Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

The gun is not loaded.

I drop it into the drawer again, close it, fall back and lie motionlessly across the bed, this bed where once upon a time in another kind of life my husband and I conceived our beautiful daughter. I stare at the brightening ceiling. I’m beyond tears now. There’s nothing left.

After a while I get up and start making Gracie’s breakfast.

Yet in the light of a bright December morning, Christmas vacation upon us, the tree mounted in the corner of the living room with tinsel and decorations and lights, I can’t think of Connor or what we did together in any way but happily, excitedly. I’m aware of the need for absolute stone secrecy, of course. I know what could happen. But that’s the rest of the world, outsiders. They have nothing to do with Connor and me. They would never understand what’s happened between us. Never. But it has happened. He’s in love with me, we’re in love with each other. It has nothing to do with molestation, with abuse. I did not molest Connor Blue. I loved him. I took a boy from a broken home whose father, I believe, beats him and I gave him pleasure, happiness, joy. I gave him the greatest experience of his life. I gave him something he’ll never forget for all his days. I gave him love. And it was beautiful. It was not sick or perverted or any of those things the braying masses would call it. But I know they would never understand, know that this can never be spoken of, not ever.

At first I’d thought the holidays would have allowed us to see each other more but just the opposite is true. Without daily classes I don’t see him at all. Day after day I live only my other, plebian life, the life of wife and mother and organizer of Christmas fun for Gracie, trips to the mall to see Santa and shopping for presents for Daddy and watching the carolers when they come to our neighborhood at night. I don’t begrudge her any of this. I enjoy it, really. I want the holidays to be magical for her. For us, for all of us. We watch A Charlie Brown Christmas as a family, Gracie contentedly in my lap laughing at Snoopy’s antics. We make Christmas cookies with green and red sprinkles. We watch Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. We watch Miracle on 34 thStreet and It’s a Wonderful Life too, but sitting there with my daughter I’m overcome with yearning for Connor, wishing he were here with us to view these old classics. He’d probably think they’re corny but how I wish he were here on the sofa with us to tell us that, holding my hand beside me while Gracie sits in my lap. How I wish I could adopt him, bring him here, keep him warm and safe with me always—not instead of Bill and Gracie, but in addition to them. To put the two parts of my life together without shame, without embarrassment. With joy. Bill would be a great dad to Connor. Connor would be a terrific big brother to Gracie. But I’m dreaming, of course. I know that. I know that in the real world Connor must remain a secret, must be treated as something dark and dirty in my life when he’s not that, he’s anything on earth but that.

Christmas goes by. On the way to and from the grocery store with Gracie I sometimes take a slight detour to pass by Connor’s house, just to try to get a glimpse of him in his front yard or standing at the window. But I never do. Day passes day and I feel as if I’m going crazy waiting for him, waiting for this eternal damned holiday to end. It doesn’t even snow, giving me an easy excuse to call him and ask him to come over. I know I must see him, see him soon, but there’s no chance.

Yet finally there is. Bill’s elderly mother has checked into a hospital in Boston and Bill decides to drive up to see her. Three days! He’ll be gone three days! At first the thought was that we should all go, but we both know Gracie will tire the infirm old woman, make it impossible for Bill to have the quiet, peaceful visit with her he wants. It may be the final visit, after all. We talk of hiring someone to care for Gracie but three days is too long. In the end it obviously makes the most sense for Bill to go alone, for me to stay with Gracie for these few days between Christmas and New Year’s. Yes.

The night before he goes he’s feeling sexy and I’m so excited that I give myself over to him completely, in a way I haven’t for a long time, swallowing my revulsion at his huge soft body, his hairy back, his bald head. It’s all I can do to not be sick but I hold it in, hold it back, give him what he needs and smile and say love words to him. He’s slow, awkward, loses his erection a couple of times. I’m patient, encouraging, though I can hardly tolerate him touching me, barely stand watching him pulling at his dick hidden in all that revolting pubic hair over his sagging scrotum and saying, “Just a minute, just a minute, I’ll get it.” I feel sorry for him, this aging domesticated revolutionary whose rabble-rousing days are so far back he hardly seems to remember them, or who he was then. But I do it because I’m so grateful to him, grateful for his giving Connor and me this chance, I would have exploded if I couldn’t see him soon.

When Bill finishes—barely—he’s panting with exhaustion and practically collapses on top of me. I want to scream, Get off me, get off! But what I do is whisper, “Thank you.”

“What? Why?”

“Never mind. Just thank you.”

Yet the usual child care is closed over the holidays, I discover, which leaves me in no better position than I was before. I nearly tear out my hair in frustration. This little girl, Gracie, this little girl! All I need is a few hours to myself. I’d take one hour. But Gracie is there, always there, tugging at my skirt, asking me to play with her, read to her, needing attention, needing to dress or be fed or take a bath. I call a few parents from her class and try to set up a play date for her with some other child, but people are out of town; the only parents who show interest are those who want to come to our house. No, no. I drop myself listlessly across the sofa, watching my darling little girl running around with a bunch of plastic flowers she found in an old drawer, strewing them across the room and shouting, “I love you all! I love you all!” like some pint-sized diva. She’s adorable, I know, utterly, heartbreakingly adorable. But I have to get away from her, just for a little while. Yet I can’t. A day passes and a night. I talk to Bill on the phone. He fills me in on his mother’s condition, stable, I talk to her for a few minutes, offer encouragement, talk to Bill again, Gracie comes to the phone and says “Hi, Daddy” and asks when he’ll be home, they talk, I take the phone back and tell my husband about his little diva with the flowers, laugh with him. When I finally hang up I push my fist to my mouth and order myself not to break down, not to cry.

When I put her to bed that evening I resolve to call him. I can’t not call him. I must speak to Connor, at least hear his voice. What if his father picks up? I can’t just hang up, they may have caller i.d., I don’t know. I come up with a story— Mr. Blue? Did I call you? Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. This is Mona Straw, Connor’s teacher. I was trying to call a friend of mine but looking in my little notebook here I accidentally dialed your number instead. I’m sorry. I hope you and Connor are having a nice holiday. Tell him I’ll see him when we go back to school. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Hang up. Good. I dial.

“Hello?” It’s Connor, thank God, it’s Connor.

“Are you alone, sweetheart?” I say quietly into the phone.

“Yeah. Dad’s out. He won’t be back until late. Sometimes he doesn’t come back at all.”

A pause.

“I miss you,” he says finally.