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The drive on the main road had been a hassle for all four of them, and the entire Friday afternoon seemed to drag on endlessly. At one point, Willem started to feel car sick, so they had to stop at the nearest gas station and waste another 30 minutes. None of them were sure they would arrive before dark.
"You see, I told you it would have been better if we had gone with The Bitches of Bushwick," JB said, half-jokingly, half-seriously.
Edie and the girls had decided to go to a concert that weekend by an artist only JB had heard of, but they had invited all four of them.
They teased each other back and forth all week about who to send to refuse the invitation. JB, already annoyed that it wasn't accepted, refused it outright. Malcolm wasn't really on good terms with the girls anyway, and didn't even want to hear about it. Willem's charisma didn't really work with lesbians, and they were already starting to dislike him after his relationship with another one of their friends turned out to be a failure.
In the end, it was Jude who told them, and they seemed, at least for the moment, uninterested, even understanding.
"I thought you had a fight with them?" Malcolm replied, who was always more interested and better informed about the many reasons JB would break and then reconnect with various people.
"So what?" JB responded, dismissively and almost annoyingly indifferent. "It doesn’t matter."
"Jude," Willem finally spoke, his face paler than usual, "how much longer do we have?"
"Just a little bit," Jude answered. None of them dared, for some unknown reason, to ask how "a little bit" translated into actual time.
Having finally arrived there, tired and sweaty, none of them paid much attention to the scenery in front of them—the back of the house that allowed a glimpse of the veranda and miles of surrounding sand.
Jude was the first to get out of the car and greeted Harold and Julia, who, having heard the engine in the complete silence of the place, had probably guessed their arrival. Stepping back to make room for his friends, Jude witnessed a few minutes filled with names spoken and hands shaken, with "nice to meet you" and genuine, truly curious smiles.
Jude was both surprised and a little disoriented by how Harold looked, as if he were witnessing a scene he was never supposed to see. Dressed like a kindly farmer, his face was bright and full—a suspicious contrast compared to his appearance at the last class. Not that Harold was the type of professor to wear a suit to class (and his school was full of them), but in every appearance of his, even in the house in Cambridge, Harold managed to exude a demeanor amplified by the fairly formal and evidently neat clothes he wore, the kind of man you respected involuntarily, even if he didn’t ask for it.
He was happy to see at least in Julia the same person he had known, wearing a dress which, if he remembered correctly, he had seen her wear in Boston. A long dress, the same color as her eyes, making her seem even taller than she was.
Harold (who had already started to linger at his distancing from the group and now at the way he stood thoughtfully, watching them) first decided to give a more detailed tour of the house and show where each of them would be sleeping. He led them from the front door through all the rooms inside.
First, they went through the living room, then the kitchen, the hallway, the guest rooms, and the back veranda, which offered a view of the sea.
All the rooms were twice as large as the living room they had shared in college, even the storage room, which would normally be just a small space. In all the rooms, they could see and even smell the cleaning products, a scent that Jude quickly picked up on.
He didn't know why, but the idea that Harold and Julia had gone to the trouble of cleaning, even though he knew they were never fans of it, made him feel a bit weak.
However, in the house, there were still traces of objects out of place, but which, Jude believed, didn’t have a place to begin with. Old editions of magazines, some no longer in print, stacked in piles on the corner of the kitchen coffee table, and throughout the living room, books were stacked on top of each other and crammed into various small spaces.
Occasionally, Harold or Julia would point out an object and say something about it, like a tour guide at a historical museum in the middle of New York City.
At one point, in the small space that transitioned from the hallway to Julia and Harold's bedroom, there was a rather large painting surrounded by a golden frame, which, probably due to time, was now starting to lose its color.
The painting depicted a ghostly image of a beach during a storm. Though the sand wasn't immediately evident, it could still be seen beneath a transparent layer meant to represent the crashing water. More than two-thirds of the painting was dominated by water, illustrated in over four different shades of blue. There was the blue of the water colliding with the waves, an almost clear, light, and pure blue where the water met the air. Then there was the darker blue of the middle water, giving the impression of looking at the sky just before sunset.
Finally, the blue of the sky itself, a cold blue that reminded one of cloudy, foggy mornings.
The waves were numerous, standing out like a rocky wall, never completely flat. It was as if, Jude thought then, the drawing hadn’t been painted with watercolors, but rather with pieces of clay stuck onto a patch of canvas.
Somewhere on the bottom right, very subtly, there was a small touch that, to anyone else, would have seemed just another detail of the painting, but JB recognized it and vocalized it as someone's signature.
"Is this original?" JB asked.
Julia made an affirmative sound, clearly happy and proud at the same time.
"Wow," and Jude understood that was all JB needed to get along with Julia.
Throughout the tour, Malcolm had paid the closest attention to all the architectural elements of the house, rather than just the various artifacts or books, as the others had done. Jude made a mental note to ask Malcolm what he thought about it. He was already imagining how the conversation would go and the comments JB would make, as they were horrifyingly frequent.
"Good heavens, Malcolm," JB would say in a feigned surprised tone, the kind he used to mock people and which resembled that of an '80s merchant, "You get off seeing those arched doorways with the keyhole finishes and intricate ironwork?" Sometimes Jude felt like JB read about these topics just to bring them up later.
Finally, arriving at the hallway leading to their rooms, they slowed down and began to admire the high walls, which were nearly filled up to the ceiling.
Harold would occasionally show them a particularly significant photo, sharing the story behind it, while they all remained silent and attentive, only analyzing and guessing.
Harold appeared much younger, almost like a child, in the arms of an older man, with the same kind eyes, the same happy smiles, in a black-and-white photo from decades ago.
Harold and Laurence, whom the boys didn’t know but whom he had recognized immediately. It was a more recent photo, with both men standing side by side, holding a drink in each hand and looking at the camera – Harold with a visibly happy expression, delighted to be there, while Laurence looked more forced and unnatural.
A photo taken in a garden, with vine branches visible crawling on the iron bars above their heads. A taller boy with his hands on the shoulders of a shorter Julia,who smiles softly, barely at the camera.
