The Tunnel

by Baynard Kendrick

  Instead, the train flashed by too swiftly, admitting only a streak of light which revealed a panoramic, garbled scene, and Cam was talking of other things, throwing more symbols at her: Capitalism, a fat man, greedy and grafting, surrounded by money bags; Labor, a hulking brute with a dinner pail, a moronic gorilla no nice person would want to know.

  “Do you get it, Nat?”

  “Of course,” she said impatiently. She knew that she was understanding everything, but actually assimilating nothing. She couldn’t explain that to Cam—it was all too silly! “Your pictures are very clear,” Nat told him.

  “Can you make some of your own?” Cam asked.

  “That’s easy. The atom bomb: it’s a great red ball of destruction and it lives at the bottom of a two-mile-high geyser.”

  “Neat,” said Cam, “but not your own. That’s everybody’s picture evolved from too many newsreels and cartoons—the Prince of Figments. I’m trying to get you to recognize some figments of your own, pictures you’ve built through the years that are entirely wrong.”

  “I can’t think of any, Cam.”

  “You’d better read back what you’ve written there.” He pointed to the desk. “You’ve built figments of your father, Mona, Paul, Bob Helms and Trevil, and Trevil’s mother.”

  “I’ve tried to write of them as I saw them.” Her feelings were hurt.

  “And very successfully,” said Cam. “You’ve painted them as very strong. Compared to you, they aren’t strong for all your life you’ve managed them, every one.”

  “My father was very strict,” said Nat, “and Bob—”

  “—Was very strict,” Cam interrupted, “and Mona very beautiful and designing, and Trev’s mother very demanding, and Trev very scheming. So, urged on by your neurotic need for affection, you learned to handle them all—from tricking your father into sending you to bed to daydream with your general, to making Bob Helms strip you because you liked it, and shame you because you loved it.”

  “Is it wrong to crave affection?”

  “Not at all,” said Cam. “Like most of our normal, natural needs, the craving for affection only becomes neurotic when it begins to dominate us. To normally crave affection from others means you must be equally interested in how much affection you are capable of having for them.”

  “But I do want Trev’s affection,” she protested numbly.

  “From what you’ve written, I doubt it,” said Cam. “You’re much more concerned that he make no aggressive move against you in this picture you’ve built of him—like in the picture we’ve built of Russia. I see very little desire on your part for any mutual understanding, tolerance, sympathy or concern.”

  She’d made a mistake in talking this over with Cam. He was twisting lifetimes of thought, throwing blame and responsibility all back on her. She had started out in search of the truth. My God, suppose she had found it! Suppose that any part of Cain’s recriminations were true? A terror blacker than the tunnel seized her, an overwhelming shame of her mind stripped naked.

  “Cam,” she gasped out almost stricken, “what will defeat figments? You’ve said we have the Prince of Figments in the atom bomb.”

  “A living God could defeat him,” said Cam, “a God who wasn’t a figment as we’ve made our God today. Call him Joe, or Ivan, or Wong, or Hans—his name makes no difference. Cease worshipping him in hollow cathedrals with neurotic needs for affection. Follow his code with active needs as well as words.”

  “What is his code?” Nat asked him.

  “The one we find hardest of all to follow,” said Cam. “The one we like to think about, but never practice, because it makes demands on our money, our ego and our time. The simple code of this living God is an active, untainted love of our fellow man.”

  “Can I find such a God?” Nat asked him.

  “You’re on your way right now, Nat, by telling all of the truth to yourself—or all you can.” He touched the back of her hand with his fingers. “What have you wanted to do most in life?”

  “I’ve never told anyone before,” she said. “I’ve wanted to write, to have a husband who will love me—and children.”

  “You have a husband who loves you more than you know, if you’ll give him some in return.”

  Cam pushed his chair away from the bed and stood up.

