by Marcus Lopes
Malachi jerked his hand away. He did not look at Sarah as he reached for his pen and then started shuffling his papers. Sarah stood, collected hers and Malachi’s dirty dishes, and disappeared into the kitchen. We all makes mistakes. It was hard for Malachi to believe that Cole’s indiscretion was a mistake. The way Malachi had found them — Jeremy’s hands caressing Cole’s body, and Cole half-undressed — it suggested more than a mistake, something more premeditated. Of course, Cole had been pressuring Malachi to leave the college and find a job closer to home, and that was straining their relationship. Malachi sometimes felt that Cole didn’t trust him, especially on the wintery nights when Malachi crashed at Shane’s. And the following day, when Malachi arrived home, Cole looked at him with distrust, and was often distant and aloof. The love that appeared as a symbol of romantic poetry, and had swept them off their feet, had deflated. They shared a bed, ate meals together but lived like roommates who knew that they would not renew the lease together.
Was their love salvageable? The betrayal felt too great, too overpowering to be forgotten. That was the real issue, not forgiveness. How was Malachi supposed to forget that scene? And what about Chad? Malachi went to Chad willingly, knowing the risks. Was that an act of self-destruction? Cole had hurt Malachi, who had underestimated the weight of that hurt. Did that somehow justify Malachi sleeping with Chad? If Malachi and Cole’s love was salvageable, Malachi would have to tell Cole the truth and hope for understanding. Malachi wanted to believe that their love was strong enough to endure this, to survive, but now he wasn’t so sure. Malachi, resting his elbows on the table, cupped his hands to his face and wished he would wake up from this terrible, terrible dream.
****
Malachi stood at the edge of the gravel path and watched the ducks scurrying to feast on the pieces of bread being tossed at them by a silver-haired man. It was the same silver-haired man he had seen every day since he started taking his afternoon constitutionals through the Public Gardens. Malachi observed the man reach into a plastic bag and wait for the ducks to quack before throwing the breadcrumbs high into the air and laughed as the ducks chased after them. Other onlookers in the park speculated about the man’s mental stability, but the man’s child-like three-cornered smile seemed to reveal a great sense of joy. Why did feeding the ducks have to make the man crazy?
The morning fog had lifted, but the sky was overcast, the air warm and humid. Malachi had left the house shortly after Sarah, who ran her own communications firm from her home, but she had gone to the gym for one of the fitness classes she attended daily. Malachi clasped his hands behind his back and followed the gravel path towards the main entrance to the park at the corner of South Park Street and Spring Garden Road. Outside the park, Malachi stood at the intersection waiting to cross the street and found himself surrounded by couples — young and young-at-heart — holding hands, exchanging kisses. Malachi breathed deeply, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his sunglasses as he tried to check his tears.
“Hello,” Malachi said into the phone, out of breath.
“I’m running a little late,” Taylor said, his voice throaty with frustration. “I should be home by five-thirty.”
Malachi said, “Take your time,” and laughed. Taylor was always running late.
“Is there anything you need me to pick up for dinner?”
“No. Well, that depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Your mother called,” Malachi said quickly, as if expelling some evil force.
“What’s the crisis this time?” Taylor sounded defeated.
“No crisis. She’s invited us over for dinner.”
“Tonight? I’ll call her and tell her we already have plans.”
“Taylor…” Malachi’s voice was stern, disciplining. “That’s what you told her last week.”
Taylor sighed. “Fine. But we’re not going to say anything about the house, not until —”
“You and your mother have too many secrets.”
“How long have you known my mother? You know what she’s like, and I’m not in the mood for the great inquisition. ‘A house? How can you afford a house? What bank would give you a mortgage? I still don’t know how you afford the car.’ My ears are ringing already.”
“She might surprise you.”
Taylor chuckled. “You know I love you.”
“Now you’re changing the subject,” Malachi said, irritated.
“Yes, I am,” Taylor said bluntly. “I’ll be home soon. We can talk about it then.”
