A Little Life (41 page)

“Do you not like her?” Willem had asked him, concerned.

“You know I like Philippa,” he’d replied. “But I think—I think you should just hang out with her more alone, Willem, with just the two of you. It must get annoying for her to always have me around.”

“Did she
say
that to you?”

“No, Willem, of course not. I’m just guessing. From my vast experience with women, you know.”

Later, when Willem and Philippa broke up, he would feel as guilty as if he had been solely to blame. But even before that, he had wondered whether Willem, too, had come to realize that no serious girlfriend would tolerate his constant presence in Willem’s life; he wondered whether Willem was trying to make alternative plans for him, so he
didn’t
end up living in a cottage on the property he’d someday have with his wife, so he wouldn’t be Willem’s sad bachelor friend, a useless reminder of his forsaken, childish life.
I will be alone
, he decided. He wouldn’t be the one to ruin Willem’s chances for happiness: he
wanted
Willem to have the orchard and the termite-nibbled house and the grandchildren and the wife who was jealous of his company and attention. He wanted Willem to have everything he deserved, everything he desired. He wanted every day of his to be free of worries and obligations and responsibilities—even if that worry and obligation and responsibility was him.

The following week, Richard’s father—a tall, smiling, pleasant man
he’d met at Richard’s first show, three years ago—sent him the contract, which he had a law school classmate, a real estate lawyer, review in tandem with him, and the building’s engineering report, which he gave to Malcolm. The price had almost nauseated him, but his classmate said he had to do it: “This is an unbelievable deal, Jude. You will never, never, never find something that size in that neighborhood for this amount of money.” And after reviewing the report, and then the space, Malcolm told him the same thing: Buy it.

So he did. And although he and the Goldfarbs had worked out a leisurely ten-year payment schedule, an interest-free rent-to-own plan, he was determined to pay the apartment off as soon as he could. Every two weeks, he allotted half of his paycheck to the apartment, and the other half to his savings and living expenses. He told Harold he had moved during their weekly phone call (“Thank
Christ
,” Harold said: he had never liked Lispenard Street), but didn’t tell him he had bought a place, because he didn’t want Harold to feel obligated to offer him money for it. From Lispenard Street he brought only his mattress and lamp and the table and a chair, all of which he arranged into one corner of the space. At nights, he would sometimes look up from his work and think what a ludicrous decision this had been: How could he ever fill so much room? How would it ever feel like his? He was reminded of Boston, of Hereford Street, and how there, he had dreamed only of a bedroom, of a door he might someday close. Even when he was in Washington, clerking for Sullivan, he had slept in the living room of a one-bedroom apartment he shared with a legislative assistant whom he rarely saw—Lispenard Street had been the first time in his life that he’d had a room, a real room with a real window, wholly to himself. But a year after he moved into Greene Street, Malcolm installed the walls, and the place began to feel a little more comfortable, and the year after that, Willem moved in, and it felt more comfortable still. He saw less of Richard than he thought he might—they were both traveling frequently—but on Sunday evenings, he would sometimes go down to his studio and help him with one of his projects, polishing a bunch of small branches smooth with a leaf of sandpaper, or snipping the rachis off the vane from a fluff of peacock feathers. Richard’s studio was the sort of place he would have loved as a child—everywhere were containers and bowls of marvelous things: twigs and stones and dried beetles and feathers and tiny, bright-hued taxidermied birds and blocks in various
shapes made of some soft pale wood—and at times he wished he could be allowed to abandon his work and simply sit on the floor and play, which he had usually been too busy to do as a boy.

By the end of the third year, he had paid for the apartment, and had immediately begun saving for the renovation. This took less time than he’d thought it would, in part because of something that had happened with Andy. He’d gone uptown one day for his appointment, and Andy had walked in, looking grim and yet oddly triumphant.

“What?” he’d asked, and Andy had silently handed him a magazine article he’d sliced out of a journal. He read it: it was an academic report about how a recently developed semi-experimental laser surgery that had held great promise as a solution for damageless keloid removal was now proven to have adverse medium-term effects: although the keloids were eliminated, patients instead developed raw, burn-like wounds, and the skin beneath the scars became significantly more fragile, more susceptible to splitting and cracking, which resulted in blisters and infection.