As Jude looked at the photos, he mentally calculated where he should have been when these events took place. It was a sort of painful reminder for him, seeing the contrast between the happy moments in front of him and the distasteful memories in his mind, as if he were an intruder in Harold and Julia's lives, or even worse, a mere spectator. Always meant to stand on the sidelines, watching, perhaps applauding occasionally, but never able to participate in the moments unfolding on the stage.
After these, they passed by a wall framed with photos of people he didn’t know or had seen only a few times. Photos of events he had never attended: arms draped over shoulders, kisses on cheeks, graduation caps and diplomas in hand, children held in arms and over shoulders—each accompanied by wide smiles, flushed cheeks, and tears on faces as serene as them smiles.
After the tour, he felt exhausted, but he guessed that the others must have felt the same way. Harold and Julia also guessed this, as they soon took them to the guest rooms, which were just an extension of everything they had seen outside, and which Jude liked just as much, even though he never managed to say so.
Willem was to stay with Jude, as they had decided, and JB with Malcolm. He hadn’t said anything about this arrangement, but he knew he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. They were left to wash up and organize their things while Harold and Julia prepared a meal, as it was already lunchtime.
Willem threw himself onto the bed and then closed the door after seeing Malcolm and JB move down the hall to their room, just a few steps away at the end of the corridor.
From the moment he stepped inside, Jude analyzed and inspected the room as he usually did. It had a fairly large window with a pair of sheer curtains and a heavier one that blocked it from being used. He thought he’d check out how the mechanism for opening it later, when Willem was asleep.
"Are you okay?" Willem asked, still lying on the bed but watching him out of the corner of his eye.
"Yeah, of course I am." Jude couldn’t quite determine (though he knew he never could for sure) if this was one of Willem's routine questions, asked more out of politeness initially, or if Willem genuinely sensed that something was wrong.
"Do you want to go first?" Willem asked, looking at the bathroom in their room, and Jude nodded in agreement.
He quickly grabbed his things from the bag, not looking at Willem, who he knew was watching him walk with slow, deliberate steps toward the now seemingly more distant bathroom. Jude closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a few moments, tired but not yet in significant pain. He glanced around at the clean space, the pale blue tiles, the large tub gleaming in front of him, and the rather tall, oval mirror.
He moved to the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed his face, letting the chills refresh his senses.
Jude works quickly, rummaging in the small bag where he kept his hygiene items, and finding the smaller and plastic one he was looking for. Inside is what he expected; his fingers tremble with anticipation of what is about to happen. He quickly unwraps the blades, feeling a metallic, sharp smell, feeling like an impostor dirtying the walls of the white sink—dirtying their house—before letting the water wash away the mess that quickly dripped down after he passed his mutilated hand under a strong stream of cold water. He doesn't know where to hide his bag and fears Willem will find it under the sink. Additionally, he doesn't have any tape with him. He's also afraid of the possibility that Harold might enter and find it. In the end, he decides to shove it into his pants pocket, assuming that when he enters the room, only the other empty pocket will be visible from where Willem is lying, and that his shirt is long enough to cover it adequately.
After finishing and as Willem went in the shower, Jude felt better, then scolded himself for needing things like that-small rectangular pieces of sharp metal-to feel good again. Everything from the last few hours had exhausted him, so he told himself he would lie down in bed for a bit until Willem got out of the bathroom, and then he would go to the kitchen to help Harold and Julia. Seeing the disordered mark on the sheet left by Willem's body, Jude lay down on the right side of the bed, the side closest to the bathroom but also to the window, and stretched out. Then he tried to take up as little space as possible, a kind of preparation for how things would be tonight, he thought, although he wasn’t sure how long he would manage to sleep.
Jude woke up much later that day to JB eating a granola bar and telling him to get up. Jude, confused, sat on his elbows and saw the room empty, with no sign of Willem ever having been there.
"You slept a lot. I wanted to wake you, but Harold said to let you sleep. So, we had lunch. They're making dinner now."
It took Jude a while to become fully conscious and able to comprehend everything JB was saying in front of him. JB had changed his own clothes and seemed to have already gone swimming. Lunch was over, it was almost dinner, and he had slept for hours.
JB left the room, allowing him to wash up and change. Jude did all of this with a mix of embarrassment and a bit of anxiety about how he would handle the upcoming meal.
His hair was still wet when he entered the kitchen, and he paused for a few seconds in the doorway. Before him was a paradoxically calm bustle, and the window, which had been left wide open, made him shiver slightly.
Julia was holding a plate and serving from the large bowl of salad she had made, then handed it to Willem, who thanked her. Malcolm looked at JB with an exasperated expression as JB gesticulated eagerly while sitting in the chair across from Harold. Harold, in turn, appeared very animated in his discussion with JB, showing the same agitation he displayed in class when faced with conflicting opinions.
Jude joined them quietly, thanking Julia for the food she had placed in front of him. Once everyone was seated, Jude could finally focus on the conversation.
But then, inevitably, the conversation shifted to childhood, favorite things, and what they did with their parents in their free time. Despite knowing he had no real reason, Jude once again felt a pang of sadness. Harold’s questions, even though they were now directed at Malcolm, JB, or Willem, seemed somehow meant for him as well—to share his own experiences and become more involved.
Harold wanted to know everything about what each of them was doing at school and what projects they were working on, where and how they grew up, who their fathers and mothers were, and what future plans they had (here, Willem's face crumpled) and what their usual weekend plans would have been (JB's face grew serious at this point, and they all expected JB to start recounting the whole story about the concert by some truly amazing artists that they couldn't attend).
The first one Harold questioned was, of course, Willem. Harold asked about his childhood and where he went to high school, then which college he was attending, how he was doing there, what he liked most and least about it. Harold wanted to know about his home life and how often he visited Wyoming.
Willem told him about the life he had lived on the farm, making a few references to his siblings but never saying much, about his parents, who had passed away within a relatively short time of each other.
To lighten the mood, Julia expressed interest and wanted to know more about life in the countryside, and they all, even JB, who usually showed great disinterest in such matters, listened attentively and with almost adoration to the exchange between Julia and Willem.
