Savaging the Dark

by Christopher Conlon

  “Do you have feelings, Mona?”

  “I—what does that mean?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want you to suck my dick. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

  “If you want me to do that then you need to be nice to me.”

  “I think I’m pretty nice. I haven’t told the principal or my dad yet. I haven’t called the police.”

  “What do you mean, ‘yet’?”

  He shrugs again.

  “Connor, we’ve talked about all this before. You ended our relationship and then you started it up again. I didn’t, you did. You love me, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

  “So?”

  “So would you talk to Kylie this way? Would you demand something instead of asking politely for it…?”

  “I wouldn’t ask her for this.”

  “Not this. Just something. Would you demand that she kiss you on the cheek at the same time you told her that she didn’t have feelings and wasn’t respectful and threatened to call the police on her?”

  “I didn’t threaten.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I just want you to suck on it, that’s all.”

  He stands there, eyes cold. Finally I unfold my arms, my legs, I slink to my knees on the dirty carpet. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t smooth my hair, doesn’t reach down to stroke my cheek, doesn’t say how good it feels. He just stands there with his hands on his hips looking—glaring—down at me. I notice the little blonde pubic hairs starting to sprout from his skin. After a while he comes quietly, dispassionately. I fight back revulsion, the sudden impulse to spit it all out on the motel room carpet. I swallow. It makes my throat dry. I want a glass of water but I just stay there on my knees, not meeting Connor’s awful look, embarrassed, humiliated for the first time, the very first time with him. Then he delivers the hammer blow.

  He says, “You’re a slut.”

  He turns and begins putting on his clothes again. I don’t move, don’t breathe. All I want to do at this exact moment in time is die, just die. I think: Die. Die now. I try to kill myself using my mind, force my heart to slow and stop. Die. Die.

  But I don’t die, and in a minute Connor says impatiently, “C’mon, put your clothes on. I want to go home.”

  19

  My dreams are strange, uneasy, unearthly. I’m in an empty house calling for my parents, I’m a little girl, calling and calling but no one answers. I’m with Connor in a motel room and I’m covered with bruises, he’s hitting me, slapping me in the face, pulling me by the hair and shoving my head into the toilet and calling me a slut. Gracie stands there watching, saying nothing, drinking from her sippy cup. Bill’s there too, behind her, dressed in his old hippie gear, shaking his head. I’m on a moor somewhere, mud, craggy cliffs, it’s windy, rain in the air, Connor is with me, we’re handcuffed tightly together, my wrist is chafed, bleeding, something is chasing us in the glowering dark and I’m telling him that we can get out of this if we stick together but he’s pulling away, trying to get out of the cuffs, trying to run from me. I’m in front of a mirror, I’m twelve years old and there’s only half of me, I’m standing on one leg, I have only one arm, half my head, one eye, a half-set of lips, I realize suddenly I’ll never be any different than this, I’m trapped in this body, this half-body, and I try to scream but my half-mouth doesn’t work, it won’t open, I don’t even have that escape, that release. I’m at school, in front of the class talking about verb tenses and I’m dressed soberly and professionally but they’re naked, all of them, Lauren Holloway and Richard Broad and Kevin Simmons and Douglas Peterson and Cheryl Minton and Andrew Harrington and Kylie and Connor and all the rest and I look at their pale little undeveloped bodies in embarrassment, ask them why they’re naked and tell them to put on their clothes and Kylie says, We can’t, Ms. Straw, you took our clothes.

  ***

  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.

  Sincerly,

  Connor Blue. (Your student.)

  ***

  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.

  The price is low, and the school is willing to foot the bill if I want to take my Saturday to drive a couple of students up to Harrisburg for the event. I’ve done it with kids once or twice before. Parents must be talked to, of course, permission forms have to be signed. It will wipe out my Saturday, from early morning to night. Bill will have to take care of Gracie. And yet dominoes are falling in my mind, I can feel them. Gears meshing, slipping into place.

  ***

  I don’t ask them separately, I ask them together at the end of a Friday after-school session. I request that Connor and Kylie stay behind for a moment and they do. I show them the brochure, talk up the event, tell them what an exciting opportunity it is.

  “I can register up to two students,” I say. “I thought you two might enjoy it.”

  Connor and I exchange a look. “Why us?”

  “Because I think you’re a natural leader,” I say to him. “And Kylie, you’re coming out of your shell so much now. I think this would be really good for you.” Her smile is big, as it always is when she receives the kind of positive attention from me or anyone that she’s not yet used to. “It would be fun, anyway. Something different to do. Just the three of us, together for the day.”

