by Marcus Lopes
“Closure.” Malachi weighed this up, trying not to laugh, and stood. “And do you have it now? Closure, that is.”
“No,” was Cole’s snappish response. He looked at Malachi for a long time, wanting to touch Malachi, and then Cole abruptly turned away, rushing into the foyer and stabbing his feet into his shoes.
“There’s something you need to know,” Malachi said urgently as he watched Cole grip the door handle. Malachi made his way over to Cole and, staring down at the ceramic tile floor, said, “About that night we were supposed to meet for —”
“I didn’t come here for an explanation.”
Malachi was silent. Perhaps Cole had not come for an explanation but Malachi felt that he owed Cole something, some fragment of truth. Malachi did believe in truth, that truth existed — he had to believe that otherwise wasn’t he conceding that Zach was right, life is hell? Malachi lifted his gaze, his face long and dour, and blinking rapidly as tears swelled in his eyes, said, “I lost a student that day. He killed himself, and…”
It was odd to Cole to feel so much joy at seeing Malachi overcome with emotion, and Cole knew in that moment that he was lost, that he would have to touch Malachi, draw him into an embrace, console him. The force took over Cole completely, made his body limp, tingling with a joy so pure and, when Cole went over to Malachi and pulled him into an embrace, he was more certain than ever of his feelings for Malachi. No matter how silly it sounded, how foolish of him to even imagine, Cole was in love with Malachi, unable to resist such a delight. In that moment, Cole wanted to take Malachi into bed again, but was content, deliriously happy in fact, to just stand there holding Malachi and rubbing his hands up and down Malachi’s back. When they pushed themselves apart, Malachi wiped the tears off his face and motioned Cole back to the sofa. Cole poured more scotch into their glasses.
Malachi explained the history of Zach Brennan, and his involvement therein. His body racked with grief, repentant, his fluttering eyes could not prevent the large tears from streaming down his face. Malachi could not, in the time that had passed, expunge Zach Brennan from his heart and mind. Zach had somehow succeeded, where others had failed, to penetrate Malachi’s heart, open the door to love.
Cole listened attentively, at times reaching out to hold Malachi’s hand in a gesture of reassurance, and understanding, but Cole was wounded at hearing that Malachi’s love for Zach had not remained spiritual, and Cole was aware of the significance of this.
Perhaps it was the scotch, or the feeling of having confessed a great burden, or both, but Malachi felt as though he had stepped fully into truth, embraced it — that he was in the process of gluing together all the disconnected fragments of a cracked mirror. Calmly and soberly, like the police officer who had given him the news that had changed his life forever, Malachi told Cole about his relationship with Taylor Blanchard, and how it had ended so tragically. Cole noticed how, even after so many years, Malachi’s eyes glistened each time he spoke Taylor’s name. It was a love Cole knew to be so pure, so true — the type of love that Cole had been searching out his whole adult life. Cole had never experienced that kind of love but he thought it possible with Malachi — a love not created ex nihilo but borne out of a desire exalted in that first moment that they had lain down together, in that holy clinch where Cole had felt such inviolable trust, and where he had hoped the pure light of love had finally displaced the dreary petulant world of one-night stands.
Cole reached for Malachi’s forearm, tugging at it tenderly until he had once again secured Malachi’s hand in his. Cole said, gently, “I wish you’d have told me this sooner, about Zach, that is. I would’ve understood. I mean, I don’t believe you could conceive of life as hell. From everything that I’ve been able to glean from you, I think you believe in good.”
“I believe that good is within us,” Malachi said as he pulled his hand from Cole’s loose grasp. “Our actions make us good, not religion. That’s what makes this hell. We’re not all capable of good.”
“Which brings us back to truth,” Cole said timidly. “We can’t escape the truth —”
“Götterdämmerung.”
Cole looked puzzled. “What?”
Malachi, smiling coyly, said, “Perhaps we can’t escape truth.”
Cole pushed himself off the sofa and had a difficult time keeping his balance. “Bathroom is…?”