Malcolm was the next to be subjected to the interrogation, and Jude began to think about how long it would be until his turn came. According to the order they were sitting at the table, after Malcolm finished speaking (assuming Harold cared about such things or if what he was doing was just coincidental), it would be his turn, then JB's, and then the imaginary circular line he had drawn would reach Harold again.
Jude froze for those few minutes, thinking about this possibility, but he could still hear Malcolm to his right, who began to talk about his childhood and his father, whom Harold knew about, although he had never met.
At one point, Harold makes a comment about a place Malcolm had visited, something about how young Harold was when that restaurant first opened and how popular it was.
“So wait,” JB interrupted, suddenly interested, putting down his fork and looking at Harold, “How old did you say you were again?”
“Forty-seven.”
JB snorted, and his face crinkled up, though Jude couldn’t tell if he was doing it in jest or not. “That’s a lot of years.”
Jude first worried that JB’s comment might offend, but Harold burst into laughter, and soon everyone joined in, even Jude, who was surprised by JB’s confused look, as he saw nothing wrong with what he had said. But he knew, just like Harold, JB's favorite thing was to ask questions and get answers. Sometimes, JB would say things so outrageous and out of pocket, so intense in their madness, that even Willem (since Malcolm often did) would stand up from the table without saying anything, like a soldier just back from the war and tired of other men and their ways. He would go to get a glass of water and take a moment to think about what JB had just said. As they all did.
Right now, it was JB's turn, guiding the conversation at the table according to his whims, sometimes in directions no one in the room could predict. JB, that was suspiciously and recently interested in Harold's profession.
If, hypothetically speaking, I meet someone and that person tries to poison me, and I realize they are poisoning me and I switch the drinks, is that considered self-defense?
Could it be seen as ableism to deny a blind person the opportunity to act as a witness to the signing of a will?
And then the questions became even stranger and more specific, to the point where even Harold, who always seemed to be in a good mood outside of school (and sometimes even in it), began to look confused and glanced questioningly, but not accusingly, at Willem and Jude.
Do you think a person could lose their job if they don’t answer the phones they’re paid to answer?
If Mr. Irvine had received such questions, he probably would have had an apocalyptic meltdown of confusion. But Harold was never like that. He answered JB’s questions with just enough seriousness to meet the demand but often enjoyed them and even made light of them. Jude could see that Harold liked JB’s questions, at least enough to encourage JB to ask more.
"Where do you get these questions? God, I hope not from personal experience."
And then JB would start again, recounting one of the many varied experiences he had at almost every job he’d ever had. Sure, Jude knew that, out of all of them, JB had the most friends, but it was only that summer that he realized just how extensive JB's network was and in how many different fields his friends worked. JB was friends with students from art and architecture, engineering, medicine, mathematics, and art history. Most surprisingly, Jude found out one day, JB was even friends with law students, many of whom were actually his classmates.
He would never forget the day when, during a break between classes, he and one of his classmates ended up waiting in the same place until they could enter the room where they will simulate a trial. So the two of them started talking and getting to know each other, and their discussion moved to the places they had lived and the people they knew. At one point, Jude brought up his friends, almost proudly, though still embarrassed by the pride he took in them. None of them seemed to elicit a reaction from Thomas until he mentioned JB and the college he attended.
"Do you know him?" Jude asked, a bit skeptical but noticing the obvious reaction from the boy in front of him.
"Of course I do," Thomas said, exhaling the smoke from the cigarette he had lit. "He's a cool guy."
Jude was so surprised by Thomas's statement that he couldn't keep the story to himself and immediately went to Willem to tell him. Thomas, who was the typical no-nonsense law student with whom Jude had struggled to connect, not only knew JB but thought he was cool? Not that Jude didn't think so, of course he did, but he had never heard such words about an art student coming from a law student's mouth.
Jude silently said a simple thank you and appreciated, more now than ever, the extroverted and easy-going personality that JB was able to maintain. And JB, being JB, must have sensed this silent gratitude at some point, because they looked at each other for a moment, and his gentle, still-nervous gaze met JB's confident one.
At that dinner, and long after it had ended, even when he was already in bed, Jude continued to be just an observer of the events that unfolded, trying to think of them as things that needed to be commented on and dissected as if in a laboratory.
He found a certain comfort in seeing his friends receive the affection they longed for—something that Malcolm and Willem, especially, seemed to seldom experience.
From the very start, everyone noticed how naturally Harold connected with Malcolm. Jude, JB, and Willem each had their own outbursts and bursts of energy, whether positive or negative. Malcolm, on the other hand, was different. He was consistently calm, often quiet, and spoke with passion only when discussing his interests.
Malcolm was good at listening, though he often struggled to understand why people acted the way they did. Like Harold, he wasn’t very imaginative; both found it hard to grasp that others might have different beliefs from what they considered normal. They could accept what others said without question and didn’t doubt the sincerity of others’ feelings, but they found it difficult to see things from someone else’s perspective, especially someone whose life had been filled with unexpected events and uncertainties.
For Malcolm and Harold, the problems they faced were less about external conflicts and more about their own emotional struggles. They didn’t experience the harm of others’ mistakes in a way that profoundly affected them; instead, their challenges came from how they processed and felt about their own experiences.
Harold was happy when the people in his life were happy and healthy. That Harold’s work brought him joy, but it wasn’t a joy that stood alone; rather, it complemented the larger picture of a fulfilling and content life.
Malcolm found happiness in the successful outcomes of his work, in the satisfaction of his (then new and few) clients, and in achieving his goals. His happiness also hinged on his parents' approval, though he never openly acknowledged this. Still, Jude understood how much Malcolm craved his father's affection, even if Malcolm himself wasn’t fully aware of it yet.
Essentially, Jude believed that Malcolm was exactly the kind of person Harold could have raised.
Someone diligent, calm, and articulate, with some understanding of the law, but who does not let their career define their entire life and personality. Someone capable of distinguishing between work life and home life, striving to do well in both, and finding a certain degree of satisfaction in their work, but even more in their personal life.
