Savaging the Dark Page 13

  “Well, I don’t know. I guess that’s up to you.”

  “’Cuz my mom says I shouldn’t. She says it’s rude. But I was at a really good part.”

  “I’m sure Connor would like it if you talked to him a little, Kylie, instead of reading. But whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll stop.”

  And she does, she becomes part of the conversation as we continue the drive on this ever-darkening Saturday morning. Looking in my mirror I notice at one point that they’re holding hands and looking away from each other, out their own car windows. Finally we’re there, only a little late. It’s a long day, but fun because they find it fun. In truth much of this conference is more like a carnival than anything really educational, but there are some presentations, some interactive workshops, a few short speeches. Kylie gets very excited at seeing the TV actor, who she recognizes. Maybe two hundred kids and grown-ups are there in the auditorium. Connor and Kylie become part of a small group of kids who paint a big rough mural on the theme of “community.” They brainstorm ideas on how to bring people from different backgrounds together. They listen to the state senator talk about the political process and why kids should learn about it now. They eat lots of pizza and drink lots of soda. This is all pretty much as it’s been in previous years.

  Even now, I know, I could change my mind. When the festivities conclude I could simply hustle the kids into the car, remind them to put on their seat belts, and drive back home. Ms. Straw would get yet more points for being a wonderful, committed teacher, taking her entire Saturday to drive two kids to a youth leadership conference, to stay with them all day, to drive them back home in the evening, all for no extra pay. Mrs. McCloud would be delighted to see her daughter come home so happy, finally a chosen one, a special student who has received special attention. Mr. Blue wouldn’t care, of course, but maybe the day would at least calm things down between Connor and me, show him that I care about him whether or not we’re together. Really together.

  But none of those things will happen because in my purse I have the handcuffs and the gun. I haven’t even completely articulated within my own mind exactly what I’m going to do with them. I only know that we’re not going home.

  Finally the day ends with colored lights and music and cheers and Thanks for coming, we’ll see you next year and hundreds of kids and adults pouring out into the parking lot. Car doors slam, engines start. We don’t move at all for quite some time. My nerves start to jump again, the steering wheel grows moist with sweat. When we finally get to the exit I see the sign for the freeway south, which is the direction of home. I take the exit north.

  ***

  “Are we lost?” Connor asks, a long time later, the sun dim and low in the steely sky.

  “Just taking a different route,” I say confidently. “Such nice scenery, don’t you think?” And there is a great deal of greenery around us. I’m surprised at how well I remember the route to the cabin, considering that Bill always drove and I’ve not been there in years.

  ***

  Darkness. Headlights on the narrow country road.

  “We are definitely lost,” Connor says.

  “Are we lost, Ms. Straw?” asks Kylie, her tone not unhappy.

  “Only a little bit,” I say. “I know where we are. I just need to find the main road. We’ll be home in just a little while.”

  ***

  It’s farther than I remembered. By now they both know that something is wrong—not with Ms. Straw, but with our location.

  “Mona, do you have a map?” Connor asks. “I’ll try to figure out where we are. I’m pretty good with maps.” He turns to Kylie. “Why are you laughing?”

  “You called Ms. Straw ‘Mona’!”

  “Oh, yeah.” He smiles a little. “Sorry, Ms. Straw.”

  ***

  “Maybe we should stop, kids,” I say as we near the cabin. “I’ll check to see if there’s a map in the trunk. Maybe we can find somebody to ask. I’m awfully sorry about this.”

  They’re surprisingly calm about it. I realize that their faith in Ms. Straw’s ability to take care of things is absolute—even Connor’s faith. It strikes me that for him Ms. Straw and Mona must really be two essentially different people. The one he knows as Ms. Straw is smoothly professional and competent at all times, and thanks to Kylie’s presence it’s Ms. Straw he’s with now, or thinks that he is. The teacher, the authority figure, the one who runs things. For him Mona must seem far away.