Malachi said, “Yes, we will.”
Taylor said, “See you soon beautiful man,” and hung up.
It was about three weeks after the publication of his second novel and Malachi was excited about their recent purchase of the Regent Street home in the section of town known as the Glebe. Their search for a place to build a home together had spanned several months. The houses they looked at were either too small, too expensive or too far outside the heart of the city. Roaming from room to room, they immediately found themselves inhabiting the house, imagining the dinner parties they’d throw, wrapped up in each other on the sofa in the spacious living room, manoeuvring about the kitchen as they cooked together. There were enough rooms for both of them to have separate offices, and everything they’d need — shops, banks, coffee shops — were just minutes away on foot.
In the living room at their current third-floor apartment on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by boxes for the upcoming move, Malachi smiled as he thought about Taylor and how he had let himself be swept off his feet. There was something about the way Taylor, when he came home and searched Malachi out, made Malachi weak in the knees. It wasn’t just the crushing embrace, but the way Taylor looked at Malachi, as though Malachi was the only person in the world that mattered. Malachi loved the tenderness of Taylor’s touch, his spirit of generosity, his dedication. Yet, Malachi sometimes thought that Taylor was too harsh on his mother, who liked to dote over her only son. Taylor had a mother who talked to him, loved him unconditionally. It was a relationship that Malachi thought should be nurtured, cherished, held on to at all costs. He had lost his mother before she even died, and he had simply let go of them — mother and son — without making any attempt at reconciliation. Malachi knew Taylor felt smothered at times by his mother’s attention but Malachi hoped that Taylor would not let that separate them, that Taylor and his mother would find a way to cohabitate.
Malachi, still clutching the phone in his hand, sat down on the chocolate-brown leather sofa in the living room. He placed the phone on the coffee table cluttered with books that he had yet to pack, and fell backwards into the sofa. While he had been caught up in his studies, and trying to shape a career in the civil service that he wasn’t sure he wanted, Taylor Blanchard had come into his life and turned everything upside down. Taylor encouraged Malachi in his writing, the champion of his work. When Malachi searched for meaning in a world filled with competing priorities, and paralysed by long periods of self-doubt, Taylor reminded Malachi of his worth. Malachi needed that gentle handling now, after having read a “harsh” review of his novel and unable to shake the criticism. Malachi longed for Taylor to walk through the door. Malachi needed to be wrapped up in Taylor’s strong arms, held safe, and reminded that this was real.
Yes, this was real. Malachi and Taylor were building a home together, anchored in a bountiful love — they were each other’s lifeline. Malachi remembered the hot August night when they had moved into their apartment, sitting at the kitchen table sharing a bottle of white wine. They had moved themselves, with the help of some friends, and were exhausted. They sat across from each other smiling sheepishly, like they were on a first date, uncertain as to what to say or what the future would bring. Taylor reached across the table and took Malachi’s hands in his and said, “I love you very much.” Malachi’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt himself trembling. It was the first time someone had told Malachi that he was loved.
When Malachi realized that t
he CD had stopped playing he glanced at his watch. It was quarter to seven, and Taylor should have been home by now. Malachi picked up the phone and dialed Taylor’s office number at the university only to get his voice mail. There was no answer. Then he called Taylor’s cell number. Again, no answer. Malachi waited a few minutes before trying Taylor’s cell phone again, and there was still no answer.
Malachi moved off the sofa and paced the living room, his arms folded across his chest. He stopped in front of the living room window and stared out into the street hoping to see Taylor making his way towards their building. All he saw was a white police cruiser rolling slowly down the street. He backed away from the window and, navigating the boxes spread about the room, made his way back to the sofa. He was about to sit down when there was a knock on his apartment door. He rushed into the foyer, and as he opened the door, said, “I was starting to worry,” and froze. He stared down two grim-looking police officers, who gave their names and asked to enter the apartment. Once inside, the shorter bald male asked how Malachi was acquainted with Taylor Blanchard.
