at his side. He is so livid he wishes he
could not give Harold a ride at all, but they are on the east side, near
Avenue A, and Harold will never be able to find a cab in the rain.
“Jude—” Harold says once they’re in the car, but he interrupts him,

keeping his eyes on the road before him. “I was begging you not to say