  “As to the writing, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out something worthwhile someday. Think a bit of what you’re doing right now, and keep on giving it a try.” He paused with his hand on the knob of the door. “As to your third desire—it seems to me that the preliminaries require a certain amount of pleasurable co-operation between a couple of compatible members of the opposite sex. After that, Nat, if everything is successful, it’s merely a matter of time.”

  Chapter 25

  Did she have the strength to write the truth about her visit to Bob Helms’ family?

  Natalie had gone on to Richmond. Trevil was against it, but Mrs. Sherrett decreed it was the only thing to do.

  “They’ll be terribly hurt,” she said, “if you don’t. I know, my dear. It will be a trial for you but you may find comfort in helping the poor souls. They’ll want to know all about him from his wife. They’ll want to know what he said, how he looked, and what he ate.”

  Natalie could remember vividly how it had been with her when her father died. She had read all his newspaper obituaries frantically, mulled for long hours over the notes of sympathy which had poured in, searching for crumbs she could hold to her heart. The least she could do was to show herself to Mr. and Mrs. Helms.

  Trevil had finally given up the argument. “I suppose Mother’s right,” he said. “She always is about these things.” And it was true; Mrs. Sherrett was an expert on death. Later she had herself died expertly, with the minimum of fuss, leaving behind an orderly will and complete directions for funeral arrangements, including music: the prelude to the third act of Traviata.

  The night before they reached Washington, she sat with Trev in the club car. They were sipping after-dinner brandy. Trev was annoyed with the lack of repose which accompanied drinking on trains.

  “You either have to gulp it down in one swallow,” he complained, “or count on losing two-thirds of it. Natalie, what are you going to do after you’ve seen the Helms?”

  The Sherretts had taken over her life so completely that she no longer felt resentment when either of them asked questions about her personal life. She was tempted to answer, “I don’t know; your mother hasn’t given me any instructions yet.” But instead she said, like a child to her parent, “I thought I’d like to go to Florida. Key West, perhaps. On the ocean somewhere, where there aren’t too many people.”

  “You’re not to brood,” said Trev. “I won’t have you brooding.”

  “I won’t.” Natalie promised. “It’s funny, but I really don’t think I will.”

  During the two days and nights on the train she had sometimes had to remind herself that she was supposed to be a widow in mourning. She had behaved like an automaton, seldom smiled, answered questions politely, and had spent most of her time staring out the window. She had become quite interested in soil during this trip. As they rocketed through the country the earth changed in color; deep reds lightened to deep browns, to sand color, to tan, to black, and back again to red; it was amazing how many people were engaged in farming in the United States.

  She supposed she was in a state of shock and confidently expected that at any minute deep sorrow would wash over her in boundless waves. But actually she was conscience stricken to find that she felt as though she had been deprived of a dish of chocolate ice cream. She told herself she had known Robert altogether for a little over four weeks and that they had had no time to build the foundations of a life together. Perhaps if they had planned and worked and lived as two, her reaction would have been far different.

  Already she knew almost as much about Trevil Sherrett as she knew about Robert Helms. She had seen pictures of the house in Kenwood; she knew th
at when the war was over he would manage the fabric mill in which he had apprenticed before he joined the Army. She knew that he hated white sauce, liked roast lamb, detested bridge, adored chess, and used an electric razor because his skin was sensitive.

  “This is neither the time nor the place,” Trev said unexpectedly, draining the last of his brandy. “But there’s something I want to tell you. You’ve probably guessed it already: I’m in love with you.”

  He had blurted it out like a small boy, and Natalie had to tell herself not to smile. She had guessed it all along.

  Once more, now that it was out, he was urbane and polished, the sophisticated and worldly-wise officer; but she saw that his gray eyes were miserable. “I won’t bother you with it, Natalie. But I’m hoping I can have some place in your—scheme of things—later on.”

  It was while they were making their swaying way through the cars to their small monopoly of compartments that she remembered what Bob had said: “I’ll be back.”