“At the end of the hall, last door on your left.” Malachi watched Cole stagger down the hall. The bottle of scotch, which was two-thirds full when Cole had first arrived, was almost empty. Something had shifted. When Malachi thought about Taylor, there wasn’t the usual heaviness that engulfed his heart. Malachi felt at peace, almost ready to believe that everything would be all right.
Cole reappeared in the living room and glanced at his watch before shoving his hands in his pockets. It was almost midnight. “I really should get going.”
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Malachi said as he stood.
Cole took his left hand out of his pocket and ran it through his dark full mane. “I can’t stay here.”
From across the room Malachi stared intently into Cole’s narrow blue eyes. Cole’s eyes gleamed an unremitting desire, a deep longing to be close to Malachi again. And Cole, anxious, dropped his gaze. When Cole looked up, Malachi was less than a foot away from him.
Cole said, “I want to hold you. I want to feel your body next to mine. I’ve thought of you so much since that first night, to the point of demons engulfing me.”
Malachi said nothing, the strong-minded man that he was, obtuse even, used to doing as he pleased.
Cole, his heart beating violently, lowered his head, disappointed by the lingering silence.
All of a sudden Malachi wrapped his arms around Cole’s neck and whispered, “Hold me.”
****
It was morning. Cole was still asleep. Malachi was seated at his oak writing desk in his office, writing in one of his black hardcover notebooks. In the middle of a sentence, Malachi’s hand stopped moving across the page. He stared abstractly at the lined pages of his notebook. What have I done? Malachi of course knew exactly what he had done. One small act — wrapping his arms around Cole’s neck — had changed the mise en scène in ways he had not anticipated. Malachi tried to decipher what force had compelled him to throw his arms around Cole’s neck in the first place. Malachi had been in withdrawal ever since Zach’s death, and the withdrawal was one of emotional sobriety — that if Malachi could avoid Cole Malcolm then he could avoid falling for him.
In laying down again with Cole — smooth breast to smooth breast, and then waking up next to him with peace of mind, healing of a broken spirit — Malachi was able to put a name to this giddy feeling quietly awakening within him, happiness. It was here, in the present and not some unknown entity belonging to that unforeseeable future to which Zach Brennan alluded, the hell Zach spoke of that tormented him, and from which Zach had to escape. And while Malachi continued to chastise himself for failing to tell Zach how he felt, and when there was so much that didn’t make any sense to Malachi, the future was still, shall we say speculative, but not as daunting or dire.
Malachi closed his notebook and placed it in the top drawer of his desk where he kept it. He made his way down the corridor and into the kitchen. Cole stood outside on the balcony wearing only his jeans drinking a cup of coffee, and the bright sun, bouncing off his olive skin, lit up the blue sky. Malachi stood looking at Cole’s broad bare shoulders and back, and smiled. Malachi moved gingerly about the kitchen, trying not to be detected, quietly opening the cupboard doors. He was impressed, and slightly offended, that Cole had managed to brew a pot of coffee — rummaging through the cupboards and fridge in search of the coffee grounds and filters. Malachi glanced at Cole, who was still standing with his back to him, and felt relief. Malachi went to the fridge and pulled out the egg carton and opened a package of bacon.
Cole took a deep breath as he stared out over Claredon, the balcony above Malachi�
��s shielding his eyes from the bright morning sun. Holding his coffee mug in his left hand, Cole could feel the slightest trembling of his body. “There’s no need to be nervous,” he thought. “You have him hooked now.” But Cole wasn’t really sure as to who had done the hooking. When Malachi had wrapped his arms around his neck, Cole had felt the joyful pang of love. And the sex that followed was tame yet vocal, passionate yet tempered — and Cole reaching up for Malachi’s face and almost crying, “I love you.” There was no denying it. Cole knew this was the scent of endurance of real love.
The aroma of bacon spread onto the balcony, and Cole spun around, giddy, glad to see that Malachi had finally appeared. Cole pushed open the balcony door and stepped into the kitchen. He and Malachi smiled sheepishly at each other. Cole set his coffee mug down on the counter and hugged Malachi from behind, pressing his lips to Malachi’s neck and holding them there briefly. Cole caught himself wanting to tell Malachi that he loved him, but did not, and stepped away as Malachi started to vigorously beat the eggs with the large stainless steel whisk.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Malachi said as he poured the egg mixture into the frying pan.