“He’s my fiancé,” Malachi said, with a slight edge. They had talked about getting married.
“There’s been an accident,” the police officer said, and detailed the incident involving a vehicle and two pedestrians crossing the Somerset and Elgin Street intersection. They were still trying to piece together what had happened, but Taylor had succumbed to his injuries en route to the hospital.
Malachi’s head was spinning, his eyes moist. He repeated, “No, no, this has to be a mistake.” He demanded to see the body, to prove to them that they were talking about some other Taylor Blanchard, but the officer cautioned against such action. “But we talked on the phone. He was on his way home.” Tears raced down Malachi’s cheeks.
Malachi didn’t want to believe that Taylor was gone, but when the other officer asked if there was someone they could call to be with him, he knew that it was true. Malachi’s legs gave out and the officer closest to Malachi managed to catch him before he hit the floor. And in a matter of seconds, Malachi’s whole life had been completely changed, turned upside down. The great love of his life had been plucked from his grasp. He had never loved someone so completely, had never felt so at home. Taylor had been Malachi’s saving force — a constant source of encouragement, a believing mirror to his writing — friend, lover, confidant. Malachi could hardly believe that he would ever love that way again.
Malachi ambled up the walk to Sarah’s house and jammed the key in the lock. He pushed open the door and entered the silent house. He sat back down at the dining room table and stared at his papers. Tears crept into his eyes. Why was he thinking about Taylor? What about Cole? Wasn’t there something good in their love, something that had also sustained him? Maybe. But Malachi wasn’t sure if he was ready to let it all go when it had taken so long for them to come together.
He had jokingly called it Weekend Love — Cole hurrying to get out of the office early on Fridays to beat traffic on his way to Claredon one week, Malachi rushing to catch the four o’clock bus to Toronto the next (he did not like to drive in downtown Toronto). During the weekends they spent in Toronto, Cole toured Malachi around like a foreigner visiting the city for the first time. They visited the CN Tower and had dinner at 360, taking in the magnificent view as they revolved around the city skyline. Cole showed Malachi the shops along the harbour front, inspecting some of the artist studios, and took him to several theatrical performances at the Royal Alexandra and the Princess of Wales theatres. Cole threw lavish dinner parties to introduce Malachi to his friends, show him off like a long sought-after trophy. In Claredon, they woke up early on Saturday mornings and went to the Claredon Market, where they bought fresh fruits, vegetables and herbs for the dinners they would cook together. In the afternoons, they would go for long walks along the Kawarthas trails and talk about their future plans as if they knew the other would be somehow implicated. At night, they surrendered themselves to each other, and in those crushing embraces everything about them — and the world — felt magical, and right.
Cole lay beside Malachi, staring dreamily into the mesmerizing brown eyes that made his body tingle. Cole traced his index finger down the side of Malachi’s face and held it to his lips. He said, “I love you,” his eyes moist.
Malachi smiled. “I know.”
Cole drew Malachi’s body into his. They stayed like that for a long time, Cole running his hands up and down Malachi’s smooth back. Cole placed his mouth to Malachi’s ear and said, “Move in with me.”
Malachi had never imagined that he’d be able to love someone the way he had loved Taylor Blanchard, but Cole Malcolm had won Malachi’s heart. He said, “I’d like that very much,” without really thinking about what it would mean.
After being on his own for so long, after the devastating loss of Taylor, Malachi found living with Cole to be awkward, almost unnatural. Waking up to Cole and going to bed with him filled Malachi with joy, as if Malachi had somehow recaptured a forgotten dream. But Malachi didn’t feel at home in Cole’s house and struggled to somehow implant himself there. Malachi had managed to bring in a few pieces of his modern furniture, but most of it went into storage as it clashed with Cole’s more Victorian furnishings. Of course, Malachi needed a space to write, and was offered the smallest of the bedrooms as his office. He immediately covered the beige walls with a gun-metal grey that created a boldness he thought the rest of the house lacked. He placed his long desk against the window that offered a view of the perennials in the backyard; and when Cole was tending to the perennials and Malachi was at his desk, Malachi easily became distracted, imagining Cole sprawled on the bed, naked, and climbing on top of him. Malachi tried to keep his desk clear of everything except whatever he was working on, his laptop, a dictionary, a thesaurus and the photo of his mother. He squeezed all of his bookshelves into the small space, which felt cramped, stuffed, yet it was the only place he had to call his own.
