Savaging the Dark

by Christopher Conlon

  “That’s enough,” I say at last. “Go get her, Connor.”

  He’s panting, his face covered in rain. “Me? I can’t.”

  “I need you to.”

  “I can’t, Mona!”

  “Oh, Connor.” I move, every muscle crying out in pain, toward the house, bag over my shoulder. It doesn’t cross my mind that Connor might run while I’m gone. He’s part of this now. He knows he is. In the house I step in, tracking mud everywhere, move to the bathroom, take her by both feet and pull. I can hardly believe how heavy this little girl is. I drag her to the rear of the house, her hands up above her head now, as if she were surrendering to the police in an old film noir. I push backwards through the screen door at the back, step into the rain again, drag her out toward the grave.

  Connor cries out suddenly, “Mona! Oh my God!”

  “What?”

  “Pull up her pants! Pull up her pants, Mona! Oh my God!”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” I say, looking at her mud-spattered knees and thighs and privates.

  “Please, Mona!”

  I can see he’s going to become hysterical, so I lean down and do what I can. It’s almost impossible with a dead body, mud, darkness, rain. A few feet away I can hear Connor vomiting in the bushes.

  “There,” I say, standing again. “I did it. Now come on.”

  He follows as I drag Kylie to the edge of the muddy hole, pull her partway into it, step around the side to pull her farther along by her arms. Finally she’s in place.

  “Get her things from the car, Connor.”

  He doesn’t protest this. While he’s gone I move to the bathroom again, look for evidence of her presence. I find none other than the urine everywhere, which we’ll clean before we go.

  He returns with Kylie’s things in her little rucksack, a pitiful collection of relics: Kleenex, asthma inhaler, a notebook with unicorns on the cover, pen, pencil stub, gum wrappers, and, of course, a thick fantasy novel. I leave it all in the bag and push the bag down beside her. I can hardly see in this rain, this interminable rain.

  “Is that everything?”

  He nods. He’s crying.

  “Then take the shovel, Connor.”

  “Wait,” he says weakly.

  “We don’t have time to wait.”

  “Wait.”

  He steps to the edge of the grave, looks down at the dead girl. Mud is all over her, her body, her shirt, her ruined red-splashed face. Her hair is askew. I can see that he’s thinking of trying to tidy her up. He moves from one side of the grave to the other, running his hands through his drenched hair. At last he steps near her head and takes something from his pocket, crouches down to her.

  It’s her glasses. He places them gently onto her pulpy nose and over her ears and then turns away weeping, still crouched, mud covering his pants.

  I take the shovel myself and finish the task.

  ***

  After that Connor is all but useless. He sits on the sofa, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing in particular. His breathing seems erratic. He makes little gasping sounds. Sometimes his breathing speeds up for a moment and he starts to cry, big tears running down his drenched face. Then he grows quiet again. I’m left to do everything myself. It takes hours, far longer than I’d imagined. The urine in the bathroom is the worst, taking all the towels we have in the cabin to clean up. I have to run hot water over them in the bathtub, wring them out again and again. Then I have to wipe up the mud we’ve tracked in. There’s a brown path of it leading from the back door to the bathroom. I’m on my knees scrubbing, cleaning. At last I’m as done as I can be and I take the towels and my own clothes and toss them into the washing machine. Naked, I go to Connor and pull off his things. He doesn’t resist. He seems hardly aware that I’m there at all. I lead him to the shower, we wash, I towel us both dry. Then I wrap a blanket around him, push him gently over on the sofa, put a pillow under his head.

  “Sleep, sweetheart,” I say softly. “When the clothes are all done we’ll go.”

  They take nearly two hours to wash and dry. Connor doesn’t sleep, his eyes stay open and wide, but neither does he cry anymore. He doesn’t do anything but just lay there, staring into space, breathing shallowly, shivering. I bring another blanket for him, tuck it carefully over him, kiss him on the forehead.

  “You’ll be okay, sweetheart. Try to sleep.”