Someone who may not be entirely confident but who is not irritating or self-pitying in their insecurity, and who is (and this is the most important thing) capable of asking for help when they genuinely need it.
In the morning, he would wake up alone, without the sounds of alarms or other people. Jude had a few moments of solitude where he could stay peacefully. Sometimes he would watch Willem sleeping, feeling a warm and strangely heavy sensation in his chest. Other times, if it was light enough outside, he would head to the kitchen and start preparing breakfast. Harold was usually the first to wake up, and the two of them would talk in the kitchen, making simple, easily digestible yet still tasty and nutritious dishes for the day ahead.
That morning, during the second day in Truro, Jude could sense that something in their dynamic had shifted. But he would see this change become more pronounced later that evening, as well as in the years to come.
A sort of reserve from Harold, a restraint that had never before shown signs of existing in the universe created by their relationship. Suddenly, Harold no longer asked him questions, or at least, not the usual ones.
"Did you sleep well?" Harold would say now, and the smell of the coffee he was drinking was enough to turn Jude's stomach inside out.
"Yes," Jude would reply, half truthfully, half not.
"And you?"
"Yes." After a few seconds of silence, almost sensing a hesitation, Harold would continue, "Isn't it too cold because of the air conditioning?"
Or, "You guys don’t need anything else, do you? Extra towels?"
But Jude's answer didn't change with the question; it was always the same. "We're fine. Thanks, Harold. Really, thanks."
Harold no longer asked any of the serious or probing questions Jude had grown so accustomed to. Instead, their conversations focused on the temperature outside, the weather, and what they needed to buy from the store to prepare lunch and dinner. What could have been the element that triggered this change in Harold's behavior, Jude would never know. He would, of course, suspect, as he often did, that one of his friends had talked about him with Harold, or maybe even Julia, though Julia's interventions didn't seem to have been enough to stop Harold in the past.
Outside, later that day, it was hot and sunny—a temperature that made none of them want to stay on the beach, so each decided to do something different. Willem with Harold and Julia watched a mystery movie adapted from a book all three had apparently read, while Malcolm excused himself and went to bed. (At least now I can fall asleep without hearing JB’s snoring.!)
Jude began reading The General in His Labyrinth as soon as he sat on the veranda—a spacious place with two chairs, in the middle of which was a tall table covered with a tablecloth embroidered with small green flowers, and a sort of couch without its upholstery, just its frame, which had two decorative pillows on it, similar to ones from ones in the living room.
Next to him, on the not-so-comfortable-couch, JB seemed to be drawing something, and the sounds (pages turning and scratching, eraser rubbing) relaxed him.
“Yes, yes. It’s a good novel. And a good guy, the General. Do you want to know how it ends…"
"JB, I want to find out on my own."
"Of course," JB said.
They stayed like that for a long time without saying a word, and soon, the wind began to blow in their faces—a warm wind, carrying the dust and the fine sand from the beach into their faces. Still, neither of them got up from their spots.
The calmness of the situation, the faint sounds of the mechanical pencil touching the thick, expensive paper, combined with the almost violent sounds of the waves crashing into each other, creating aerated and bubbly water—all of this, everything he had longed and hoped for was right here.
"Do you want to see what am I drawing ?" JB softly asked at one point.
He didn’t say anything but waited, knowing this was coming, until JB stood up and moved closer to him, taking a seat on the other free chair.
A small sketch, half of an A5 page, was drawn on one of the edges of JB's sketchbook, which he always kept with him, either in the pocket of his pants, or his backpack. Jude could see thin and thick lines made with the pencil tilted at a certain angle.
All these elements came together to form the image right in front of them—a part of the visible veranda, he guessed, just from the position where JB was sitting, but also the beach and the body of water in front and the clouds that seemed normal in front of him but became all sorts of artistic shapes on paper, visible only to someone with imagination.
He looked at it for a moment, as JB rarely drew landscapes or objects unless they were connected to scenes involving people. Now, the drawing JB held between his fingers seemed like a parody of the sketches he had made then: a depiction stripped of any human form, and therefore, a rather unsettling image.
"What time do you think it is?" JB asked suddenly, taking the drawing back from him without further questioning.
Jude remained confused but replied nonetheless, "It must be 12 a.m."
JB made a confirming noise, then lifted his pencil and quickly scribbled something in the corner of the drawing (because JB’s way of drawing was as if he treated every sheet of paper like a museum painting, always drawing within the confines and leaving the edges of the paper untouched by the pencil and white).
He handed the drawing to Jude quietly and continued to gaze ahead at the waves in front of them and the way they seemed to move away with each ebb.
Jude looked at the drawing, now much more vivid since he could actually touch it. Somewhere below, where his thumb met the corner of the page, he found JB’s writing in uppercase, a primary school kid’s handwriting.
For Jude
12 am
"Thanks," he said. Jude would keep the drawing for many years to come, and eventually lose it just after he and JB had their first serious argument. Both a moment of pain and frustration, as he had lost something made by someone who was still dear to him. "We should head back inside,"
"Sure," JB replied, but made no effort to move. ''And Jude'',
"Yeah?"
"I think you should start making dinner today."
Jude laughed, tilting his head back. He knew what JB meant, although neither of them had said it out loud.
"Okay," Jude said with a smile still on his lips, unmoved, "I’ll do it."
Later, only he, Willem, Julia, and Harold were in the living room, paying less attention to the TV, which was airing a show none of them found particularly interesting. Instead, they filled the silence by talking amongst themselves. He and Willem were sitting almost next to each other, with an empty space on the couch between them, followed by Harold and Julia, who were just as close as he and Willem. Jude smiled at this.
And that weekend, Jude could see them moving around each other without the stress and agitation associated with Thanksgiving and the winter holidays, where each of them, he could tell, tried to do everything properly. Harold’s exasperation with cooking everything perfectly, Julia’s obsession with matching the tablecloth with the plates and cutlery.
But now all that had disappeared, and Jude could see the affection they had for each other, the tenderness in how they behaved even when they thought no one was watching.
