Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

At first Connor is tremendously excited simply to see different motel rooms. He’s hardly ever stayed in a motel, he says. “Just once, when my dad took me to a baseball game in Boston. I was really little.” He’s interested in the ice machines outside, the little cakes of soap in their paper wrappers, the toilet paper folded just so on the roll, the towels, the TVs. (“Hey, Mona!”—he’s growing more comfortable with my name—“look, they have HBO!”) But soon enough (“We don’t have much time, Connor, sweetheart”), I have him choose which bed we’ll use. Each time I teach him patiently how to slow down, how to be a partner, a lover, rather than an overexcited boy. He learns quickly. He’s wonderful, wonderful beyond words. But soon, terribly soon it’s over, each time it’s over, I look at my watch and realize that if I’m going to get back in time to pick up Gracie we have to go in the next half-hour, twenty minutes, ten minutes.

Part of me hates all this. Hates the frantic darting around, the secretiveness, the slow driving to a certain corner, nerves jumping under my skin, hoping Connor didn’t get confused about where he’s supposed to be standing—that happens once, I never find him, I’m crushed, heartbroken, wail in tear-filled frustration and beat my hands on the steering wheel while I circle, circle, circle, and all the time (I learn from him later) he’s two blocks over, lost, panicked, needing me and I’m not there. But he’s there, I wave casually, pull over, he gets in as quickly as he can, just as I’ve told him to, I pull away fast but not too fast. I don’t have him hide on the car floor or anything melodramatic like that. We’ve already got our story. I was giving him a ride, that’s all. I happened to see him and he was going to (fill in blank depending on what direction we went that day) and I stopped to give him a ride, nothing more. Ms. Straw is never not helpful to her students. Everyone knows that. We never touch each other in the car, not even to hold hands. That’s a firm rule. It’s good that Mr. Blue is so often not home, so inattentive to his son when he is. Excuses with him are easy for Connor—he was at a movie, he was at a friend’s house. His dad doesn’t care, never checks on anything. It’s terrible of me to think of myself as grateful to him, but in an ironic way I am. Connor doesn’t need his useless violent dad for anything, anyway. Connor needs me.

Still, part of me hates this. I want to bring Connor into my life, into my family, make him proudly and beautifully part of the Mona Straw everyone sees and knows and admires. But it isn’t possible. And so it’s dirty motel rooms, grimy doorknobs, sheets that reek of bleach, and always the infernal time limit, the ticking of the clock. Usually by the time we’re in the room we have an hour, an hour and a quarter. Ninety minutes is heaven. Once there’s light traffic and the motel is one of the closer ones we’ve ever used and we have two full hours. We make love twice, watch the last few minutes of Brute Force with Burt Lancaster on TV, shower luxuriously together, and I still make it to Gracie’s day care on time. It’s one of the most wonderful days we’ve ever had.

Often only once a week with him. Sometimes twice. Never more than that. I can’t possibly keep my other life together if we do this more than twice a week. Grocery shopping, house cleaning, making dinner, taking care of Gracie, building lesson plans and grading papers. And I know I can’t let things fall apart, that I must keep up this other life, be the exemplary wife and mother and teacher that I am. It’s vital to not let those things slip. They me sane, keep me knowing that Mona Straw still exists even if she’s taken over for hours sometimes by this frenzied stranger, this frantic hysterical madwoman who can think of nothing but making love again and again to her young boyfriend in the afternoon, touching him, pulling, sucking, our skins slapping together, shrieking with joy with him. How new everything is to him, how fresh and awe-inspiring and unimaginable. I can see it through his eyes, imagine what it’s like for him to be with me, so different from my own puzzling and disappointing first experiences with sex. His energy and enthusiasm are boundless. He’ll try anything that involves us touching each other in a new way. His excitement fuels mine. But afterwards is even better, our hair blending together on a single pillow, arms and hips and legs pushed together in the narrow bed, hands clasped, breathing, staring at the ceiling.

Once he asks, “Have you ever done this with anyone else?”

I glance at him. “Of course I have, sweetheart. I’m married. I have a daughter.”

“I mean like this.”

“In motel rooms?”

“With a guy. Not your husband.”

I turn to him, rest my head on my elbow, dangle my hair in his face. “No. Never.”

“Really?”

“Never.”

“I mean, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. I’m just curious.”

“Never, sweetheart.”

He looks away, is silent for a while. Then: “Mona, is it normal to jack off every day?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s normal, Connor.”

“Twice a day?”

I chuckle, then shrug. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re young and energetic.”

“I think about you when I do it.”

“Thank you.”

“But it’s not like really being with you.”

“No. There’s nothing like being with someone you love.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then: “So you’ve never done it with one of your students before?”

“Never.” I grin and kiss him. “You’re my first. My first and only.”

He seems to think about it. “Why me?”

He looks at me. We look at each other. I don’t really know how to answer. “People fall in love, Connor, that’s all. There’s no explaining it.”

“Are you in love with your husband?”

His voice is soft, open, not accusing. He just wants to know, with the innocence of any young kid.

“I used to be.” I play with his nipples. “I love him. I do. I care about Bill. Very much. But I don’t feel about him the way I feel about you.”

“You fell in love with him and then you fell out of love with him?”

I think. “Well, it took a long time. But something like that. Yeah.”

“Will you fall out of love with me, Mona?”

“Oh, Connor, no.” I press myself to him. “I’ll always love you, Connor. Always.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. You know what’ll happen, though? You’ll fall out of love with me.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “Nuh-uh.”

“You will. You’ll start to notice all these pretty girls your own age and you’ll decide you don’t need some stinking old woman in your life anymore.”

“No.” He holds me close, tight, buries his face in my breasts. “You’re not old. You’re not stinking.”

“I will be someday, though. I’ll be old and wrinkly and fat and my boobs will sag.”

“No. You’ll always be beautiful. Always.” He’s crying, I realize. Wetness covers my chest.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” I say, taking his face in my hands, kissing his salty wet eyes, “calm down. I’m here. We’re here together, right where we want to be. Nothing else matters.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t want things to change. Ever. Between us.”

I stroke his hair, pressing his damp face against my chest again. “Oh, Connor,” I whisper, “oh, sweetheart, my baby, my love, my true love, neither do I. Neither do I.”

Things begin to change.

It starts with the coming of early spring, the weather turning from cold to cool. Soon I don’t see Connor’s big coat anymore. Instead he wears a yellow sweater some days, a brown hoodie another. He begins talking more with the other boys in the class, hanging out with them at lunchtime. Once I’m on duty and hope to talk to him a little, maybe walk up to him with his book in his hand and say, “Whatcha readin’, Connor?” But instead he’s on the athletic fields playing soccer. I almost call him over. I want to stand close to him, see the sweat on his face and in his hair, breathe in his active boy-smell, but I know not to. Instead I watch him running up the field with the ball, away from me, away from us, driving straight to the goal. He kicks and scores. His friends yell and whoop and congratulate him.