They end up spending much of the rest of the dance together, to my—and everyone else’s—amazement. They dance again and again. They go together to the punch bowl, the ever-gallant Connor serving her a glass of punch. I can just read her lips when she says Thank you and takes the glass. I hope she doesn’t drop it, spill it all over herself or something else equally clumsy, equally Kylie. Let this go well for her, I think. Let it be magic.
Late in the hour-long dance Dave Tisdale puts on a slow song. I don’t even know what it is, I don’t know young people’s music. But the sound is soft, the beat slow. It’s the first such he’s played. Connor and Kylie are standing on the sideline with most of the other kids, nervously considering matters. There are two couples already on the floor, both pairings of longtime friends. Other boys start speaking to other girls, head hesitantly out to the floor, moving as if they’re afraid there may be land mines near. Finally, yes, Connor steps forward—he takes Kylie’s hand—and he leads her to an open spot, puts his palms gently on her waist. For a moment she stands with her arms frozen at her sides, doesn’t seem to know what to do. Finally Connor starts to move a little, to circle slowly with her, and her hands flutter helplessly in the air until finally they move to his shoulders and then stay there, never move an inch. She’s stiff, holds herself as far as she possibly can from him. But when the song is done she’s danced a slow dance with a boy. All of the teachers are touched. I find myself wanting to cry, to run onto the floor and thank Connor for being just as special as I always knew he was.
And the next day it’s Connor and Kylie who are the item, the talk of the class. Connor takes it well, grinning and blushing, while Kylie actually raises her head out of her book for a while, smiling and laughing at the first teasing she’s ever received that isn’t malicious and hurtful. If anything, the girls in school seem impressed with her, as if they just discovered hidden resources in this bashful bookworm—after all, many of them didn’t slow dance.
After fourth period I stand at the door as the kids run out to lunch and I stop Connor. We’re not alone, there are still a couple of kids in the room, but what I have to say isn’t private. “Connor, I’m so proud of you,” I say, smiling down at him.
“For what?”
I nod toward Kylie, who is still at her desk, reading. “You know.”
“Oh. Yeah. Hey, Kylie!” he calls, looking around me. “C’mon, it’s lunchtime.”
Her head pops up as if she’s just pulled herself from a dream.
“Huh? Oh, okay.” She gathers her things and follows Connor out of the room. “Bye, Ms. Straw.”
“Bye, Kylie. Have a nice lunch.”
“Thank you!”
They eat together, sitting in the spring sunshine with their brown paper bags and sandwiches and juice boxes. I watch them from my classroom window curiously. It appears that he actually likes her. They’re talking about her book, whatever book she’s reading, she holds it up for him to see and they look at it together. They laugh about something. I’ve never seen Kylie’s face so animated, so happy.
“I think it’s really nice, you spending time with Kylie,” I say later, in that week’s motel room bed.
He doesn’t respond.
“I mean it,” I say. “You’re very gallant. But, sweetheart, can I make a suggestion?”
“What?”
“Don’t be too friendly with her. Don’t lead her on.”
“Lead her on?”
“You know, don’t act as if you really want to be her boyfriend or something.”
“Why not?”
“You could hurt her feelings, Connor.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“I like her,” he says at last.
“Do you?”
“She’s actually really smart.”
“Oh?”
“You just have to get to know her. She’s shy.”
They take to spending their lunch hours together every day. Every day I’m left in the classroom, watching them. They don’t sit close, they don’t touch. They’re eleven, after all. But they spend enough time together that the other kids tease them: CON-ner ’n’ KY-lie, sittin’ in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Yet it’s all good-natured ribbing. Their classmates seem genuinely happy at their relationship, especially with Kylie’s sudden blossoming. The verbal abuse of the girl drops quickly away amidst admiring whispers: Kylie has a boyfriend! I still have to constantly tell her to get her nose out of her book during class, and she still seems oblivious to her surroundings much of the time, but during lunch she’s animated, smiling, seemingly where she wants to be when she’s with Connor Blue, just as I am.
“Mona?” Another week, another motel room bed.
“Mm?”
Silence.
“What, sweetheart?”
