by Marcus Lopes
Taylor said, “Your name sounds familiar.”
Malachi shrugged. “A real household name.”
Taylor tried to stifle his laugh but could not. “I meant I’ve seen it somewhere before.” He took the last swig of his beer and set the bottle down on the buffet that served as a makeshift bar. “How did you end up here tonight?”
“I was invited,” Malachi said bluntly.
Taylor shook his head. “Are you friends with Jay or Glen?”
“Neither. I came with my friend Dan. He’s friends with Glen and Jay.”
“I’m Glen’s cousin.”
“Does that earn you some kind of door prize?” Malachi sipped his wine, briefly surveying the room. He was in the dining room, sandwiched between the buffet and the dining room table. Voices from the living room carried into the room, trying to usurp the conversations around him. Dan had convinced Malachi to come to the party. “You spend too much time studying or writing,” Dan had told Malachi, and then added, with an edge, “bookworms don’t get laid.”
A rugged-looking redhead pushed his way past Taylor, who took a step forward, Taylor’s bare arm brushing against Malachi’s, and said, “I figured it out.”
Malachi looked quizzically at Taylor. “Figured out what?”
“You had a short story published in Prism international.”
Malachi coloured. “Earlier this year, yes.”
“I liked it,” Taylor said. “You’re a good writer.”
“Thanks.”
Taylor touched his hand to Malachi’s shoulder. “I’m going to grab another beer from the fridge. Can I get you something else to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Malachi glanced at his watch. “I need to get going soon.”
Taylor’s narrow green eyes widened with alarm. “But it’s not even eleven…”
Malachi finished his wine and placed his glass on the dining room table. “I’m not much of a partier.”
“Come with me.” Taylor placed his hands on Malachi’s sides and gently pushed Malachi forward through the crowd, passing through the living room to the front hall and then into the covered front porch. Taylor spun Malachi around, and they stood facing each other. As Taylor went to speak, three rowdy guys burst into the porch and rushed into the house. When the front door closed, Taylor said, sheepishly, “Would you have breakfast with me tomorrow?”
“Taylor, I’m not —”
“Oh!” Taylor glanced away and could feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“No, no, I am, it’s just that —”
“You mean, Dan, he’s your…”
Malachi licked his lips, and after letting out an exasperated sigh, “What time and where?”
“The Elgin Street Diner at nine?”
Malachi nodded. “I’ll see you then.” He made for the screen door, pushed it open wide and disappeared into the warm September night.
When Malachi showed up at the Elgin Street Diner the next morning, Taylor had already arrived and had secured a table. Taylor offered a generous smile as Malachi approached the table. While Malachi was experienced in the mechanics of sex with men, he had not had much success in terms of love. His relationships, if he could label them such, were short-term, lasting two or three weeks, at most a month. He was tired of what turned out to be nothing short of a booty call — not that he was looking for love, just something different, something that didn’t feel so cheap. Malachi was attracted to Taylor, there was no denying that, but Malachi’s earlier experiences had created low expectations. Malachi was convinced that this would simply be like all of his other relationships.
Malachi quickly discovered that there was something different about Taylor Blanchard. Taylor made Malachi laugh. Their breakfast together that morning lasted three hours, and after leaving the restaurant they made their way to the canal and ambled along the pathway towards Parliament Hill. When Taylor looked at Malachi, Malachi felt as though he was being penetrated. Taylor’s dreamy green eyes delved into Malachi’s core. Finally, someone understood Malachi. It was an odd feeling, one that both excited and terrified. Was it possible that Malachi was wrong, that there was such a thing as a kindred spirit, soul mate? Did love really exist, and did it exist in Malachi?
They sat down on a bench along the pathway, looking out at the Ottawa River and feeling an inner peacefulness. They were not distracted by the cyclists or runners speeding by, or the walkers and their energetic conversations. They were held in a trance, swept up in the majesty of something new and wonderful. Taylor searched for Malachi’s hand, held it briefly, and let go. They looked intently at each other, and smiled.
