Savaging the Dark

by Christopher Conlon

  6

  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.”

  7

  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.

  After school my small group of students has its little tutoring and socializing time, but at lunch it’s generally just Connor and me. I’m aware of how this could potentially look to others at the school, so I’m always careful to leave the window blinds wide open, the door ajar. And I tell other teachers about it, about the fact that I tutor him during that period, so there can be no mystery, no sense of secrecy or of anything inappropriate. The fact is, I enjoy Connor’s company. He’s a strange boy, awkward in some ways—he’s clumsy, seemingly undergoing a growth spurt that leaves him uncertain of the dimensions and responses of his own body—but really extremely bright, and in unusual ways. I sense an enormous amount of untapped potential in this boy who can rattle off knowing references to movies fifty years old. Sometimes we discuss current films he’s seen reviewed in the paper or on Siskel & Ebert on TV, but generally he
seems more interested in earlier times. I took several film courses in college, and have a large collection of videos and movie books at home. I’m able to direct him to films he might want to watch—one day he comes in raving about White Heat with James Cagney. His enthusiasm is infectious, making me want to seek out movies I’ve somehow missed or watch old favorites again. I loan him cassettes of Bullets or Ballots, The Roaring Twenties, Notorious, Spellbound. I loan him the simpler of my many film books, volumes filled mostly with pictures, focused on Hitchcock or Lang or film noir. I’ve never loaned my personal things to any student, ever—eleven-year-olds are not wise stewards of other people’s property—but Connor is extremely responsible, always returning the items quickly and in excellent condition. But that matters less to me than the gratitude in his eyes—thanking me for the movies and books, yes, but I think more for my trust, something I know he gets little of at home.

  I’m curious—concerned—about Connor’s home life, but I know better than to ask. Girls will sometimes come to a teacher unprompted, unload on her all their woes about their mothers and fathers and brothers, but boys tend to be reticent. Watching him eating his daily apple, pouring over the pages of one of the movie books I’ve loaned him, I wonder about him and his father. I don’t know where they live or how much money they have, though judging from Connor’s worn and faded T-shirts and blue jeans I suspect it isn’t a lot. Does he come home to an empty house? How much is his father there? Does he eat decently? Does his dad ever compliment him on anything, support him, praise him?

  Poor kid.

  ***

  It’s around this time that the dreams begin again, dreams that plagued me in high school but which I haven’t had in many years. I’m twelve, I’m on my old red Schwinn bicycle, the asphalt rushing past me under the wheels, I’m swooping downhill on a beautiful summer’s day, the wind blowing back my hair. I come to the intersection, glance left and right, the roads are clear, I glide through squealing with delight and, glancing over my shoulder, call out, Come on, try to catch me, come on! and as I look the other bike sails into the intersection and the truck, an old blue pickup truck which I only later realize was pulling out of a driveway I hadn’t noticed as I’d passed through seconds before, collides head-on with the boy on the bike, I actually see the collision, I watch as the rusted front grill of the truck plows into his left side and his body bends strangely, an angle no body is meant to bend, the bike crumples under him and he goes with it under the truck and I slam into something, later I understand it was the curb, I fly off my bike and my forehead slams into the base of a maple tree, and all this happens silently, just as it did in life, or seemed to. I imagine the truck’s engine must have made some sound but I didn’t hear it. I know the driver never had a chance to swerve or hit his brakes or honk his horn or anything, the damned kid just flew into the intersection so fast, unavoidable accident, no charges, at least the man lived in another town so I wouldn’t have to see him and his hellish blue pickup day after day, in fact I never saw him again, maybe he left the area, maybe he died. The boy’s body bends at that bizarre angle, molding itself to the shape of the truck’s grill, the boy’s body is suspended there for an instant before it follows the bike underneath the wheels, I hit the curb again and again, my body briefly airborne, my forehead smacking against the base of the tree, I turn back with my head bleeding and my palms scraped and my knees of my pants ripped through to see Michael and his bike strangely intertwined, as if they were one single mangled thing there in the middle of the road, Michael, I don’t move, I don’t run to his side, I don’t scream for help, I just lay there on the ground with blood running into my eyes and I stare as the driver of the truck who has leapt from his vehicle comes running back to him, as other drivers pull over, as people wave off traffic, rush to the crumpled thing there in the middle of the road and for a long, long time no one notices me, no one realizes I’m there at all on the other side of the street with blood on my face and palms and knees, and then the sounds finally begin, car sounds, panicked voices, Oh my God and Call an ambulance, Jesus and No no no no and finally someone points toward me, I see the white finger raised accusingly at me, I see its judgment, I see my doom, and I hear a woman’s voice crying out, That’s his sister, look, there’s Michael’s sister, that’s his twin sister!

  8

  I don’t tell Bill about the dreams, but he knows that something is strange, off, knows it as he has to shake me again and again in the night.

  “Honey? It’s just a dream, honey, it’s just a dream, wake up.”

