Freestyle Love

by Marcus Lopes

  At the Imperial Pub, Malachi and Patrick ordered a pitcher of beer, and for a time, sat in silence, surveying the room and avoiding eye contact with each other. Patrick, dressed in a light-grey suit, undid his tie and set it on the table, an act that seemed to suddenly ease the tension between them. They talked about their education, their dreams and the associated successes and disappointments, and their families. It was the talk of new lovers, somewhat animated, at times funny, and they were each surprised at the details of their lives that they so willingly shared. Their looks became more intense, penetrating, as the evening wore on. When the pitcher of beer had been consumed, Patrick suggested a walk, and they strolled around the campus, under the now dark sky, Patrick pointing at various buildings and, like a tour guide, providing obscure historical facts that made him sound important. Patrick led Malachi to the north end of the campus, along Gerrard Street East, and they stood in front of Kerr Hall North, anxious, as if this were the end of a first date.

  Patrick said, “You see, I’m not an absolute cad,” and smiled broadly.

  Malachi laughed. “Well…”

  Patrick jabbed Malachi playfully in the side with his elbow, and then fumbled to embrace him. They kissed, a kiss that had caught both of them off guard, but they readily accepted the andantino tempo of the kiss, the gentleness of their tongues passing over each other, the short gasps for air. Patrick was the first to pull away, breathing deeply, fully aroused and impressed with his boldness. He searched for Malachi’s hand and led Malachi to his condo a short distance away.

  In the days that followed, Malachi was embarrassed and thoroughly displeased with himself. Not even a full year had passed since Taylor’s death, and he had allowed himself to be seduced by another man. He was still grieving the loss, wasn’t he? He felt as though he had betrayed Taylor, their love, their history. He wasn’t ready to love again, to even take the risk. And there he was, with Patrick Knowles, once more, breaking his own rules. He had been intimate with one of his colleagues, who was in fact a stranger, and worried that they had been observed. He was new to the campus, so perhaps no one had recognized him, but they may have recognized Patrick and figured it would be easy to make an association. He tried to avoid Patrick, willing to entrust to the past a night of mediocre sex. Patrick showed up regularly, without giving notice, at Malachi’s campus office. One time, Malachi was with a student when Patrick appeared with a bouquet of flowers that caused Malachi to colour. There was no doubt then that their “secret” was out.

  Flattered by the attention, Malachi agreed to another meeting with Patrick, who had left a long rambling “love letter” in Malachi’s mail slot. Despite the night of mediocre sex, despite the shadow of a love lost that lingered, there was something about Patrick Knowles that intrigued Malachi. Perhaps it was Patrick’s bullheadedness, his willingness — or the appearance anyway — to pursue what he wanted, husband his dreams. Malachi sometimes felt he lacked the courage to do just that. He had let his own first novel sit in a desk drawer for a year and a half after receiving his first rejection letter before he found the courage to submit it again. Passion exploded between them, like an atom bomb, and while they agreed to keep a low profile on campus, it was hard to be discreet about a time that was, for both of them, completely and utterly happy.

  Time passed quickly, and as the end of Malachi’s term as writer-in-residence neared, there was a sense of panic that had emerged. When Patrick was not teaching and Malachi was not writing or appearing at local schools and libraries, they spent all of their time together. It was hard for them to imagine being without each other, but Malachi was in transition. He had moved from Ottawa to accept the writer-in-residence position, and in a bid to remake his life after Taylor’s death. He had not given serious consideration to what he would do afterwards. Returning to Ottawa was not an option. There was too much there that reminded Malachi of his life with Taylor, of what could have been. He had no plans either of staying in Toronto, a city he had come to know well but was not certain if this was where he wanted to settle down, build a home.