Harold and Julia's relationship had seemed to him, if not at the beginning, at least from the first few months when he saw them together, as the pinnacle of the relationship that, in his view, seemed perfect. Where both were more than capable of being alone, both financially and personally, but, for a series of reasons, chose to spend every day together.
Now, for example, Julia and Willem started talking about a type of bird that had appeared on the TV during a scene everyone had been watching. Jude had never known that Willem liked birds, or even that he knew so much about them.
But soon, he and Julia began discussing with great enthusiasm the type of plumage the specimen on TV had, how rare it was, and in which regions it could be found.
Harold looked very tenderly at Julia, holding her hand. Not even her whole hand, just the tips of her fingers. And they weren't too close to each other either, with Harold still leaving enough space for Julia to not feel uncomfortable and to have enough room to breathe and talk freely.
Harold's gaze and body language didn't seem to ask for anything in return, nor did it appear that he expected Julia to do something that would include him at that moment. Harold simply stood there, watching her speak enthusiastically and knowledgeably, and Jude wondered what the chances were for two such people to come across each other. How lucky do you have to be to find such a person?
Jude knew, though, that it wasn't just about luck. Looking back at Harold, he understood that Harold hadn't met Julia because he was lucky, but rather because Harold deserved it.
Good things happen to good people, one of his literature professors in college used to say when characters they studied happened to experience something positive, a fragment of hope.
Back then, he wasn’t sure and didn’t fully believe those words, but as he grew older and met more people, he realized how true they were.
Of course, good people attract other good people, he concluded. Even back then, Jude thought of himself as a kind of accident who had fallen into a world of people among whom, in no way, he belonged. But they, being good and generous people, decided not to push him away.
He found himself looking at Harold looking at Julia then, and felt something exploding inside him, like a series of fireworks on the Fourth of July, when even though you expected them to be there, you still remained surprised by their beauty, by the light with which they illuminated not only the sky, but also your life in that moment.
But in fact, their entire lives had always seemed to him like a series of predictable events (even though he knew this wasn’t entirely true), as if fate had aligned to hand them this kind of life—the sort of life he read about in articles, saw in pictures, and encountered in novels. If sometimes he caught himself thinking enviously about them and what they had, Jude said nothing and did not allow himself to fully acknowledge for more than a few seconds that he was doing so.
At the end, they all got up, Willem first, and then just him, when the temperature dropped a bit, and they could finally head to the beach, leaving Harold and Julia behind, who promised to join them later.
The still-empty beach radiated some warmth as they walked on it, but none of them seemed bothered. Jude lay back a little, shielding his eyes with his hand, until, at some point, Malcolm came over and handed him a pair of sunglasses without saying a word.
Willem swam for a bit, and so did JB. He could see in the distance JB’s attempt to grab Willem’s head and drown him. Jude then turned back to Malcolm, who was lying on a towel, and they both burst into laughter.
He thought he might fall asleep there, feeling so good, but then, after a few minutes, he felt JB collapsing next to him and grabbing a towel to dry off. Willem passed by him, heading closer to Malcolm, and they shared a moment of smiling at each other.
Willem looked happy, exhausted from swimming and sunbathing, with wet hair slicked back and a little disheveled as he tried to settle down himself.
“Do you know,” JB began, out of breath and interrupted, “this reminds me of something the general used to do in that book and…”
Before JB could continue, Jude scooped up a handful of sand with his left hand and tossed it onto JB’s leg.
“Hey,” JB exclaimed, surprised by this unexpected gesture.
“Is that all you’ve got, Jude? Come on,you can do better,” JB said, sounding like a drill sergeant giving orders on the front lines.
Then JB scooped up some sand himself, though he didn’t throw it at Jude but offered it in a series of simple, predictable gestures. Jude continued to do the same, and soon their playful struggle began to resemble a children's playground fight. Yet neither Jude nor JB seemed to want it to be any different.
“I’m exhausted,” JB declared, stretching out his legs and arms as if trying to make a snowman.
Jude remained on his knees but then sat down, feeling tired himself. Somewhere he couldn’t see without making it obvious that he was looking, Malcolm and Willem seemed to move away and were now speaking in low voices.
“Aren’t you hot?” JB asked, his closed eyes giving Jude more confidence than he usually had.
“I’m fine,” Jude said, and for the first time in a long while, it was actually true.
“Okay, whatever you say.”
When JB didn’t speak or move, Jude took a handful of sand from beside him and, feeling weary, poured it onto JB’s leg. JB didn’t say anything, only muttered an unintelligible grunt like a drunkard, but made no effort to stop him. So Jude kept scooping up sand, sometimes with both hands, and depositing it on JB, who remained quiet and tired.
Jude grinned childishly as he did this until JB’s lower half was entirely covered in sand, with a few shells Jude found and placed on top as ornaments.
“JB!” he said, half-laughing, like a child trying to get his parent’s attention.
“Good job,” JB declared after taking a look, smiling at him, and Jude’s fantasy was fed by that comment.
At some point, the sand began to spill off JB’s lower half due to his movements. Jude scooped up a large amount of sand with both hands and placed it on JB’s thigh, where the skin was still visible.
Finally, he exclaimed, “You’re going to have to stop moving and breathing.”
JB opened his eyes wide, looked at Jude with a deadpan expression, and said, “What the fuck, Jude?”
Perhaps what made Jude burst out laughing was the seriousness JB used when joking or the fact that he, too, felt what he needed to feel, that warm, pleasant sensation that comes with the realization that no one expects anything from you in those moments.
JB was now almost completely covered, and it would take some effort to clear all that sand away, but Jude continued to add handfuls until there were only a few empty spots around the sides.
When JB realized this, he began to panic and let out a laugh that, as he saw out of the corner of his eye, caused Willem and Malcolm to turn around and look.
“Judy, I’m claustrophobic,” JB declared, trying to move his leg and free himself.
“Let me help you,” Jude said finally.
“Maybe we should do this for Malcolm, what do you think?” JB suggested, and Jude found a genuine desire in his gaze to do so.
