Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

Even now, I know, I could change my mind. When the festivities conclude I could simply hustle the kids into the car, remind them to put on their seat belts, and drive back home. Ms. Straw would get yet more points for being a wonderful, committed teacher, taking her entire Saturday to drive two kids to a youth leadership conference, to stay with them all day, to drive them back home in the evening, all for no extra pay. Mrs. McCloud would be delighted to see her daughter come home so happy, finally a chosen one, a special student who has received special attention. Mr. Blue wouldn’t care, of course, but maybe the day would at least calm things down between Connor and me, show him that I care about him whether or not we’re together. Really together.

But none of those things will happen because in my purse I have the handcuffs and the gun. I haven’t even completely articulated within my own mind exactly what I’m going to do with them. I only know that we’re not going home.

Finally the day ends with colored lights and music and cheers and Thanks for coming, we’ll see you next year and hundreds of kids and adults pouring out into the parking lot. Car doors slam, engines start. We don’t move at all for quite some time. My nerves start to jump again, the steering wheel grows moist with sweat. When we finally get to the exit I see the sign for the freeway south, which is the direction of home. I take the exit north.

“Are we lost?” Connor asks, a long time later, the sun dim and low in the steely sky.

“Just taking a different route,” I say confidently. “Such nice scenery, don’t you think?” And there is a great deal of greenery around us. I’m surprised at how well I remember the route to the cabin, considering that Bill always drove and I’ve not been there in years.

Darkness. Headlights on the narrow country road.

“We are definitely lost,” Connor says.

“Are we lost, Ms. Straw?” asks Kylie, her tone not unhappy.

“Only a little bit,” I say. “I know where we are. I just need to find the main road. We’ll be home in just a little while.”

It’s farther than I remembered. By now they both know that something is wrong—not with Ms. Straw, but with our location.

“Mona, do you have a map?” Connor asks. “I’ll try to figure out where we are. I’m pretty good with maps.” He turns to Kylie. “Why are you laughing?”

“You called Ms. Straw ‘Mona’!”

“Oh, yeah.” He smiles a little. “Sorry, Ms. Straw.”

“Maybe we should stop, kids,” I say as we near the cabin. “I’ll check to see if there’s a map in the trunk. Maybe we can find somebody to ask. I’m awfully sorry about this.”

They’re surprisingly calm about it. I realize that their faith in Ms. Straw’s ability to take care of things is absolute—even Connor’s faith. It strikes me that for him Ms. Straw and Mona must really be two essentially different people. The one he knows as Ms. Straw is smoothly professional and competent at all times, and thanks to Kylie’s presence it’s Ms. Straw he’s with now, or thinks that he is. The teacher, the authority figure, the one who runs things. For him Mona must seem far away.

At last we pull up to the cabin in the darkness. My headlights shine on it through the rain that’s begun to fall: the structure seems in decent repair, though it’s a bit dilapidated, the roof sagging in spots. I hope the locks haven’t rusted, that I can get in without difficulty.

“Where are we?” Connor asks.

“You know what?” I say brightly. “I realized a little ways back that I recognized this road. I actually know where we are. My husband and I own this cabin.”

Connor looks strangely at me. “Really?”

“Wow!” Kylie says. “That’s cool! You own a cabin in the woods!”

“Yeah,” I smile. “Want to take a look? Now that I’m sure where we are, getting home will be a cinch.” I pull the car under the canopy, the closest thing we have to a garage here, shut off the motor. “Still, Connor, I’m pretty sure I have a map in the trunk. We’ll look. Let’s make sure I don’t make any boo-boos on the way back.”

“Boo-boos!” Kylie giggles, looking at me with her head tilted back. “Ms. Straw, I have to go to the bathroom again.”

“Okay. Let’s go in.” We step out. The rain is falling hard now, making a racket on the canopy. I fumble with my bag, drop the keys on the ground, pick them up. It’s very dark. I unlock the trunk, pull it open. Jumper cables, old boxes, general detritus. “Connor, have a look around in the junk here, will you? For a map? I’ll turn on the light for you. Come on, Kylie.” I find the front door lock, insert the key, open the door. The cabin smells musty, of course. I switch on the porch light and a light in the living room.

“Neat,” Kylie says. “But I thought it would look more like a log cabin. Like Abe Lincoln’s house.”

I smile. “I know, this is really just a regular house, isn’t it? Only smaller.” My heartbeat is pounding behind my eyes. The rain falls, falls. “The bathroom’s in here, Kylie.” I lead her to it, open the door for her, turn on the light. “The lock doesn’t work,” I lie. “But I’ll stand here and make sure Connor doesn’t come in.”

