Page 385 - A Little Life: A Novel

Brother Luke had brought a piano keyboard in his car, and he practiced on
it; the brother was never mean to him, but he did take lessons seriously. As
the sky grew dark, though, he would find himself sitting on the edge of

Brother Luke’s bed, pinching back the curtain and scanning the parking lot
for Brother Luke’s car; some part of him was always worried that Brother
Luke wouldn’t return for him after all, that he was growing tired of him,
that he would be left alone. There was so much he didn’t know about the
world, and the world was a scary place. He tried to remind himself that
there were things he could do, that he knew how to work, that maybe he
could get a job cleaning the motel, but he was always anxious until he saw

the station wagon pulling toward him, and then he would be relieved, and
would promise himself that he would do better the next day, that he would
never give Brother Luke a reason to not return to him.
One evening the brother came back to the room looking tired. A few days
ago, he had returned excited: he had found the perfect piece of land, he said.
He described a clearing surrounded by cedars and pines, a little stream

nearby busy with fish, the air so cool and quiet that you could hear every
pinecone as it fell to the soft ground. He had even shown him a picture, all
dark greens and shadows, and had explained where their cabin would go,
and how he could help build it, and where they would make a sleeping loft,
a secret fort, just for him.
“What’s wrong, Brother Luke?” he asked him, after the brother had been
silent so long that he could no longer stand it.

“Oh, Jude,” said the brother, “I’ve failed.” He told him how he had tried
and tried to buy the land, but he just didn’t have the money. “I’m sorry,
Jude, I’m sorry,” he said, and then, to his amazement, the brother began to
cry.
He had never before seen an adult cry. “Maybe you could teach again,
Brother Luke,” he said, trying to comfort him. “I like you. If I were a kid,

I’d like to be taught by you,” and the brother smiled a bit at him and stroked
his hair and said it didn’t work like that, that he’d have to get licensed by
the state, and it was a long and complicated process.
He thought and thought. And then he remembered: “Brother Luke,” he
said, “I could help—I could get a job. I could help earn money.”
“No, Jude,” said the brother. “I can’t let you do that.”
“But I want to,” he said. He remembered Brother Michael telling him

how much he cost for the monastery to maintain, and felt guilty and