I return to the guest bedroom and, grinning at him, toss the hot laundry onto his belly.
“Feels nice,” he says, running his hands through it.
“Good?” I ask, sitting at the edge of his bed.
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead, put ’em on.”
He grins. “Make me.”
“Connor, I’m serious.” I note the clock on the walclass="underline" it’s nearly time to go pick up Gracie. I can’t believe how long we’ve been here together. It’s felt like only seconds, sweet seconds. “You have to get dressed now.”
“I never want to get dressed again. I want to be naked forever.”
I laugh, shake my head, pick up one of his socks and toss it in his face. He throws it back at me and suddenly it’s a laundry fight, his shirt and socks and shorts and pants flying between us as we shriek and giggle. Finally I grab his arms, pin them to his sides.
“Okay, mister,” I say breathlessly, “now it really is time.”
“Don’t want to!”
“Oh, yeah?” I lean down and blow a huge raspberry on his belly. He laughs and kicks hysterically, tries to fight me, but I’m stronger and hold him fast.
After a while we settle again and I loosen my grip on his arms. He’s splayed out on the bed panting, his clothes every which way across it. His erection is impossible not to see. I’m amazed at how resilient his young body is. Are all boys like this? I look at the clock again, realize I’m going to be late to pick up Gracie. But I can’t leave him this way. I smile wryly at him, roll my eyes, shake my head, reach to him. In a minute or two he’s finished again, breathing hard, semen splattered all over his legs and groin and stomach.
“Well,” I say, using a Kleenex from a box on the bedside table to wipe my hand, “you wasted that shower you took, mister.”
“I love you,” he says.
That stops me cold. I look down at him for a long time. He meets my gaze, doesn’t look away.
Finally he says it again: “I love you, Ms. Straw.”
I laugh a little. “Sort of funny that you call me ‘Ms. Straw.’ Now.”
“What should I call you? Your first name’s Mona… right?”
“That’s right.”
“Mona. Mo-na.” He grins, shakes his head. “It sounds weird when I say it.”
“Connor…” I hesitate. I pull more Kleenex from the box and start to clean him methodically. “Connor, you know that this is a secret, right? Us? This?”
“I know.”
“You understand that it’s very important you not tell anyone, right?”
“I know, Ms. Straw. Mo-na.”
“It’s—it’s really important, Connor. If anybody finds out we wouldn’t be able to see each other again.”
“I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’m not stupid.”
I smile. “No, you’re not. But maybe… you know, you’re hanging around with your friends, you start talking…”
“You’d get fired,” he says, looking at me.
I return the look. He understands, all right. “Yes. I would.” Arrested, too, almost certainly. As I look down at this sweet boy with his clear, innocent gaze—somehow even more innocent now, after what we’ve done together, not less—I realize suddenly how much power he now has over me. This eleven-year-old holds my life in his hands. But looking at Connor, at the adoration in his eyes, I know he’ll never tell. He means it. He does love me.
I toss the tissues into the waste basket, knowing I’ll retrieve them once he’s gone and burn them or flush them down the toilet. No evidence, I think. No evidence and it’s all right. No evidence and it never happened.
Our mood has gone serious. “Connor, honey, will you put your clothes on now, please?”
“Okay,” he says. I watch him, watch his body vanish from me in stages until he’s completely finished except for his coat and shoes. He stands beside me, taller than me now since I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I touch him, put my arms around him, feel him embrace me. We hold each other, hold on for dear, dear life.
After he’s gone I call Gracie’s school, apologize profusely, say I got hung up in a meeting. The woman sounds considerably less patient than she had in the morning. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say, “I’ll be there in a few minutes, just please give me a few minutes.” I rush around the house, wipe down the tub and shower and tile floor, pull all the towels down—did he touch any towels? I can’t remember—and throw them in laundry basket. Then I strip the guest bed, flush the Kleenexes down the toilet, push the blanket into the washing machine along with anything else that fits, switch the thing to Hot, the hottest water it has, the hottest water in the world, start it. I grab the half-filled tea cups off the table and run scalding water over them, soap them, rinse and dry them, put them back where they belong on the shelf. No evidence. No evidence and it didn’t happen. It did not happen.
When I pick up Gracie I’m breathless, flustered. The woman tells me coolly that they’ll have to charge extra for this after-hours care and would I please not repeat this as the staff has responsibilities of their own and the day is supposed to end at yes yes I’m terribly sorry it won’t happen again I promise thank you thank you so much. By the time we get home the first washing is done and I pull the blanket and other things out, place them in the dryer, switch it on. Then I throw everything else into the machine and hit Start again. Gracie watches me, her expression curious. After a while she goes off to read her book in the living room.
Finally I close the door to the laundry room and things grow quiet. I sit in a chair near Gracie, close my eyes, breathe. It’s done, I think. It’s over. And it didn’t happen. As far as the world is concerned it didn’t happen. There’s no evidence that anything happened.
A moment later Gracie looks up from her book and says, scowling, “That boy was here, wasn’t he? I can smell him.”
13
I am someone’s mother.
I am someone’s wife.
I am a teacher of young children.
I sleep alone that night, Bill away at his convention, Gracie tucked in bed in her own room. But I don’t sleep. Not at all. I stare into the darkness. Shapes seem to form in it when I gaze at one spot long enough: circles, expanding vortexes about to engulf me. I thrash back and forth on the bed, pull the covers over myself, kick them off again. It didn’t happen, I think. It didn’t happen. That was not me. That was a movie, some grotesque child porn movie that somehow found its way into this house. I did not act that way. I did not do those things. My life is secure and complete with my husband and daughter and job. I have no need of anything else. I’m happy, satisfied. I have everything a woman could want. My marriage is a good one to a good man. My daughter is an angel. We have plenty of money. My job couldn’t be more fulfilling. I am a good person.