Three and a half years of living with Cole, and the joy of being in love, of being loved — all of that was at risk not only because of what Cole had done, or because of the commute between Claredon and Toronto that left Malachi exhausted. It was at risk because somehow they had already lost each other. It was easy for Cole to suggest that Malachi look for a teaching position closer to Toronto, but Malachi loved teaching at Claredon College, and he loved his students who, each year, seemed to him brighter and more talented than the students who came before them. Malachi had once suggested renting a small apartment in Claredon where he could crash on wintery nights instead of at Shane’s, and Cole stopped short of accusing Malachi of wanting a secret love nest. And when Malachi talked about them moving together to Claredon, and Cole finding a new job, there was a deafening silence in the room.
Malachi picked up his pen. Malachi loved Cole, but he was no longer certain that he was in love with him. Sometimes he wondered if he lacked the concept of forgiveness. Christianity held forgiveness in the highest of esteem, Buddhism offered no assurance of forgiveness. If Malachi could not forgive, did that mean that salvation would elude him?
Malachi said, “Oh, dear God, help me. Help my unbelief.”
Fourteen
There was an eerie silence in the house. Cole was in the bedroom tugging at the zipper of his navy blue suitcase. His head felt heavy, not out of drunkenness but because he had been unable to sleep most of the night, checking the time it seemed at regular twenty-minute intervals. He grabbed his wallet off the mahogany chest of drawers and shoved it into his back pocket. As he went to pick up his watch, it slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor. He bent over and picked it up, his hands shaking so much that he could not do up the clasp. He sat down on the bed and breathed deeply as his entire body trembled. It took him two more attempts before he was able to do up his watch. Then he stood, jerked the suitcase off the bed and made his way downstairs.
Cole set the suitcase on the ceramic tile floor near the front door and went to the
kitchen to grab his keys from the hook next to the back door. He then roamed the lower level of the house to make sure all the lights were off, and that the windows were closed and locked. He came into the living room and stood in the middle of the room, slipping his hands into his pockets and enveloped in loss. He couldn’t say for certain how he had ended up here, once again alone in a world in which he felt conflicted. Cole longed to be back in Malachi’s arms, imagining them cuddled on the sofa. It was then, when Malachi held him, that Cole felt safe in the world, protected. But it was those times when they were huddled on the sofa that Cole was filled with great joy, and a sense that anything was possible. Sometimes they’d listen to music, exchanging coy smiles and gliding their hands over each other’s bodies without speaking — often the preamble to a passionate lovemaking session. Other times they talked energetically about their dreams, like when they had first met and everything was new again, held in the promise of love.
Cole sighed as he pulled his hands out of his pockets, and wondered if he and Malachi could truly find their way back to each other. Or was it too late? The house, without Malachi, was empty and nothing but a shell of Cole’s former life. This was supposed to be home, their home together, but Cole had been unyielding in his stance to keep things as they were — the décor, the furniture placements — anything that would have upset the order he had created for himself and had come to depend on. How could Malachi have possibly felt at home?
“Christ!” Cole drew his hand down over this mouth. “It’ll be all right, it just has to be,” was his silent prayer as he made his way into the foyer. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, and as he was about to pick up his suitcase the doorbell rang. His grip tightened on his keys, which dug into his skin. He held his gaze to the front door but didn’t move. He wasn’t in the mood to face down some door-to-door salesman or religion pusher. The doorbell sounded again. He drew in a deep breath and held on to it a moment before blowing it out through his nose. He took a step forward, opened the door and then staggered backwards. “What are you doing here?” he asked, staring down Jeremy Turner.
