Savaging the Dark

by Christopher Conlon

  The night before he goes he’s feeling sexy and I’m so excited that I give myself over to him completely, in a way I haven’t for a long time, swallowing my revulsion at his huge soft body, his hairy back, his bald head. It’s all I can do to not be sick but I hold it in, hold it back, give him what he needs and smile and say love words to him. He’s slow, awkward, loses his erection a couple of times. I’m patient, encouraging, though I can hardly tolerate him touching me, barely stand watching him pulling at his dick hidden in all that revolting pubic hair over his sagging scrotum and saying, “Just a minute, just a minute, I’ll get it.” I feel sorry for him, this aging domesticated revolutionary whose rabble-rousing days are so far back he hardly seems to remember them, or who he was then. But I do it because I’m so grateful to him, grateful for his giving Connor and me this chance, I would have exploded if I couldn’t see him soon.

  When Bill finishes—barely—he’s panting with exhaustion and practically collapses on top of me. I want to scream, Get off me, get off! But what I do is whisper, “Thank you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Never mind. Just thank you.”

  Yet the usual child care is closed over the holidays, I discover, which leaves me in no better position than I was before. I nearly tear out my hair in frustration. This little girl, Gracie, this little girl! All I need is a few hours to myself. I’d take one hour. But Gracie is there, always there, tugging at my skirt, asking me to play with her, read to her, needing attention, needing to dress or be fed or take a bath. I call a few parents from her class and try to set up a play date for her with some other child, but people are out of town; the only parents who show interest are those who want to come to our house. No, no. I drop myself listlessly across the sofa, watching my darling little girl running around with a bunch of plastic flowers she found in an old drawer, strewing them across the room and shouting, “I love you all! I love you all!” like some pint-sized diva. She’s adorable, I know, utterly, heartbreakingly adorable. But I have to get away from her, just for a little while. Yet I can’t. A day passes and a night. I talk to Bill on the phone. He fills me in on his mother’s condition, stable, I talk to her for a few minutes, offer encouragement, talk to Bill again, Gracie comes to the phone and says “Hi, Daddy” and asks when he’ll be home, they talk, I take the phone back and tell my husband about his little diva with the flowers, laugh with him. When I finally hang up I push my fist to my mouth and order myself not to break down, not to cry.

  When I put her to bed that evening I resolve to call him. I can’t not call him. I must speak to Connor, at least hear his voice. What if his father picks up? I can’t just hang up, they may have caller i.d., I don’t know. I come up with a story—Mr. Blue? Did I call you? Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. This is Mona Straw, Connor’s teacher. I was trying to call a friend of mine but looking in my little notebook here I accidentally dialed your number instead. I’m sorry. I hope you and Connor are having a nice holiday. Tell him I’ll see him when we go back to school. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Hang up. Good. I dial.

  “Hello?” It’s Connor, thank God, it’s Connor.

  “Are you alone, sweetheart?” I say quietly into the phone.

  “Yeah. Dad’s out. He won’t be back until late. Sometimes he doesn’t come back at all.”

  A pause.

  “I miss you,” he says finally.

  “I miss you too, Connor, oh, you don’t know how much!” I feel my throat tightening, tears starting to sting my eyes. “How was your Christmas?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Did you get lots of nice presents?”

  “Dad gave me twenty bucks.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. Finally I say, very quietly, “Do you think you could come over?”

  “Is your family there?”

  “Bill’s out of town. Gracie’s asleep for the night.”

  “Okay. If you think it’s all right.”

  “It’s all right. Be careful coming over. It’s dark. Can you take a bus?”

  “I’ll just walk. It’s okay.”

  “Don’t knock. You’ll wake up Gracie. I’ll watch for you.”

  We hang up. I pace the room, sit down, get up again, pace again. I’m almost blind with anticipation, with need. Connor. Connor Connor Connor. But where? The guest room is right next to Gracie’s, we can’t go there. My mind flies around helplessly. The master bedroom? It doesn’t feel right. But it’s the only place. I want it to be right. I sit at the window, look out at the darkness, wait for his form to appear. It takes forever, but finally I see his big coat against the black night hustling toward the house. I go to the front door, open it as quietly as I can, breathe in the frigid air. When he sees me he runs, throws his arms around me, holds me tightly, breathlessly. I close the door, latching it.

