by Marcus Lopes
“Nothing too bold,” Cole said as he took two mugs out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. One of Cole’s friends had referred Dean, the interior decorator, and Cole wasn’t certain of Dean’s ability as an interior decorator. Perhaps, Cole’s friend was playing matchmaker?
Once the coffee was brewed, they walked through the dining and living rooms, which Cole was most concerned about. Cole wanted these rooms, where he expected to do most of his entertaining, to be warm and welcoming.
“That sofa has to go,” Dean said, playfully as if he were teasing his lover but absolutely serious about his assessment.
“I know,” Cole said ruefully and lowered himself onto the deep, oversized sofa that he loved and that had suited his old open concept loft.
Dean set his portfolio on the coffee table and his coffee mug on top of it, and then sat down beside Cole. “Really, you don’t need me,” Dean said, and stared intently at Cole. “The detail in the woodwork is amazing. The furniture is simply too big for the space. Remove the clutter and the space will open up. Perhaps a beige or light green on the walls, and with the right accents it’ll be a picture out of Martha Stewart Living.”
Cole laughed. “You make it sound so easy.”
Dean smiled, and coloured. “I can help you pick out some paint colours if you want, and recommend a painter if you don’t want to do that yourself.”
“That would be a big help,” Cole said, and sipped his coffee.
They looked at each other, with an intentness that both alarmed and excited them. Cole, pursing his lips, was the first to look away.
“I should go.” Dean moved his coffee mug onto an envelope that was on the coffee table, and stood, holding the portfolio against his chest.
Cole stood, and carrying his coffee mug, followed Dean to the door. “How much do I —”
“The initial consultation is always free,” Dean said, and opened the front door. He stepped out onto the front porch, and turned to look at Cole. “How about dinner some time?”
“Dinner…”
“Perhaps Saturday?”
“Saturday, I, um —”
“I’ll call you Friday and we can set a time and place,” Dean said, a smile spreading across his face, and made his way down the walk to his car parked behind Cole’s.
Cole watched from the door as Dean climbed into his car and drove away. Cole closed the door, and as he went through the house to the backyard, he realized that he was no longer certain of his feelings for Malachi. Perhaps dinner with Dean would clear Cole’s mind, allow Cole to see the question of Malachi more clearly. All of a sudden, Cole felt sorry for Malachi and at the same time sorry for himself. He sat down on the back steps and focused his attention on the perennials that needed tending to. That, at least, was something he could do. A heavy weight settled over him, and the thought that perhaps it was no longer possible to be happy, for happiness to endure. His mind was in a complete state of turmoil, yet Cole could not see himself with Dean. No, that was something quite different from the way Cole imagined himself with Malachi. Dean would be a distraction, an imperfect means to an end. “Christ!” Cole, checking his tears, ran his hand over his face. “This is all an illusion,” he thought. “We’re imaginary, unreal because we’re always letting ourselves be ‘claimed’ by something — shapeless countries, an unquiet mind, other people. We have been dreamed up by a truly cruel, vindictive god.”
****
Loosening his tie, Cole, still in crisis, moved deeper into the silent house and turned on the lamps in the living room. The welcoming silence, when he had first stepped into the house, was the worst, like shackles, holding him hostage to a lonely, insufferable existence. The boxes scattered about the house somehow attested to that insufferableness, the absolute chaos framing his life. Cole had tried to organize the mess before Dean had stopped by but quickly gave up on that. Dean was the little bit of excitement that had wiggled itself into Cole’s day. And the day had passed like so many of the days that came before it — Cole holed up in his office reviewing various reports and attending meetings where no decisions were made. Dean had left a message proposing a time and place for their meeting on Saturday, and Cole had responded by e-mail to mask his lack of enthusiasm. Cole wanted to back out but felt obligated to say yes. This was not how he had imagined himself being “submissive,” and wrote that he was looking forward to their meeting.
Cole went into the kitchen but didn’t turn on the light. He opened the fridge and stared blankly into it for a short time, and then pulled out the potato salad from the day before and the glass pitcher of lemonade, and pushed the fridge door closed with his foot. It was on days like this, when Cole felt alone in the world, when he was not sure how he would possibly survive another day, that Cole missed his brother, Paul. “I hope you’ve found peace,” Cole thought as he poured himself a tall glass of lemonade. He opened the cupboard above the fridge and took out the bottle of vodka and splashed a generous amount into his lemonade. While it was late it was still light out, and he carried his lemonade and the potato salad out to the backyard and set them down on the table on the back deck. He went back into the house to grab a fork, and undid and removed his tie, setting it on the island counter, before returning outside.
Seated at the round oak table on the low-rising deck attached to the house, Cole ate slowly, and the sounds around him — his neighbour’s kids yelling and splashing about in their pool, the distant muffle of sirens, the hum of the pump of his own swimming pool — did not seem to register. There was a time when, on a night like this, Cole would have called his brother and they would have done something together — grab a bite to eat, catch a movie, meet at Harley’s for a beer and a couple of games of billiards. It was on a day like this, when Cole needed to feel connected to someone, that he relived the grief of his brother’s death, mourned his brother like he did the very first time.