  Patrick Knowles complicated it all. In eight months, they had managed to live a lifetime of passion, and while Malachi wanted the feelings of love and acceptance to go on forever, something changed for him. Four months in to his relationship with Patrick, Malachi marked the first anniversary of Taylor’s death. He went to Ottawa, without mentioning it to Patrick, to lay flowers at the grave. The visit to the gravesite rekindled Malachi’s feelings of guilt and betrayal. Malachi was convinced, more than ever before, that he would not love anyone else the way he had loved Taylor. When he returned to Toronto, he saw Patrick differently, not as someone he loved but as a distraction, a weed whose roots had to be torn from the ground, completely severed. And when Patrick alluded to them moving in together, Malachi felt trapped. Being with Patrick, which at one point had felt right, was now anything but absolute as Patrick was also trying to dominate — tell Malachi what friends he could hang out with, monitor his comings and goings at the university, phone him at home late at night to see if he was there.

  A week before the end of his term, Patrick had invited Malachi over for dinner, both of them nervous about the uncertainty of the future that was mindfully inhabiting the present and bringing with it a distressing anxiousness about them. Although Patrick had yet to make such a declaration, he was completely in love with Malachi. It was as though Patrick had found the missing link in a life that still lacked meaning, but Malachi’s presence seemed to dull his need for something compulsory in his life. Patrick continued his work on Daniel Defoe with renewed enthusiasm, and had written a new essay that he had shared with Malachi, who offered a few suggestions that Patrick at first took offence to and later incorporated, and was pleased when it was accepted for publication. No, there was no way Patrick was going to let their relationship end by default. He needed Malachi, and they had to find a way to stay connected, to hold on to love.

  “I talked to Professor Dunn this morning,” Patrick said as he cleared away the dinner plates, “and she seemed open to some sort of teaching position for you. There’s a vacancy coming with Professor Laidlaw’s retirement. He taught one of the creative writing courses and Professor Dunn is looking for a replacement.”

  Malachi, staring abstractly into his glass of wine, said, “I have some news.” He lifted his gaze as Patrick came back into the dining room. “I’ve been offered a teaching position elsewhere —”

  “Where?” Patrick said, with a hint of distress.

  “It’s with Claredon College.”

  “Claredon College?” Patrick’s mouth drooped open, and he cupped his hands to the back of his head and paced the area near the kitchen archway. He stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face Malachi. “What about us?”

  Malachi dropped his gaze. “This is a good opportunity for me.”

  “So that’s it for us then?” Patrick could feel himself trembling.

  Malachi pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I should go.”

  They looked at each other, Patrick’s eyes cool and angry and moist, Malachi breathing deeply as he assessed Patrick’s face tied up in an expression of arrant contempt. The silence cut through them, and Malachi was the first to look away. They had always been able to talk, but the looming end to Malachi’s term created an unexpected wedge, and they avoided talking about what it would mean to them. Patrick believed that they would continue on as they were, but something had changed between them that he had not noticed, and Patrick searched his memory for some sign of that change but nothing stood out. Patrick was, for the most part, level-headed and made clear decisions. When Malachi went to move past him, he grabbed Malachi by both arms and pushed Malachi backwards to prevent him from leaving. The anger cruising through Patrick’s body had conjured up force that he had not known was within him, and Malachi went tumbling to the floor, his head smashing into the edge of the mahogany buffet.

  “Jesus!” Malachi touched his hand to th
e back of his head and then held it in front of him. There wasn’t any blood but the back of his head throbbed with pain. Somewhat dazed, he picked himself up off the floor, stared briefly at Patrick, with disbelief, and bolted for the door. Patrick chased after Malachi, apologizing profusely and, with tears streaming down his face, declared his love. Malachi waved Patrick off as he stepped into his shoes and raced into the corridor.

  The silence was beginning to set Shane on edge, and he asked, “So are you and Chad dating?” before shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

  Malachi said, “No, we’re not dating.”

  “And Cole?”

  Malachi groaned annoyance. “There’s nothing going on, not between Chad and me, not between Cole and me.” His voice trembled. “Christ!”

  Shane set his cutlery down on his plate and looked at Malachi. “I think you should see someone. Don’t look at me like that. I mean a therapist. You haven’t… Zach.You need to deal with Zach’s death and stop pretending like it doesn’t matter, like everything’s all right. It’s not all right. You’re not all right.”

