Page 435 - A Little Life: A Novel

dressed in the closet, first making sure that the door between the closet and
the bedroom is completely closed. At this point, he has added a new step to
his morning routine: now, if he were to do what he has been for the past

month, he would open the door and walk over to the bed, where he’d perch
on its left side and put his hand on Willem’s arm, and Willem would open
his eyes and smile at him.
“I’m off,” he’d say, smiling back, and Willem would shake his head.
“Don’t go,” Willem would say, and he’d say, “I have to,” and Willem would
say, “Five minutes,” and he’d say, “Five.” And then Willem would lift his
end of the blanket and he’d crawl beneath it, with Willem pressed against

his back, and he would close his eyes and wait for Willem to wrap his arms
around him and wish he could stay forever. And then, ten or fifteen minutes
later, he would at last, reluctantly, get up, and kiss Willem somewhere near,
but not on, his mouth—he is still having trouble with this, even four months
later—and leave for the day.
This morning, however, he skips this step. He instead pauses at the

dining-room table to write Willem a note explaining that he had to leave
early and didn’t want to wake him, and then, as he’s walking to the door, he
comes back and grabs the Times off the table and takes it with him. He
knows how irrational it is, but he doesn’t want Willem to see Caleb’s name,
or picture, or any evidence of him. Willem still doesn’t know about what
Caleb did to him, and he doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t even want him to
be aware of Caleb’s very existence—or, he realizes, his once-existence, for

Caleb no longer exists. Beneath his arm, the paper feels almost alive with
heat, Caleb’s name a dark knot of poison cradled inside its pages.
He decides to drive to work so he’ll be able to be alone for a little while,
but before he leaves the garage, he takes out the paper and reads the article
one more time before folding it up again and shoving it into his briefcase.
And then suddenly, he is crying, frantic, breathy sobs, the kind that come

from his diaphragm, and as he leans his head on the steering wheel, trying
to regain control, he is finally able to admit to himself how plainly,
profoundly relieved he is, and how frightened he has been for the past three
years, and how humiliated and ashamed he is still. He retrieves the paper,
hating himself, and reads the obituary again, stopping at “and by his partner,
Nicholas Lane, also a fashion executive.” He wonders: Did Caleb do to
Nicholas Lane what he did to him, or is Nicholas—as he must be—

someone undeserving of such treatment? He hopes that Nicholas never