Cole’s eyes were moist as he thought about Paul. Cole and Paul shared a deep bond, as if they were twins, which they were sometimes mistaken for, and that made them laugh. They were almost the same height, Cole a little taller and the eldest of the two by only eleven months. They had grown up sharing a room, and each other’s clothes, until Cole entered high school, when their parents had bought an older, larger home across the street in which they each had their own room. In high school, they were both members of their school’s rowing team and had twice captured the men’s double scull title in the provincial championships. They did not seem to get along with their siblings, who seemed jealous of their close relationship, or resentful that they couldn’t “break” it. They were, in many ways, inseparable.
Even after Paul and Cole stopped rowing together, and Cole had left home to live closer to the University of Toronto campus, they managed to stay connected, meeting for lunch or dinner or drinks a couple of times a week. They always knew where the other was, so their parents and siblings would call one of them when trying to track down the other, and that made Cole smile. Cole was proud of Paul. Paul had become a lawyer and the gatekeeper of Cole’s many secrets. Cole, at fifteen, had first come out to Paul. At the time, Cole was in love with their blond, buffed neighbour, Todd. Todd did not know this of course. Paul had laughed at first. Then, taking in Cole’s sombre look, Paul had said, “Oh…” with reserved acceptance. Paul was ambivalent about the whole homosexual question. Then it was Paul’s turn. Paul was diagnosed with bipolar disorder a few months before his eighteenth birthday, and he went straight to Cole with the news. There had been a number of “incidents” that their parents had chucked up to “adolescent rebellion” and that had been initially kept from Cole, and their other siblings, who were busy with their university studies. Cole had noticed that there were times when Paul seemed nervous, or agitated — completely strung out — but Paul always said that he was fine and Cole, despite certain reservations, took Paul at his word. Perhaps, like his parents, Cole didn’t want to see the truth, or couldn’t, at the time, deal with it.
The sky was dark, the full veil of night in place, and Cole carried the empty bowl of potato salad and his near-empty glass of lemonade into the house. He put the bowl and glass in the sink with the other dishes caked with bits of food. He locked the back door and headed upstairs, turning out the lights and locking the front door along the way. In the bedroom, he sat down on the bed, his hands clasped together and resting on his lap, his gaze held to the floor. Cole had found Paul, and the events of that day were clear and present as if it had happened only an hour ago.
It was odd when it happened, which it did occasionally, that a day or two would go by without Cole and Paul talking to each other. Even when their work kept them chained to their desks or took them out of town, they would send each other an e-mail that said, “Work is crazy. Talk to you soon.” After three days without any type of contact from Paul, Cole had begun to worry. Paul had seemed all right the last time they had seen each other, but Cole could not easily discern anymore when Paul was fine and when Paul wasn’t. Paul’s medication worked well at keeping him “normal.” The silence, however, was too long, and if Paul had had to travel for work, Cole would have been enlisted to check in on Paul’s place, water the plants.
Cole remembered everything about the day. It was a Friday, the air humid and sticky, the sky a bright blue. He had arrived late for a meeting with a client because of an accident on the Gardiner Expressway. When Cole had finally arrived at the office around ten-thirty, he called the Bay Street law firm where Paul worked to confirm their lunch date. Cole was surprised to learn that Paul had simply not shown up in two days, and that nobody knew where Paul was. Cole, panicked and sensing something was terribly wrong, raced out of his office and across town to Paul’s condo. Cole dialled the ring code for Paul’s unit and waited, pacing the small foyer. Cole carried with him the spare key to Paul’s condo but not the swipe card for the street-level entrance to the building. When there was no answer Cole rapped on the glass door, and the concierge lifted his head and stared quizzically at Cole. After a time, the concierge lazily made his way over and opened the door.
“I’ll call up to Mr. Malcolm’s unit,” the concierge said, and made his way to his desk at the far end of the lobby.
“I did that,” Cole said, curt.
“Just followin’ procedure,” he said.
Cole went and pressed the elevator button, a bell sounded, and a short time later the doors slid open, and he stepped into the small, bright space.
“Hey!” the concierge called after him. “You can’t…” and slammed down the phone, bolted from his desk and jumped into the elevator with Cole just before the doors slid closed.
They stared intently at each other. The concierge, who Cole determined was not more than twenty-two, stood with his arms folded and his lips pursed. Cole had disregarded the concierge’s authority, and the concierge was pissed.
The elevator doors opened, and Cole bolted down the corridor to Paul’s unit and banged on the door. “Paul!” He banged on the door again. When there was no answer, Cole pulled out his keys and fumbled through them for Paul’s, and jammed it into the door. He turned the key and pushed down on the door handle almost simultaneously, and then pushed on the door, which opened slightly and stopped. The door chain lock was in place, preventing him from opening the door any farther.
Cole looked hopelessly at the concierge. The concierge shrugged indifference. Cole took a step backwards and kicked at the door that was slightly ajar.
“Hey!” The concierge placed himself between Cole and the door before Cole could kick at it again.