Malachi was the first to break the silence. “I need to go and work on a paper. It’s due next week.”
“I see,” Taylor said, disappointed, and dropped his gaze.
“What about dinner tomorrow, at my place?”
Taylor slowly lifted his head, a broad smile on his face. “I’d love that.”
They stood and retraced their footsteps until they reached the staircase that led to Wellington Street. They raced up the staircase like school children, laughing giddily. At the top of the staircase, panting, Malachi reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it Taylor. Malachi said, “Call me later and we’ll sure things up for tomorrow,” and, after a moment, turned and walked away.
“Can I get you anything else?” The server had approached the table cautiously, offering a look of concern.
“I guess just the bill,” Malachi said. It was almost eleven, and Shane, Cory and Eric had still not shown up. The server returned a few moments later and handed Malachi the bill. He scribbled his name and room number on the bill, took another sip of coffee and then made for the elevators in the lobby.
****
Shane said, “You’re awfully quiet,” and flipped the engine. Malachi didn’t respond. Shane fastened his seatbelt and then nudged Malachi in the side.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
Shane gave a wryly laugh. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“Him, who?” Malachi said, annoyed.
“Cole.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Taylor.”
“You haven’t mentioned him in a long time,” Shane said, surprised.
“I know,” Malachi said, and let his head fall back against the headrest as Shane navigated the car towards the Gardiner Expressway. Taylor Blanchard was all Malachi could think about now.
Taylor had shown up for dinner wearing a dark sea blue ringer T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans. Taylor handed Malachi a chilled bottle of Masi Bianco Delle Venezie. Taylor had asked his cousin Glen to contact Malachi’s friend Dan in order to find out what type of wine Malachi preferred. They savoured the hints of ripe apples and bananas while enjoying the spaghettini with speck, arugula and cream that Malachi had prepared. Afterwards, they sat on Malachi’s frayed wool-upholstered blue sofa with a white floral pattern, listening to a compilation CD of classical music. They sat in silence for a long time until Taylor shifted his body, leaned forward and pressed his lips against Malachi’s.
Taylor’s tongue darted about Malachi’s mouth, and Malachi initially trembled but he quickly slurped up the sweetness of Taylor’s breath. Malachi slipped his arms around Taylor’s slender body and drew him close. Taylor’s hands were quickly inside Malachi’s T-shirt, gliding across Malachi’s chest, feeling his nipples. Malachi’s body stirred, and he pushed Taylor away, looking at him with hard eyes as he breathed deeply, as if trying to catch his breath. Malachi stood, reached for Taylor’s hand and pulled him off the sofa, and then Malachi led Taylor to his bedroom where they collapsed onto the bed.
It was a passionate love that they embraced wholeheartedly, like two people who had known each other a lifetime. They met in-between classes for coffee, studying together, recounting the day’s events, helping each other prepare for exams. Malachi would sometimes read an excerpt from the novel
he was writing or a short story he had recently penned. Wherever they were, laughter and smiles abounded, and it was contagious. People studied them as if they were hoping to somehow tap into that energy. When their leases were up at the end of the following summer, they decided to move in together, and found an apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Glebe.
Time passed, and their love for each other held steady. They argued at times, like any couple, but never raised their voices to each other. Their friends and family who surrounded them, witnessed their love, remarked in awe how they still seemed to be in that “honeymoon period” four years on. Malachi was almost nineteen when they met, Taylor was twenty-three. After finishing his degree, Malachi initially joined the public service as a policy analyst with Heritage Canada, and by that point Taylor was well into his doctoral studies. Malachi had had one novel published, and his second was set to appear in bookstores just before Thanksgiving. It was the happily-ever-after life that so many dreamed of and that they had somehow managed to stumble upon.
“Is dinner still on next week?” Shane hollered to Malachi, who was making his way up the walk to the entrance to his condo building.
