Page 32 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
—“The Reprise,”The Wooden Horse, Act Two
The week went by without a word from Dexter. He called in sick for their combat rehearsal on Tuesday, and again for vocals on Thursday, and Jonah waited and waited for a message to pop up on his screen, but nothing came. He debated contacting him himself, throwing a casual noncommittal text his way, something along the lines ofHey, I can’t stop thinking about your lipsor the even more casualI want you to run your hands through my hair again and make me moan. But he couldn’t be the one reaching out; the ball was in Dexter’s court, and Jonah wasn’t climbing over the net to fetch it. More than anything, he hated how Dexter somehow bewitched him; only a few days ago he couldn’t stand the sight of him, and now... Well, now he wanted to look at all of him for hours, preferably naked in his bed.
Even now, as Jonah sat on the never-ending train to Cornwall, his head resting against the window, he willed a message to come through. But no, the only thing that happened as he neared new destinations were FullStack notifications telling him single men were nearby. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t a bad thing to be aware of. The notifications and thoughts of Dexter were a welcome distraction as the train hurtled him toward home.
It only took a week for him to find somewhere perfect for his dad: a picturesque old manor refurbished into a specialized dementia-care nursing home. The gardens were lush and green, and to its left there was agorgeous view of the sea. His father had a special affinity for the ocean, a true water sign if there ever was one. Jonah hoped if his father looked at the waves enough small memories might come back in the sea foam and he could collect them up, and for a moment he might be like the old dad Jonah once knew. A fantasy, of course, but one he could easily put his faith in if it meant his father might return from the hazy place he now lived in. Jonah let out a heavy breath as he thought about his dad and how anxious he was at seeing him again. He wasn’t due back in the theatre until Tuesday night, which meant he had half of today then all of Monday and Tuesday morning to help his mum settle Dad in at the new home. And honestly, thank God they didn’t perform on Sundays and Mondays, or he might never be able to help with this kind of thing. But would him being there really make much of a difference? Would his dad even recognize him? He didn’t the last time he saw him, and the pure pain of having his father not recognize him tore Jonah apart. But Jonah needed to face him, face the Alzheimer’s and support his mother through it.
His mother was another problem.
He’d kept his promise to Aunt Penny and called his mum more often, just little check-ins to make sure things were okay. But during each call she ended up tearful, not about his dad, but about the bloody chickens. He wasn’t sure if she was pushing her grief over effectively losing her husband onto the death of her “babies,” as she lovingly referred to them, but her tears each night broke Jonah’s heart. He left the calls reluctantly, the speaker at the theatre asking for first positions, something he couldn’t ignore, and she seemed to understand, but the disappointment in her voice didn’t waver. Which meant he’d felt immeasurably guilty the whole week but knew he would be home with her Sunday—today—and, hopefully, he would head back to London knowing she would be okay.
Bill Penrose once swam in the sea every day without fail. Even when the heavens opened or when snow came down in thick flurries, he made his way to the beach and set off for his fifteen-minute swim, always returning for a mug of Ovaltine and Marmite on toast. He looked out at the sea now from the deck chair in the back garden, his limbs thin and frail, anddanced his fingers through the air as if pushing through water, swimming again, in his mind, at least. Jonah sat down in the chair beside him, the green and white stripes of the material faded from the sun, and looked out at the beams of light kissing the skyline.
“Gorgeous day,” Jonah said, keeping his eyes on the horizon so he didn’t have to look at his father’s sunken cheeks. “Bet the sea is warm.”
“Yes,” his dad said, voice full of rubble and years of nicotine damage. “Went out there this morning on the boat.”
“You did?”
“Took my boy with me.”
Jonah’s heart tugged in his chest. “Bet he loved that.”
“He did.” He lowered his hand and placed it on the arm of the chair, his knuckles protruding from the skin, little mountains on his hand, extreme dips and highs. His skin seemed blemished, one hand still wrapped in a bandage, the other bare but covered in deep-purple bruises. He didn’t recall his dad ever having a boat, but it was okay him having one now, moored on the shores of his mind, and he hoped he did him proud on the boat, manned the sails and... whatever else sailors did on boats.
“Where you from, then?” his dad asked, turning his head to look at Jonah, and Jonah dared himself to look back. His father’s strands of wispy white hair were thin, his skin pale, eyes still striking blue, the ocean not lost from them.
“Oh, here, St. Ives.”
“A local lad, then.”
“Born and bred.”
“You got a wife?”
Jonah laughed and shook his head. “No. No wife.”
His father pondered the answer before asking, “Got a husband?”
Jonah tutted and shook his head again. “Sadly not.”
“Hmph,” he grumbled and tried to stand from his seat, but Jonah placed a hand on his knee to settle him back down. “I’ve got a wife. Call her and get her to bring us some tea.”
“She’s a bit busy at the moment,” Jonah said; his mum was inside speaking with the nurses who were going to help get his dad moved on Monday. “I can make you a tea a little later, though.”
“You don’t look like you would make a good cup of tea.”
“Wow, what a cutting insult.” Jonah smiled. “You’re no good at making tea, either, you know. You never brew it long enough.”
“My son can’t make tea. He has a habit of stirring it too much, and it bursts the tea bag.”
Jonah bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself from crying. His father spoke about him as if he were a ghost, someone far away, the distant tea bag destroyer with no face and no name.
“I still do that, you know.”
His father narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re a strange one, you are. What’s your name?”
“Jonah.”
