Page 327 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Look at me, Jude,” says Harold, but he can’t. “You are. It breaks my
heart that you can’t see this.”
“Harold,” he says, and he is almost moaning, “please, please. If you care

about me, you’ll stop.”
“Jude,” says Harold, and reaches for him again, but he flinches, and
brings his hands up to protect himself. Out of the edge of his eye, he can see
Harold lower his hand, slowly.
He finally puts his hands back on the steering wheel, but they are shaking
too badly for him to start the ignition, and he tucks them under his thighs,
waiting. “Oh god,” he hears himself repeating, “oh god.”

“Jude,” Harold says again.
“Leave me alone, Harold,” he says, and now his teeth are chattering as
well, and it is difficult for him to speak. “Please.”
They sit there in silence for minutes. He concentrates on the sound of the
rain, the traffic light turning red and green and orange, and the count of his
breaths. Finally his shaking stops, and he starts the car and drives west, and

north, up to Harold’s building.
“Come stay in the apartment tonight,” Harold says, turning to him, but he
shakes his head, staring straight ahead. “At least come up and have a cup of
tea and wait until you feel a little better,” but he shakes his head again.
“Jude,” Harold says, “I’m really sorry—for everything, for all of it.” He
nods, but still can’t say anything. “Will you call me if you need anything?”
Harold persists, and he nods again. And then Harold reaches his hand up,

slowly, as if he is a feral animal, and strokes the back of his head, twice,
before getting out, closing the door softly behind him.
He takes the West Side Highway home. He is so sore, so depleted: but
now his humiliations are complete. He has been punished enough, he
thinks, even for him. He will go home, and cut himself, and then he will
begin forgetting: this night in particular, but also the past four months.

At Greene Street he parks in the garage and rides the elevator up past the
silent floors, clinging to the cage-door mesh; he is so tired that he will
slump to the ground if he doesn’t. Richard is away for the fall at a residency
in Rome, and the building is sepulchral around him.
He steps into his darkened apartment and is feeling for the light switch
when something clots him, hard, on the swollen side of his face, and even in
the dark he can see his new tooth project itself into the air.