  At last the clothes and towels are done. I’m amazed to realize that it’s already four o’clock in the morning; dawn will come soon. I know we have to get out of here, far away, to the end of the earth if possible. As I pull the warm things from the dryer I wonder what’s happening. Mrs. McCloud would have called Bill hours ago, maybe six hours back, when it became apparent we were late. He would have said he didn’t know but not to worry, his wife would have called him if anything had gone wrong. Would Mr. Blue have called? Did he even realize his son wasn’t home?

  At least I saved Connor from him, I think. Rescued him from that violent drunk of a father. I did that for Connor. Yes.

  By now there must have been more calls. Bill is worried by now, I’m sure he is. I wonder if he realizes that his grandfather’s pistol isn’t in the drawer where it belongs. No, he’s had no reason to check it. He’s on the phone, or has been, calling the Youth for America number, trying to find out if we got to the conference. But nobody’s answering now, not at four a.m. Maybe he’s in an uneasy sleep right now, waiting to hear the sound of my car pulling up in the drive and ready to hear the wild story of what delayed us so drastically, why I didn’t call. He’s kept Gracie calm, I know, told her there’s nothing wrong, Mom will be home soon, don’t worry. Part of me feels sad about this in an abstracted way but in truth, Bill and Gracie are no longer real to me. Mrs. McCloud, Mr. Blue are mere ghosts. Kylie a faraway memory. Cutts School a dream. All of them gone, vanished, no longer part of reality, if they ever were.

  All that exists now is Connor. Connor and Mona, Mona and Connor. I know we have to get away. If they haven’t already, the police will start looking, they’ll check with the people who ran the conference, they’ll find that we duly registered and that participants remember us. Yes, we were definitely there. But afterwards we seem to have vanished. I never stopped anywhere after we left the convention center; there will be no one to identify us as having gone north. I wonder how long it will take Bill to think of the cabin. And yet the cabin is a hundred miles from what our destination had been. No doubt the search will focus on the main roads and side routes leading from the convention center home, at least for a while. The police will put out—what do they call it in the old crime movies?—an APB on us, on the car, with a description and the license plate number. A woman and two children, a boy and a girl. Wild scenarios will ensue. Perhaps we were carjacked, some crazed criminal forcing his way into the vehicle at a traffic light, holding a gun on me and forcing me to drive—where? It might be anywhere in the country. He might do anything, make us stop the car in the middle of nowhere, rape me, rape Kylie, rape Connor, shoot all of us. By mid-morning everyone connected to the school will know, everyone will be trying to stay calm and hope everything has a simple explanation even as they will have their own scenarios of what might have happened. Not one will bear any resemblance to the truth because not one of them knows about Connor, Connor and me.

  I fold and put away all the towels and then go to the sofa, whisper, “Honey? We have to go, honey.” He seems to have dropped into a light doze but instantly his eyes pop open. He passively allows me to dress him. “We’ll get some breakfast a little later, sweetheart,” I say, slipping his sweater over him—he didn’t bring his big coat—and adjusting it. I gather up my bag and whatever we’ve left lying around, lead him out to the car. He seems dazed, unable to walk a straight line. I have him lie down in the back and tell him to go to sleep again while I return to the house, make a final check of things, turn off the lights and lock up. I consider going around back and taking a last look
at where we left the girl but I covered it well with bushes and branches and cleaned the shovel we used thoroughly. They’ll find the makeshift grave eventually, of course, but with any luck even if they think to come to the cabin they’ll find no immediately obvious evidence that we’ve been here, never bother to search behind the building.

  In any case, we’ll be long gone. I don’t know where. I get in the car, start the engine. Connor is silent, curled up horizontally in the back seat. I pull out of the driveway and head down the mountain road, the headlights ghostlike before us. I drive for what seems like a long time on a little paved road until finally I see lighted signs up ahead directing me to go left in order to get to the freeway. I do. I drive a long time again, finally see signs of life, street lights, fast-food restaurants, a sign telling me that the exit for Route 76 is a half-mile ahead. When I get there I take, for no particular reason, the fork that directs us west. The sun is coming up now, behind the car, shining long shadows before us. I drive.