“This is what you’re thinking of doing, isn’t it?” Andy asked him, as he sat holding the pages in his hand, unable to speak. “I
know
you, Judy. And I know you made an appointment at that quack Thompson’s office. Don’t deny it; they called for your chart. I didn’t send it. Please don’t do this, Jude. I’m serious. The last thing you need are open wounds on your back as well as your legs.” And then, when he didn’t say anything, “Talk to me.”

He shook his head. Andy was right: he had been saving for this as well. Like his annual bonuses and most of his savings, all the money he’d made long ago from tutoring Felix had been given over to the apartment, but in recent months, as it was clear he was closing in on his final payments, he had begun saving anew for the surgery. He had it all worked out: he’d have the surgery and then he’d finish saving for the renovation. He had visions of it—his back made as smooth as the floors themselves, the thick, unbudgeable worm trail of scars vaporized in seconds, and with it, all evidence of his time in the home and in Philadelphia, the documentation of those years erased from his body. He tried so hard to forget, he tried every day, but as much as he tried, there it was to remind him, proof that what he pretended hadn’t happened, actually had.

“Jude,” Andy said, sitting next to him on the examining table. “I
know you’re disappointed. And I promise you that when there’s a treatment available that’s both effective and safe, I’ll let you know. I know it bothers you; I’m always looking out for something for you. But right now there isn’t anything, and I can’t in good conscience let you do this to yourself.” He was quiet; they both were. “I suppose I should have asked you this more frequently, Jude, but—do they hurt you? Do they cause you any discomfort? Does the skin feel tight?”

He nodded. “Look, Jude,” Andy said after a pause. “There are some creams I can give you that’ll help with that, but you’re going to need someone to help massage them in nightly, or it’s not going to be effective. Would you let someone do this for you? Willem? Richard?”

“I can’t,” he said, speaking to the magazine article in his hands.

“Well,” said Andy. “I’ll write you a scrip anyway, and I’ll show you how to do it—don’t worry, I asked an actual dermatologist, this isn’t some method I’ve made up—but I can’t say how efficacious it’s going to be on your own.” He slid off the table. “Will you open your gown for me and turn toward the wall?”

He did, and felt Andy’s hands on his shoulders, and then moving slowly across his back. He thought Andy might say, as he sometimes did, “It’s not so bad, Jude,” or “You don’t have anything to be self-conscious about,” but this time he didn’t, just trailed his hands across him, as if his palms were themselves lasers, something that was hovering over him and healing him, the skin beneath them turning healthy and unmarked. Finally Andy told him he could cover himself again, and he did, and turned back around. “I’m really sorry, Jude,” Andy said, and this time, it was Andy who couldn’t look at him.

“Do you want to grab something to eat?” Andy asked after the appointment was over, as he was putting his clothes back on, but he shook his head: “I should go back to the office.” Andy was quiet then, but as he was leaving, he stopped him. “Jude,” he said, “I really am sorry. I don’t like being the one who has to destroy your hopes.” He nodded—he knew Andy didn’t—but in that moment, he couldn’t stand being around him, and wanted only to get away.

However, he reminds himself—he is determined to be more realistic, to stop thinking he can make himself better—the fact that he can’t get this surgery means he now has the money for Malcolm to begin the renovation in earnest. Over the years he has owned the apartment, he has witnessed Malcolm grow both bolder and more imaginative in his
work, and so the plans he drew when he first bought the place have been changed and revised and improved upon multiple times: in them, he can see the development of what even he can recognize as an aesthetic confidence, a self-assured idiosyncracy. Shortly before he began working at Rosen Pritchard and Klein, Malcolm had quit his job at Ratstar, and with two of his former colleagues and Sophie, an acquaintance of his from architecture school, had founded a firm called Bellcast; their first commission had been the renovation of the pied-à-terre of one of Malcolm’s parents’ friends. Bellcast did mostly residential work, but last year they had been awarded their first significant public commission, for a photography museum in Doha, and Malcolm—like Willem, like himself—was absent from the city more and more frequently.

