Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

But something about Connor held my attention, this quiet boy who read books and liked old movies and didn’t engage with others yet who always seemed happy to see me, quick to break into a grin and say, “Hi, Ms. Straw!”

“Hi, Connor! Whatcha readin’?” It became my set greeting for him, whether or not he was actually holding a book just then. But he was always reading something, and he would always tell me about it: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Call of the Wild, Lost Horizon. Of course he asked me for recommendations, and I directed him toward writers like Madeleine L’Engel and Ray Bradbury. Boys who truly love to read are, of course, delightful for an English teacher to have in her classroom, and Connor was, in that way, a delight. Again and again I would be surprised that he had read one of my recommendations so quickly and could then return to me for such an intelligent discussion about it. We spent a lot of time on Meg Murry and Calvin O’Keefe and on Bradbury’s Martians. And, of course, on old movies. I was amazed at his knowledge. He was familiar with not only Hitchcock, but Frank Capra, Preston Sturges, the Marx Brothers, James Cagney. Sometimes he would sit in my classroom through lunch, since fourth period was just before. Often two or three kids would be there, usually girls who liked to read or who didn’t feel like going outside. Sometimes it would be just Conner and me, alone. We didn’t say much. I would eat my lunch at my desk, reading (or pretending to read) a book or magazine while Connor sat with another book from the class lending library.

“Aren’t you hungry, Connor?” I would ask him. He never seemed to have a lunch.

He would shrug. “Not really.”

“Want my apple?” I held it up for him to see.

He brightened, as he always did when I offered him anything: a book, attention. “Okay!”

And we would sit there, far apart—he habitually returned to his seat in the middle of the third row—quietly chewing, the teacher and her bright, unusual student, unaware (were we?) of the disaster that even then was rushing to meet us.

Connor’s father comes to parent-teacher conferences that fall: I see him step sullenly into my classroom, a tall cadaverous man with a buzz cut and mustache who smells of cigarettes. He wears a rancher’s coat over a white T-shirt and tattered blue jeans. I smile, greet him, ask him to sit down, though I dislike him instantly. His face is pale and pockmarked, set in a perpetual expression of anger. I can see from his wrinkle lines that this man rarely smiles, and he doesn’t now. Instead he sits in the too-small chair and glares at me.

“How’s he doin’?” he asks. He doesn’t bother to say hello, how are you. Nothing.

I go into my usual recitation, glancing down now and then at my gradebook for reference. Excellent reading comprehension, very good writing skills, average class participation. It all sounds very normal, yet as I talk I find myself growing nervous at his eyes, which never leave me. He never seems to blink at all. The eyes are watery green, like Connor’s only with all the vividness and clarity and beauty drained from them. Somehow as he stares at me, listening—or pretending to listen—I begin to feel that his eyes are accusing me of something, that this man thinks me guilty . Of what? I talk on and on, not letting silence fall between us even for a moment. A 100 on the most recent quiz, that’s very good, but his paragraph practice from last week wasn’t as strong as it could have been and I wish he would speak up a little more in class because he’s a bright boy Mr. Blue and I think he has a lot to offer.

“Him?” At last he breaks eye contact, looks down at the floor. His voice is contemptuous. “What does he have to offer?”

I swallow. “He’s bright, Mr. Blue, really. He’s very smart.”

“Connor’s dumb as a post. Always has been. All he does is watch TV. You sure you’ve got the right boy, lady? I’m Connor Blue’s dad.”

I scowl, though I try not to. “He’s very smart, Mr. Blue. At least in English.”

“That’s news to me. His grades are lousy. Except your class.” As if in accusation he holds up his report card, which I’ve not seen. I hold out my hand in a “do you mind if I have a look?” gesture and he hands it over.

He’s wrong, but not that wrong. His grades aren’t lousy, but they aren’t great. Other than my B+ the card is awash in C’s and C-minuses, along with a D in Math. I’m surprised. Connor can do much better than this, I know.