  “Shh.” I hold my finger to his lips.

  “I know,” he whispers.

  I pull his coat off, we stumble to the living room, fall onto the sofa kissing wildly, so hard that our teeth bang together and we pull back for a moment giggling. The room is dark, the only illumination coming from the twinkling little lights of the Christmas tree. Part of me listens for Gracie, for any sound of her stirring, but there isn’t any. She’s asleep, I’m sure. She rarely wakes up in the middle of the night anymore. I’m pulling at his clothes, he’s pulling at mine, we roll onto the carpet by the tree, we’re kissing and licking each other, his hips are bucking, he’s rubbing his penis against my stomach, my nerves are berserk, I’m jamming his hand into my panties and between my legs and whispering frantically, “Like this, like this,” guiding him, pushing his fingers where they need to be, and in what seems like seconds a tidal wave slams into me, my back arches, I hear him groaning and feel warm liquid squirting onto my belly and breasts, we come together madly, deliriously, it never seems to end.

  Finally our breathing slows. We lay on the carpet with sofa pillows under our heads. I laugh, tickle him lightly, kiss him.

  “I love you, Ms. Straw,” he whispers. “Mo-na.”

  “Connor, I love you. You’ll never know how much I love you.”

  We rest for a while in the twinkling darkness, the magic darkness. Our mood quiets. After some minutes he murmurs, “I never knew how a lady comes.”

  I laugh quietly. “Now you do.”

  “I mean, I knew that girls could. That women could. I just didn’t know how it worked.”

  “You’re an expert now.”

  “It was easier than I thought.”

  I look at him, laugh, stroke his jaw, run my fingers over his ears and through his hair. “You’re a natural, sweetheart. You’re great.”

  His grin is so big, so unreserved, so open, that I know he feels wonderful, strong, free, that he wishes to be nowhere else on earth but with me, here, now. We embrace, his semen sticky between us. I sit up, not wanting it to run onto the carpet. I need something to wipe it, so without preamble I slip off my panties and use them. I’m naked before him for the first time. It feels right, utterly natural.

  “You’re—you’re so beautiful,” he says, reaching to my hip, stroking it, touching the hair between my legs.

  “Surprised?” I say, smiling down at him. “At all this…stuff?”

  “No. I’ve seen R-rated movies. I know how ladies look down there. But…” He stops talking, buries his face against me, pressing himself into my skin, me.

  Finally I push him gently onto his back and straddle him, look down at his face in the Christmas lights. I play with him, coaxing his erection to return again, getting him ready. What I feel is so emotional, so deep, that if I try to tell him what I feel I’m afraid I might dissolve or explode. I can only deflect it with humor. I tilt my head to one side and whisper coquettishly, “Hey, big guy, you ready to lose your virginity?”

  “I thought I already did.”

  I wink at him. “This’ll make it official.”

  “I don’t want you to get pregnant,” he says.

  That fills m
y heart. I smile, stroke his face. “I had an operation, sweetheart,” I say quietly, truthfully. “After Gracie was born. I can’t have any more babies. But thank you for saying that. You’re very responsible, Connor. You’re a real man.”

  Gazing at him I rise a little and then ease myself gently down onto him, feel him inside me for the first time.

  “Good?” I ask.

  His eyes are wide. “Oh my God.” He laughs shakily. “Oh…my…God.”

  I laugh. We move, sway, we swim on the wild waves for I don’t know how long. We finish eventually, his eyes rolling up in his head, both of us joyfully arching together, becoming, for a moment, the same person in two bodies, one body, the same person in a third body which is simply us.

  He catches his breath, calms, looks up at me.

  “Okay…I’m officially not a virgin anymore, right?”

  I smile, dangle my hair in his face. “You are definitely officially not a virgin anymore.”

  We touch each other gently, interweave our fingers, smile, giggle. Finally I climb off him, lay beside him utterly spent, perfectly happy. He rests his head in my arms. I’m covered in him, inside, outside. He caresses my breasts gently and slowly falls asleep. So do I, for a time. I’ve completely forgotten about Gracie, about anything. Nothing matters but the two of us here, now, forever.

  ***

  Later he asks, “Why don’t people in old movies have sex?”

  “Well, they couldn’t. Movies were censored back then. It wasn’t allowed.”

  He moves his fingers, his tongue on me, in me. He giggles. “They skipped the best part,” he says.