“Get out of the way,” Cole said sharply, curling his fingers into fists. The concierge stepped aside, and Cole kicked at the door eight more times before the door finally flew open. Cole moved forward cautiously into the dark space. All the blinds had been drawn and there was an odd smell that he could not discern. He searched for a light and roamed from room to room calling out, “Paul,” which bounced off the listless walls to no response. Cole switched on the light in the bedroom. “Christ!” There was a sense of urgency in his voice that was like a call for help.
The concierge, who was standing nervously just inside the condo, made his way towards the bedroom. “Oh! Jesus!” The concierge backed up against the door as he entered the bedroom. Cole was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand cupped to Paul’s cool wrist. The concierge looked at the empty pill bottle on the nightstand and then at Cole. “Is he…?”
Cole nodded and said, “Yes. He’s dead.” He wiped at the tears streaming down his face. “We should call the police.” The concierge raced out of the room. Cole picked up the folded piece of paper with his name on it that was next to the empty pill bottle. He unfolded the piece of paper and read:
Cole,
I don’t seek forgiveness but understanding. You of all people know how I’ve struggled. I’ve tried to not let this illness consume me, be me, take control. But it’s been too much lately, too hard to bear. I can’t go on like this.
P.
The dingdong of the doorbell startled Cole, and he lifted himself off the bed and headed downstairs. Before opening the door, he glanced at his watch. It was quarter past ten, and Cole was not expecting anyone, least of all Dean. Cole did not need another distraction. Cole tried to keep himself busy with his work in the garden and unpacking as he tried to make a home — ways to keep him from thinking about his dead brother or his failed date with Malachi.
“Sorry to bother you so late,” Dean said as he stepped into the house. “But I thought I may have left my sunglasses here this morning.”
“You could have,” Cole said, with a hint of annoyance at the intrusion. And then, in a gentler tone, “Feel free to take a look around,” and stepped aside as Dean moved deeper into the house. Cole followed Dean, who made his way into the living room and then the dining room and finally into the kitchen. Cole felt tired, filled with an overwhelming emptiness that made his eyes moist, and eager for Dean to leave.
Dean hunched his shoulders. “Maybe I left them at Mrs. Callaghan’s. I went there after here, and I remember having them.” Dean looked at Cole, who was blinking magnificently. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, fine,” Cole said as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Allergies.”
“Terrible time of year for them.” Dean had not left his sunglasses behind but was desperate to see Cole again. The sunglasses were a silly excuse that Cole had seen through. Dean quickly rubbed his hand across his crotch to adjust his growing hard-on. “I should go.”
Dean had taken two steps forward when Cole grabbed him by the arm, their eyes locked onto each other. Thoughts about Paul and Malachi swirled frantically about Cole’s mind, and he could not say for certain what force had compelled him to take hold of Dean. Cole had, of course, when it came to Malachi, consigned love to history. Cole could no longer say for certain whether love was real or if what he so urgently sought was desire. Beyond desire, lust and how criminal to think himself lusting after any man — including Malachi, who still seemed able to possess Cole. Cole loosened his grip on Dean’s arm and let go. They stood there for a time, Cole with his hands shoved in his pockets, Dean’s eyes roving the room. Then Dean smiled thinly and made for the front door.
When Dean had left, Cole locked the door and retreated to the bedroom. Cole undressed and sat on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, tears coming into his eyes. “What am I waiting for?”he wondered, and felt sick with the sense that he was missing something, that he was perhaps trying too hard to image happiness within his imagination. “It’s like I keep missing the mark,” he thought. He moved off the bed to turn out the ceiling light and, in the dark, pulled back the counterpane and crawled under the bedcovers. He lay on his back, his hands clasped together and resting on his chest, staring into the darkness. Cole knew he had to find a way to get Malachi Bishop out of his system. Cole was not functioning or thinking straight. A bad combination because Cole was also horny and, on a night where loneliness was his unwelcome bedfellow
, would have enjoyed having sex with Dean. Cole did not like to use people, and had Dean stayed, Cole would have been using Dean. Cole focused on his breathing, long deep breaths that he pushed out slowly through his mouth, and closed his eyes. He felt more relaxed, as though he was coming out of his extremity, his mind quiet, still. He said aloud, “And this, too, will pass,” repeated like a chant, and after a time fell into a deep sleep.
Five
“Here,” Shane said, handing a square-shaped glass to Malachi. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“Really?” Malachi asked, irritated.
“You look horrible.”
Malachi lifted the heavy glass to his nose and sniffed the peat-smoke scent of what he could say for certain was good scotch. He swallowed the small amount in one gulp, as if that were his regular ritual, and set the glass down on the coffee table. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling visibly as though he was trying to catch his breath. He did in fact look horrible — tired, deflated, withered — because, in the weeks following Zach’s death, Malachi had hardly slept. Malachi tried going to sleep but he tossed and turned all night long, or at least that was what it felt like. And so, while the rest of Claredon slept, Malachi sat at his desk and wrote. All night long. He was now halfway through, he believed, the first draft of another novel. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and cupped his hands to his face. With his eyes closed, he massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