  That was what they all said, all the men who were herded into the victory ships, who disappeared with no last look down the steep dirty stairs of Pennsylvania Station, who put their brides on the trains and busses for home and then walked back, for the final time, to the camp or the naval station. They all said they’d be back. Some had and some hadn’t. There was nothing in it, that business of coming back after they’d been killed. Natalie, trying to puzzle out the reason for her strange disquiet, decided that it was part of the shock. Those left behind always longed for the return of the dead—or, rather, hopelessly asked a turning back of the clock so that, forewarned, they could keep the dead from dying. But it was no good; it was foolish. It was dangerous to think along those lines. She remembered the story of the monkey’s paw, in which the wife wished for the return of her mangled son from the grave, and got her wish. There was boundless horror in that story. And there was Lazarus.

  And there were just plain ghosts, but the ghosts were in your mind.

  Robert had changed her life completely; then he had changed it again. The second change had been evil, but it had happened and it was meant to stay that way.

  Natalie, stumbling through the green-curtained shadows of the Pullman cars, hoped Bob had not too much meant what he said.

  The Helms were nice people, sick with grief. Mrs. Helms was the sort of person who would have helped her round out her set of English china, and Mr. Helms, she could see at once, would have been a great hand at secreting surprise checks under the salad plates.

  She came home with them to their tall white house in Richmond and gradually grew accustomed to seeing Mrs. Helms’ eyes fill with tears whenever she looked at Natalie. She learned that Mr. Helms covered the sob that rose to his throat when Bob’s name was mentioned by speaking gruffly and essaying a kind of whimsical, pitiful humor. They got out their photograph albums and pored through them in the evenings. There were pictures of Bob as a baby, in his play pen in the wide backyard; as a youngster astride his bicycle; holding his tennis racket; in his base-ball suit; reading a book; sorting out his stamp collection. There was one of him proudly wearing his school sweater with his first letter for football. Then there were various snapshots he had sent home from the University of Virginia: one waving a bottle of beer, one cramming at his desk, one with his arm around the waist of a girl. Finally there was Bob in the Army, his face solemn and young, but not drawn. Not drawn yet.

  They had her meet all of Bob’s friends who were left in the town; the pretty girls with long soft hair and softer accents who talked on and on about “Bobby”; the young men who were home on leave and who had grown up with him.

  In turn, Natalie told them everything she could think of about him, and when she could stand it no longer, she bought her tickets for Key West.

  There was no point in calling Mrs. Helms “Mother Helms,” because their relationship was stillborn, though Mrs. Helms would have wished it otherwise.

  She came to Natalie’s room while she was packing, sat like a robin on the edge of Natalie’s bed and shyly tucked back a wisp of hair that had escaped from her neat brown roll. Her little mouth opened and shut once or twice, asking for a worm to be popped into it. Natalie smiled at her and folded lingerie.

  Finally Mrs. Helms said: “Natalie, dear, are you sure you want to leave us? Are you sure there’s no—definite reason for you to stay? We’d love to keep you here, my dear.”

  The blue eyes were probing, probing. Natalie felt throbbing pity for this little round, sweet woman who wanted a grandchild just like her son. If she could only have said … but the Bob of the snapshots was a stranger to her, and would always be.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, her hand patting gently the silky folds that lay in her suitcase. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Helms, but … no.”

  There was resignation in the way Bob’s mother brought dresses out of the closet and began to fold them.

  “Never mind,” Mrs. Helms said, “Oh, never mind …”

  An exchange of post cards, and that had been all.

  Had he visited his parents, too?

  Natalie lay in the wide bed and remembered the avalanche of letters from Mrs. Sherrett which had come to her in Key West. The firm, sloping hand found her at breakfast, sun bathing in the afternoons. There was news of the mill, news of the house, and news, news, news of Trev. Mrs. Sherrett apparently thought she had to do Trev’s courting for him; but she was wrong, for in the end, Trev did it himself. He came to Key West, like a man of action, ordered her to return with him to Kenwood, and like a woman enamored of submission, she consented to marry him.

