My Dearest Jonah Read online

  “Don’t mind him. He’s one of our regulars. Poor old Carter. Frisky as all hell get out but dead from the waist down. All you got to do is hug him a half hour and you don’t need to worry about rent for another month.” She was pretty and tall, and looked alarmingly familiar. Within a five-year bracket of my own age I would have guessed, yet more comfortable in her skin. The lace suspenders cut into her thighs, which were oiled and golden. And her hair had been teased into curls that made her face seem so angelic the peephole bra she wore came as all the more of a shock. “I’m Eve. You never been here before honey?”

  “No, and I’m Verity. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  We shook hands and laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “You fancy a drink? I got friends and family discount in this place.”

  We sat and sipped beer while we poured easy small talk. She told me about her childhood, about the dirt roads and back alleys, about the parents so distant that she barely noticed when they both passed before her eighteenth birthday, and the various conditions that she had stumbled blindly into and out of ever since. You know that girl? The one you read about in the newspaper? The kindly hostess whose favourite customer left her his entire estate? Or the ageing pole dancer being hounded by the octogenarian oil baron’s wife and children? Even the breezy cocktail waitress with the peek-a-boo roots who found herself clutching the bearer bonds of the aged philanthropist? They’re all her. Each and every one. She said she never intended it to be that way, it just happened by accident then kept on happening over and over again. Of course the money never lasted that long. For every good man there were a dozen monsters, and so she seldom held her fortune for more than six months.

  “Every time?” I asked, perturbed.

  “Every time. Those rattlesnakes are the smoothest talkers of them all.”

  “Don’t you mind? I’d be half mad or dead by my own hand if I lost the one fortune, let alone half a dozen.”

  “Not worth worrying about. Money always turns up. Love’s the only currency worth crying over, and if that aint worth a gamble then I don’t know what is.”

  It strikes me as sad, now, to be sitting here writing about her as though she were real, as though she still was. Sadder still that in all honesty I have yet to fully comprehend that she is not, and that there will come a point when I will have to leave this room and conduct myself in a world where Eve is no more; where she ends with the stained sheets I send to a comforting stranger some miles away; a fading memory; a hollow sound said so many times it becomes a dead weight on a numb tongue.

  Nobody’s mother.

  Nobody’s daughter.

  So long as I keep writing it’s as if she’s here. But one day I will have to stop. And then what will there be? Nothing. A space where once something went. How can a person just cease? Where exactly do they go? It’s enough to drive anyone insane if you sit down and think about it. I find more and more that this is the main problem with our arrangement, Jonah. Our heads are such lovely places to exist in that real life can’t help but come as disappointment.

  She told me that she’d been working there for almost two months by that point. Having fled an unfortunate situation with little more than a bottle of bourbon and a spare bra to her name it was the first place she came upon which required no identification and paid cash in hand.

  “It’s easy to hide when you’re a different person each night. Aint that right, Prudence honey?” she said as a black beauty brushed past.

  “That’s the truth,” said Prudence with a celestial boom.

  “Just look at Alice over there,” she said pointing to a leggy redhead performing the splits in front of a drooling Baskerville of a man. “This time last year she was chopping breezeblock for a living and answering to Carl.”

  I giggled at the sight of Alice, now bending backwards and exposing a scattering of shaving rash as Prudence strutted off behind one of the curtained doors.

  “That over there - ” said Eve, pointing to an immaculate and enormous man at the most prominent table, “ - that’s who we all call Kingpin. I’m still the new girl so I got nothing to base this on, but he’s big around here. Been gone on some important business since I started but now he’s back. We’re putting on a real big show for him tonight I can tell you. Miss Jemima arranged it herself.

  “Who’s Miss Jemima?”

  “If Kingpin’s the head then she’s the heart of this place. Been here longer than time and it shows, poor darling. She was good to me though. Taught me the tricks of the trade and one or two others. She keeps an eye on us girls,” Eve said, draining her beer. “You ever think of dancing?”

  I blushed and lit a cigarette. “God no. I wouldn’t know where to start. I have trouble stepping out of the bathtub without falling over, let alone making one of those greased up sticks my own.”

  “I don’t believe that for one moment. It sure was nice to meet you, Verity. You staying to watch us dance?”

  “Why not,” I said, feeling somewhat obliged.

  “Well isn’t that just fine!” Eve threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. “I hope I see you around. I got friends that are few and far between these days.”

  “I know that feeling,” I said, stubbing my cigarette into the marble cup on the bar. “Good luck up there.”

  “I don’t need luck, darling, I got my mother’s tits and no shame.” She gave her decorated rear a wiggle as she tottered off into the darkness.

  The half hour before the show began seemed to grow more and more intense until the entire bar could have been popped by one careless open flame. Suddenly I felt awkward, alone and out of place. I pulled apart a napkin and lit matches in the palm of my hand. I blew out my candle, relit it, blew it out again and relit it one final time, deciding that a gentle glow may look more enticing to prospective company. I craned my neck to see if anyone might take me up on my silent offer, suddenly desperate for company. Most of the men were seated, their eyes glued to an empty stage. Some milled about the bar. A tall man in the distance caught my eye. He had something tattooed on his knuckles and a grey streak running through the entire length of his hair like a well groomed skunk. I raised my glass and he nodded once towards me. I nodded back. He turned slowly, maintaining me in his gaze, and headed towards the edge of the room.

  I stood up and followed him all the way until he disappeared behind a creaking door. I hesitated for a moment and then entered.

  The men’s bathroom was empty and filthy. A warm musk filled the air and made everything illicit and irresistible. He stood alone in an open cubicle. I followed him inside and he locked the door.

  I suppose when following strangers into public restrooms a person wants one of two things. I wanted the second. And within minutes that sweet, metallic smoke was coursing through my veins; lifting me to a place that felt the same yet different. A place where it didn’t matter that I was alone, or that I had no idea who I was or what exactly I was doing. All I can say is that whilst not an experience I plan on repeating, for that night only I felt like myself for the first time in I don’t know how long as I watched its magnetic dregs weep from my mouth towards the ceiling like tears in reverse.

  We remained wordless throughout. He began by pulling a small cloth bag from his pocket and opening it onto the ceramic of the cistern, carefully arranging his apparatus like a practiced apothecary. He placed the rocks in the base of a long transparent tube, those filthy fingernails working the priceless jewels with more care than I’d ever seen a man of his size demonstrate. Finally, when he felt the arrangement complete, he lit it with a golden click of a lighter. He took a hit and handed it to me. I followed his lead and took a small breath and then a deep one before handing it back to him.

  I slid down, dazed and blissful, as he packed his belongings and opened the door.

  “Sweet dreams my little doll,” he said, kissing me once as he left me reeling on the cold tile floor.

  I did stay and watch for a while, Jonah. I was h
ypnotised. 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.”