Savaging the Dark Page 11

  “A little.”

  “Sometimes they can get…aggressive. You know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Well…pushy. Like maybe they want to do something with you that you don’t want to do and they try to pressure you to do it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like kissing, if you don’t want to kiss.”

  “I like kissing.”

  “I’m sure you do. But only on the cheek, right? What if a boy wanted to kiss you somewhere else?”

  She makes a little fist. “I’d bop him one.”

  I laugh. “It can be different, though, if you’re with a boy you like. What if Connor tried to kiss you somewhere else?”

  “He wouldn’t do that. He’s nice.”

  “Well, he’s a boy. That’s what I mean. Boys can get pushy. That’s what your mom is worried about. He might…” I’m not sure what I’m saying, but somehow it comes out. “He might try to kiss you on the mouth. Or he might try to touch you. You know, in other ways than you touch when you’re dancing. He might put his hands on your chest or your bottom.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, boys like to do that with girls. He might even want you to take your clothes off.”

  “Connor would do that?”

  “All I’m saying is that Connor is a boy and they sometimes push things with girls. So you have to be careful. And I’ve heard that Connor…” The words rush forth. “I’ve heard that he—he’s known a lot of girls. That he has a lot of experience with them.”

  “He does?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. He’s done a lot of things with girls.”

  “Really? With their clothes off?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I say, “but I just think he knows a lot about girls, that’s all. So it’s good that you’re careful with him. You should always be careful around Connor. Always make sure that your mom’s there.”

  The girl looks troubled. At last she rises from her chair. “Thanks, Ms. Straw.”

  “I’m not saying don’t see him, Kylie. I’m just saying be careful.”

  She nods. “Okay.” She gathers her things and moves quietly toward the door. She takes one more concerned look at me and then steps out.

  ***

  It’s lunchtime the next day and Connor suddenly comes into the room and shuts the door hard behind him. I look up.

  “Connor, what are you doing? Open the door, please.”

  “What did you say to Kylie?”

  “What?”

  His eyes are furious. “Kylie. What did you say to her?”

  “I didn’t say anything to Kylie.”

  “Liar. You’re a liar. You said something to her. She told me you did.”

  “Connor, I just—I just reinforced what her mother had said. About being careful around boys.”

  “Why is it your business?”

  “Because she’s my student. I care about her. I don’t want her to get into any trouble.”

  “With me? Is that what you mean?”

  “Connor…” I get up from the desk, lean in front of it. “Sweetheart, she’s a little girl. I know you and she are the same age but she’s really much younger than you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I know.”

  “You aren’t expecting to do with her what you do with me, are you?”

  “No.” He scowls. “I don’t even think about that. You’re dirty.”

  “Connor, open the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I asked you to.”

  “You told me to.”

  I sigh loudly. “Connor, would you please open the door?”

  But instead of opening it he reaches over and twists the slender stick that closes the blinds.

  “Connor, what in the world are you doing?” I march authoritatively up to him, expect him to be intimidated enough to move away from the door. But he stands his ground.

  “You scared Kylie on purpose. You’re jealous.”

  I chuckled. “I’m jealous of Kylie McCloud? Connor, do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “I like her better than I like you.”

  My jaw drops. I feel it drop.

  “Connor…sweetheart…”

  I see tears spring to his eyes. “I don’t know how to act around her. I feel like I’m twenty years older than her. I feel like I’m with a little kid. But I really like her.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ve told you it’s wonderful. I’m happy you’re together.”

  “You said it was cute,” he spits. “Like I’m a little boy.”

  “Connor, you are eleven, you know.”

  “You don’t act like it when we’re at the motel.”

  “You never complained.”

  “It’s wrong. It’s dirty. You’re not supposed to do those things with a little kid.”

  “Oh, you’re a little kid now? All these months we’ve been doing what we do together and suddenly you’re a little kid?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Connor, please open the door. We shouldn’t be caught alone together. People may get ideas.”

  “So?” He looks defiantly at me. “You’re the one who’ll get in trouble, not me.”

  “Connor—I can’t believe you’re speaking to me like this. Sweetheart…”

  “I can get you fired. Right now. All I have to do is scream.”

  “Connor…” Beads of perspiration run down my neck. My heart pounds.

  “I can go to the principal’s office and tell him everything.”

  I try to sound calm, reasonable, the adult in charge. “Mr. Lewis? Do you think he’d believe you, Connor?”

  “I’d make him believe me. I could tell him about the motels we go to. About how you plan where to pick me up every time.”

  “He’ll never believe any of that, Connor.” I’m not sure that I do myself.

  “I can tell him how you started with me in your house. Touching me. Then coming into the bathroom and taking my clothes off.”

  “You don’t have any evidence that any of that happened, Connor.”

  “I can tell him what you look like naked.”

  “Do you think Mr. Lewis has seen me naked? How would he know you were telling the truth?”

  “They’d get a police lady to look. When they arrest you.”