  At last we pull up to the cabin in the darkness. My headlights shine on it through the rain that’s begun to fall: the structure seems in decent repair, though it’s a bit dilapidated, the roof sagging in spots. I hope the locks haven’t rusted, that I can get in without difficulty.

  “Where are we?” Connor asks.

  “You know what?” I say brightly. “I realized a little ways back that I recognized this road. I actually know where we are. My husband and I own this cabin.”

  Connor looks strangely at me. “Really?”

  “Wow!” Kylie says. “That’s cool! You own a cabin in the woods!”

  “Yeah,” I smile. “Want to take a look? Now that I’m sure where we are, getting home will be a cinch.” I pull the car under the canopy, the closest thing we have to a garage here, shut off the motor. “Still, Connor, I’m pretty sure I have a map in the trunk. We’ll look. Let’s make sure I don’t make any boo-boos on the way back.”

  “Boo-boos!” Kylie giggles, looking at me with her head tilted back. “Ms. Straw, I have to go to the bathroom again.”

  “Okay. Let’s go in.” We step out. The rain is falling hard now, making a racket on the canopy. I fumble with my bag, drop the keys on the ground, pick them up. It’s very dark. I unlock the trunk, pull it open. Jumper cables, old boxes, general detritus. “Connor, have a look around in the junk here, will you? For a map? I’ll turn on the light for you. Come on, Kylie.” I find the front door lock, insert the key, open the door. The cabin smells musty, of course. I switch on the porch light and a light in the living room.

  “Neat,” Kylie says. “But I thought it would look more like a log cabin. Like Abe Lincoln’s house.”

  I smile. “I know, this is really just a regular house, isn’t it? Only smaller.” My heartbeat is pounding behind my eyes. The rain falls, falls. “The bathroom’s in here, Kylie.” I lead her to it, open the door for her, turn on the light. “The lock doesn’t work,” I lie. “But I’ll stand here and make sure Connor doesn’t come in.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Straw.”

  She closes the door. I stand there for what feels like centuries. Connor is still out at the car; I can see the hood of the trunk sticking up from here. My breath is shallow. I feel dizzy. I can back out, I think. I can stop. I can put them in the car even now and go home, tell a whopper of a story to Bill and their parents about getting hopelessly confused on the freeway, driving in the wrong direction without realizing it, not understanding until I recognized that we were fairly near our cabin, deciding to go there to give the kids a bathroom break and me a driving break before returning home at last. I can do that, I think. I can do that. The bag drops from my hands, sags on the floor. I’ve been standing here for centuries and yet Connor hasn’t come in, I haven’t heard a thing from Kylie in the bathroom. Centuries. Sweat pours down my face although it’s cool in the room, cool and musty. I find myself wondering ridiculously if there’s any food in the cupboards, if I could offer them anything to eat. But no. Hurry up please it’s time.

