“And look at this, Jude,” Julia had said, linking her arm through his, and showing him the celadon-glazed dish on the hallway table, which had been broken for as long as he’d known them, the shards that had snapped off its side permanently nested in the bowl and furred with dust. But now it had been fixed, and washed and polished.
“Wow,” he said when presented with each new thing, grinning idiotically, happy because they were so happy. He didn’t care, he never had, whether their place was clean or not—they could’ve lived surrounded by Ionic columns of old New York Times, with colonies of rats squeaking plumply underfoot for all he cared—but he knew they thought he minded, and had mistaken his incessant, tedious cleaning of everything as a rebuke, as much as he’d tried, and tried, to assure them it wasn’t. He cleaned now to stop himself, to distract himself, from doing other things, but when he was in college, he had cleaned for the others to express his gratitude: it was something he could do and had always done, and they gave him so much and he gave them so little. JB, who enjoyed living in squalor, never noticed. Malcolm, who had grown up with a housekeeper, always noticed and always thanked him. Only Willem hadn’t liked it. “Stop it, Jude,” he’d said one day, grabbing his wrist as he picked JB’s dirty shirts off the floor, “you’re not our maid.” But he hadn’t been able to stop, not then, and not now.
By the time he wipes off the countertops a final time, it’s almost four thirty, and he staggers to his room, texts Willem not to call him, and falls into a brief, brutal sleep. When he wakes, he makes the bed and showers and dresses and returns to the kitchen, where Harold is standing at the counter, reading the paper and drinking coffee.
“Well,” Harold says, looking up at him. “Don’t you look handsome.”
He shakes his head, reflexively, but the truth is that he’d bought a new tie, and had his hair cut the day before, and he feels, if not handsome, then at least neat and presentable, which he always tries to be. He rarely sees Harold in a suit, but he’s wearing one as well, and the solemnity of the occasion makes him suddenly shy.
Harold smiles at him. “You were busy last night, clearly. Did you sleep at all?”
He smiles back. “Enough.”
“Julia’s getting ready,” says Harold, “but I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes,” says Harold, and picks up a small leather box, about the size of a baseball, from beside his coffee mug and holds it out to him. He opens it and inside is Harold’s watch, with its round white face and sober, forthright numbers. The band has been replaced with a new black crocodile one.
“My father gave this to me when I turned thirty,” says Harold, when he doesn’t say anything. “It was his. And you are still thirty, so I at least haven’t messed up the symmetry of this.” He takes the box from him and removes the watch and reverses it so he can see the initials engraved on the back of the face: SS/HS/JSF. “Saul Stein,” says Harold. “That was my father. And then HS for me, and JSF for you.” He returns the watch to him.
He runs his thumbtip lightly over the initials. “I can’t accept this, Harold,” he says, finally.
“Sure you can,” Harold says. “It’s yours, Jude. I already bought a new one; you can’t give it back.”
He can feel Harold looking at him. “Thank you,” he says, at last. “Thank you.” He can’t seem to say anything else.
“It’s my pleasure,” says Harold, and neither of them says anything for a few seconds, until he comes to himself and unclasps his watch and fastens Harold’s—his, now—around his wrist, holding his arm up for Harold, who nods. “Nice,” he says. “It looks good on you.”
He’s about to reply with something (what?), when he hears, and then sees, JB and Malcolm, both in suits as well.
“The door was unlocked,” JB says, as Malcolm sighs. “Harold!” he hugs him, “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”
“I’m sure Harold’s never heard that one before,” says Malcolm, waving hello at Julia, who’s entering the kitchen.
Andy arrives next, and then Gillian; they’ll meet Laurence at the courthouse.
The doorbell rings again. “Are we expecting someone else?” he asks Harold, who shrugs: “Can you get it, Jude?”
So he opens the door, and there is Willem. He stares at Willem for a second, and then, before he can tell himself to be calm, Willem springs at him like a civet cat and hugs him so hard that for a moment he fears he will tip over. “Are you surprised?” Willem says into his ear, and he can tell from his voice that he’s smiling. It’s the second time that morning he’s unable to speak.
The court will be the third time. They take two cars, and in his (driven by Harold, with Malcolm in the front seat), Willem explains that his departure date actually had been changed; but when it was changed back again, he didn’t tell him, only the others, so that his appearance would be a surprise. “Yeah, thanks for that, Willem,” says Malcolm, “I had to monitor JB like the CIA to make sure he didn’t say anything.”
They go not to the family courts but to the appeals court on Pemberton Square. Inside Laurence’s courtroom—Laurence unfamiliar in his robes: it is a day of everyone in costume—he and Harold and Julia make their promises to each other, Laurence smiling the entire time, and then there is a flurry of picture-taking, with everyone taking photos of everyone else in various arrangements and configurations. He is the only one who doesn’t take any at all, as he’s in every one.
He’s standing with Harold and Julia, waiting for Malcolm to figure out his enormous, complicated camera, when JB calls his name, and all three of them look over, and JB takes the shot. “Got it,” says JB. “Thanks.”
“JB, this’d better not be for—” he begins, but then Malcolm announces he’s ready, and the three of them swivel obediently toward him.
They’re back at the house by noon, and soon people start arriving—Gillian and Laurence and James and Carey, and Julia’s colleagues and Harold’s, some of whom he hasn’t seen since he had classes with them in law school. His old voice teacher comes, as does Dr. Li, his math professor, and Dr. Kashen, his master’s adviser, and Allison, his former boss at Batter, and a friend of all of theirs from Hood Hall, Lionel, who teaches physics at Wellesley. People come and go all afternoon, going to and from classes, meetings, trials. He had initially been reluctant to have such a gathering, with so many people—wouldn’t his acquisition of Harold and Julia as parents provoke, even encourage, questions about why he was parentless at all?—but as the hours pass, and no one asks any questions, no one demands to know why he needs a new set anyway, he finds himself forgetting his fears. He knows his telling other people about the adoption is a form of bragging, and that bragging has its own consequences, but he cannot help himself. Just this once, he implores whoever in the world is responsible for punishing him for his bad behavior. Let me celebrate this thing that has happened to me just this once.
There is no etiquette for such a party, and so their guests have invented their own: Malcolm’s parents have sent a magnum of champagne and a case of super Tuscan from a vineyard they partly own outside of Montalcino. JB’s mother sent him with a burlap sack of heirloom narcissus bulbs for Harold and Julia, and a card for him; his aunts have sent an orchid. The U.S. Attorney sends an enormous crate of fruit, with a card signed by Marshall and Citizen and Rhodes as well. People bring wine and flowers. Allison, who had years ago revealed him to Harold as the creator of the bacteria cookies, brings four dozen decorated with his original designs, which makes him blush and Julia shout with delight. The rest of the day is a binging on all things sweet: everything he does that day is perfect, everything he says comes out right. People reach for him and he doesn’t move or shy away from them; they touch him and he lets them. His face hurts from smiling. Decades of approbation, of affection are stuffed into this one afternoon, and he gorges on it, reeling from the strangeness of it all. He overhears Andy arguing with Dr. Kashen about a massive new proposed landfill project in Gurgaon, watches Willem listen patiently to his old torts professor, eavesdrops on JB explaining to Dr. Li why the New York art scene is irretrievably fucked, spies Malcolm and Carey trying to extract the largest of the crab cakes without toppling the rest of the stack.