Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

I run my finger along his spine, all the way to his bottom.

“Connor, if you’re going to dump a girl you should do it before you make love to her, not after.”

He looks back. “I’m not dumping you.”

“Really?”

He turns away again. “I’m just busy.”

“Busy with Kylie?”

“Busy with school.”

I scoot myself close to him, snake my arm around him, stroke his thigh, reach for his penis and grasp it.

“Don’t,” he says, pushing my hand away.

“Connor, not fifteen minutes ago…”

“I know what I did fifteen minutes ago.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I just… I don’t know.”

I study him. “Connor, do you have any idea what I have to go through to get us together in these motel rooms? Do you? How hard it is? To find places that we can use? To arrange everything? To pay for everything? Do you know how much risk I put myself in, doing all this? And I do it for you. It’s all for you.”

“I think you get something out of it.”

“I get your come ,” I say, sitting up, my heart pumping. I try to keep my voice low, even. “It’s running down my leg right now. Want to see it?”

“No.”

“You put it there. You put it there and then a few minutes later you tell me you don’t want to see me anymore.”

“I just said next week.”

We sit in angry silence for a while.

Finally Connor stands, looks at me. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says.

“Because you’re dirty? With me? You have me on you?”

He glances at me, then away.

“Connor, if you keep spending time with Kylie and you date her and all that, what do you think will eventually happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Between you two. In a few years.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll end up doing the same ‘dirty’ things we do together. That’s what will happen.”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“We’re not even… Mona, we’re not… we’re just kids! We just read together and talk about—about books and stuff. Classes. Teachers.”

“Oh? What do you say about me?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“We don’t talk about you. I mean, Kylie said she likes you. As a teacher. She thinks you’re a good teacher.”

“Do you think I’m a good teacher?”

“I don’t know.”

“Connor, have you kissed Kylie?”

“No.” He shrugs, then says: “Not really. After school a couple of days ago she asked me if I’d ever kissed a girl.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I said I had once. Then I… I don’t know, I asked if I could kiss her.”

“Why?”

“’Cuz I like her.”

“And did you? Kiss her?”

He glances at me, embarrassed. “She said I could kiss her on the cheek. So I did.”

I laugh.

“And then she kissed me on the cheek back.”

“How sweet. I mean it. Really sweet.”

“You’re talking like I’m a baby again.”

“Come back to bed, sweetheart. I’ll show you how much of a baby I think you are.”

“No.”

I pat the mattress beside me. “C’mere.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do. He does.” I point at his slowly rising erection.

“Mona…”

“Just come to bed. We’ll sort out the rest later.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “Come on, Connor,” I say softly. “I need you to be a man now.”

He moves reluctantly toward me, but he moves. He reaches out his hand and I grab it, pull him onto the bed. In a moment we’re wrestling and giggling and kissing and everything is fine, just fine, there’s nothing wrong, nothing.

Life blurs. Increasingly I’m an automaton with Gracie, with Bill. I’m there but I’m not. It’s the same with classes, except the one Connor is in. And even then there’s an unreality to all the other kids, to talking about some great writer’s story, to diagramming a sentence on the board. I manage to get through it, through everything, most people don’t know there’s anything wrong at all. Gracie never again says anything about the boy who shovels the snow and she seems to have forgotten him. Bill and I just go on as people who have been married for a decade and have a child go on. But I don’t know how long it can last. I’m dead inside whenever I’m not with Connor. I puff myself up with personal pep talks and make sure that I dress nicely and I resolve to smile smile smile but I’m dead inside. Joyful spring blossoms are everywhere, mocking me, blue spring skies berate me, cool April breezes call me worthless, not fit to live. I know what I am. I know what I’ve done, what I’m doing. I know that nobody else on earth would ever understand. But I also know that I’m a good mother, a good wife. I’m having an affair with a boy but I am a good wife to Bill, he’s proud of me, he loves me. He’s curious about my moodiness sometimes, maybe a little concerned, but he supports me, cheers me on, doesn’t ask questions, lets me live my life. He tells me how sexy I am when I wear a low-cut black dress to one of his employer’s functions, tells me how he saw the other guys checking me out and he’s right, they were. I keep a good home for him. I take care of our child. He can’t ask for more from his wife, he wouldn’t dream of it.

And school? I still run the afternoon tutoring group. I’m not paid anything extra for this, I just do it. I make the calls home when Richard Broad’s behavior has been disruptive, I make the calls home when he’s done well that day. I help Kevin Simmons, who has a slight speech impediment, with his pronunciations. I teach Cheryl Milton how to outline the events in a chapter so that she can remember what happened in the book. I arrange to have Andrew Harrington, who always struggles with English, tested for dyslexia, which it turns out he has, and I help set up an enhanced program for him with a private specialist. I create original assignments, allow my students to express themselves in different ways, respond to a book or story or poem through art or music or their own creative writing. My classes are fun in the best ways. Not everything works, my lessons are sometimes a little sloppy, but engagingly so, in a manner that makes kids want to come into the room and learn. Other teachers tell me that students enter their classes talking excitedly about mine. Even Estelle Higgins is friendly with me again. I watch kids, so many kids get better at reading and writing, grow stronger and more self-confident, after I’ve spent time with them. I’m a gifted teacher, I know. Few others, even the most experienced and trained, can do what Ms. Straw does in the classroom. I know that. And I know that none of it would count for anything if the truth came out, the secret. One student among the hundreds I’ve taught and tutored and counseled and befriended. I would be a monster beyond the pale of humanity, shunned, imprisoned, wished hanged or gassed or shot. And yet I know that unless Connor is near me I’m already beyond all hope of redemption, I’m dead inside, completely and utterly dead.

“Mona?”

“Mm?” I snuggle against him.

“Who’s your family? I mean, your parents and stuff?”

I look at him. “Well,” I say, “my parents are both dead. I don’t have any other relatives. Bill and Gracie are my family. And you.”

“Don’t you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.” And yet, though I never talk about this to anyone, I find myself saying, “I had a brother once.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died, honey.”

“I’m sorry.”