  I turn, step into the bathroom, lock the door behind me. Kylie is standing at the toilet, having just pulled down her pants. They’re around her ankles, the jeans and the little white panties with red hearts she has on under them. I’ve caught her in the moment before she sits down. She looks at me with such astonishment that she doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t act embarrassed or cry out, “Ms. Straw!” or cover her privates with her hands or anything. She just looks at me through her glasses, head tilted back
, mouth open. For a moment I realize why people generally dislike her, she looks so stupid standing there like that, she looks like a two-legged cow, like a brainless doll with nothing but white plastic between her legs, no hair at all. In the instant I move toward her she suddenly realizes that something is very wrong and tries to turn away from me but her pants tangle up her feet. She nearly falls but I catch her from behind, pull her head back, tighten my hands around her throat. “Shh, shh,” I say, my voice ragged and strange, “don’t make a sound, Kylie, shh.” I squeeze as hard as I can. The only sound she makes is a little gurgling noise. Her hands fly this way and that, like they did the moment Connor started the slow dance with her. She tries to reach me behind her but can only flail backwards at my shoulders and thighs. But I can’t get enough pressure on her neck, it’s almost impossible this way. I’m choking her but she’s managing little breaths. She tries to wrench loose, weak little girl, stumbles over her pants, nearly drags both of us down, I lose my balance, too much of her weight is in my hands and suddenly we’re on our knees, I’m on top of her from behind, my hands are on fire with the pain of the squeezing and yet she’s not dying, she’s kicking and pulling at my fingers and managing quick gasping breaths and I suddenly know that this isn’t going to work, she’s stronger than I realized, I should never have tried from behind, I use all my strength to force her down flat on the floor, implant my knee on her back, take my hands off her throat, she inhales hugely with an odd high-pitched sound like wind whistling in a canyon, I grab her mousy hair in my hands and slam her face onto the bathroom tile as hard as I can. Twice, three times. Suddenly I realize I’m wet, my pants are wet, my leg pushed against her back and bottom, she’s peeing herself, great waves of piss pouring out from between her legs and somehow this makes me angry, makes me slam her head against the tile harder, harder still, ten times, twenty, until finally her body seems to shiver hugely and her fluttering arms drop to the floor, make only weak spasmodic motions. Incredibly, piss is still coming out of her. I turn her over, both of us covered in urine. Her eyes are rolled up in her head and her face is covered with blood: her nose is smashed, I realize, pouring sticky red tendrils everywhere across her face. Her forehead is covered with ugly raw abrasions. One of her front teeth is split nearly in half. Yet the thing I notice the most, more vividly than anything else, is how odd she looks without her glasses on. They’ve flown off her face and landed I don’t know where. But as I lean down to her I realize she’s not dead. Her breathing is ragged, shaky, she’s moaning. She’s not dead. Connor’s voice suddenly, so close that for an instant I think he’s come into the room: “Where are you guys? Kylie? Ms. Straw?” With his voice I begin again to hear the rain, in mad torrent now, a deluge slamming down on the cabin, surely we’ll all be swept away. I wrap my hands around her neck again, this time from the front, and press down. Her face turns red, then blue, then an odd, sick gray. My fingers ache but now my thumbs can completely crush the soft part of her throat, press, press, a small high-pitched sound like a trapped rat comes from her and then I feel something collapse in her throat, my thumbs push through something, her body bucks for a second or two, her arms twitch, and she’s dead. I know it the instant it happens. She’s dead.

  I lean back, breathing heavily, looking down at this stranger, this little person who is a stranger to me. The room smells of piss. I’m soaked with my sweat and her pee. I move aside, look away from her as Connor knocks on the bathroom door. “Is one of you in there? Kylie? Mona?”

  You called Ms. Straw ‘Mona’!

  I feel too weak to stand. I drag myself to the bathroom door, unlock it. After a moment Connor turns the knob and pokes his head in. “What…?”

  I drag myself to the wall, lean my back against it, close my eyes, try to catch my breath. For a moment I don’t know what he does, how he looks. Then I hear a high-pitched wailing sound and for a moment I think she’s come back to life, I haven’t killed her, I haven’t set Connor and me free. He pushes through the door, I open my eyes, he steps in and immediately his feet fly out in front of him and he crashes down, a classic Buster Keaton pratfall, right on his bottom on the piss-slick floor. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He stares at Kylie, his eyes saucer-round, his mouth open as hers so often was. The high-pitched sound comes from him again, wavering, not loud. We don’t move for a moment. Then Connor stands, his pants wet now, backs out into the bathroom doorway. Finally he looks at me. I wait for him to say something but he doesn’t, just makes the sound, backs away a little further until he’s out of the bathroom entirely. He’s wringing his hands, literally pacing and wringing his hands like some old woman in a Russian novel. Finally I manage to stand. I splash water on my face, drink a few handfuls, then step out to face Connor.

  “We need to make some decisions now,” I say.

  He looks at me as if I’m the vilest creature on the planet, something unclean, beyond redemption. I wish he’d close his mouth. I wish he’d stop pacing. He looks silly.

  “Connor, there are some things we’ll need to do now,” I say.

  He covers his face with his hands for a moment, realizes they’re covered with urine, wipes them on his pants, turns away from me, turns back again.