Both of them then began to dig the sand away with less seriousness, and soon it became almost therapeutic, as they tried to unearth JB’s buried lower body.
Jude will remember the first summer spent in Truro as the time when he and JB understood each other the best. Of course, they would continue to have beautiful moments together, and even many of them, but all would be preceded by a second thought, by a kind of hesitation on both their parts, for different reasons. Jude would never again let his guard down in front of JB the way he had that summer, and JB would never again have that second thought before interacting with Jude. It would take many years for Jude to revisit those moments with JB and remember just how much he really cared for him, and to be able to look back at JB and see only the face of that happy, sun-drenched, and adoring JB.
A few hours later, after Harold and Julia had gone to the supermarket to get the list of ingredients Jude had prepared, the four of them found themselves settling into the living room.
The television was on, and several voices speaking in a language other than English were coming from it. Malcolm was seated in one of the armchairs, holding a crossword puzzle he had started back at home in his left hand, and a pencil borrowed from JB in his right.
Jude had just come from the kitchen after washing dishes and joined them, sitting on one of the simple wooden chairs. If he looked up, he could see JB and Willem in front of him, but only part of Malcolm's face.
"A specialized branch of linguistics that deals with the study of the structure and formation of words in a language," Malcolm said in a low voice, then continued, "It has 10 letters."
JB, who was now sprawled with his head resting on the arm of the couch and holding a copy of The Savage Detectives, made the sound he usually made when trying not to laugh. Then he burst out, “Ask your mom.” Seeing Malcolm’s alarmed, almost pained expression, he added seriously, “She’s got to know.”
Malcolm seemed to ignore this, way to used of JB way of being.
Jude looked at Willem and thought about giving him time to process, but Willem appeared far too absorbed in the TV show (a serial drama).
“Hm, I really don’t know,” Willem declared, glancing at Jude. “What do you think, Judy?”
Jude glanced at JB, who was watching Willem intently. After a moment of pretending to ponder an answer, he responded.
"Morphology," then added, as he often did, "I think."
Malcolm spelled the word under his breath, then exclaimed with satisfaction, "Yeah, that's correct."
"Guys," JB started after a few minutes of silence, "Don’t you think it’s weird that these people let us stay here, in their house?"
"Why would it be weird?" Malcolm replied, continuing to note down letters and still visibly irritated by JB's last comment. "People always visit each other's homes."
"But, what if we could be..." JB shrugged, giving a look that tried to appear nonchalant, "...I don’t know, serial killers, art traffickers?"
Malcolm laughed then. "This fucker is still thinking about the painting on the wall."
Jude and Willem exchanged looks and both realized they were thinking the same thing. It wasn’t the first time JB had hinted at stealing paintings from people’s homes.
"I think they're good people," Willem finally said, and all his attention was directed solely at Jude.
Jude smiled then, because Willem, being the kind person that he was, had the intuition to believe that everyone he met was also kind.
"Maybe too good," JB remarked, letting the book he was holding fall onto his chest.
Willem turned back to JB, completely abandoning the TV still playing in front of him, with scenes continuing at a volume just shy of being annoying. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"What?" said JB, almost defensively, refusing to look back at Willem. "It kind of makes you wonder what the deal is."
JB was the first, or maybe even the only one, who had noticed and was at least somewhat uncomfortable with the string of questions Harold had asked at first.
At dinner, when Willem talked about his parents, Harold offered his condolences and a look that seemed genuinely compassionate, then said that he must miss his parents. Although his gaze and entire demeanor were directed solely at Willem, Jude could feel the question as if it were a blade with a new edge, and then saw Harold’s gaze subtly catching his own and holding it there until it became painfully awkward. He lowered his gaze, and when he looked up again Jude caught JB seeking his gaze and giving a subtle, questioning tilt of his head. If anyone else had seen it, they might have thought JB was doing it unintentionally, perhaps even trying to shoo away an insect from his face. But Jude recognized the look immediately. JB had used it before, and it had taken a lot of time and many awkward moments for Jude to understand what it truly meant. Now, he knew for sure that JB's look was asking, Is this guy bothering you?
It was a look never used in their home but always when they were out with other people, people they either didn't know well enough or didn't trust completely.
JB's logic sometimes confused him, like now, because JB had also asked him nearly the same questions and had been just as invasive as Harold had been. Yet, Jude began to believe it was okay as long as it was JB asking the questions, not anyone else, and especially not someone they had just met.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter, right?" said Malcolm finally, possibly fed up with the whole conversation. "Jude's friends are our friends." And he smiles at Jude, small but genuine.
When Harold and Julia returned, he found himself unable to muster the same enthusiasm he had on the beach. He didn't know if he could excuse himself and go to his room, so he stayed there until everyone decided to cook together, or at least to hang out in the kitchen for the evening.
This shift in plans lifted Jude's mood, and he was close to being excited again. He loved cooking and knew he would enjoy the evening cooking with the people he cared about the most. Even though their assistance often got in his way, he loved the domesticity that was finding its way into the atmosphere when they were in the kitchen.
Jude appreciated Harold and Willem's presence the most while cooking, he realized. Harold because, although he often just sat at the table and started conversations or washed the dishes Jude dirtied,
he sometimes tried to get involved. Willem, because despite not being particularly fond of cooking either, had enough experience from working in restaurants to notice when food needed something extra, and why.
Julia wasn’t as interested in the actual food as she was in eating it. Instead, Jude noticed, Julia liked the part about pastries. She wasn’t an avid sweet tooth (at least not to the same extent as Harold), but she seemed interested in the process of making them. At Thanksgiving meals, Julia would always ask Jude how he made whatever he brought to the table—be it tarts,muffins,the velvet cake he knows Julia likes the most—and they would discuss it. Malcolm always seemed a bit uninterested in food preparation or food in general, often complaining about the smell of the cooking and how he didn’t like to carry it himself, so he stayed as far from the kitchen as possible when something was being prepared.
JB would come into the kitchen only to taste whatever Jude was making and keep him engaged in conversation, which Jude could never fully focus on, not while using a knife or mixer. There were times when Willem had to physically drag JB out of the room.
