My Dearest Jonah (7 page)

I did stay and watch for a while, Jonah. I was hypnotised. We sat transfixed by the movement of the bodies. Even the burliest men sat in rapture, like children being told their
first story. Behind the main stage, where the curtains were white to reflect the changing lights, you could occasionally catch the shadowy outline of a grand figure of flailing arms and billowing
skirts, hugging and changing the girls, ready for their next set piece.

Without prejudice I can say that Eve was the finest dancer I’ve ever seen in my life.

Some girls up there danced for money, others for sex, and most for attention. Eve danced for her life and she danced her life entirely. Each movement felt charged, like a choir’s
crescendo, that gave her the fallibility and grace, which the other girls lacked. Part of me fell in love with her that night. And all of me wanted to return to the den. The beating glow in the
darkest corner of my hometown, like a secret spot that only I knew existed.

I walked back home that night reeling beneath the stars. With the joy of knowing that something was happening though I didn’t quite know what.

With love and longing,

Verity

Dear Verity,

I begin by clearing out the detritus ignored by the previous God knows how many inhabitants. This in itself is a task worthy of reward. Sacks of hardening cement weigh down
piles and piles of leaves and dirt, inside of which sodden paper and pieces of broken tools have amalgamated with various fluids and the occasional remnants of a decayed rodent. Even on the edge of
my longest shovel it takes every ounce of strength I have not to gag when I exhume its stench.

It was Saturday morning, and I awoke with a start, sure that I was late for something before remembering that relaxation was now rationed, and as such it was my duty to make the most of it. By
this point though, I was as alert as I’d ever be, and so in preparation for Harlow’s garden party decided to tend to tasks long overdue. The function was twofold; on one hand I would
begin to get my house in order in a way I never quite seemed to do when I had nothing but spare time on my hands, and secondly I would have something to discuss - perhaps even offer as an excuse
for my otherwise empty day - come the time for socialising.

I was to construct a shed, ostensibly for storage, but that would also serve as my own corner of the world. Somewhere I would have to make the effort to visit, even if the effort did just amount
to walking across my back yard. Perhaps somewhere I could write to you from, and carve shapes and familiarities from discarded blocks of wood. My mother, in one of the few memories I have of her,
had a vanity mirror. Now, years later, it mystifies me as to how she came to own such an object. Our home was not what you would call decadent, in fact in hindsight I think it would qualify as a
shack were prizes ever awarded.

Her secrets were kept hidden in those dusty drawers, so easy to open yet respected, on the whole, as sacrilege to enter without permission. Of course as we grew older, maybe eight or nine, we
began to explore. My brother would lead the way. First just peeking; playing with the ornaments that dotted the desk beneath the mirror, feeling like trespassers in our own home. And then into the
drawers themselves. The findings seemed unremarkable at the time: a photograph of a young man we didn’t know, a stub of scarlet lipstick that smelt mild yet exotic, a half consumed packet of
tablets. The first sip of alcohol I ever took was from a hip flask hidden in the bottom drawer as my brother poured its contents into my mouth and shrieked with glee as I lay on the cold floor,
rasping for breath and holding my eyes tightly in place through fear they would fall clean out of my head. Even when they found her body that mirror was just about the only thing in the bedroom
left intact. My father was sentimental like that.

The point being that I wanted somewhere just like that. And for some time now have been accumulating the resources to go about achieving it. The piles of smoothed wood have
been slowly gathered from various sources and tethered to the side of my fence. Tins upon tins of treatment and fresh brushes sat on groundsheets in my kitchen. The only thing left was to
build.

But first I had to remove what was left behind. So I spent my first waking hours getting stung and sweaty, filling waste bags with dirt and handfuls of other people’s lives which they
seemed so unwilling to deal with or carry with them wherever they went next. Though mostly garbage I did find a pristine axe-head, sharp as candlelight and engraved with someone else’s
initials. I placed it safely to one side after tending to my wound and will insert a new handle once I have completed the task at hand.