  Malachi sighed annoyance while Shane opined about the benefits of therapy. It was not so much that Malachi was annoyed as he did not want to, in his mind, concede defeat. Amongst Malachi’s circle of friends, wherever he lived, he was the strong one, rational, emotionally stable — the “bad” things in life ricocheted off him without leaving a trace. At least that was the portrait Malachi believed his friends held of him. But Malachi knew, knew, that Zach Brennan’s death had shaken him to his very core. Listening to Shane, who was now freely expressing his views on Cole Malcolm, Malachi tried to check his tears, but when they flowed down his face he pushed himself back from the table, his fork and knife falling to the floor, and stormed out of the room.

  Barricaded in the bathroom, ignoring Shane’s repeated query of “Are you okay?” from the other side of the door, Malachi sat on the edge of the bathtub and cried. He did not moan or groan or wail, he simply let the tears roll down his cheeks, letting himself finally grieve for the young man he had truly loved, and lost. He felt both regret and remorse, and then grief and for the first time in his life like he was not in control. And when the tears stopped, he stared absentmindedly at the floor, his mind blank. After awhile of just sitting there, he stood, splashed some water on his face and then patted it dry with the blue hand towel he had yanked off the towel rod hanging on the wall opposite the sink.

  When he returned to the dining room, Shane had finished eating and was nursing his glass of wine. Malachi picked up his fork and knife, which Shane had replaced while he was in the bathroom, and shoved his cold food around his plate.

  Shane got up from the table and took Malachi’s plate away. “Let’s reheat that.”

  “Don’t bother,” Malachi said, sighing, and stood and started to clear the table.

  They worked in silence, Shane loading the dishwasher, Malachi packaging the leftovers into various Tupperware containers. When that was done Shane topped up their wineglasses with the little bit of wine left in the bottle and carried the glasses out onto the balcony while Malachi wiped down the granite countertops with the dishcloth he had just wrung out over the sink.

  Malachi joined Shane on the balcony a few minutes later and sat down in the wooden deck chair. Malachi lifted his wineglass off the round, unbalanced wooden table that separated the two chairs, and raising his wineglass to his mouth, stared at the horizon, the sun slowly receding as night moved into place. In Shane’s presence, silence never used to bother Malachi, but this time it was awkward, and necessary — a way of absolving Shane’s earlier judgment of his friend. Malachi perceived the suggestion of therapy as a sign that Shane thought he was weak, and that undermined the fantasy Malachi held of himself. Feeling as though his whole world was crashing down around him, Malachi needed Shane to believe in him. It was Shane’s love for his friend that had compelled the suggestion of help, a will far greater than his own that was using him as a channel.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Shane asked of the shrilling phone, which was somewhat muffled since the balcony doors were closed.

  Malachi sat there, sipping his wine, and then there was silence. The phone started to ring again, and this time Malachi pushed himself out of his chair and went inside. “Hello,” he said brutishly into the phone.

  “I’m downstairs in the lobby,” the deep voice announced. “I can’t figure out which ring code is yours.”

  “Who is this?” Malachi asked, indignant.

  “It’s Cole.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Sixty-three.” Malachi slammed the phone down. “Jesus!” The phone rang a third time, and Malachi lifted the receiver just enough to press the six button, unlocking the lobby door, and hung it up again. He paced the kitchen, waiting for the knock on his door, which came as he saw Shane standing up outside.

  Malachi opened the door wide and Cole stepped into the foyer. The door swung closed on its own as Malachi moved into the living room, leaving Cole standing idly in front of the door.

  Shane set his and Malachi’s wineglasses on the kitchen counter and, at seeing Cole, Shane drew in a deep breath. Shane went over to Cole and extended his hand. “I’m Shane. We kind of met at Urbane last weekend.”

  “Cole Malcolm.” He said his name like he was being announced on a game show, and offered Shane a firm, but quick, handshake.