"I took a bite," JB declared, raising his hands defensively while still chewing.
"You inhaled that spring roll, JB," Willem would say, often the one to intervene and suggest doing something else. "Come on, let’s go outside."
Harold, who was standing next to Jude in the kitchen, started laughing, and soon Jude joined in.
He enjoyed all of this, of course, but a part of him knew it was also because of the kitchen itself, the beauty of the atmosphere it represented. Compared to the other houses he had been in, Jude couldn’t draw many comparisons with the house in Truro. Mr. Irvine’s kitchen was all white tiles, an extraordinarily clean and far too cold space, too large, too much to be comfortable.
The kitchen at Batter was the kind found in all the bakeries and restaurants he had seen—plain, simple, and large, with everything around it, from the cabinets and sink to the muffin pans, made of a silver.
The kitchens in the apartments he stayed in were usually small spaces that could just as well have been called living rooms, often shared and used by more than five boys.
Jude didn't mind sharing, but he hated waking up in the morning to see the dishes piled up in the kitchen. He hated seeing dirty water with bits of food and things he couldn't decipher in the sink after trying to clean up. He hated the mess on the floor, similar to crumbs left by mice. This was one of the many reasons why Jude hoped, but more importantly worked hard enough, to be able to one day buy his own place.
In contrast, here at Harold and Julia's, everything appeared before him like one of those kitchens he used to read about in fairy tales. Not quite like those luxurious model homes in magazines, which he knew Malcolm also appreciated as much as he did, but the kitchen had an element that none of those images could ever have: it felt truly lived in. And not just lived in, but also loved.
Jude could see how someone had carefully chosen every object, thinking for some time before deciding if it fit or not.
The kitchen appliances matched, in an oddly cool way, the tiles throughout the house. The mixer had a lime green handle, as did the blender lid and the food processor. The plates and bowls also had different patterns painted on the surface and inside the porcelain. Entire sets were never plain white; they always had some sort of design painted on them, whether it was small blue flowers scattered unevenly on the edges of the bowls or slices of lemon painted on the larger plates meant to be placed in the center of the table.
His favorites were some small plates meant for cakes and cookies, to be served with tea. These had a long, golden branch printed on them, resembling a vine curling in on itself at one end, with leaves, flowers, quinces, and grapes hanging from its branches—all in a warm gold that, when touched by the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, appeared even more luminous and almost glittering.
Some of the mugs matched the dishes, but others were quite random. Jude had found a mug, in the characteristic style of roadside tourist shops, that said in red letters, Best Law Professor. Another was a mug he had seen Julia drink coffee from, which had a picture of a brown tabby cat printed on the front.
That evening, neither Jude nor Harold spoke as much as they had at previous meals. Instead, Malcolm appeared more talkative now, clearly in a better mood, and he cast occasional glances at JB, as if checking to see if he was about to say something inappropriate or to contradict him. JB, on the other hand, seemed tired of the verbal sparring with Malcolm, and he listened quietly, eating and looking content.
Willem, seated beside Jude, must have noticed this dynamic, as they exchanged glances while Julia and Malcolm's conversation played in the background like a distant sound.
At one point, Jude noticed Harold looking at him, as he looked at Willem, just before he became aware of Harold’s gaze. Although unsure if this actually happened, Jude lowered his head again to his plate, feeling both embarrassed and saddened by the events of the day.
Jude had to resort once again to the tricks (which he once considered clever but now seemed stupid and unhelpful) he used to avoid answering questions. He felt the wall he had built around himself, which he had called security, crumbling as if Harold’s arrival in his life was meant to cause the disintegration of the bricks.
After laying his head on the pillow, he looked at Willem beside him, long asleep, his chest rising in slow, calming motions. He let himself be carried by the security of another person's breathing next to him, though only a few centimeters away, and tried not to think about anything, even though it had never worked for him before.
In his mind, the question what will I have to give in return? always surfaces, and never will I have to give something in return? because he was certain that he would have to, but he didn't know what it would be.
Surely, Harold and Julia wouldn't tell him now, while all four of them were there, but there would come a time when they would, and he would have to endure whatever he was asked to do, far too ashamed and guilty to refuse.
The next day is their last day in Truro, and even JB, who is usually quiet when it comes to such things and everyone could bet he can’t wait to go back home, now seems to regret it a little. Their departure is not something spoken about, but they all know and feel it in the air of the room whenever plans are discussed, and someone always has to add, "But we don't have time for that."
So they spend their last day more outside than inside, skipping both breakfast and lunch. It's too hot outside for any of it. They walk a lot, and then Jude feels like he has spent the entire vacation walking—walks from the house to the nearest landmark (a small rock brought by the waves), walks around the house, and then to the main road that is kilometers away and then the way back, much more tiring and slow.
Sometimes Harold joins him too, and they cover short distances of a few meters back and forth. They walk where the water wets the sand, getting their feet wet, and they take this route multiple times. Sometimes they also talk, but their conversations are quiet, with all his attention, and Harold's, he believes, being focused either on the sun in the sky or about to set, or on the water threatening to come over them with each movement.
They never talk about serious things during these walks, only addressing topics related to school, work, books, or events that happened in those days. A few times, Jude has caught Harold stopping in the middle of a question, then reformulating another, much more banal one. If Jude notices the hesitation that was once so energetic in its certainty, he refuses to speak again. He feels sad when these things happen during their walks, and sometimes Jude misses the distractions he could apply when they were in Harold's office.
There were always books to drop and doors to close behind him and bathrooms to go to. Here, the only thing is the house, but it is at a distance from where they are, and he could never reach it—not the way he walks, not limping—inside before Harold catches up with him.
So he is forced to stay there, praying that each time Harold aimed to bombard him with questions, the same elusive thought that had made him hesitate during past dinners and mornings would flash through his mind like a hawk swooping down on its prey, causing Harold to falter.
