Tunnel of Love

by Hilma Wolitzer

  They’d driven about a mile and the driver hadn’t said a word since he’d invited her to hop in, which was fine with Robin. She hated the talkers, the ones who made her pay for the ride by listening to them yakkety-yak about their boring lives. Sometimes they dragged out pictures of their wives and kids and dogs, and one joker had even slipped on a tape of his whiny brats singing nursery rhymes. Like she really wanted to hear that. This one just slapped his hand in a relentless tattoo on the rim of the steering wheel as he drove. As if he was listening to some fast-paced music in his head and was keeping time with it. Then, all of a sudden, after a mile or so, he said, “That cunt.”

  “Huh?” Robin said, not positive she’d heard him right, what with the wind in her hair and his hand slapping the wheel that way.

  “The Colonel’s fucking, tight-assed daughter,” he said. “You know who I mean.”

  Occasionally Robin envisioned a situation like this, just for the fun of it, and in order to test her survival skills. She would get into a car with some psycho, the way Linda had always predicted she would, and she’d have to figure a way out of the situation. Like, when he slowed down, she would open the door, turn herself into a human ball, and roll safely away from traffic onto the shoulder of the road. Or she would outsmart him with some clever double-talk, the way she’d seen it done in the movies. The girls who became ax fodder were probably all chickens who screamed and pleaded, who couldn’t shut up even to save their own lives. Linda was exactly the kind of person those loonies loved to kill. So Robin didn’t say anything. The guy didn’t slow down, though, and he kept driving in the fast lane; if she tried to get out now, she would be road jelly in about a second. She’d have to outsmart him, after all. “Hey, I just remembered!” she shouted over the wind. “I have to get off here! I have to pick up some medicine for my mother! Hey, mister?”

  Linda discovered that the house had a real gym on the upper level, a vast mirrored room with a gleaming dance floor, a barre, and a quadraphonic sound system. The workout went very well. Cynthia (like Claire Winston, she’d insisted on first names) was a willing pupil, with the right combination of natural grace and energy. She had a lovely, willowy figure, which, she told Linda, she intended to keep as long as she was aboveground. Best of all, she’d rejected the kind of nerve-jangling music the women at the club always demanded. Linda had put on a tape by one of those strident young rap groups Robin loved, and although the volume she’d set was moderate, the words ricocheted around the room like bullets:

  So he broke your heart and he stole your money

  And he gave your clothes to a brand-new honey

  Still you’re lookin’ good, baby

  Lookin’ real good

  So he left you lyin’ on an empty bed

  With tears and blood gushin’ outta your head

  Still you’re lookin’ good, baby

  Lookin’ real good!

  “Jesus!” Cynthia said, hitting the power button on the tape deck and hurling the room into silence. “They sound like a bunch of angry castrati!” She ejected the tape and inserted one of her own: fluid bossa novas and dreamy standards played on jazz guitar. Still, both women managed to work up a good sweat during the next hour. And they did it without any props or aids, like the steps or Dyna-Bands or weights that were so popular with other trainers at the club. Linda believed in using only your own body in space and against the pull of gravity.

  “That was great!” Cynthia exclaimed, collapsing onto an exercise mat at Linda’s feet. She was smiling, glowing. Linda couldn’t help thinking that she didn’t look at all like someone who’d been sick or bereaved recently. Without getting up, Cynthia directed Linda to a bathroom down the hallway for a shower.

  “Oh, but I didn’t expect …” Linda began. “I mean, I didn’t even bring a change of clothes with me. So, if I could just use the phone, I’ll call my boyfr—”

  Cynthia interrupted. “Don’t be a goose,” she said. “There’s a terry robe behind the bathroom door—you can wear that to lunch. And we’ll find something to fit you later.”

  It was amazing that someone lying down could be so authoritative. Linda went obediently down the hallway, past several closed doors, and one that was opened onto a room where a woman typed noiselessly in the otherworldly glow of a computer. She didn’t look up as Linda tiptoed by, feeling like a figure in someone else’s dream.