  He leaves an hour before dawn.

  ***

  I get a few hours’ deep, dreamless sleep and feel more relaxed and happy than I have in ages when Gracie finally starts to get up. I’ve showered, made myself coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, gotten the paper and read it. The little kitchen TV is on to a cartoon, the volume low. I smile as she comes in wearing in her bunny pajamas and rubbing her eyes. “Hi, baby!” I say. “Have a good sleep?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  I pour some juice into a sippy cup and hand it to her, tousling her messy hair, leaning down and kissing her on the head. I pour her favorite cereal for her, add milk, put the bowl and spoon before her.

  “When’s Daddy coming back?” she asks, staring at the TV screen.

  “Tomorrow, honey.”

  She nods.

  “That boy was here again last night,” she says finally, her eyes on the cartoon.

  I swallow. “What?”

  “That boy.” She yawns.

  I sip my coffee as naturally as I can. “What boy? What are you talking about, honey?”

  “The boy who shovels the snow.”

  I try to laugh. “You must have had a dream, sweetheart.”

  “I didn’t have a dream. I heard him. And you. Talking. You were trying to be quiet but I heard you.”

  I shake my head. “Just a dream, sweetheart. Nobody was here last night.”

  “I got up. You were in the living room with him. You weren’t wearing any clothes.”

  I stand and move quickly to the sink, try desperately to not allow my breakfast to come back up through my throat. I splash cold water on my face. I’m suddenly shaking all over. This is madness, I think. It’s all madness. This can’t be happening. This is not my life, this is somebody else’s life.

  “He wasn’t either,” my daughter continues. “He looked funny. You were playing grown-up games.” Her voice is oddly indifferent, as if this is a matter of no great importance.

  I grit my teeth, swallow, force my coffee and bagel to stay down.

  Eventually I turn to her, crouch before her. “Honey, can’t you hear how weird that all sounds? Why would that boy come here in the middle of the night? Why would we take off our clothes in the living room?”

  “You and Daddy take off your clothes.”

  “That’s in the bedroom,” I say. “That’s different. And we’re married. Married people do that. Not other people. Honey, you just had a really vivid dream, that’s all. I slept all night in Daddy’s and my bed.” I hold up my right hand. “I swear.”

  She looks at me, a curious expression on her face, then shrugs and turns her eyes toward the cartoon again. “I don’t care.”

  I stand there looking at her, tousle her hair again, pretend to sip my coffee. Then all at once a terrible biting cramp clutches at me and I rush to the bathroom, drop down onto the toilet, let loose the worst explosion of diarrhea I’ve ever had in my life. I weep, emptying myself of everything in me, sitting in my own shit, weep uncontrollably, my face buried in my hands, my heart tearing to pieces, my soul splintering.

  15

  We don’t see each other again during the holidays. We can’t. I call him once, the next night, tell him that Gracie knows, that she heard us (I don’t mention that she saw us), that we have to stop for a while. He says he doesn’t want to stop, he wants to come over now, he misses me. He starts to cry. I know I’m failing him, he feels abandoned, discarded, lost. At the same moment Gracie moans from the bedroom, “Mommy?” I know the sound, she’s had a bad dream. “Connor, I have to go, we’ll see each other at school, we’ll talk, I swear we’ll talk, I have to go.”

  I hang up, sick with guilt, run to Gracie’s room, hold her, tell her everything’s all right. While I’m comforting her the phone rings. It rings four times and then stops. The machine is picking it up, I know. A minute later it rings again, four times. Then silence. After that it stops. I get Gracie back to sleep and step into the kitchen where the little red light is blinking on the machine, but nothing has been recorded except a hissing silence. I delete the wordless messages, switch the ringer on the phone to off. It feels like I’m switching off the life support system for him, for the one I love more than anyone, more than life itself. I grit my teeth, try to keep from crying, force myself to not pick up the phone and call him again as I so desperately want to, beg him in my mind not to call here again tonight. He doesn’t.

