Page 436 - A Little Life: A Novel

experienced what he had, but he’s also certain he hasn’t, and the knowledge
of that makes him cry harder. That had been one of Harold’s arguments
when he was trying to get him to report the attack; that Caleb was

dangerous, and that by reporting him, by having him arrested, he would be
protecting other people from him. But he had known that wasn’t true: Caleb
wouldn’t do to other people what he did to him. He hadn’t hit and hated him
because he hit and hated other people; he had hit and hated him because of
who he was, not because of who Caleb was.
Finally, he’s able to compose himself, and he wipes his eyes and blows
his nose. The crying: another leftover from his time with Caleb. For years

and years he was able to control it, and now—ever since that night—it
seems he is always crying, or on the verge of it, or actively trying to stop
himself from doing it. It’s as if all his progress from the past few decades
has been erased, and he is again that boy in Brother Luke’s care, so teary
and helpless and vulnerable.
He’s about to start the car when his hands begin shaking. Now he knows

he can do nothing but wait, and he folds them in his lap and tries to make
his breaths deep and regular, which sometimes helps. By the time his phone
rings a few minutes later, they’ve slowed somewhat, and he hopes he
sounds normal as he answers. “Hi, Harold,” he says.
“Jude,” says Harold. His voice is flattened, somehow. “Have you read the
Times today?”
Immediately, the shaking intensifies. “Yes,” he says.

“Pancreatic cancer is a terrible way to go,” says Harold. He sounds
grimly satisfied. “Good. I’m glad.” There’s a pause. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m fine.”
“The connection keeps cutting out,” says Harold, but he knows it’s not:
it’s because he’s shaking so badly that he can’t hold the phone steady.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m in the garage. Look, Harold, I’d better get up to

work. Thanks for calling.”
“Okay.” Harold sighs. “You’ll call me if you want to talk, right?”
“Yes,” he says. “Thanks.”
It’s a busy day, for which he’s grateful, and he tries to give himself no
time to think about anything but work. Late in the morning, he gets a text
from Andy—Assume you’ve seen that the asshole is dead. Pancreatic
cancer = major suffering. You okay?—and writes back to assure him he’s