“Famished,” Cole said, smiling, for the first time in his life feeling as though he had, at long last, found his way home.
Part II
Ten
Malachi said, “I shouldn’t be here,” and let out an affected sigh. Seated at a table in the Starbucks that was connected to the Chapters on Fanshawe Park Road East, in London, he stared out at the people roaming up and down the aisles a short distance away, and worried that someone might recognize him. The only possible way to ensure that his deception would not be discovered was for him to remain anonymous, cloaked. He lifted the paper cup to his mouth and sipped his latte. Why did I come here? But where else could he have gone? He had to get away, he had to stop the chaos unfurling all around him. Malachi had to escape Cole Malcolm.
“Don’t be absurd,” Chad said, and lifted his foot under the table to nudged Malachi. “It’s good to finally see you again.”
Malachi, avoiding direct eye contact with Chad, smiled faintly, and set his cup back down on the table. Malachi, too, was happy to see Chad again. Malachi had thought about Chad often, and how Chad, he now realized, had left a substantial mark on his life. Malachi looked at Chad, who was shoving about the surface of the table the pieces of the brown paper napkin that he had torn up. Malachi had not had the chance to study Chad that first time they were together, but now, four years later, he could assess Chad’s beauty. Chad’s narrow brown eyes that sparkled, with as much of a hint of mystery as mischievousness, and the playful wink each time he made a joke, which could also be interpreted as a slight. “He hasn’t changed,” Malachi thought. When Chad’s gaze found Malachi’s, Malachi looked away.
“I wonder if he’s ever thought about us?” Chad wondered, and pushed his chair back from the table. His body tingled as he thought about that night, standing on the sidewalk a short distance from Urbane, and kissing Malachi for the first time. Chad had felt buttery inside, and had worried that Malachi would have noticed that he was trembling. Chad was caught up then, as he was now, in a terrible jumble. Malachi had been, temporarily, a type of saving force. How was it that in the few hours they had spent together that Chad felt as though they had known each other a lifetime? Malachi had left an unexpected mark on his life, and Chad had lacked the courage to pursue him — to perhaps release them both of the burdens that had weighed them down.
Chad, smirking, stood and made for the exit. He held the door open for Malachi, who was slow to stand but eventually followed. “He’s so beautiful,” Chad thought, watching Malachi pass by him. Outside, the intense June sun beamed down on them, and as Malachi went to get into Chad’s beige Sunbird, Chad grabbed him by the hand. Chad opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. What could he say? And would it make a difference or was it already too late? Malachi’s wide-eyed look of discontent, fierce, piercing, cut through him. He let go of Malachi’s hand and slinked off to the driver’s side.
They did not speak to each other as Chad steered the car towards his Baycliffe Place home. It was hard to say if the silence was necessary for them to survive the current situation, or if it were Malachi’s way of censuring Chad for the absolutely criminal public display of affection. Was it criminal? How many times would they sacrifice themselves, their dreams, their hopes, because they were caught, too afraid to follow their heart’s desire? Could they call that living? Or was that hell? Chad sneaked sidelong glances of Malachi, looking to repent, apologize, but he had to touch Malachi. Chad had to be certain that this was real and that he had not imagined it all.
Chad navigated the car into the driveway and said, “Here we are.” He shifted the car into park and turned off the engine. He unfastened his seatbelt and jerked the key out of the ignition at the same time. He got out of the car and stretched, clasping his hands together high above his head and raising himself up on the tips of his toes. Then he slammed the car door closed. When he realized that Malachi was still in the car, he moved around to the passenger side and opened the door. He squatted down and placed his hands on Malachi’s thigh. “If you really don’t think you should be here then I’ll take you back to the train station.”