“Well,” I say, handing back the card to him, “he’s young, Mr. Blue. And it’s still pretty early in the school year. I’m sure he can get himself on track. He’s got a sharp, creative mind. And these grades aren’t too bad, really.”

He looks at me, disgust evident in his eyes.

“Is there someone at home who can help him with his homework?”

“I’m at the restaurant until late most nights. It’s the school’s job to teach him, not mine.”

I ignore that. “What do you do at the restaurant, Mr. Blue?”

“Tend bar.”

I nod. “What about his mother?”

“She passed away. Cancer. When he was two.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I think for a moment. “Does he have any siblings?”

“Nope.”

“Well… we may be able to set something up here at school, if you like. We do have a tutoring program.”

“That going to cost me anything?”

I’ve really begun to dislike this man now. “No, Mr. Blue. Students from the high school come in after school to help. It doesn’t cost anything. I’ll see about getting Connor signed up, if you want.”

“Long as it doesn’t cost anything.” He stands impatiently, glaring at me again. “I don’t want no bill showing up later. I’m not wasting any more money on Connor. It’s sink or swim for him, as far as I’m concerned.”

“No bill will show up, Mr. Blue.”

He nods, then turns quickly and marches out. My mood lightens immediately the moment Mr. Blue is out of my sight. My God, I think. The poor kid.

The next day at lunch, having tossed my daily apple to him, I say to Connor, “Your dad came to conferences last night.”

“Oh, yeah?” He bites into the apple.

“He showed me your report card.”

“He mad at me?”

“Well… disappointed.”

“I don’t know why,” he says, kicking the floor under his desk. “Those are the best grades I’ve gotten in I don’t know how long.”

“Are they?”

“Mostly I get D’s and F’s.”

“Wow. You only had one D this time. So that’s a real improvement. Congratulations.”

He shrugs. “I’m not very smart in school.”

“You’re carrying a B+ in this class, Connor.”

“Yeah, I guess. English is easier.”

“Connor, about your other classes—” my fingers fiddle with a paper clip—“since you’re in here at lunch most of the time anyway, I could help you. If you want.”

He looks up brightly. “Really?”

“Sure. I mean, except the weeks I’m on duty. But otherwise I can help you. You could stay after school too. I’m usually here anyway.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I look at him. “So what subject are you having the most trouble in?”

“Math. Always math.”

“Do you have your book with you?”

“Sure. In my backpack.”

I gesture to the chair beside my desk. “Well, bring your book and your assignment over here and we’ll get started.”

And so Connor Blue becomes something of a special project of mine. He still doesn’t take up that much of my mental space—I still worry about Lauren Holloway’s silence, Richard Broad’s rambunctiousness, Kylie McCloud’s nose always buried in books; I still have a life outside school too, with Bill and with Gracie who has just started pre-school this year, all sweet little schoolgirl outfits and a lunchbox emblazoned with images of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles . But when the final bell rings at 2:45 and the kids bolt from their chairs, busily gathering their sweaters and backpacks and rushing from the classroom, as often as not they leave only Connor and perhaps one or two girls there. It becomes a pleasant place to be, Ms. Straw’s classroom in the after-hours. I’m able to have extended chats with the kids—not just Connor—and the unofficial tutoring I do seems to help them. It’s a casual atmosphere, with other children or the occasional stray teacher wandering in and out. I feel good, productive, useful. It takes time but I’m able to manage around Gracie’s school schedule—she too stays in an after-school program. I have enough time to pick her up at the end of the day, hit the supermarket and get home to make some reasonable sort of dinner. Only as the evening wears on does the tiredness begin to hit me, after I’ve struggled through Gracie’s bath and story and bedtime and drop myself onto the sofa next to Bill to wind up the night watching TV. When we go to bed, as often as not he turns to me and makes the slow movements I know lead in only one direction. Mostly I don’t mind, but slowly, over weeks and months, I find myself growing impatient with his attentions, make excuses more often than I used to. He says nothing, it’s not an issue between us. Yet.