I raked and pulled at the twigs and thorns. Barbs caught on my hands and drew jewels of blood that stung and smeared onto my vest. And then I made my own little offering to the God of New
Starts. In a giant tin can I stuffed the remnants of the rubbish and lit a match, before standing back and watching the fire spread like amber bloom.

I worked for four hours before realising the time. My glorious shed remains theoretical, I am sad to say, though the garden was by that point as flat and habitable as could be. I gave myself a
fifteen minute break (how easy we become conformant!) as I observed the cooling bush now smouldering only dead smoke, and stared proudly at the tidy borders of my patchy yet trimmed lawn, before
beginning the most pressing task of the day: my very own restoration.

My appearance has never been my strongpoint. Though I hold a certain sort of attraction to a certain sort of woman, often inspired by mass consumption and miserly standards, I
have thus far relied on talk to take me where I wanted to go. I suppose I just have one of those faces, so easy to slip anonymously into a crowd; indistinguishable from just about any other human
being in my age bracket. At times this has worked in my favour. Before the onset of video cameras I was hurriedly sketched by many an artist as some sort of all-encompassing Caucasian male,
approaching six foot (I am, in fact, six foot one, and have more than once felt the urge to contact various authorities to insist as much, lest I be forever underestimated). The face of any man
you’ve ever met, that’s me. Though recently I have become more distinguished. Lines have formed where previously there was only skin. I am beginning to look like my very own novel;
through the stubble - never too long, always suggesting greater things to come - and the ever so slightly bagged eyes is the implication of a life fully lived. This is not entirely the case. If
anything it was a life lived several times over, and almost never correctly. I hadn’t really noticed until today, it being the first time in memory I have truly felt the urge to impress
face-to-face. All I could think was that no amount of time and detergent in the world will make me look anywhere near the person I want to be seen as. But there’s merit in effort, as my
mother used to say, and so it began.

I bathed and dried myself. Shaved for the occasion and felt bald and vulnerable without some small barrier between myself and the world. My hair slicked back into a dark sheen befitting some
fifties teen in a prototype coming of age movie. It’s all I know to do. Having spent my life either cropped to the skin or raggedly unkempt I am not entirely sure what a gentleman is supposed
to do with his hair, so I comb it as close to my head as possible and simply pretend it’s not happening. Pockmarks that line my cheeks and jaw are unavoidable and unchangeable, so I rely on
the decency and embarrassment of others simply not to bring them up. It seemed the more I did the more anxious I became. Like with the rejuvenation of my backyard; the moment I began to break down
the surface, more and more problems seemed to sprout up like pox on an infant. I began to wish I’d simply arrived as I was. Myself and nothing more. Though by this point returning to my
natural state would have been as conscious an effort as the elaborate adaptation I had created, so I remained some skewered version of myself.

The trousers I chose were black and belted, bought one day when I had the drunken notion that I might, if presented correctly, be able to find an office job and scale the ranks to become a
glittering corporate success. I chose a black jacket and white shirt, both unworn and both, once more, purchased with the intention of costume in a bid to masquerade myself into yet another
unlikely role (bellboy and croupier, since you ask). To finish I added the one and only pair of black shoes I had in my closet whose leather was, thanks to my skill with a magic marker, almost
entirely without cracks within fifteen minutes. That said it took another ten minutes and an eye-watering encounter with the scalding faucet to clear the ink from my hands.

And then I was ready.

I approached Harlow’s garden, as instructed, though the gate, sidestepping the rigid front door like a lifelong pal. Even from the furthest edge of his street I could
hear noises of happy chatter and quiet music. Drawing closer, sweet smoke and a mouth-watering trail of burning fat filled the air. I opened the door and stepped into the yard.

Complete and utter horror.

Every man there was in shorts and tshirt. The greatest effort had been made by Max, who in what I suspect was a substitute for any sort of personality had donned a garish Hawaiian shirt somewhat
at odds with the overcast day.