  ***

  In the rear view mirror I can see that Connor’s eyes are open, but he doesn’t move. He simply lies there curled up in a fetal position. After a while I realize that he’s put his thumb into his mouth and he’s sucking it.

  ***

  I ask him to sit up as we approach a McDonald’s drive-thru, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t react. I end up pulling to the side of the road, reaching to the seat behind and physically propping him up. I don’t have to tell him to stay quiet. He’s not spoken in hours. His eyes are glassy. I pull up, order some breakfast sandwiches, get coffee for myself and orange juice for him, pay cash, pull away without incident. I take my own items and place the bag with Connor’s food behind me, between the seats.

  “Connor? Here’s your breakfast. Have something to eat, sweetheart.”

  I’m suddenly ravenous, virtually inhale the little muffin sandwich I’ve purchased for myself, slurp down the coffee with no sweetener or cream, scalding my mouth as I do it. I see in the rear view mirror that Connor has made no motion toward the bag, no motion of any kind.

  “Honey? Your breakfast. You need to eat something.”

  As we pull onto the freeway again I wince as I see a state trooper’s vehicle move up behind us. I slow, but not too much. I try not to act suspicious. Absurdly it crosses my mind that I could get in trouble for Connor not wearing his seat belt. After a minute or two the trooper pulls into the next lane, passes us.

  I find myself growing concerned about the car we’re in, the fact that any attentive policeman who pulls up behind us need do no more than read the license number to end everything for us. A movie memory touches my mind and I say, “Hey Connor, remember in Psycho, when the lady switches cars? After she’s run away with the money, before she gets to the Bates Motel? Do you think we should do that? It might be safer.” He doesn’t respond. But then it occurs to me that any car dealer today is likely to give me much more trouble about the ownership of the vehicle than California Charlie gave Marion in Psycho. I have my i.d. and the car’s registration slip but not the title—that’s back home in a file drawer. No, I realize, it will never work. A woman with a virtually comatose young boy in tow trying to sell a car out of state without a title certificate? Anyway, the dealer would no doubt do some sort of routine check on the license number as soon as I said I wanted to sell the car. No. Completely out of the question.

  I keep driving, staying to the interstate, speeding but only moderately, staying with most of the traffic. Driving too slow, after all, would be as conspicuous as driving too fast. Hours go by, we pass into Ohio. The traffic signs look slightly different but otherwise it’s the same, just a wide ribbon of road endlessly churning under the car.

  At last Connor speaks. “Where are we?” he says.

  “Hey,” I say chirpily, “you’re back, huh? With me again? We’re in Ohio, sweetheart. We passed a place called Wheeling a while back.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Well, it’s in Ohio. Other than that I don’t know.”

  I glance at him in the mirror. He’s looking out the side window now, eyes dull, face pale. My hope that he was returning to normal was premature. Connor looks bad, as if all color had been drained from his face by some sort of vampire. The apple glow is long gone, unimaginable on this sallow husk of a child. He doesn’t ask why we’re in Ohio or where we’re going. He just stares uninterestedly out at the passing landscape.

  “Where’s Kylie?” he says at last.

  I frown, look at him.

  “She’s not with us now, Connor.”

  After a while he says, “Oh.” He doesn’t speak again for hours.

  ***

  We stop at another McDonald’s for food and a bathroom. Connor doesn’t want to get out of the car so I pull at him, force him up gently, encourage him. “C’mon, sweetheart, c’mon, time for a bathroom break.”

  “I don’t want a bathroom break.”

  “Well, I do. C’mon. I want you to go in and use the bathroom.”

