Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

Quiet evenings. Normal evenings. Pick up Gracie, do the shopping, come home, make dinner, watch TV, read, play children’s games, put my daughter to bed, grow sleepy. Let Bill make love to me if he wants, but he’s as tired as I am, usually he doesn’t. Then sleep. Simple. The way millions of other people live. Nothing complicated, nothing difficult. Countless people do it successfully every day. Just life, that’s all. Except that I’m not really there, I’m an automaton, a zombie, my heart has stopped, it’s gone from my chest entirely. I perform my role as an actor would a part in a long-running play, smoothly, competently, a bit of my mind somewhere else while sheer technique and professionalism take over and carry me through from scene to scene. It doesn’t matter where my heart is or my brain as long as I deliver my lines convincingly, as long as I stand in the right place at the right time and do what I’m supposed to do. The play goes on then, with well-meshed gears. Ms. Straw, Mona Straw is where she’s supposed to be, doing what she’s supposed to do. And so everything is all right.

Once I find myself with some spare time—an almost unheard-of occurrence. I have no grading to do, I’m not kept late at school, no shopping needs to be done, Gracie doesn’t have to be picked up for over an hour. I’m tempted to go home and take a nap but instead I drive to the mall, something I never do unless I’m with Bill and Gracie. I treat myself to a soft-serve ice cream cone with multi-colored sprinkles and wander around for a while, look at clothes, jewelry, just window shopping. I find myself passing by the racy lingerie shop and on impulse I step into it, not looking for anything in particular, just whiling away time. To my surprise I discover it’s not just lingerie, sexy black bras and V-cut panties and such. In the rear of the store is all manner of sexual paraphernalia, some of it quite shocking to see in this family-friendly mall. Dildos, leather things, whips, hardcore porn videos. I’d had no idea. A clerk, a pretty red-haired woman younger than I, steps up and asks if she can help me. I’m so embarrassed I nearly drop my ice cream cone, nearly flee the shop entirely, but manage to smile and say, “No thanks, I’m just looking.”

As she smiles and turns away I notice something on a corner table: a set of little pink fuzzy handcuffs. I pick them up curiously, assuming they’re just a toy—they’re sort of cute, certainly not big and imposing like the merciless silver steel ones the police carry with them. These seem only half that size. But they’re real. They’re made of metal, some kind of metal that’s been covered over with the sort of fluffy material familiar to me from Gracie’s stuffed animals. But despite the softness of the covering the two cuffs are hard, unforgiving. A short chain connects them, also metal, I think steel, which seems to have been sprayed over with gold paint. Like the cuffs themselves the chain is also not terribly large, but it’s surprisingly strong. I finish my ice cream cone to free my hand and then pull at the cuffs experimentally, first gently, then with more force. They don’t give. These are actual handcuffs. On one cuff is a small bit of folded blue cardboard dangling from a string. I unfold it and see two little gold keys wrapped in plastic along with a note printed in poor English: THESE ARE REAL DEVICE! USE AT OWN RISK! DO NOT LOOSE KEYS!

I stand there for a long time looking at the little pink handcuffs. I see how they can be adjusted for different sized wrists. I pull at them again and again, to determine if I can break the chain. I look around to see if the clerk is watching me but she’s busy with another customer. Anyway, if I break them it doesn’t matter, I’ll just buy them and throw them in the trash bin outside the store. I pull, pull again. They don’t break. I’m not strong enough to break them. Something shocks me that these can even be sold openly in a store in a mall, but there’s nothing illegal, I suppose, in buying handcuffs or owning them. These are obviously designed for sex games, bondage games, perfectly innocent fantasy play for adults with otherwise boring middle-class lives.

I look around the shop, empty but for the red-haired clerk and her single other customer. My scalp is tingling, sweat is running down my neck. On the back of the bit of folded cardboard the price is marked. I’m astounded at how high it is, but this isn’t a cheap plastic toy. I know I have enough cash in my purse—I would never consider putting this purchase on Visa for Bill to read about later even if it weren’t itemized, even if only the name of the store appeared on the bill. I look out the front window of the shop to the mall beyond, wondering if anyone I know could possibly be lurking around, any teacher, any friend, any student’s parent. Ms. Straw being seen in the shop would be bad enough, but Ms. Straw buying pink handcuffs?

I buy the handcuffs.

The clerk doesn’t bat an eye, just drops them into a paper sack, hands me my change and receipt, says brightly, “Thank you, come again!” I smile, stuff the sack into my purse, rush from the shop down the escalator and to my car. As soon as I’m inside with the door locked I take a quick glance around the parking lot to make sure no one is near and then take the cuffs from the bag, rip the keys from their plastic wrapper. I close first one cuff—it gives a satisfying snap —and open it with one of the keys. Then I close the other and open it. It sticks just slightly, but then works fine. But to be sure, to be confident in both the locks and the keys, I encircle my own wrist with a cuff, tighten it, snap it shut. I’m breathing heavily, as if I’ve been running a marathon. How would I explain a pink fuzzy handcuff stuck on my wrist to the sales clerk, to anyone? But when I insert the key and turn it the device works perfectly, the cuff pops open. The same thing happens with the other cuff. No problem at all. I loop one of the little keys onto my regular key ring, leave the other at the bottom of my purse. I push the handcuffs themselves into an inner side pocket—I’ll hide them later, I think, somewhere at home. There is a garbage container near the car and I get out, crumple up the bag and receipt and throw them away. I return to the car again, shut the door, lock it.

I close my eyes then, rest my head against the back of the seat, try to breathe. I think of Connor pouring over the book of Hitchcock’s films, think of him looking at the picture of Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll handcuffed together on the moor, think of how close our hands were then, how I nearly reached out and encircled his hand with my own, how we both gazed at the photo and how he said that he wanted to see that movie.

Dear Ms. Straw,

I am very sorry I called you that word. It was very rude of me. I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I hope we can be friends again. Like we were before.

Another motel room, the last motel room. He says, “I love you, Mona,” he makes love to me, it’s the way it was, but afterward he turns away as if he’s ashamed of himself, or of me, or of us together. He withdraws into silence again.

After a while he suddenly asks, in a remote, indifferent voice, “Mona, how long do child molesters go to jail for?”

He spends his days with Kylie. He doesn’t speak to me.

Dominoes falling. Looking through my box in the faculty room at school I find another mailing from Youth Leadership for America, a reminder about their annual conference happening in just a few weeks and telling me that there’s still time to register up to two students for this “wonderful opportunity,” a day-long conference tailored to fifth- through eighth-graders about “leadership, community, and caring.” The young co-star of a current teen sitcom will make an appearance, a Maryland state senator will speak, students will brainstorm ideas about building community, create a group art project on the theme, have fun, think, learn. Lots of food, competitions, door prizes. Hundreds are expected to attend.