Memory is funny old thing, but I swear even the radio paused when I entered.

“Well if it isn’t my accountant!” Harlow hollered as I made my way urgently towards the centre of the party, hoping that by rushing blindly towards the nucleus of the action I
would evade individual appraisals of my appearance. “What’s the matter kid, you got a funeral to go to afterwards or something?” he continued in jest.

I felt a hand on my back and a large woman, resigned comfortably and contently to her own frumpiness, pulled herself into view. “How embarrassing for y’all!” she yelled at the
men who had now all but returned to their offshoot conversations. “Being shown up by this fine young stranger.”

Some of the men chuckled and raised their cans at the woman.

“Just shows how comfortable we all are in your company, Barbara darling!” yelled one of the men from work whose name I had not bothered to memorise.

“You must be Jonah,” she said, still holding my arm in her hand. “I’m Barbara, Harlow’s wife. I heard all about you.”

“So long as none of it’s true,” I said, masking my mortification with an attempt at good humour. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ignore him Barb,” said Harlow, flipping unspecified chops onto the bars with a rewarding hissing sound. “Me and Jonah’s making fast friends. He’s a grafter
alright. And a fine new addition to
my
work force.”

More cheering from the crowd, this time aimed at Max who, true to his nature, remained wholly nonplussed.

She flapped her hands playfully at the men, “Well you’re certainly a sharp young thing, you look just like a movie star. Let me get you a drink. You want a beer?”

God did I want a beer.

She pulled a can from a nearby dustbin filled to the brink with ice and beverages and handed it to me unopened. I tore the can clean open and practically dove headfirst through the ring piece.
“You need anything else Jonah just help yourself,” she said, making her way across the garden towards the kitchen. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

As the afternoon rolled on the majority of the men initiated a game of poker while the women tossed salads and clucked about life’s minor difficulties behind the
kitchen’s screen doors. I have little interest in gossip and poker is a game I feel I’ve mastered, so took myself away from both groups and sat on an old swing set just behind the dying
coals of the barbeque. Bananas wrapped in foil gently softened over the hot ash as a slight chill began to play like a xylophone across the amber glow of early evening. In nothing more than a bid
to appear at least partially occupied I picked a piece of wood from the ground and with my pocket knife began to smooth its edges until it seemed manmade. It wasn’t that I was avoiding
people. I was thrilled simply to be surrounded, yet felt overwhelmed somewhat by my sudden thrust into a social life, and further perturbed by the ellipsis and elision that inevitably occurs
between a longstanding clique, people with pasts, people with histories, people with lives that have interlocked and overlapped and acted as both witness and jury to each other at one point or
another. I have never had this luxury. And as such am not entirely sure how to go about achieving it. I guess I’ve left it too late. Though maybe all is not lost. You and I seemed to lock
into one another’s existence at a time when most people were as established in their roles as ever they would be. But then again we had an incentive; that catalyst of a scheme which at least
broke the ice and marked us out as ripe for company. Real life’s trickier, I have found. And when faced with individuals I seem to spend so long deconstructing character and intentions that I
inevitably miss the most obvious inroad and am forever resigned to acquaintance at best. This is tenfold when faced with large, established groups. So I take the loner’s preferred method;
separate myself entirely then wonder why it is I never seem to be the one holding court.

As I pushed the edge of the knife across the length of the wood, causing thin strands to curl and drop, a light hand appeared on my shoulder. I turned to look and no-one was
there. Then I felt the swing to my right dip and the chains tighten.

“Hi stranger,” she said. It was Aimee. Still dressed in white, only barefoot this time, and with just a hint of make-up barely noticeable to the untrained eye.

“What you doing here, Aimee?” I asked.

“Oh you know me,” she said, swinging gently on the balls of her feet, her hands gripping the chain of the swing tightly. “I like to spread myself real thin,” she laughed
and then looked back at me. “You’ve met Daddy.”

“
Levi
?”

She laughed and nodded towards Harlow. “Small world, huh?”

“You can say that again.”