  He’s passive about it, allows himself to be supported by my arm. We step into the McDonald’s. I’m worried about leaving him alone in the men’s room—I wonder if he’ll come back out—when I see a Godsend: one of those so-called “family” restrooms. I hustle him into it, lock the door behind us. If anyone wonders why I’m in the bathroom with a boy this age I’ll tell them he’s a special-needs child—God knows he’s acting like one. There’s a toilet, a sink, a baby-changing station. He allows me to pull his pants down, aim him at the bowl: “C’mon, sweetheart, time to go pee.” He doesn’t, he just stands there. After a while his body starts to shake. I try to comfort him but his shaking only seems to grow worse. Finally I arrange his clothes again, then use the toilet myself; Connor stares at me the whole time but doesn’t seem to actually see me. I wash my hands, open the door for us to step out, lay on supportive mother-talk: “Okay, sweetheart? Feel better now? Are you ready to get some food? Are you hungry? What do you think you want, honey?” He says nothing. I hold him close. His skin is cold. I get us more food, keep up the talk as I move us to the car. This time I put him in the front seat. I buckle his seat belt for him and we pull quickly back out onto the freeway.

  We drive, drive for hours. I play the radio for a while but then shut it off. Connor eats nothing, drinks nothing. I can’t tell if he’s shaking now. Still ravenous, I end up eating his Big Mac for him once it’s gone cold and gluey. I watch the road-ribbon unfurl, unfurl. The sun skates across the sky and soon it’s growing dark.

  Somewhere near the Indiana border I pull off the interstate and drive for a while on some little access road until I come upon a nondescript little town, hardly anything at all. But there’s a motel, “Big Ben’s.” It’s like any little motel in the middle of nowhere, interchangeable with dozens of others Connor and I have stayed in, just as the McDonalds’ we’ve been stopping at are interchangeable, as the miles of freeway we’ve crossed are interchangeable. A large-bellied man is behind the counter—Big Ben, I assume—and I sign us in while Connor waits in the car. “You’re in luck,” says the man who is probably Big Ben. “I can give you our suite. No extra charge.”

  I thank him, ask about food, he directs me to some vending machines outside the office, I push in change and pull handles to get us cookies, candy bars, potato chips, sodas. I pull the car around to the side of the building, nearer the room Big Ben has given us, but also farther from the road. I back into the space so that no one from the street can see the car’s license plate. I guide Connor into the room. It’s like guiding a blind boy. Part of me wants to slip sunglasses over his blank, wide-staring eyes.

  The “suite” turns out to be two somewhat rundown rooms with two beds—a queen-sized in the main room and a narrow double in the smaller side room. There’s a TV with, as the sign outside proudly proclaims, “Free Cable!” The rooms smell vaguely moldy. But the bathroom is clean enough, and includes a small tub. After I’m done investigating I return to the main room and find Connor sitting on the
big bed, unresponsive. I feel his forehead. He’s frighteningly cold. It occurs to me that he’s in shock, some kind of shock, has been for many hours now. I try to remember my first aid training.

  “Connor, honey, lie back, lie back on the bed.”

  Using pillows I elevate his legs. I check his pulse, which seems normal—shock victims have rapid pulses, I think I remember. Having more or less exhausted what I recall about treating shock, I take a washcloth from the bathroom and soak it with warm water, apply it gently to his forehead.

  “Connor, sweetheart, you’re going to be all right. Close your eyes. Try to sleep, honey.”

  I hum to him, no particular tune, just hum, in part to comfort him, in part to keep silence from descending in this room. I reach to his eyelids gently, push them closed as one would a corpse’s. After a while I take a cup of water and try to dribble a little into his mouth, wet his lips. He just stays like that, seemingly asleep for all I can tell. But he’s not asleep. He’s something else, somewhere else. I don’t know where he is.

  But after a long time his breathing slows and he does seem to have drifted off. I stay very quiet, watching him. His color is bad but his breathing is all right and he’s not shaking. It grows dark outside. I go to the window, glance out the curtain. The car is in total darkness, there’s no light on this part of the parking lot at all. No one will come for us tonight, I think. Most likely no one is looking within even hundreds of miles of where we are. And yet I know that someone will come, eventually. Someone will knock on some door somewhere or a highway patrolman or policeman or trooper will flash his lights behind us. But is that true? Aren’t there stories of people who vanish entirely from their own lives, take on new identities, live somewhere else for years, decades, make new families, new existences? Yes. People do it. I know they do.