  The spacious bathroom was as white as a blizzard—the walls, the floor, the towels, the oversized loaves of soap, everything. The porcelain fixtures looked old and new at the same time, with their sleek contemporary design and antique gold faucets. There was a walk-in linen closet, a sauna, and even a bidet, like the ones at the Bod! The stall shower looked big enough to lie down in. Linda opened the etched-glass door and stepped inside, still wearing her damp leotard and tights. Above her there was a slanted skylight through which she could see a dense bower of treetops and a patch of gorgeous blue sky. She stepped out again, took off her clothes, and faced the full-length mirror opposite the shower. She had not seen her entire naked self in such naked light for a while. Getting dressed or undressed at the gym or at home, she was always in such a hurry. And having a lover again, especially so soon after the baby was born, made her feel self-conscious, almost shy of her own image. What if she didn’t like what she saw, what he saw? Nathan’s body was so beautiful. Now she forced herself to look in the mirror. Her skin had a yellowish cast in all this whiteness and her ears poked out through her dank hair. But working at the club had slimmed her body down, had tightened her stretched skin and softened stomach muscles. Her breasts were unusually full, but not really pendulous. When she stopped nursing, they’d probably shrink back to normal again, but now she turned sideways, admiring their imposing profile. Then she glanced guiltily upward, toward the skylight, as if she were being caught out in her vanity by God or some nosy bird flying by. And she stepped quickly into the shower.

  There were three different water jets, one overhead and the other two on opposite walls at waist level. She let out a shocked cry when the water first struck her. But the pressure here didn’t suddenly fail, the way it did sometimes at home, and the water’s temperature didn’t keep changing between scalding and freezing. Gradually she relaxed under its reliable warm drumming. She was keenly, luxuriously alone in this amazing place, and for once she didn’t have to think about a single moment ahead of this moment. She held the soap with both her hands. It had a wonderful perfume, like a garden at night, and it made a thick, creamy lather. She soaped her arms until they wore long, billowing sleeves of white. Then she washed herself everywhere with a mother’s tenderness, and the soapsuds slid off in foamy rivers that frothed at her feet before they disappeared down the drain.

  There were all sorts of shampoos and conditioners on a recessed shelf in the shower wall, but she washed her hair with the white soap, too. And rinsed and rinsed it. She revolved slowly with her eyes shut and let the water pelt her everywhere. Then she sat down on the floor of the shower, under the steam-clouded trees and sky, with her knees drawn up. After a while, she realized she had been asleep and she scrambled to her feet. Miraculously, the water was still warm, but the bar of soap in her hands had dissolved to a sliver, and her fingers were as wrinkled and pink as a newborns.

  The towel she plucked from the heated rack opened into a floor-length cape she wrapped royally around herself. She inhaled her own flesh as she rubbed it dry, her fingers and shoulders and armpits, for the lingering traces of the soap’s fragrance. When she emerged from the bathroom, wearing the white velour robe, she felt bridelike, purified.

  Linda found Cynthia downstairs in the kitchen, which was probably bigger than Linda’s entire apartment. The whole house was enormous, yet Cynthia lived here alone, she said, except for Lupe and the houseman, who sometimes doubled as a chauffeur and stayed in an apartment over the garage. As they set the table together, Cynthia told Linda that her husband had lived here, too, until just a few months ago, when they split up. That,
apparently, was the big tragedy in her life, and although Linda was sympathetic, she was also a little disappointed. Mrs. Winston—Claire—had hinted at a darker and more mysterious story. Separations were very sad, but common; Hollywood marriages were always breaking up. According to Vicki and all the gossip at the club, everyone out here played musical beds. And Cynthia seemed far more angry than bereft. Her husband, who she referred to only as “the Director,” was now living in Malibu with somebody Cynthia called “the Starlet.” Linda wondered if they were famous. Robin, who kept up with things like that, would probably know.

  As Cynthia pulled open the vault-sized refrigerator and peered inside at its packed shelves, Linda said, “Wow, it’s like a whole other room.”

  “Yeah, that’s so the lamb chops don’t get claustrophobia.” There was a brief pause and then Linda laughed uncertainly. “Bad joke,” Cynthia said. “I have a million of ’em. Let’s see now … lobster salad okay?” She began pulling things out and handing them to Linda. “And we’ve got bagels and croissants—and how about some Montrachet, and a little guacamole? We can have ourselves a nice, ecumenical buffet.”