  I feel myself deflating, my vision going dark. All I can think of to say is, “Connor, I love you. I’ve tried to make things special between us. I’m sorry if I’ve done the wrong thing. I really am. We can stop if you want. We won’t do it anymore.”

  He frowns, looks at the floor, wipes his eyes with his palms.

  “I have a family, Connor. A husband. My daughter is four years old. Think of what would happen to them. And to my classes. All the kids.”

  He doesn’t meet my eyes, just looks at the floor.

  “Just don’t scare Kylie again,” he says.

  “I won’t. I promise. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  Finally he looks up and nods. He turns to the door, twists the knob.

  “Connor?”

  “What?”

  I look at him. “Are we meeting this afternoon, Connor?”

  He stands there a long time. Finally he says, “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  ***

  Once I’m stepping into the grocery store with Gracie as Mr. Blue is stepping out. He has on his usual faded denim. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol.

  “Hello, Mr. Blue,” I say.

  “Hey. Mrs.—Straw, right?”

  “Ms. Yes.”

  “Connor’s teacher. Hey, he’s doin’ pretty good this year.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s a good boy, Mr. Blue.”

  He continues out to the parking lot, gets into his pickup, and drives away. It’s the last time I ever see him.

  18

  I throw myself ever more deeply into my job, stay later hours, bring more work home, call more parents. Nothing works. None of this is real to
me anymore. I’m dead, dead inside, there’s only Connor and every lunch period I watch him moving farther and farther from me. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He spends his lunchtimes with Kylie McCloud. On nice days they sit out on the grass reading books, sometimes close enough together that their shoulders touch or their shoes. It’s accepted among the other kids that Connor and Kylie are now a couple, the first real couple in their grade. They’re not like most kids who become couples, who claim to be going steady but who rarely actually talk to each other. This is not a pretend relationship. They’re actually together, at least as friends. Connor sits there reading an Alfred Hitchcock paperback while Kylie leans over one of her big fantasy books. Once, my heart dying, I walk outside where they are, step up to them and say, “Hi Connor, hi Kylie. Whatcha readin’?” Kylie smiles up at me, tilting her head back to see me through the glasses that have slid down her nose, and shows me the book, tells me all about it. Connor merely glares at me. I smile, tell them to enjoy themselves, slink away like a criminal.

  I can hardly even remember the first times, months and months ago now, when everything was fresh and new and his eyes opened wide with every new sight and sensation. When he was innocent. He’s not innocent anymore. He’s grown bored with me. What we do is stale and repetitive to him. I can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He begins to say no to our afternoon times more regularly, until I find myself pleading with him, “Connor, I need to see you, I need us to be together.” But even when we’re together it’s not the same anymore. Increasingly he just lays there passively allowing me to do whatever I wish to do, but seemingly disconnecting himself from me, from us. He rarely makes eye contact. When he comes he makes hardly any sound at all, just a little grunt. He doesn’t want to talk afterwards. He doesn’t want to shower together. He doesn’t want me to touch him at all, really. I’m as unwanted as an old strip of film on a cutting room floor.

  ***

  He’s taken off his sneakers and socks and pants and is standing in the middle of the room in his shirt and shorts when, facing away from me, he says, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “C’mere, Connor,” I say, patting the bed. I’ve been ready for him for several minutes.

  “I mean it.”

  “Come over here and tell me all about it.”

  “No.” He turns around, faces me. “If I do you’ll just…just grab me and I’ll get—confused.”

  “You mean horny?”

  He makes a disgusted face. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

  “If you come over here we don’t have to talk at all.”

  He stands disconsolately, looking down. “Mona, I don’t want to do this anymore. You said we could stop if I wanted to. I want to stop.”

  “Aren’t you having fun?”

  “Not really.”

  “We can do anything you want, Connor. Together. Anything at all.”

  “I don’t want to do—nasty things with you. I feel like I want to take a bath after we do things.”

  “I’ll take a bath with you, sweetie.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He turns, pushes the curtains aside a few inches and looks out to the street. “Sometimes I think I just want to kill myself.”

  I sit up. “Honey, no.”

  He speaks very quietly, very sadly. “I feel like a—like a fake with Kylie. I feel like some kind of pervert. Like a sex maniac.”

  “You’re not doing anything with her, though, are you?”

  “No. That’s just it. It’s like—like I’m the man who knew too much.” He scoffs sadly at his own Hitchcock metaphor. “She doesn’t know anything. I don’t think she knows where babies come from.”

  “Well, maybe you’re just too mature for her, sweetheart.”

  “I’m not, though. I really like her. She’s funny. You don’t hear it ’cuz she’s shy around other people but she’s really funny. The things she says about people. The, like, the things she notices. She makes me laugh. It’s just that I feel like she’s a little girl and I’m…I don’t know.” He seems to consider. “If we’d never started all this stuff I wouldn’t feel this way. I wouldn’t know any more than she does. Or—at least not that much more. We’d be like—like the same age. I…I don’t know. It’s just weird.” He falls silent.

