It doesn’t last. That night in the middle of the night I awaken to the sound of his crying and when I touch him he pulls away, yanks his shoulder from under my touch. I don’t ask him why he’s crying. I don’t say anything. I can’t think of anything to say. After a while he says, “I want to go back to school.” Later still he says, “I wish Kylie was here.” After that he says, “Mona? I want to go home, Mona.”
And so I watch him, watch him carefully. I don’t allow him in public places without me. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight. Many times he’s quite affectionate, holding my hand as we wait for our fast food to arrive or wandering around a park or on a street somewhere. He laughs, he swings our hands high together, he runs ahead and says, “Catch me!” At night we can still love, be in love, watch old movies on whatever local station the TV picks up. One night it’s You Only Live Once, another it’s They Live By Night, wonderful dark stories, lovers on the lam. He’s Connor then, the old Connor, the Connor I love, will love until death.
But somewhere outside Oklahoma City in a dry dusty town, not even a town, just a scattershot collection of rundown buildings of which the biggest is the Tumbleweed Motel, where we stay, it happens, the moment I’ve feared. In the dark after TV and a vending machine dinner and lovemaking for hours I nod off to sleep and when I wake he’s not there. Connor is not there. The bed is empty, the bathroom is empty. I slip on my shirt and jeans and look outside, walk over to the ice machines, look toward the office (dark now, closed). Nothing. Nothing, nothing! I try to breathe, try to think. He’s gone. He’s gone. But he can’t have gone far, on foot. And what’s around here? Nothing. The town is lightless, everyone asleep. There are hardly any streetlamps. Only one road in and out. He couldn’t have knocked on anybody’s door, I’d see the light from here, there would be cars and police lights bearing down on this motel. I can’t call out, can’t let the owners know I’ve lost my son, can’t wake the occupants of the other rooms—there are two or three, judging from the cars in the lot. I collect my keys, get in the car, gather up my bag which I always leave in the locked vehicle when we take a room. He can only have gone one of two ways. I take a left, headlights sweeping over all that endless Oklahoma dirt, drive for four miles. I’ve gone the wrong way. He couldn’t have gotten this far. Unless, of course, he didn’t stay on the road at all, instead wandered off into the desert. But that would be crazy. He must be on the road. I turn around, gun the engine and drive as fast as I dare to in order to make up the four miles I’ve wasted. At last I’m back at the motel. I pass it by, slow down and keep driving, driving. He’s about two miles from the motel. When he sees the lights he turns around and begins to wave but then realizes that it’s me. He runs then, runs into the dirt, past all the thorny brush. I pull up, take the gun from my bag. I don’t point it at him. I just stand there in the glare of the headlights.
“Connor, come back here.”
He squints in the light that’s aimed straight at him. He looks at me.
“I don’t want to, Mona.”
“Yes, you do. Come back, sweetheart. Come back to me.”
He stands indecisively, looks over his shoulder at the desert dark.
“There’s nothing out there, Connor,” I say. “Nothing but dirt and tumbleweed and rattlesnakes.” I smile. He can’t see it but I’m sure he hears it in my voice. “Back at the motel you can watch TV all night long if you want. And you can make love to me all night long if you want.”
“Mona…”
“Come back to me, sweetheart. Now.”
Finally he steps slowly toward me, gets obligingly in the car. I get in as well, return the gun to its bag, turn the car around and return to the motel. When we get to the room and close the door behind us I hug him gently and say, “I meant what I said, Connor. Do you want to watch TV all night? Or make love? Or both?”
“I just want to go to sleep,” he says, not looking at me. He removes his shirt and pants, climbs into the bed wearing only his shorts. I follow him, take off my things, get in with him, stroke his warm shoulders.
After a minute he says, quietly: “Please don’t touch me.”
I withdraw my hands. I watch him in the darkness.
Another county, another state. I’ve nearly maxed my credit cards. I know I should be thinking of how we can have a life together, really live as opposed to this fugitive quasi-existence. Back at the beginning with Connor I’d hated the furtive quality of our encounters, hated having to rent dirty motel rooms when what I really wanted to do was announce our love to everyone, to have Connor make love to me on the street, the lawn, in front of my classes, boldly, shamelessly. Back in that other life, that fantasy life, that dream. But the furtiveness never stopped and it hasn’t stopped now, we’re still running, still hiding. But I can’t trust him anymore. I keep the bag with the pistol with me all the time now. I see his wandering eyes when we’re in public places. I notice how he looks around, maybe checking where he could run if he decided to. I see. It will end, whether they are close upon us or not. It will end. Connor’s going to end it. I know it.
But I can’t let him.
22
Connor’s green eyes watch me. He’s handcuffed to the bed, arms raised above him. I’ve used one of his white T-shirts to make a gag I’ve tied around his mouth. We’ve been like this for nearly two days. When I checked into this motel by the sea I paid for several days in advance, asked that we not be bothered, placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob. We haven’t been disturbed. The maid leaves towels outside the room.
I don’t know where we are except that we’ve arrived at the ocean. Oregon? California? Everything blurs. I can hear the sea close by when I turn down the volume on the TV, but mostly I leave it up so that Connor can watch. I try to keep him as comfortable as I can. I know the handcuffs must be awkward. I locked his wrists into them when he was asleep, locked the cuffs onto the heavy metal bedposts. He woke as I wrapped the gag around him. He tried to scream, shook the bed violently, again and again, for hours. “Sweetheart,” I kept telling him, “this will really be easier if you just calm down.” I brought the gun from my bag, held it at my side. “It’s not like you can get away. You don’t want to anyway, do you? I know you don’t. I know you love me. I know you’re just scared now, that’s all. Shh. Settle down, Connor. Quiet down.” I don’t like it but it was the only way. I could see in his eyes that he was going to run, he was going to leave me.