  Linda was beginning to wonder again where Phoebe was, when Lupe came into the kitchen, carrying her aloft like a trophy. “Aqui esta mamacita!” she announced, handing the baby to Linda, and giving each of them a maternal pat on the behind.

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” Cynthia said.

  Phoebe, who usually smiled at everyone, stared back at her with sober, unblinking eyes.

  To break the awkward silence, Linda waved the baby’s little hand at Cynthia, saying, “Say hello, poopsie. Or has the cat got your tongue?”

  “What’s her name?” Cynthia asked. “It’s not actually ‘poopsie,’ I hope.”

  “Oh, no, it’s Phoebe,” Linda said, looking the baby over. She seemed perfectly fine; her diaper had been changed and her neck was lightly dusted with talc. Linda kissed the scented creases.

  “Really?” Cynthia said. “After Holden Caulfield’s little sister?”

  “Pardon?” Linda said. Then, “Phoebe was my mother’s name. I’m afraid I don’t know those other people.”

  “Oh, you mean you never read The Catcher in the Rye?”

  Linda blushed and shook her head. “I don’t actually read very much,” she admitted, “what with work and the baby and everything.”

  “It probably wasn’t compulsory in your high school like it was in mine. But, quel relief, after Scaramouche and Silas Marnerl Just wait a minute, I’ll be right back.”

  While Linda waited, she exchanged smiles with Lupe, who seemed to take that as an invitation to snatch the baby back. She sat down at the table with Phoebe in her lap and proceeded to amuse her by jouncing her vigorously, and by making a series of noises with her tongue, like the chirping of tropical birds and the clicking of castenets.

  Cynthia came back into the room and handed Linda a book. “Here,” she said. “But remember, I’m going to ask questions later!”

  “Thanks,” Linda murmured, staring down at the unopened book in her hands, wondering what kind of questions they’d be, until Cynthia grabbed it back and plunked it down next to one of the placemats on the table.

  “Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m starving—aren’t you?”

  Linda realized that she was, and since Phoebe wasn’t squawking for her lunch yet, she sat down across from Cynthia at the table. Lupe was still sitting nearby, making those noises and jiggling the baby into a golden blur. “Basta, Lupe,” Cynthia said, “before she turns to butter. And have something to eat, too. You can’t just live on love, you know.”

  But when Lupe stopped bouncing her, the baby continued the motion on her own.

  “Smart little bugger, isn’t she?” Cynthia said, and Linda flushed with pride. It was so pleasant sitting there in that velvety robe, eating such delicious food in such friendly company. She realized how hectic her usual daily life was, with hardly any time to relax or even think.

  “You have two children, right?” Cynthia asked as she poured iced tea from a crystal pitcher. “Is there a man in all this?”

  “Was,” Linda said. “Their father, my husband, Wright. But he died, back in Newark, before Phoebe was born. Before I even knew there was going to be a Phoebe.”

  “Men,” Cynthia said, with an exasperated sigh, as if Wright had elected to die rather than live up to his earthly responsibilities.

  “It wasn’t his fault—” Linda began, tired of always having to defend poor Wright, but Cynthia cut her off with a dismissive flick of her hand.

  “When is it ever their fault?” she said. “The Director fell for the Stewardess against his will, too. It was like a dybbuk had gotten into him, he said, and what could the poor guy do? But we all know who got into who, don’t we?”

  Linda didn’t think Cynthia’s husband’s affair could truly be compared to Wright’s dying, and she was confused: didn’t Cynthia say her husband had gone off with an actress?

  “It was supposed to be a simple little desk-top fling. You know? But then he knocked her up—can you believe it, when they’re handing out condoms in junior high?—and now he wants to marry her.”

  Linda didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded in commiseration, hoping that would do.