  “I need you to be a man now, Connor.”

  His wail begins to form into words. The first word is “I.” It takes him a moment to get out the rest. Finally he screams: “I—I—I—I hate you!”

  This sets loose a flood of tears as he paces, paces, slaps meaninglessly at the walls, turns again to the bathroom and then quickly away.

  I move to him, wrap my arms around him. “Cry it out, sweetheart. I know this is hard for you.”

  “Get away from me!” He backs up, eyes wild. “You’re—you’re crazy!”

  “I know you’re upset, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!”

  “Try to calm down, Connor. If you think about it you’ll know why I had to do it.”

  He covers his ears, just like a little boy, grits his teeth, turns away. Then he turns to the bathroom again, looks in, as if to convince himself that it’s real. I take that moment to grab his arm, turn him to me.

  “Connor, we have things we have to do now.”

  “I’m not doing anything with you.”

  “We need to take care of this.”

  “Take care of what?”

  I gesture. “That.”

  His expression is perplexed, exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

  “We can’t just leave Kylie lying there in the bathroom, Connor.”

  He rips away from me, his expression suddenly fierce. “I’m going to call the police.” He looks around. “Where’s the phone?”

  “We don’t have one here, baby.”

  He looks toward my bag. “You must have a cell phone.”

  I take the bag up in my hands hurriedly. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Connor.” Oddly enough, I don’t have a cell phone.

  “Let me see. Let me look in your bag.”

  “Connor, we have more important things to worry about now. We have to deal with—” I gesture again.

  “I’m not dealing with anything. I’m getting out of here.” He moves toward the door.

  “Do you have any idea where you are, sweetheart?”

  “No. But I’ll find somebody. In another cabin. Or I’ll get back down to the main road.”

  “In this downpour? With no light? I think you’ll find that difficult.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “You’re going to stay here with me, Connor. You’re going to stay here with me and help me clean up this mess, just like the responsible young man you are.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because you’re my accomplice, sweetheart.”

  “Me? You did it!”

  “With your help. That’s her pee all over you, Connor.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  �
��The police might think that you did. That you helped me.”

  “Why would I do it?”

  “Because you wanted it to be just you and me,” I say. “The same thing I want.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “They’ll have a lot of evidence against you, sweetheart.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m leaving.”

  I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but so be it. I pull the gun from the bag, aim it at him.

  “Connor, you’re going to help me.”

  Oddly, he doesn’t look particularly shocked. Perhaps his face’s capacity for expressing emotion has reached its limit. He just scowls at me.

  “We’re going to take care of it, Connor. You and me.”

  “How?” he says at last, watching me, watching the gun.

  “We have some tools at the back of the house. There’s a shovel. We’re going to dig a hole and put her in it.”

  He looks at me for a long time. Then he seems to suddenly deflate. He drops onto the sofa and cries. I move to him, sit next to him.

  “Connor,” I say, “I need you to be a man now. I don’t need a little boy. I need a man.”

  “But I’m not a man,” he says at last, his voice tight.

  “Yes, you are. After what we’ve done together? You’re a man, sweetheart. And I need you to act like one. I need your help. Mona needs your help.”

  “I hate you,” he says again, quietly.

  I stand again, gun at my side. “Come on, Connor,” I say firmly. “I’ll show you the tools.”

  ***

  The rain becomes a storm. Lightning, thunder, torrential downpours in the dark. We work from the weak glow of the rear porch lamp and a couple of flashlights. I choose a spot some thirty yards from the back of the house, easy to cover with shrubbery once we’re done. No one ever comes here. No one will know. For a while I stand watching him dig with the gun at my side but after a while I see that he’s accepted that he’s part of this, part of me, I needn’t threaten him anymore. I put the gun in my bag and keep the bag over my shoulder. He digs for a while, and then I do. We switch again and again. It’s backbreaking work. I thought with all the rain it would be relatively easy, but mud is heavy. After an hour we finish a hole maybe three feet deep.