Stephanos

Third Place: Friends of the Library 50th Anniversary Short Story Contest
by Nino Jan Pol “NJP” Dosdos

It was late spring in the Quad. The hydrangeas bloomed in full glory and the spires stood proud in their verdigris. Pity this most beautiful season and campus when students are nowhere to be found. More the pity that I have yet to find myself in this very place where I lost him.

I wish I hadn’t met Liam close to 10 years ago. Or, I shouldn’t have sat with him at one of those tables at the basement of Graham Library. In my defense, the start of the Fall term has always been a busy period and it was the only vacant seat. Besides, he snatched the only copy of a book and that was when I knew that we took the same international relations class. He was drawn to the order of institutions and systems, I in the fascinating absurdity of worldly chaos. He chuckled at my abstractions, but the joke is on him. I obtained an A and he fell short of an A-, annoyed why an up-and-coming politician like him must receive such a mark. Then, he read my final paper and moved on. How funny and adorable he was in first year.

My being meek and bashful contrasted his charm and confidence. But he was not cocky like those noisy jocks we met at intramurals. He had a way with words, a certain gravitas that complimented his tall figure quite well. I can still hear his distinct deep voice that reverberated throughout Ignatieff Theatre while auditioning for a club’s rendition of West Side Story. Liam ended up as Tony, of course. More importantly, he knew when and how to listen. For instance, he could sense wherever I’d go and I’d be surprised to see him there, sometimes with Timbits — Melinda Seaman Hall for procrastinating, Stedman Library for serious cramming, and the amphitheatre near Philosopher’s Walk for sentimental introspection. Reserved as I am, I found myself opening up to him. He was everyone’s friend and, for me, confidant. Perhaps, that was why I was comfortable with him. Too comfortable, apparently.

We were Buttery buddies, our rendezvous near the inoperable fireplace. Liam was this synodal figure that everyone would talk to and about while I sat in front and ate my sandwich in peace. After all, he chaired the Trinity College Meeting. No wonder he had the knack to mediate conflicts — no matter how petty like when these two sophomore girls at Larkin made a ruckus after they disagreed over the theme for a club activity. He also took the effort of holding a conversation with all kinds of people, nerds like me included.

He took interest in my passions, too. Liam became my strongest critic with my literary submissions for Salterrae. More than often, he would find my writing to be either too poetic or too prosaic: nothing in between. When I played for the track team, he attended all my events, save for occasions when he had a Hart House debate tournament scheduled at the same time. We found in each other a sounding board, a synchronized heartbeat, a fraternal bond.

Liam stayed in St. Hilda’s and, once in a terrible winter storm, I got invited to his room for the night. I lived in Scarborough, by the way. I couldn’t say no to his gesture; I had no choice. Well, I had. But he whispered that he loved me when we were about to sleep, our bodies huddled together like books in a shelf. He felt so warm, and I could only melt. The world seemed like a snow globe in eternal placidity.

I wish I had buried myself outside in the snowfall instead.

Conversat came and it was a confusing time for us. Liam paired himself with Lisa, who majored in economics and had consistently chatted with Liam at his Buttery “office hours.” Meanwhile, I chose myself as partner that night. Dancing was not for me, but I was in awe with all the glitz and glamour, corset gowns and bow ties floating around cheerily in a magical habitat that is Casa Loma. But honestly, I wanted him to dance with me. Was it too much to ask?

Murmuring sounds approached nearer and I had to stand and scuttle back to the Chapel. Guests were slowly arriving, well-dressed and ceremoniously eager. I saw some familiar faces — Jenny, who I took a Shakespeare course with and was once a good friend of mine; Chris, a most loquacious classmate of Liam’s whose cackling offended the hallowed silence of the space; and, Martha, a disgraced Olympian who has since been running a sports business. I wondered if they had recognized me. Time has estranged us from all familiarity.

Then, I saw Liam, debonair as always. He looked at me like when I asked for that empty seat at Graham — with an informed alertness — only this time, a tad bit shocked. There were no words to say, and I could only reply with a humble grin. I was happy for him, really. But did he not know beforehand that I would be presiding? Or, how about the mere fact that I became Trinity chaplain not a long time ago? He must have really forgotten about me, I hope not.

The music crescendoed and our eyes parted from each other. Processional. Lisa graced everyone with her tulle wedding dress, sophisticated but modest enough for the occasion. I couldn’t picture myself wearing that gown, but I have long imagined a life together with the groom. But this was not a time for delusion, like when Liam suggested that I marry Gina, a common friend, back in our final High Table. He mistook my closeness with Gina as a sign that I was moving on from our tryst. Little did he know that Gina liked Lisa.

They stood in front of me, the quintessential, perfect couple. How privileged am I to officiate their Holy Matrimony! How tragic that the arrows of Cupid have not fallen on my favour! It was an opportune event to celebrate love and marriage and commemorate my unrequited feelings — the former heaven and earth rejoice and the latter only I can commiserate.

They exchanged rings and I permitted the groom to kiss the bride, as if I had a choice. I couldn’t help but produce a tear as I smiled. It was a beautiful moment that God had promised these two. It was a beautiful punishment for me that I should, and could not, have anticipated.

Everyone walked back to the courtyard for the reception, and it was a mistake to have stayed even for a bit. Liam approached me and I extended my hands to congratulate him. Instead, he hugged me saying how great it was to see me. For a moment, I couldn’t move. It was just the two of us in the chapel and I hoped for some divine force that would lock us inside forever. How selfish of me.

His hands now held my shoulder, looking back at me with eyes that gleamed with forlorn satisfaction, that very same eye that I found solace in when I lost my mother a few weeks before Convocation. “Are you happy for me?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t I? Your happiness means the world to me,” I answered and then he dropped his arms and patted down his tuxedo coat. I forgot that I was talking to a married man.

“So, how’s life as a Cabinet Minister?” I broke off the ice.

“Dull and boring like you, minister.”

“Said the Liberal!” I quipped.

We both laughed, then silence again. There ought to be unspoken words never meant to be heard.

“Trinity Chaplain, huh, you’re still eating that Strachan food?” he asked as I accompanied him to the courtyard.

“Better than nothing, and it has been better, too!” I retorted.

He smirked. We were running out of things to say.

“Oh well, I won’t hold you for long.”

“You’re not staying?”

“I wish I could, but congratulations once again and I pray for your happiness and success.” I almost choked. In my state of embarrassment only I was aware of, I took a final glance of the Quad and all its happy people then walked fast towards Hoskin Avenue. Oh, I wish he stopped me and held my hands one more time!

The crab-apples swayed with the breeze, some of its pink flowers surrendering to the ground. In a few months, these flowers and trees will wither and wilt in the struggle of seasons. It will be another year before they reign again with God’s crown and beauty. There is love in patience, and patience in adoration — its highest forms reserved for those most vulnerable. In the battle for love and life, who emerges victor but the one who yields?

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