  Cynthia nibbled on some cheese and went on. “You must understand, the Director’s a man who never wanted children. We agreed on that before we married. And frankly, I gave him more credit. I mean, she’s such a cliche. Blond, boobs, and completely banal. If I was casting the part, there’d be a line from here to eternity.” She paused to catch her breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she said. “I don’t usually bare my soul to strangers. And Jocelyn, my shrink, gets two-fifty a pop for listening to this shit. It must be something about you that invites confidences, Linda. When your legs go, you could become a lay analyst. Believe me, you’d always make a living in this town.”

  The baby began fussing to be fed then, saving Linda from any further response. Cynthia led them upstairs to her bedroom, another vast, elegant space, and directed Linda to make herself comfortable on one of a matching pair of apricot silk chaises. The walls were covered in a similar fabric, and there were acres of pale plush carpeting underfoot. Linda felt as if she were suspended in a gigantic bowl of apricot Jell-O. She prayed Phoebe wouldn’t spit up anywhere.

  Later, after the drowsing baby was carted off again by Lupe, Cynthia, who had lain on the twin chaise reading a book during the feeding, made her amazing proposition. She wanted to hire Linda for one-hour training sessions two or three times a week, and she was offering to pay her a hundred dollars a session! Other trainers at the Bod had said they got as much as sixty or seventy dollars, but they had much more fitness experience than Linda, and she would never have had the nerve to ask for that much money, anyway The night before, when she had dared to imagine herself actually getting the job, she’d also imagined asking for forty dollars a session, which was twice what she earned at the club, and the possibility of such riches had made her lightheaded. Now she was shocked into speechlessness, which Cynthia took as hesitation on her part.

  “I believe that’s a highly competitive fee,” Cynthia said, “and, remember, the babysitting’s on the house.”

  Linda finally found her voice. “Oh, my goodness, yes,” she said. “It’s terrific! I mean, I only hope I can—”

  That flick of the hand again, and it was as if she’d severed the wires that animated Linda. “It’s settled, then,” Cynthia announced. “We’ll ask Hester to work something out that’s compatible with both our schedules.”

  Hester—that was probably the woman at the computer, a kind of private secretary. “Great,” Linda said, “I can’t tell you …”

  But Cynthia had gotten up and was sliding some doors open to reveal a wall of closets that were as generously stocked with clothing as the refrigerator had been with food. She began pulling garments from hangers and shelves. “Try these on,” she said, tossing a fe
w items in Linda’s direction. “I think the pink jumpsuit would work, with your coloring. Have you ever been colorized? I’ll bet you’re a spring or an autumn.”

  Linda demurred—she couldn’t borrow such beautiful and expensive clothes, and her own things were probably dry by now. She’d left them on a hook behind the bathroom door; why didn’t she just go and see?

  “Forget it,” Cynthia said. “The jumpsuit’s a gift. It was never right for me, anyway. Come on, Galatea, let’s see how you look in it.”

  Robin had started to think in headlines: Jersey girl killed in freeway crash. Blonde’s body mangled beyond recognition. She imagined Linda coming to the morgue to identify the mess of hair and bone and blood she’d be, and it gave her a small thrill of spite. The wimp would be sorry for dragging her all the way out here, just to die horribly like this. And Lucy would be even sorrier for picking that fight and calling her names. But then Robin thought of Phoebe, growing up without a sister to guide and defend her, with only Linda between her and the rest of the world. And she thought of her things, left behind forever. The picture of her and Lucy that Mr. Thompson had taken and that she’d propped on her dresser top. Both of them smiling, leaning together. Those dumb love chains. Her tapes and her clothes, all of which would probably be out of style by the time Feeb was old enough to use them. Their father’s painting of that park in Rahway, which Linda had hung on the wall facing Robin’s bed, so that it was the first thing she looked at every morning, and the last thing she saw each night. Manny’s champagne cork rolling around in the dusty darkness of her night-table drawer. “You better pull over,” she told the Buick’s driver. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it didn’t matter, anyway—he kept on driving, kept on looking straight ahead, as if he’d forgotten she was there. And he was still punishing the wheel with the palm of his hand. Robin might have been invisible, already a ghost before the inevitable accident. “Stop! Stop the car!” she screamed into his ear while she pounded his arm with her fists. “Please! Please! I don’t want to die!”