  “I’m sorry, Connor,” I say at last, sincerely.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “But you have me, you know, sweetheart. And I love you.”

  He looks back at me, his expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he says in a flat voice. “I have you.”

  ***

  But I don’t have him, not anymore. There’s a terrible dropping sensation in my heart, a sick feeling of vertigo, as if my stomach were coming up through my throat. It’s over, it’s ending, it’s finished, it’s done. He doesn’t want me anymore. I get up that afternoon from bed and put my clothes on and Connor puts on his and we drive in silence back to the city, time wasted, money wasted, risk wasted. During the drive I start to cry and to my amazement I find I can’t stop. I hold both hands tight on the steering wheel and cry. The tears run down my face and onto my blouse. Some drip onto my skirt. My throat is so tight I can hardly breathe. I try to stay quiet because I suspect Connor will get angry with me. I don’t shriek, I don’t wail. I just cry, cry silently, cry, cry. Connor doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at me.

  ***

  But it’s not over, not really. I see him every day, after all, in class. I call on him and help him and grade his work. Our eyes meet, filled with things that can’t be spoken. Every day at lunchtime Connor reads with Kylie outside and laughs with her and on Saturdays he visits her with her mom present—Kylie tells me this—but he knows, I know he knows, that there’s an emptiness to it, a childishness. He can’t get from her what he gets from me. And so I’m not really that surprised when, a few weeks later, Connor sheepishly approaches me at my desk when the other students have stepped out and asks quietly, “Mona, could we go to a motel later?”

  “I thought you wanted to end it, Connor. That’s what you told me.”

  “I know, I—but I didn’t mean forever.”

  “I thought you did.”

  “I just meant—I don’t want to do it so much anymore. So often.”

  “Is that what you meant, Connor?”

  He stands nervously, hands in his pockets, moving restlessly from foot to foot. I can see the bulge in his jeans. “Please, Mona?”

  I study him, feel the power in the relationship surging back to me. “Sure, Connor. We can go.”

  ***

  And for an hour or two it’s as it was, reanimated, rekindled, we’re wild with each other in bed, laughing and squealing and tickling each other and the bed banging against the wall and making love again and again. I’m amazed anew at his resilience, his incredible physical intensity. I can tell from his eyes, wide, rolling back in his head as he comes, that he’s amazed with me, with what we do, a universe away from the milk and cookies and cartoons he shares with Kylie McCloud. For this one time there’s no friction, no disappointment, no boredom, there’s just Connor and me as we once were, ravished, ravishing, passionate, loving, in love.

  ***

  And yet the next day he’s short with me, seemingly annoyed, he doesn’t make eye contact, he spends all his time with Kylie and ignores me completely in class except when I actually call on him. Even then he looks away, says, “I don’t know, Ms. Straw, I forgot to study,” and returns to his silence. For days he acts as if I’m his worst teacher, as if he can’t stand my class and is just going through the motions of reading and writing because he has to. I have to repeatedly shush him from talking to Kylie. But I sense that some of this is a performance on Connor’s part. I’ve never had trouble with him in class, not even when he became friends with Kylie. He’s a polite, well-mannered boy. He knows how to behave in my class. He’s doing it on purpose, I realize. He’s showing me how much she means to him, how little I do.

  But after what happene
d the other day I know it won’t last, and it doesn’t. A week or two later he approaches me again, sheepish expression on his face, bulge in his pants.

  “Can we, Mona?”

  I frown. “You haven’t been very nice to me, Connor.”

  “I’m sorry. But can we?”

  The truth is that I can’t resist him any more than he can me, and he knows it. But I say, “Connor, I’m not a service station, you know. To just be there whenever you need a fill up. I’m a person. I have feelings.”

  “I said I was sorry. Can we?”

  And of course we do. But this time I know what he meant before, about feeling dirty. I’ve never felt that way with Connor, but this time I do. He hardly talks, just starts taking off his clothes the second the motel room door is shut, strokes his erection. “C’mon, Mona, hurry up,” he says, scowling at me. I obediently take off my things. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say Wow or Oh my God or tell me how beautiful I am.

  Instead he says: “I want you to suck my dick.”

  I flush with embarrassment. “Connor!”

  “Please,” he adds, his tone unmistakably sarcastic.

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Like what? I said please.”

  “Don’t use words like that. That kind of language.”

  “You mean ‘suck my dick’?”

  “Yes.”

  He scoffs. “You’ve done it before. Lots of times.”

  “Connor—that’s not how to talk about that stuff. With your girlfriend. Your lover. It’s disrespectful.”

  “What do you know about respect?”

  This feels wrong, terribly wrong, the two of us standing in this room that smells of roach spray looking at each other’s nakedness and arguing. I find myself sitting down, crossing my legs, folding my arms over my breasts. But I don’t move to put my clothes on.

  “Connor,” I say, holding my voice as steady as I can, “you have to be nice to someone who’s nice to you. Who makes you feel good. You shouldn’t make her feel bad.”