  I’m edgy all the time now. Bill returns and I wonder if he’ll find it as easy to detect what’s going on as my four-year-old daughter did. But no, poor gullible Bill doesn’t have the slightest idea. I worry what Gracie might blurt out at the dinner table some evening, but realize that Bill would never believe it anyway. Mommy and that boy who shovels the snow took their clothes off and played grown-up games on the floor in the living room one night. I saw them. His wife brought her eleven-year-old student into the house and fucked him on the living room carpet and was so unaware of anything that she didn’t realize her daughter had awakened, gotten out of bed and was watching them? Ridiculous. There’s never been a hint of anything untoward about his wife, not one single thing in ten years, and now this? He’d think it was like the McMartin Preschool case years ago, when children were encouraged to tell tales of orgies and devil worshipping going on in their classes. Those manipulated children were believed, for a while. But no one would believe Gracie’s story about Mommy, Ms. Straw, Mo-na, certainly not Bill, dear Bill, trusting Bill with his much younger wife who he believes could never betray him. Bill, who has lost most of his illusions over the years but not the one about Mona, perfect little Mona. You just had a dream, honey.

  When I’m with Bill at night I start things sexually now. Even as I feel nauseous and hysterical, keep my eyes closed, my mind far away, I’m enthusiastic in bed, creative, fun. It’s my way of apologizing to him. I pretend that I’ve sat down with him and confessed everything, every single thing I’ve done, and he’s taken me in his arms and told me he forgives me and that we’ll speak no more of it, darling. Yes, he’s forgiven me, in his heart he has, in his heart he knows something’s wrong but he forgives me because he’s always forgiven me everything and I love him for it, I love him even as I can’t stand him anymore, his sagging jowls, his listless attempts at lovemaking. He can barely manage to finish sexually once and then can’t get it up again for days. It’s pathe
tically easy to please him in bed, to exhaust him. It takes only minutes. Bill’s fifty but looks fifty-five, acts sixty. I can’t live like this. But I must live like this.

  And so when the school year starts again Connor and I go to motels.

  It isn’t easy. It’s hard to even find time to talk to him about it, furtive whispers in the few minutes no one else is in the room at the end of fourth period. I’ve stopped the lunchtime movie watching, told Connor he must go play with the other kids, we don’t dare let anyone start to imagine there’s anything between us. He sulks but understands. The after-school tutoring group continues but I’m careful to show Connor no more attention than Lauren or Richard or Kylie or any of the kids who appear for extra help. Once when he’s sitting beside me getting directions on how to do a math problem he moves his hand, which is hidden from the others by my big teacher’s desk, onto my own. I pull my hand away as if he’d spat on it, shoot him a fierce look. He doesn’t do it again. Instead we arrange that I’ll pick him up on this corner, that corner, the middle of such-and-such block. Always different pick-up points, in different directions, as far away as I can reasonably expect him to be able to walk. I find a new day care for Gracie just across the street from the old one which will keep her an hour longer than the other. If I rush out of school at the end of the day, drive aimlessly for a few minutes or pick up a few groceries and then go pick up Connor wherever he is, take him to wherever we’re going, spend an hour with him there, I can still be back before the day care closes and before Bill’s home. But it’s difficult, looking up all these cheap motels so I know where to drive us and don’t waste any of the time we have together. The Sleepy Bear Lodge, the Skyview Inn, Motel 6, Super 8, all in Maryland, northern Virginia, D.C. itself. We never use the subway; I feel safer and more in control driving my car, and anyway we need places sufficiently out of the way that there’s no Metro stop for them. The first few times I have him hide in the vehicle and check in as a single, but then decide we’re more liable to attract attention by getting caught at that than if I simply sign us in as a party of two, mother and son: “Just passing through. My boy is in the car.” Connor stays in the car always, never meets anyone at these run-down places. Two beds are in the room when I sign us in as two and they’re smaller but it’s better, we’re not breaking any motel rules, not sneaking in any unpaid guests. We’re honest and respectable. I use a different name each time, of course. I pay cash, of course. Even that’s difficult. I have my own bank account along with Bill’s and my various joint ones, but it’s not terribly large and dropping fifty or sixty dollars a couple of times a week on motel rooms quickly adds up. But the thing I fear most, that’s in the back of my mind always, is if I were to walk into the office of a motel and find behind the counter someone I know. But we generally drive ten or twenty miles out of Silver Spring and I know no one who works in any motel, anyway. And I do have a story prepared. The room isn’t for me, it’s for a friend coming in from out of town tonight. I would make the reservation, tell them to expect my friend later that evening. The friend would never show. Connor and I would drive back home.