“Of course,” Malachi said without looking back. Inside, he waited for the elevator and glanced back to see that Shane had driven off. In that moment Malachi felt alone, the same feeling that swarmed his body after hearing that Taylor was dead. Malachi felt as though he could barely breathe. His eyes were moist. His life was again in ruins, and he doubted he could find a way out of his current mess. He was terrified. A bell sounded, the elevator doors slid open and he stepped in, a black, heavy weight settling on his chest as the elevator doors closed.
Nine
Shane came into the dining room and said, “Wow,” at the sight of the vase full of red roses, the centrepiece on the dining room table. “Those are beautiful.” He went over to the table and leaned forward, inhaling the sweet fragrance and then read the card: Thanks for a wonderful night! C. He moved to the window, staring out at the bright blue sky, and said, “So you and Cole ended up working things out?”
“Not exactly,” Malachi said soberly, moving the vase from the table to the buffet behind him. “The roses are from Chad.”
Shane, scrunching his eyebrows, turned to Malachi and offered a disapproving look. “You mean that guy you met standing in line?” Shane followed Malachi into the kitchen, waiting for a response that did not seem forthcoming. He had lost track of Cory, Eric and Malachi that night, himself swept up in the promise the evening held, and distracted by a handsome admirer with whom he had ended up spending the night. When Shane returned to his and Malachi’s hotel room in the morning, he was surprised that Malachi was not there and that neither of the beds looked as though they had been slept in, which of course they hadn’t. He took the plateful of food Malachi handed him and returned to the dining room, and as he sat down at the table, said, with a hint of disbelief, “I never imagined him as your type.”
Malachi appeared in the dining room a short time later and sat down opposite Shane. Spreading his napkin across his lap, Malachi smiled faintly at Shane and said, “Bon appétit.”
Their adventure to Toronto — Shane’s successful love interlude, the sheer debacle of Malachi’s encounter with Cole and his unexpected yet passionate liaison with Chad — it was all a week behind them as they enjoyed the first full day of their summer break. The roses, which had been delivered to the college, were a surprise to Malachi. The music, the drinking, seeing Cole — that combination had pushed Malachi over the edge, sending him straight into Chad’s muscular arms and Malachi again found himself breaking his rules for one-night stands. He and Chad had lain in bed together, wrapped up in each other, talking about their friends, careers, dreams and adventures in love. They were both thoroughly mixed up with people who “loved” them but for whom they were unsure of their feelings. The few hours they had spent together was like a time-out, hoping that it would, like adding chlorine to a swimming pool, wipe out any bacteria that might harm them. Yet it only seemed to muddy the waters further.
Shane raised his wineglass, and looking into Malachi’s sad brown eyes, said somewhat cheekily, “To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” Malachi said as he lifted his wineglass to Shane’s, the wineglasses clinking softly, and set his wineglass down without taking a sip.
It was Malachi’s turn to cook the celebratory feast to mark their survival of yet another year at the college. He had spent the day cooking — sauerbraten, potatoes Anna, green beans with toasted almonds and asiago cheese, and strawberry-rhubarb pie. They lacked the spirit of celebration, and looked tired, worn. The legacy of Zach Brennan had left an imprint on their lives that could not be exorcised. Malachi chewed slowly. Are there really such things as new beginnings? Was it possible to begin again, pretend like nothing ever happened?
Life happened, brandishing an overabundance of experiences that lifted Malachi high, held him there, and then sent him tumbling. Zach Brennan and Cole Malcolm were the most recent and colourful happenings in a city where he had fled to and had hoped to begin again, remake himself and his life after a dramatic and devastating love affair.