  “I want to go!” Kylie says. Her excitement is obvious. Kylie is not a girl accustomed to being picked for anything.

  Connor is more reserved about it, but he’s intrigued. He obviously understands that this is an overture on my part, a peace offering, my way of telling him that it’s all right, he and I can be friends, friends and nothing more, I can support him as a teacher should and in no other way.

  “I can talk to your dad about it, Connor, if you want me to,” I say.

  He shrugs, hands the brochure back to me. “Sure. I mean, it’s okay. I’ll go. If Kylie wants to.”

  “Fantastic!” I say, grinning at them both. “We’ll have a great day, I promise. I’ll talk to your dad, Connor, and Kylie, I’ll call your mom about it. Here’s the permission forms, okay? Get them signed and bring them back as soon as you can.”

  ***

  The phone conversations with the parents are brief and simple. Connor’s dad just says fine, he’ll sign it. Kylie’s mom is more curious, unaccustomed to having her daughter singled out for something like this. I tell her about the conference, talk up how well Kylie has been doing, emphasize that I’ll be chaperoning them every minute. Finally she says yes and thanks me. The permission forms come back from both kids the next day, signed.

  20

  The Saturday arrives with dark gray clouds approaching in the sky and a forecast for rain. Bill kisses me at the door and wishes me a good conference. Gracie hugs me. That’s the hardest moment, Gracie’s little arms around my leg. I pick her up for a moment, press her face against my neck, tell her how much I love her, that I’ll never stop loving her. “You be a good girl for Daddy, okay?”

  “I will.”

  I smile, put her down again, wipe my eyes.

  “Hey,” Bill says, “what’s up? Why the tears?”

  “Just allergies,” I say. I kiss him on the cheek. “Take care of Gracie, Bill.”

  “I will. We’re going to the movies later.” He picks her up.

  “That’s great. That’s great.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I trust you, Bill. I know you’ll always be a good dad to her.”

  “Hm?”

  “Take care of her, okay?”

  “You bet,” he says, smiling but with a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

  I toss my bag into the car, start the motor, sit there for a moment looking at my husband with our daughter in his arms, these two people who love me and whom I’ll never see again. I back out of the driveway quickly, not wanting to burst completely into tears that can’t be explained away by unreal allergies. My nerves are jumping under my skin. I’m sweating although it’s cool in the car. As I stop to shift the vehicle into drive I check my purse and make sure it’s securely closed. The handcuffs are in the purse, and Bill’s gun.

  ***

  There’s time to change my mind, of course. There’s time to turn back, to tell Bill I’ve suddenly taken sick, to provide evidence by sticking my finger down my throat in the bathroom and retching my breakfast, to have him call Connor and Kylie’s parents and explain that his wife is very ill, she’s terribly sorry but she’s not going to be able to take the kids to the conference after all. It would all end then. After I convinced Bi
ll that it just seems to be indigestion or food poisoning and that the worst of it appears to have passed, that what I need now is sleep, he would go ahead and take Gracie to the movies and I would bury the handcuffs in a box or bag or something and stuff it down deep into our garbage can outside and then replace Bill’s gun in the drawer and there would be nothing, absolutely nothing that had happened except a couple of mildly disappointed kids who would no doubt get together at Kylie’s house that day anyway for snacks and TV. On Monday I’d apologize profusely to them, say we’ll be sure to go next year, even if I knew we wouldn’t. I could get another teacher to take them, maybe. Anyway it wouldn’t matter. It would be over, the crisis passed, life would return to normal.

  But it can’t do that, I know. Normal is not an option anymore, hasn’t been for many months, almost the entire school year. Maybe my entire life. Normal is something other people are, not me. I have no choice in what I’m about to do, not really. I’ve had no choice for a long time.

  ***

  The drive to Harrisburg is a quietly excited one. They sit together in the back, Connor occasionally asking a question, Kylie looking out the window in between bouts of reading her latest big fantasy novel. I’ve made sure she has her asthma inhaler with her. I can see Connor in my rear view mirror; we make eye contact a few times. I smile, say friendly teacher things. Traffic is light and we make good time. Once Kylie asks that we stop because she has to go to the bathroom. We do. She comes out again while Connor is in the men’s room and she scampers quickly up to me, book in hand, tugs on my sleeve.

  “Ms. Straw?”

  “Yes, Kylie?”

  “Do you think I shouldn’t read my book on the trip?”