  Shane stepped into his shoes, and looking at Malachi, said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Shane nodded at Cole, pushing past him to reach for the door handle, turning it hard to the right, pulling the door towards him and rushing into the hall.

  Malachi was standing with his arms folded, Cole with his hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Come in,” Malachi said askance.

  Cole, avoiding eye contact with Malachi, his hands still in his pockets, slipped off his shoes and made his way towards Malachi, who stood in front of the sofa. Cole withdrew his hands from his pockets, and not sure what to do with them, folded his arms.

  “Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Cole said, his voice scratchy.

  Malachi disappeared into the kitchen where he poured some scotch into one glass and water from the Brita into the other. He carried both drinks into the living room, handing the glass of water to Cole, and then sat down in the leather club chair opposite the sofa.

  Cole lowered himself cautiously onto the sofa. He set the glass of water down on a square multicoloured glass coaster on the coffee table. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together and stared at the dark hardwood floors. Cole had rehearsed everything he wanted to say to Malachi during the ninety-minute drive to Claredon. Now, face-to-face with Malachi, Cole did not know where to begin. Cole said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about truth,” lifting his gaze to Malachi, “about what you said.”

  “I said a lot of things.”

  “You told me that if I wasn’t happy to do something about it,” Cole said harshly. “So I am doing something about it.”

  “I don’t think they give out the Victoria Cross for that,” Malachi said, impressed by his own wit. “And?”

  “And…” Cole took a sip of water. “I came to see you because I like you.”

  “That’s how you’ve come into truth? Some silly declaration of —”

  “It’s not silly!”

  “You don’t even really know me.”

  Cole made a sort of grunting noise. “Why can’t I talk to you? Why does it always have to be such a chore?”

  They looked intently at each other.

  “Maybe there’s no such thing as truth,” Malachi said ruefully, reaching for his scotch. “We like to think that we can see others in the truth that surrounds them better than we can see ourselves. Yet we never tire of looking into a cracked mirror.”

  “Sometimes we’re offered a glimpse —”

  “But it’s false, a half-truth.” Malachi downed the rest of his scotch. “We need to be able to
see ourselves as a whole, with a totality of being. Look in a cracked mirror and all you’ll see are fragments, disconnected fragments that don’t necessarily form something whole, but we think they do. That’s the illusion.”

  “That’s a bit extreme.”

  Malachi said, “But you can see those fragments, see how they’re disconnected,” looking at Cole, with an air of authority, as if Malachi expected Cole to understand without him having to offer an explanation. Malachi continued, “They’re even touchable as they say in French, like you and I talking here now. But the whole… We try, but we can’t ascend to it. It’s beyond, thoroughly impossible. Maybe that’s why so many people turn to religion.”

  Cole, smirking, said, “You don’t believe in God.”

  “No. Well, maybe.” Malachi yawned. “I don’t believe in religion. More water?”

  Cole pointed to Malachi’s empty glass. “I’d take a shot of that, actually.”

  Malachi went into the kitchen and stared at the bottle of Lagavulin, and drew in a couple of deep breaths. It was true that Cole hardly knew Malachi, but whose fault was that? The door to Malachi’s heart was firmly closed, the key secured in a safety deposit box. Taylor Blanchard, Patrick Knowles and now Zach Brennan — large imprints on Malachi’s life that left him wounded, and unsure of himself, of who he was. Malachi grabbed the bottle of scotch off the counter and returned to the living room, and poured generous amounts into both of their glasses before sitting down again.

  “How can you believe in God but not religion?”

  “I don’t believe in organized religion. Catholicism, Anglicanism, Judaism. If truth is possible, shouldn’t it be possible through God and not through the church? It shouldn’t matter if you’re in church every Sunday or just a couple of times a year. Faith is in the believing and not in the tithing.”

  “I believe —”

  “It’s part of our conditioning to believe.”

  Cole grabbed his glass, gulped the scotch and stood. “I should go.” He took a step towards the foyer and then turned around to face Malachi. “I didn’t mean to intrude by coming here like this. I think I just needed some type of closure.”