Malachi held his gaze to Chad’s hands on his thigh and said, “No, no, I’m fine.” Malachi undid his seat belt and got out of the car. But Malachi wasn’t fine. His world had been completely turned upside down and he did not know what to do. Why had he fled to Chad? That was a mystery he was still trying to solve. It seemed the natural thing to do because Malachi thought of Chad as being outside of his current mess when in reality Chad was thoroughly mixed up in it. And Malachi needed time to get himself together, think things through.
Carrying Malachi’s heavy suitcase, Chad led the way towards the house, turning around every so often to see if Malachi was following him up the winding stone walk. Malachi had come to him, and that was significant, or so Chad thought. This time Chad had to find a way to hang on to Malachi, for them to stay connected. In the aftermath of their one-night stand, they had tried to integrate themselves into each other’s lives. They wrote long e-mails to each other detailing the struggles they faced, the difficult choices they had to make. They encouraged each other, supported each other like two lovers separated, each trapped in some foreign land and unable to escape. The e-mails were exchanged at rapid intervals, and despite their hopelessness and despair, were filled with a tenderness that warmed their hearts. They were becoming close, too close perhaps. Malachi, who had told Cole about his liaison with Chad, had realized that being with Cole meant letting go of Chad. Malachi rationalized that it was best for both of them because their worlds were still too chaotic to let them blossom. Chad reluctantly agreed.
Chad entered the guest bedroom and set the suitcase down on the floor near the foot of the bed. He turned to Malachi and said, “Stay as long as you like.”
Malachi stood near the bed, his eyes roving and his heart racing. His breathing was heavy, his head spinning as he took in his new surroundings. It was a cozy room with light blue walls and one window that did not provide much light. A blue, white and green quilt covered the queen-size bed that took up much of the room. Malachi reached out and touched his hand to the oak-stained bureau that looked like an antique but he couldn’t say for certain that it was. Did it have a history? Where had it been before being brought into this room? Had it been wounded? He couldn’t see any scratches.
Chad took a step forward and cupped his hand to Malachi’s shoulder. “Anything you need, anything at all, just ask.” He backed out of the room and stopped at the door. “Get settled in. I’ll start dinner.”
When Chad had left, Malachi closed the bedroom door. Malachi sat down on the bed, his hands clasped together on his lap and his head bowed, and cried. He cried for his long dead mother whom he had still not managed to forgive, for his father who had not said a word to him even as he lay dying, for Cole and
the home that was in ruins, for Zach Brennan because Malachi feared he was living in the same hell, and for himself for being weak. He fell back onto the bed and curled up in the foetal position, his face covered in tears, his lower lip quivering. He wanted to pray, but the words fell silent. All he could do was hope that this pain would pass, and that he would find a way back to himself, and to the life he imagined.
****
Chad lay on his side, his left arm underneath the pillow supporting Malachi’s head. He dragged the index finger of his right hand down the centre of Malachi’s chest to his belly button, and then Chad placed his hand flat against Malachi’s stomach. Can he not see how much I love him? Will there ever be a right time for us to be together? Chad contemplated Malachi, who lay with his head cocked to the left, his eyes moist. “Are you all right?”
Malachi bolted upright. “Not really.” He hid his face in his hands to prevent Chad from seeing him cry. This was all wrong, him and Chad together again. It had to be wrong, didn’t it? He uncovered his face and stared at the counterpane bunched at his feet. “I need to go,” he said, and bounced out of the bed. In the darkness of the room he searched for his clothes that Chad had peeled off him in a frenzy and dressed. He made his way back to the guest bedroom and sat down on the bed. All Malachi wanted was a time-out. He wasn’t looking to even the scorecard. What would that serve? But now he and Cole were on the same playing field, or were they? He knew what would happen when he stepped on the London-bound train. Malachi thought he could be stronger, able to resist the temptation, but Chad had power over him for some reason — or maybe they had power over each other.
Chad, wearing his blue boxer briefs, came into the guest bedroom and sat down on the bed next to Malachi. He reached for Malachi’s hand, and when tears flooded Malachi’s sad brown eyes, Chad released Malachi’s hand and wrapped his arm around Malachi. Malachi rested his head on Chad’s shoulder. Chad said, “Oh, Malachi,” and kissed the top of Malachi’s shaved head. “Talk to me.”