  I wake into my life, whatever life I have. I’m sweating and panting. I look in the darkness at my husband who feels like an interloper now, someone who doesn’t belong here between me and my dreams, my memories. Who is this man with his bald head and soft belly? I push him away, rush to the toilet, vomit.

  ***

  By day I function well enough. Sunlight and interactions with people bring me back to reality, what people call reality. Talking to Bill about the upcoming day, not mentioning the nighttime episodes. Pleasant with each other. A friendly kiss as he heads out the door, this one-time revolutionary, now a domesticated family man with coffee on his breath. Getting Gracie ready for school, packing her lunch—cheese sandwich, Oreos, carrot sticks, juice box. Getting her into the car and heading off to the pre-school. Dropping her off, then heading the ten blocks to the Cutts School and becoming for one more day Ms. Straw to groups of unruly middle-schoolers. Yet I like Ms. Straw, she’s comfortable, an easy and familiar persona I can step into and hide in. The children can’t imagine the nighttime Ms. Straw, don’t even know she exists. The feel of the bike seat on my bottom, the handlebar grips in my hands, the smooth road rolling by beneath me.

  ***

  As autumn slides into winter the entire neighborhood seems to grow darker. Not the simple, obvious dark of seasonal change. Some other kind of dark, a dark I can’t define as I wrap a robe around myself in the morning and push my feet into my old slippers and pad out the front door to get the paper. It’s six-thirty in the morning and I can see dawn brightening the sky beyond the maple trees all around but somehow the light only seems to reinforce, to intensify the darkness it mirrors: rolled newspaper in hand I look around myself, at the familiar houses silhouetted against the morning, and feel as if there is some horrible secret looming here, some awful black nightmarish truth waiting to lean close to me and snatch me up, reveal itself to me, rip me to shreds. As if the shadows of the houses and the trees will come alive. I stand there in the driveway with my hair askew and a useless rolled newspaper in my hand, eyes wide, perspiration rolling down my face, my breath shallow. For an instant I see it, I know it, the doom that’s waiting, the darkness that’s approaching, ready to swallow me whole.

  ***

  Again and again when I feel this despair, this panic, I find myself thinking of Connor Blue. Most of my students are blurs to me when I’m not standing before them, looking directly at them: I can’t remember their faces, not really. A smile maybe, a pretty set of eyes, but not the actual face, not the person. But as autumn drains into winter I notice Connor Blue appearing in my mind increasingly often, increasingly vividly. I can picture him quite well when he’s not around, even disturbingly well. I can’t remember ever having this feeling about a student, though it’s not really a feeling, it’s more a sensation. I simply don’t forget him as I forget the others. I can be making a snack for Gracie at the kitchen counter or vacuuming the living room carpet or driving to the supermarket or brushing my teeth and suddenly he’ll be there in my mind, as vivid as the kind of religious vision reported by the old prophets. The blonde, nearly white hair, the way it sticks up in back and falls down in front, covering his left eye so that he has to brush it back with his hand. His green eyes, their steady expectant gaze, the long black lashes over them. The cute little nose, oddly small for his face and flat. The little-boy freckles splashed over his pink cheeks. And the smile, maybe the smile most of all, his thin cherry lips, h
is front teeth very slightly protruding—he’ll probably end up with braces in a year or two—but very white, very even, very, yes, pretty. That’s the word for Connor Blue: Pretty. In a couple of years he won’t be. No boy is. He’ll get his growth spurt—right now Connor is barely five feet tall—and his features will begin to change, elongate, harden. His voice will start to creak and crack and suddenly one day it will be deeper, harsher, no longer a boy’s, high and fluty and insubstantial, but a man’s instead. The clarity of his youthful gaze will vanish to be replaced by a more reserved, knowing, suspicious look. The quick innocent smile will disappear into adolescent lassitude and cynicism. It’s a tragedy, really. It makes me understand why centuries ago the Italians favored castrati in their operas: to hold a boy just there, to not let him be corrupted by time or experience. Yes. And yet that would fail too: only their voices would remain pure, after all. The rest of them would still become men, inexorably, irretrievably.

  ***

  The winter shadows deepen until it’s hardly light at all when I gather Gracie up to head to her pre-school in the mornings, hardly light at all by the time I finish with the after-school study group in the afternoons and go home. In fact it’s almost full dark. I see little light during my waking hours. Just little rectangles of it now and then during class, when I have a moment to look out. The way the buildings are situated much of the light is blocked, leaving me with the sense that the darkness is encroaching on me—into me—all the time. I function well enough. I teach perfectly adequately. I laugh with my students, I make jokes, I play around. I go where I’m supposed to go during the day, pick up Gracie when I need to, shop for dinner, greet Bill cordially, I’m agreeable to whatever sexual activity he suggests before sleep, say nothing about how distasteful I’ve begun to find his big, hairy body, his stubbly cheeks, his eternal coffee breath. The darkness is growing, inside me and outside. Inside like a cancer, outside like a truck grill slamming into me over and over again. I need light, purity, clarity, anything but this blooming winter darkness that seems to stifle and choke me.