Other times, Malcolm would come by and Jude appreciated his presence the most. Malcolm, who at 25 years old already walked with his hands behind his back like a grown man and sometimes had the same look of an old soul returned from the front, weary of other people (mostly JB) and wanting to take a walk in the dense forest he considered home (actually, the beach he had seen for the first time that summer). So the three of them walked on that last day, with Malcolm being quieter than Jude, which even surprised Harold, who, although he didn't know them as well yet, might have guessed something about the kind of people they were presenting themselves to be.
From that last day, which had passed so quickly, Jude remembers one vivid thing. All six of them were scattered between the kitchen and the living room, constantly changing their spots and only passing through the hallway connecting the rooms.
In the kitchen, they were making smoothies, each one stating which fruits they wanted in theirs, while a very popular movie, which apparently everyone except Jude loved and was looking forward to re-watching, played in the living room.
When he returned to the kitchen after hearing Julia call his name, he found Harold and Willem there, standing and looking at some glasses they were arranging. At one point during that brief moment, Harold must have said something because Jude noticed the way Willem suddenly stopped moving, his face slightly furrowed as he listened to what Harold was saying.
After that, Willem seemed a bit annoyed and taken aback by what he had heard, but not in the real sense of the word—perhaps more pretending to be upset because at one point he responded to Harold, and they all laughed, even Jude, who wasn't paying attention to what was being said but was always aware of the movement around him.
Harold then put his arm around Willem's neck and, applying a bit of force, lifted his hand to ruffle his hair, while a happy Willem laughed softly and tried to break free.
He then looked on, questioningly, trying to understand what was happening in front of him. Was this a gesture that men made with boys when trying to be playful? Had someone done this to Willem before? It must have been so, as no one seemed surprised or worried about what was happening in front of them.
Jude was scared of how Willem would react to the situation, at least at first, because how normal was it for someone, especially someone older than you, who wasn't a woman, to come up to you, put their shoulder over your neck, and ruffle your hair? But then he remembered, embarrassed and ready to leave the room, that of course, yes, this was just a game and that Harold never intended to hurt Willem.
The house is a mess before they leave, and Jude suddenly feels both sad and responsible for it, so he starts tidying up. At one point, Julia finds him arranging items on the coffee table in the living room, things they had put down the night before while they were watching the movie and having drinks. "Jude? What are you doing?"
He looks startled, as if he were caught taking something that didn't belong to him. But Julia is everything but accusing "No, please. We'll take care of it later. Don't you need help with packing instead?"
JB is crying that he can't find his camera somewhere in the back, though Jude doesn't remember him bringing a camera or even needing one. Jude sees Harold helping Willem put some of the luggage into the back of the car, and then their long conversation outside.
Harold came into the guest room and, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, spoke to Jude, who was trying to fit the two books he had brought into his already full suitcase. Jude remembered the research he still needed to do for one of the chapters in Harold’s book and assured him that he would send it the next day. Harold, being Harold, told him not to rush and to take his time.
They didn't say goodbye right then, but Jude could sense that Harold wanted to.Still, neither Harold nor Jude made any further effort to do so. Anyway, they knew they would see each other the following Wednesday in class and later in Harold's office. The atmosphere there would be much more formal, almost painfully heavy, and Jude would be grateful for the sense of security the place provided.
Malcolm is the calmest of them all, almost accustomed to this kind of situation, and they find out, to their surprise, that he had packed the night before. Now Malcolm tries to see if he can help, but when he learns that there’s nothing to be done for them, he takes one last tour of the house, then heads to the beach to enjoy the cool breeze that has started to blow. It was comforting to see him like that, and soon Jude's mood shifts to a better one as well.
At the front door, they exchanged their final words for the day, each of them saying goodbye individually and as a group. Malcolm managed to appear quite friendly, in a warm way, as he did so; Willem seemed to have known Harold and Julia for much longer than Jude had; and JB, who had begun treating Julia (who was just as delighted by this behavior and even encouraged it) like a sort of second lost mother—a comical sight compared to the formality he showed Harold.
They make promises to see each other on Thanksgiving Day, and so it will be. Jude doesn’t know it then, but most Thanksgiving Days, along with some of the most significant days in a person's life—though not specifically in Jude's life—will be spent with Julia and Harold. Getting the job he wanted, finally graduating, promotions, Christmases, and July 4ths—all will be spent with the people he has come to love
Jude hugged only Julia, a habit he had picked up starting from their second meeting, and he was the last one to get into the car.
After Julia let him go, she held his hand a moment longer. The three of them, with Harold standing next to Julia, a hand on her back, looked at each other. No one said anything, and although Jude felt his cheeks flush from the heat, he managed to keep his gaze on them. Harold was the one who finally broke the silence, "You boys drive safely." Then Julia added, "Write to us when you get there."
Julia's words made Jude want to turn back and hug her again, with her hands that always went to the back of his head, as if to protect him, reminding him of Ana, even though she had never made that gesture.
But he didn't do it; instead, Jude got into the car and closed the door gently, feeling more emotional now than he had in the past three years combined.
JB and Malcolm are in the front, with the latter driving, while he and Willem sit in the back seats. They are all quiet and tired, until at some point halfway through the drive, JB turns on the radio and begins to hum softly, as if to himself, a pop song of which he knows only half the lyrics.
Jude smiles at this, turning to Willem to see what he knows will be there: his own reflection mirrored. Instead, he notices with fondness and a bit of regret that Willem has long since fallen asleep. Seeing this, Jude leans his head against the car window until the bumps in the road create a movement similar to waves, and Jude finally rests his head on Willem’s shoulder, who struggles to stay awake. Jude closes his eyes.
For tomorrow, he will have to write thank-you letters to Harold and Julia, he will have to get up in the morning and repeat the entire process of living that he had almost forgotten during these two days. Again, he is reminded of how the shortest moments, the most insignificant ones, somehow manage to slip into his mind and dominate more than the big and constant ones.
But he doesn't think about that, not now, when he has finally managed to understand and be part of one of the common and normal experiences that boys his age have. He finally falls asleep, with the sun still shining and warming both him and Willem, when the only certain things beside him are the solid shoulder holding him together and JB's soft murmurs.