Passing Speed

Honourable Mention: Friends of the Library 50th Anniversary Short Story Contest
by Johanna Kiik

Madeline has disappeared. Maybe it’s better to say she just isn’t back yet, but I don’t know if that’s true. Her phone keeps going to voicemail when I call, and there isn’t a message before the beep. Maybe I’m just pessimistic.

Fall clutches the trees, and vibrant reds and oranges and yellows swirl in the wind. My window faces the quad, and sometimes in between grading student essays, I pull my chair up and nudge my forehead against the glass. It is cold against my skin. Leaves seem to tumble in slow motion, and if I open my window and stick my hand out flat, they are close enough to catch.

Maddie said we’d decorate our rooms together before she left. We get reduced housing fees by living at Trinity College during our Master’s, but it comes at the cost of switching to new dorms every year, alongside the cost of helping the undergrads. I don’t mind the second part. They’re so nervous. I find it sweet.

My room is a little dim, but wide, with curved ceilings leading to an old-style metal-lined window at the end. I wrench it open as soon as I get in the room, airing out the staleness. I’m not eccentric enough to give my room flourish. I’ve just brought books, binders, and a power bar to charge my laptop. Maddie forced me to put up a poster last year, from The Talented Mr. Ripley. She wrote me little sticky notes with when and where to meet for lunch and dinner, which I’d pin to my wall. She gave the room some colour.

A cold gust puffs through my window. I spin once in my chair, then plant my feet. On the laptop, my screen reads Your search – madeline allan uoft – did not match any documents. I spin again, tapping my fingers lightly against the keyboard. I type again. Your search – madeline allan university of toronto – did not match any documents. Your search – madeline allan toronto – did not match any documents. Your search – madeline allan ecology uoft – did not match any documents. Funny.

I remember Maddie was here in May. She was heading somewhere, I think Australia. Or maybe it was Austria. I was distracted. Jean wanted me to finish my paper, and I was still reading reviews on symbols in Roman pottery fragments. Before she left, Maddie just wanted to eat a last dinner together and talk about anything but work. She always found it tedious to talk about her research. I don’t get it; I could talk about clay media in Roman vases for hours.

I softly place my laptop on my desk, and close it. I peer over to the window, then roll up close. Pressing my forehead against the glass, I scan around. In the quad, the cobbled pathways make intricate patterns around the grass, and a short girl with a slick ponytail carefully weaves across them, avoiding the grass. It makes me giggle.

Across the way, Mateo walks into the quad and bustles straight through the grass. He’s a fast walker. He always beat me to our shared workshops last year.

“Mateo!” I call. He doesn’t hear me, eyes locked in to wherever his target is. “Mateo!”

He whips around in my direction, then grabs his chest. “Oh, Carmen! Oh, god, I thought I was hearing a ghost. Oh, god.” I laugh, and the cold air runs clear through my lungs.

“No, no. Well, maybe the ghost of Bishop Strachan. Hah.” He looks small from here. The second story view makes him look like a little boy late for the bus, with his cable-knit sweater and dark hair cut short.

“Um, have you seen Maddie around yet?”

“Maddie?” He scrunches his eyebrows. “Maddie. Maddie. Maaaddie. Uh, describe.”

“You know. We ate lunch together a few times. Tall, curly hair, red lipstick? Madeline?”

He blinks a few times. Inhales, opens his mouth briefly, then closes it.

“Sorry, Carmen. Bad memory, you know.” He gestures to his head.

“No, no, you know. She wrote you a sticky note? I think it was about coming to dinner with us? We had paella. Shrimp.” He purses his lips. Sucks on his cheeks.

“I remember the paella. I don’t think a Maddie was there, though. I thought we got a table for two.” My mouth dries out. I breathe in to speak, then pause. Exhale out of my nose. A leaf drifts to the ground next to him.

“You know what, don’t worry about it. I think you’re right.” He smiles, a little pitifully. Then, he clears his throat, and waits awkwardly for a second.

“Well, uh… I’m gonna be late.”

“Oh, go, go. We’ll talk later.” He lifts his hand quickly in goodbye, then starts again. Bustling across the grass.

I push back from the window, then flop onto my bed. Maybe she is just late. And maybe Mateo just has bad memory. Maybe I have bad memory.

Maddie was better at things like this. She’d know who to talk to, and who to email. She seemed to know everybody. And, despite that, she’d still knock on my door to lie on my bed to chat about the rain, and picking the right dress for the graduate society sit-down dinner, and seeing her extended family. I don’t know why she did it. It made my chest warm. It was hard to not talk right back to her. I don’t know if I’ve ever told anybody so much about mum and the dog and where I get my clothing from until last year.

I push up to sitting, then grab my keys and head downstairs. I need to walk. I need to move. As I wander down the hallways, my phone chimes. I reach into my pocket, and there is an email sent from joseph.tremolo@utoronto.ca.

Hi Carmen,

I’m glad to hear you’re back for another year! I don’t know off the top of my head, but I don’t think I remember a Madeline. We had a Remy Allan — maybe related? Sorry I couldn’t help you more. I’m looking forward to the first formal dinner; the undergrads are excited to meet you!

Thanks again for joining us.

Best,

Joseph

Residence Coordinator

Graduate Affairs

Trinity College, Toronto

My chest flares. I quickly power my phone off completely. I put it in my front pocket, then change my mind and put it in my back pocket. I shake out my hands vigorously, as if I’ve burnt them. My fingers tingle.

Down the hallway and up the stairs, the annual book sale is running full throttle. Seeley Hall is bustling, full of books and people weaving between one another like a bazaar. I’m dazed by seeing so many people. They are all invested in their own little worlds, flipping through pages and touching book spines. At a small round table, right at the front, they’ve got a small collection of ephemera. There are a few postcards, some birthday and well wishing cards. There is a nice, leatherbound journal in the middle. It is tattered, definitely well-loved, but when I flip it open, the pages are blank.

The front counter is near the door, and there is a short line. I shift from foot to foot as I wait to pay. I try not to eavesdrop on the conversations in front of me, but the waiting makes it difficult. I’m not a very patient person, I’ve found. Finally, there is a small opening at the table, and a lady with silver, graying hair smiles warmly at me.

“Oh, lovely. Leather.” I smile back at her.

“That’s what I’m saying.” She looks down, and taps at the cover with a shiny blue nail. “You know, I used to carry around a journal like this. It made me feel academic. I knew a girl who’d carry hers around everywhere, even to the dances. She was a sweetheart, and fashionable, too. She had a great collection of lipsticks.” I raise my eyebrows.

“Maybe I should start doing that. Maybe it’ll make me more academic.” The lady laughs, and it rings in my ears.

I pay with cash and tell her to keep the extra dollar. I don’t like having coins on me. They weigh my pocket down.

Back in my room, I flip through the notebook again. It’s nice paper. Thick, with satisfyingly heavy pages. I spin once in my chair, around and around, flipping through the pages again, and again, and again. Finally, I plant my feet, and place the notebook on my desk dizzily. It opens to the very back. In tiny, neat writing, a little note is inscribed, faded from years of smudging and wear.

“Slow comes the hour: its passing speed how great.”

Madeline Allan, 1961

Outside, in the quad, the leaves are falling as if in slow motion. One sways, and tumbles to the ground.

Deep in the branches, a green bud waits for spring.

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