He turns away. I stroke his back lightly.
“Do you—do you think that we’re dirty?”
“Dirty? What do you mean?”
“What we do together. Are we dirty?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes I think what we do together is dirty.”
I kiss the back of his neck. “What we do together is natural, Connor. Everybody does it.”
His silence is discontented. I can feel it.
“Sweetheart, what? What’s bothering you?”
“It just seems dirty,” he says.
“You never said it seemed dirty before.”
“I know.”
“So why is it dirty now?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs and pulls away from me.
“Connor, I love you.” I tousle his hair. “There’s nothing dirty about love.”
“I guess.”
I try to hold down a sour ball of panic that I can feel building in me, in my stomach, my throat.
“Connor, does this have something to do with Kylie?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m happy you two are friends, sweetheart. I really am. I think it’s cute.”
“Don’t say ‘cute’.”
“What?”
“You make it sound like I’m a baby.”
“Honey, come on. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I guess.”
“Connor, what’s wrong? Please. Tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I think there is. Because it seems like you’ve been changing, sweetheart, ever since you got to know Kylie. Even before. But especially since then.”
“I’m not changing.”
“You don’t seem as happy as you used to. Don’t you know how much I love you?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you like what we do together? You sure act like you do. When we’re doing it, I mean.”
Silence. Finally he sits up, facing away from me.
“I’m not sure I can come next week,” he says finally. “I have a big paper for Mr. Thorndyke that’ll take me every day to work on after school.”
I prop myself up on my elbow, look at his pale back.
“Can’t even spare an hour?” I say.
“I don’t think so. I’ll let you know.”
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 hav
e 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.
17
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.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“How old was he when he died?”
“Twelve.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.” When he looks at me curiously I add, “We were twins.”
“You had a twin?”
“Mm-hm.”
He’s silent for a while. Finally: “What was his name?”
“His name was Michael.” It sounds strange in my mouth.
Another silence.
“What was that like?” he says at last. “Having a twin?”
I touch his chest, his ribs. “Oh, it’s so long ago, sweetheart, I don’t even remember.”
***
That night the dream again, the dream I used to have when I was a girl: naked before a mirror, one-half of my body gone, balanced on one leg, a single arm, half a head—one eye, one ear, a half-mouth. I wake up weeping.
***
One afternoon Kylie is the last student left in the afternoon study period. The pale little girl sits next to me at my desk whi
le I help her grasp the difference between an adjective and an adverb. When we’re done she looks at me with her head tilted back to see through her glasses and says, “Ms. Straw?”
“Yes, Kylie?”
“Do you think I’m too young to have a boyfriend?”
I smile. “What makes you ask that?”
“It’s what my mom says. She likes Connor but she thinks I’m too young to have a boyfriend.”
“Your mom has met Connor?”
“Mm-hm. He came over on Saturday. We watched TV.” Her voice is as tiny as she is. It has a perpetually congested sound, as if her nose is always stuffed up. No doubt it’s the result of her asthma.
“Did you?”
“Connor likes old movies. We watched one called Sorry, Wrong Number. It was good. It was scary. And we watched cartoons.”
“That sounds like a great time, Kylie.”
“My mom made popcorn and everything.”
“Wow.” I smile. “But she thinks you’re too young to have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” She makes a sour face. “He can only come over when she’s there.”
“Well, that’s not so bad. At least he can visit you.”
“I can’t go to his house, though.”
“Well, your mom feels protective. This is all pretty new for her, Kylie. And for you too.”
She glances at me mischievously and then whispers: “Can I tell you a secret?”
I lean to her and whisper in return, “Sure.”
It takes her a minute to get it out. “He kissed me.”
“He did?”
“Mm-hm.” She nods. “Right here.” She puts her finger on her right cheek.
“Wow. That’s pretty special.”
“I kissed him, too.”
“Where?”
“On his cheek. Right here.” She illustrates on her own cheek.
“Wow.”
She meets my eyes for a second, then giggles and turns away, blushing.
“But you’ll be careful, right?” I ask her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Kylie, I’m sure your mother has told you about boys, right?”
Savaging the Dark Page 10