It was during his year as the writer-in-residence at Ryerson University that Malachi had become acquainted with the tall, blond, debonair Patrick Knowles, a young scholar of the eighteenth century English novel. With the success of his second novel, which had garnered him a nomination for the Giller Prize, Malachi had also acquired “celebrity” status. Landing the position of writer-in-residence was as much a coup for him, then twenty-four, as it was for the university. Malachi’s first encounter with Patrick Knowles, on the day that he had been formally presented to the members of the English Department, had been awkward. Malachi was young, some had said too young to be able to handle such a position and the associated responsibilities. Patrick, then thirty-one — who had recently joined the department himself as an assistant professor — had anticipated Malachi’s arrival with misgiving, and jealousy. Patrick’s work on Daniel Defoe had received modest attention, and to have someone like Malachi in the department, with such commercial success, reignited the sparks of doubt Patrick had about his own career. He had written copious amounts of prose, packed away in desk drawers and boxes, that he had never published. He had once submitted a novel for publication for which he had received an impersonal rejection letter and that had left him wounded. And so, when Patrick was introduced to Malachi, he nodded slightly before walking away without saying a word.
After the meeting several of the professors headed to the University Faculty Club for drinks, and both Malachi and Patrick were in attendance. Malachi, shepherded around the room by Ann Dunn, the chair of the department, shook hands with the other faculty members she introduced him to, and Malachi accepted their praise of his work even if he could not say for certain that they had read it. The room was spacious, with large round tables around which comfortable-looking cushioned armchairs were placed. People seemed to gather near the bar and few were seated at the tables. All of the servers were wearing black dress pants with a black vest and a white tuxedo shirt with a black bowtie. When Malachi was able to free himself from Ann Dunn, who was hanging on to him like some first-rate door prize, he meandered to the far end of the bar and stood near a window, drawing back slightly the green damask curtains only to see the red brick of the building next door.
“Welcome to academia,” the voice boomed, with a hint of sarcasm.
Malachi turned around and stared into the dreamy hazel eyes of Patrick Knowles, who was looking suspiciously at him. Malachi said, “Thanks,” and went to walk away.
Patrick grabbed him briefly by the arm and said, “When they announced you were coming, I read your last novel. I found it… amusing.” He lifted his glass to his mouth, smirking, and took a sip of his gin and tonic. “Not bad writing. I’m not sure it deserved a Giller nomination. Some of the characters seemed a bit predictable.”
Malachi gave a dismissive laugh. “I guess
it was my good fortune that you weren’t one of the jurors,” he said, and then rather harshly, “and where have you published?”
Patrick coloured. His last critical essay that argued the absence of a moral order in Defoe’s Moll Flanders had been rejected, and had sent him back to the beginning, to try and figure out what it was he was supposed to be doing with his life. He had avoided entry into law, like his father had wanted, and had spent a year studying theology, to become a United Church minister, like his mother. The theology had been a diversion, a way for him to dispel what he called “perversion,” but a love affair with a fellow student had dramatically transformed him. Patrick’s lips were pursed in a threatening expression of resoluteness, and staring at Malachi with an unusual intensity of interest, Patrick said, “My schedule doesn’t leave me much time to write. I’m teaching three classes this semester. ”
“I see,” Malachi said smugly.
“I do a lot of research,” Patrick said.
As one of the servers passed by, Malachi reached out and set his empty glass on the tray he was carrying. He slipped his hands in his pockets and said, “It’s definitely been interesting,” and nodded, with an air of irreverence, “enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Malachi…” Patrick turned to follow Malachi, who had taken three paces forward. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I understand you’re also new to the city. This place is a bit stuffy. Let me buy you a drink at the Imperial Pub. It’s where all the students hang out.” He made an attempt at smiling, but it looked more like he was frowning. “And I can give you the scoop on some of your new colleagues. There are a few things you should know.”
Malachi looked warily at Patrick, suspicious of Patrick’s shifting motives. The way Patrick had sneered at Malachi earlier made Malachi feel incidental, an opinion Malachi held of the haggard, toothless man he always saw begging for change outside the LCBO rather than of himself. Now, of course, Malachi was set on decrypting Patrick’s intentions and said, half smiling, “Sure.”
