Page 361 - A Little Life: A Novel

hit him—Michael, across the face; Peter, across the backside—he had
barely noticed. Only Brother David’s warning, that he would be made to do
extra chores instead of having his free hours if he didn’t start concentrating,

made him focus, and somehow, he finished the day.
As soon as he was outside, out of view of the monastery building, he ran.
It was spring, and he couldn’t help but feel happy: he loved the cherry trees,
with their froth of pink blossoms, and the tulips, their glossed, improbable
colors, and the new grass, soft and tender beneath him. Sometimes, when he
was alone, he would take the Navajo doll and a twig he had found that was
shaped like a person outside and sit on the grass and play with them. He

made up voices for them both, whispering to himself, because Brother
Michael had said that boys didn’t play with dolls, and that he was getting
too old to play, anyway.
He wondered if Brother Luke was watching him run. One Wednesday,
Brother Luke had said, “I saw you running up here today,” and as he was
opening his mouth to apologize, the brother had continued, “Boy, what a

great runner you are! You’re so fast!” and he had been literally speechless,
until the brother, laughing, told him he should close his mouth.
When he stepped inside the greenhouse, there was no one there. “Hello?”
he called out. “Brother Luke?”
“In here,” he heard, and he turned toward the little room that was
appended to the greenhouse, the one stocked with the supplies of fertilizer
and bottles of ionized water and a hanging rack of clippers and shears and

gardening scissors and the floor stacked with bags of mulch. He liked this
room, with its woodsy, mossy smell, and he went toward it eagerly and
knocked.
When he walked in, he was at first disoriented. The room was dark and
still, but for a small flame that Brother Luke was bent over on the floor.
“Come closer,” said the brother, and he did.

“Closer,” the brother said, and laughed. “Jude, it’s okay.”
So he went closer, and the brother held something up and said
“Surprise!” and he saw it was a muffin, a muffin with a lit wooden match
thrust into its center.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s your birthday, right?” asked the brother. “And this is your birthday
cake. Go on, make a wish; blow out the candle.”

“It’s for me?” he asked, as the flame guttered.