“Thanks, Ms. Straw.”

She closes the door. I stand there for what feels like centuries. Connor is still out at the car; I can see the hood of the trunk sticking up from here. My breath is shallow. I feel dizzy. I can back out, I think. I can stop. I can put them in the car even now and go home, tell a whopper of a story to Bill and their parents about getting hopelessly confused on the freeway, driving in the wrong direction without realizing it, not understanding until I recognized that we were fairly near our cabin, deciding to go there to give the kids a bathroom break and me a driving break before returning home at last. I can do that, I think. I can do that. The bag drops from my hands, sags on the floor. I’ve been standing here for centuries and yet Connor hasn’t come in, I haven’t heard a thing from Kylie in the bathroom. Centuries. Sweat pours down my face although it’s cool in the room, cool and musty. I find myself wondering ridiculously if there’s any food in the cupboards, if I could offer them anything to eat. But no. Hurry up please it’s time.

I turn, step into the bathroom, lock the door behind me. Kylie is standing at the toilet, having just pulled down her pants. They’re around her ankles, the jeans and the little white panties with red hearts she has on under them. I’ve caught her in the moment before she sits down. She looks at me with such astonishment that she doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t act embarrassed or cry out, “Ms. Straw!” or cover her privates with her hands or anything. She just looks at me through her glasses, head tilted back, mouth open. For a moment I realize why people generally dislike her, she looks so stupid standing there like that, she looks like a two-legged cow, like a brainless doll with nothing but white plastic between her legs, no hair at all. In the instant I move toward her she suddenly realizes that something is very wrong and tries to turn away from me but her pants tangle up her feet. She nearly falls but I catch her from behind, pull her head back, tighten my hands around her throat. “Shh, shh,” I say, my voice ragged and strange, “don’t make a sound, Kylie, shh.” I squeeze as hard as I can. The only sound she makes is a little gurgling noise. Her hands fly this way and that, like they did the moment Connor started the slow dance with her. She tries to reach me behind her but can only flail backwards at my shoulders and thighs. But I can’t get enough pressure on her neck, it’s almost impossible this way. I’m choking her but she’s managing little breaths. She tries to wrench loose, weak little girl, stumbles over her pants, nearly drags both of us down, I lose my balance, too much of her weight is in my hands and suddenly we’re on our knees, I’m on top of her from behind, my hands are on fire with the pain of the squeezing and yet she’s not dying, she’s kicking and pulling at my fingers and managing quick gasping breaths and I suddenly know that this isn’t going to work, she’s stronger than I realized, I should never have tried from behind, I use all my strength to force her down flat on the floor, implant my knee on her back, take my hands off her throat, she inhales hugely with an odd high-pitched sound like wind whistling in a canyon, I grab her mousy hair in my hands and slam her face onto the bathroom tile as hard as I can. Twice, three times. Suddenly I realize I’m wet, my pants are wet, my leg pushed against her back and bottom, she’s peeing herself, great waves of piss pouring out from between her legs and somehow this makes me angry, makes me slam her head against the tile harder, harder still, ten times, twenty, until finally her body seems to shiver hugely and her fluttering arms drop to the floor, make only weak spasmodic motions. Incredibly, piss is still coming out of her. I turn her over, both of us covered in urine. Her eyes are rolled up in her head and her face is covered with blood: her nose is smashed, I realize, pouring sticky red tendrils everywhere across her face. Her forehead is covered with ugly raw abrasions. One of her front teeth is split nearly in half. Yet the thing I notice the most, more vividly than anything else, is how odd she looks without her glasses on. They’ve flown off her face and landed I don’t know where. But as I lean down to her I realize she’s not dead. Her breathing is ragged, shaky, she’s moaning. She’s not dead. Connor’s voice suddenly, so close that for an instant I think he’s come into the room: “Where are you guys? Kylie? Ms. Straw?” With his voice I begin again to hear the rain, in mad torrent now, a deluge slamming down on the cabin, surely we’ll all be swept away. I wrap my hands around her neck again, this time from the front, and press down. Her face turns red, then blue, then an odd, sick gray. My fingers ache but now my thumbs can completely crush the soft part of her throat, press, press, a small high-pitched sound like a trapped rat comes from her and then I feel something collapse in her throat, my thumbs push through something, her body bucks for a second or two, her arms twitch, and she’s dead. I know it the instant it happens. She’s dead.