  There was nothing crazy and mad and youthful about it, but there was enchanted wonder, and there was love. Oh, yes. It was the sort of love that grew the longer you knew it.

  Despite everything.

  Yet she could not run to Trev and ask him to save her now, for that would be disloyal to Robert Helms.

  Chapter 26

  While she waited for the house to go to sleep, Natalie lay in the darkness and listened for the whistle of the eleven forty-three. She was certain that this time she was right about the time. She had carefully checked the new schedule with the clock and all afternoon and early evening, she and the trains had agreed exactly. So she was not as absent-minded as they had made her out to be. One of the potatoes was back in the sack now for good; tonight would see another captured.

  “To sew a fine seam,” she thought, “precise stitches must be taken, small and of uniform length.” One by one, carefully and neatly, with the drawstring at the end.

  The world was a train, and the one-way tickets were going up in price. Most of the journey was taken in darkness, though events began and ended in the frugal periods of light. It was usually night on a train, for even in the daytime there were miles and miles of tunnel to get through. At regular intervals in the tunnel there were niches where the men who repaired the tracks could stand while the express passed. Now and then a meteorlike beam of light shot through an opening in the roof and you were fooled into thinking the end was in sight, when actually you had miles to go. In the middlemost part of the tunnel, the surrounding walls were dank and water dripped from them. You were lucky to be on the train, because if you had to stay with the dripping water and the dank walls forever, you would go mad.

  Natalie knew that she was now in the center of the tunnel, but she was still cozily inside the train, still on her way to the other end. Something would happen when the train emerged, but she could not guess what it would be, any more than she could have guessed that she would find Robert dead when the train came out of that other tunnel, four years ago, or was it almost five?

  Trev hadn’t tried to poison her tonight. There had been roast beef for dinner, not a sign of crabs. She’d eaten hungrily, for she had overseen the introduction of the roast to the kitchen and the cooking of it. Besides, Trev had eaten some of everything himself. It was possible he had decided against poison, realizing she was too smart for him. In that case, there were a hundred other t
hings she would have to be on her guard against, but she was relieved to have the poison hurdle over with. You could starve yourself to death by being afraid to eat, and that would achieve the same end.

  When she got tonight’s potato in the sack, the next one to gather up would be the counterplot against Trev. She really hadn’t given that enough thought; her efforts with the iodine had been childish. Mona, with her brains and courage, might be able to figure out a way, but since Mona was planning to marry Trevil, it was unlikely she’d be willing to help. Here Natalie smiled to herself grimly. She’d carry the whole thing through on her own; it was dangerous to have colleagues in crime. Only Rags could be her assistant. Rags. Poison darts. Rags’ nails were long and sharp; if she dipped them in poison, and then if Rags should scratch Trevil in play, as he often did … that was the sort of thing she wanted; at last she was beginning to think along practical lines.

  The eleven forty-three sounded its mournful cry. Natalie sat up. The luminous dial of the clock on her bed table showed exactly eleven forty-three. Natalie felt a surge of triumph. She was certain, now; she was on her way out!

  She wasn’t at all frightened by what lay before her. There was nothing of the spine-chilling horror of the duck pond, gray and murky at high noon. They understood each other now. It was to be a friendly meeting; he would listen to reason. Nothing happened in the dark; it was only when you came out into the light that you had reason to fear.

  She got out of bed and crept silently to the window. Trev’s light, in the window next to hers, was out. She almost fancied she could hear his regular breathing. When he slept, he slept soundly. The house was built so solidly that there wasn’t the smallest chance of a creaking floor-board, a loose balustrade, giving her away.

  Natalie dressed quickly, by the moonlight that streamed in lovely patterns through the heavy white lace curtains. Before she went to bed, she had laid out the clothes she was going to wear; they hung in the front part of her closet now, on the scented, padded hangers. A sentimental journey, the right clothes to put him in a reasonable mood. When she reached the pavilion, she would take off her coat, cold as it was, so he could see what she wore. So he would know she hadn’t forgotten him, still felt fondly toward him.