Page 5 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
“Where is he now?” Jonah asked.
“Well, the nurse came in for her usual shift at nine, and she helped him back into the bed. He’s asleep, I think, or looking at that damn butterfly book again.”
“He hadn’t hurt himself?”
“He has bruises on his arms and an enormous mark on his right leg, but I’m not sure if he did that in the fall or before. He was so angry, Jonah, screaming like a banshee.”
“Mum, if you need me to come home and help sort things for—”
“Actually,” she mumbled. “I think it’s time for him to go somewherewhere they can look after him. You know my heart breaks at the idea of it, but I don’t know what else to do. And that isn’t me asking you to come home, you hear? You stay where you are, my little star.”
He couldn’t help but imagine his mum alone in the winding house on the edge of the cliff in St. Ives. The many staircases and tall ceilings, far too high even for her elaborate extendable feather duster. Shadows loomed in the hallways there, even on the brightest of days, and he swallowed down the fear they might consume her and he would return to find his childhood home empty, with only a line of shoes at the doorway signifying the family who once lived there.
“I can take some time off to help you.”
“Jonah Penrose, don’t you dare.” He could hear his old mother in the tone she used, the fiery woman who once told their neighbor to kick rocks when he complained about her many chickens roaming in the garden. “I will call once I’ve got everything set up for him. Then next time you visit, you can go see him. Dad wouldn’t want you worrying over him, you know that.”
“It’s more you I’m worried about, Mum.”
He heard a tremble as she breathed. “Well, love, we can’t be having you worrying about little old me, can we?” There were tears clouding her eyes, he could tell. Even from his home on Castle Road, he could see the tears gathering against the high tide in Cornwall. If he were there, he would pull her into his arms and she could cry into his shoulder, something she only did once before, back when his dad received his diagnosis, the day Alzheimer’s moved into their home without invitation. A collection of heavy rain clouds found their way to their house and hung themselves in the sky just above the chimney to pour misery into the foundations of the bricks. His dad, the man who hugged him so incredibly tightly and kissed his forehead the day he told him he was gay and said he loved him more than anything in the world, would be lost, and all he could do was cling onto the memories he left and hope small parts of him remained behind the darkening of his mind.
“I love you, Mum.”
“I love you, too, sausage.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m all right. I’ve got a couple of friends coming over tonight to keep me company once Dad’s in bed. Might pop open a bottle of wine, it will be good to relax.”
“You’ll call me if you need me?”
“Of course, love.”
Dexter Ellis suddenly didn’t seem like such a looming threat. Edward leaving him for another man didn’t either. They said their goodbyes, and Jonah placed the empty cheese packet into the bin then picked up the key he gave to Edward months ago, the one Edward dropped off when he picked up his things, the key he no longer needed now that he didn’t want Jonah in his life. Jonah turned it in his palm and let his fingers run along the cool metal ridges. Tears threatened to fall again, but he blinked them back and stuffed the key into the designated kitchen junk drawer and silently vowed not to think about Edward Wordsworth ever again.
Four
“I love him, this side of him no one else gets to see. Gone are the days we danced between the mountains and trees. But I love him, and his heart belongs with me.”
—“The Melody of Achilles and Patroclus,”The Wooden Horse, Act One
A sparkling curtain of warm orange light shone through the window to the back of the yoga studio as the sun stretched into the early evening. Jonah watched as it danced across the beech wood floorboards and ran its fingertips across the various yoga mats dotted about the room. The moments before the class started, when the students picked their space and lined up their water bottles while talking quietly among themselves, were when he felt most relaxed.
Monday nights were the time he reserved each week to clear his head, to allow the swirling thoughts and physical and mental strain of performing every night to be placed in a neat box even if only for an hour. He never considered himself someone who might get really into yoga and be able to find something calming about measured breaths, but Omari practically forced him to a class and made him go until he found he couldn’t be without it. Eventually, Jonah found a studio closer to home, removing himself from Omari and his perfect posture so he could flail about on the mat without his friend’s judgmental frown.
Jonah’s body thanked him for the relaxation during the week, when things became too much and the thought of his parents back home turned into a treacherous cliff edge. He could mentally place himself back in thestudio and force himself to breathe. Breathe. He placed his hands flat on the yoga mat he always chose, the one nearest the wall opposite the door in the last row, where the mirrors at the front didn’t quite catch his entire body. He’d found out early on not to sit front and center; he didn’t need an unobscured view to observe his sweaty face and ridiculous expressions as he twisted his body into pretzel-like poses and tried to hold them while looking graceful.
As the balmy rays of sun slowly burned into a shade usually found caressing the leaves in autumn, a shadow loomed over Jonah as he sat on his mat fiddling with the lid from his water bottle. He looked up, half expecting to see the woman with bleached-blond hair and purple money piece who usually set up beside him, only to be greeted with someone else entirely. They were still blond, though darker, almost sandy, natural, and they focused solely on readjusting the mat then placing their own water down before kicking off the whitest of white trainers Jonah ever laid his eyes upon. Jonah blinked as he took in the figure. Slender, tall, ridiculously tall, with high cheekbones and fluttering lashes framing hazel eyes reminiscent of the fields back home when they were kissed by the cooler shades of fall. Then he looked at their lips, pouting, pink, as if they’d swiped a bubble gum lip gloss over them before stepping into the room. They were utterly sinful. And then, and without warning, Jonah’s mind kicked back into gear and he realized who it was he was not-so-subtly checking out.
Dexter Ellis.
Jonah scrambled to his feet, his breath catching in his chest as he tried to think of something—anything—to say. Dexter’s eyes flicked to him, and his eyebrow quirked as a small smile danced across his absolutely ludicrous lips.
“Hey!” Jonah said. Not too bad for someone in complete social free fall. “I didn’t know you liked yoga, such a small world, huh?”
Dexter paused slightly as he bent down, his hand reaching for his water, before he grasped it and stood straight again, his height impressive even against Jonah’s tall frame. He smiled again before taking a sip of his drink then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Small world? Do you vet everyone who comes to this class to see if they like yoga?” he asked. His voice was deeper than Jonah expected; he’d only ever heard him sing before, his range on par with Jonah’s, though Jonah often opted up in places Dexter could only dream of.