“Never underestimate the importance of having rich parents, I guess,” some asshole at one of JB’s parties had grumbled, sourly, when he heard that Bellcast had been the runners-up in a competition to design a memorial in Los Angeles for Japanese Americans who had been interned in the war, and JB had started shouting at him before he and Willem had a chance; the two of them had smiled at each other over JB’s head, proud of him for defending Malcolm so vehemently.

And so he has watched as, with each new revised blueprint for Greene Street, hallways have materialized and then vanished, and the kitchen has grown larger and then smaller, and bookcases have gone from stretching along the northern wall, which has no windows, to the southern wall, which does, and then back again. One of the renderings eliminated walls altogether—“It’s a
loft
, Judy, and you should respect its integrity,” Malcolm had argued with him, but he had been firm: he needed a bedroom; he needed a door he could close and lock—and in another, Malcolm had tried to block up the southern-facing windows entirely, which had been the reason he had chosen the sixth-floor unit to begin with, and which Malcolm later admitted had been an idiotic idea. But he enjoys watching Malcolm work, is touched that he has spent so much time—more than he himself has—thinking about how he might live. And now it is going to happen. Now he has enough saved for Malcolm to indulge even his most outlandish design fantasies. Now he has enough for every piece of furniture Malcolm has ever suggested he might get, for every carpet and vase.

These days, he argues with Malcolm about his most recent plans. The last time they reviewed the sketches, three months ago, he had
noticed an element around the toilet in the master bathroom that he couldn’t identify. “What’s that?” he’d asked Malcolm.

“Grab bars,” Malcolm said, briskly, as if by saying it quickly it would become less significant. “Judy, I know what you’re going to say, but—” But he was already examining the blueprints more closely, peering at Malcolm’s tiny notations in the bathroom, where he’d added steel bars in the shower and around the bathtub as well, and in the kitchen, where he’d lowered the height of some of the countertops.

“But I’m not even in a wheelchair,” he’d said, dismayed.

“But Jude,” Malcolm had begun, and then stopped. He knew what Malcolm wanted to say:
But you have been. And you will be again
. But he didn’t. “These are standard ADA guidelines,” he said instead.

“Mal,” he’d said, chagrined by how upset he was. “I understand. But I don’t want this to be some cripple’s apartment.”

“It won’t be, Jude. It’ll be yours. But don’t you think, maybe, just as a precaution—”

“No, Malcolm. Get rid of them. I mean it.”

“But don’t you think, just as a matter of practicality—”

“
Now
you’re interested in practicalities? The man who wanted me to live in a five-thousand-square-foot space with no walls?” He stopped. “I’m sorry, Mal.”

“It’s okay, Jude,” Malcolm said. “I understand. I do.”

Now, Malcolm stands before him, grinning. “I have something to show you,” he says, waving the baton of rolled-up paper in his hand.

“Malcolm, thank you,” he says. “But should we look at them later?” He’d had to schedule an appointment with the tailor; he doesn’t want to be late.

“It’ll be fast,” Malcolm says, “and I’ll leave them with you.” He sits next to him and smooths out the sheaf of pages, giving him one end to hold, explaining things he’s changed and tweaked. “Counters back up to standard height,” says Malcolm, pointing at the kitchen. “No grab bars in the shower area, but I gave you this ledge that you can use as a seat, just in case. I swear it’ll look nice. I kept the ones around the toilet—just think about it, okay? We’ll install them last, and if you really, really hate them, we’ll leave them off, but … but I’d do it, Judy.” He nods, reluctantly. He won’t know it then, but years later, he will be grateful that Malcolm has prepared for his future, even when he hadn’t wanted to: he will notice that in his apartment, the passages are wider,
that the bathroom and kitchen are oversize, so a wheelchair can make a full, clean revolution in them, that the doorways are generous, that wherever possible, the doors slide instead of swing, that there is no cabinetry under the master bathroom sink, that the highest-placed closet rods lower with the touch of a pneumatic button, that there is a benchlike seat in the bathtub, and, finally, that Malcolm won the fight about the grab bars around the toilet. He’ll feel a sort of bitter wonderment that yet another person in his life—Andy, Willem, Richard, and now Malcolm—had foreseen his future, and knew how inevitable it was.