Page 421 - A Little Life: A Novel

made it to Philadelphia or what had happened to him there. And he still
didn’t know the story about the injury. But if Jude was beginning with the
easier stories, he now knew enough to know that those stories, if he ever

heard them, would be horrific. He almost didn’t want to know.
The stories had been part of a compromise when Jude had made it clear
that he wouldn’t go to Dr. Loehmann. Andy had been stopping by most
Friday nights, and he came over one evening shortly after Jude had returned
to Rosen Pritchard. As Andy examined Jude in his bedroom, Willem made
everyone drinks, which they had on the sofa, the lights low and the sky
outside grainy with snow.

“Sam Loehmann says you haven’t called him,” Andy said. “Jude—this is
bullshit. You’ve got to call him. This was part of the deal.”
“Andy, I’ve told you,” Jude said, “I’m not going.” Willem was pleased,
then, to hear that Jude’s stubbornness had returned, even though he
disagreed with him. Two months ago, when they had been in Morocco, he
had looked up from his plate at dinner to see Jude staring at the dishes of

mezze before him, unable to serve himself any of them. “Jude?” he’d asked,
and Jude had looked at him, his face fearful. “I don’t know how to begin,”
he’d said, quietly, and so Willem had reached over and spooned a little from
each dish onto Jude’s plate, and told him to start with the scoop of stewed
eggplant at the top and eat his way clockwise through the rest of it.
“You have to do something,” Andy said. He could tell Andy was trying to
remain calm, and failing, and that too he found heartening: a sign of a

certain return to normalcy. “Willem thinks so too, right, Willem? You can’t
just keep going on like this! You’ve had a major trauma in your life! You
have to start discussing things with someone!”
“Fine,” said Jude, looking tired. “I’ll tell Willem.”
“Willem’s not a health-care professional!” said Andy. “He’s an actor!”
And at that, Jude had looked at him and the two of them had started

laughing, so hard that they had to put their drinks down, and Andy had
finally stood and said that they were both so immature he didn’t know why
he bothered and had left, Jude trying to call after him—“Andy! We’re
sorry! Don’t leave!”—but laughing too hard to be intelligible. It was the
first time in months—the first time since even before the attempt—that he
had heard Jude laugh.
Later, when they had recovered, Jude had said, “I thought I might, you

know, Willem—start telling you things sometimes. But do you mind? Is it