Tunnel of Love

by Hilma Wolitzer

  “Lord,” Mrs. Pickett said. “You’re going to see her in school on Monday.”

  “If not sooner,” Mr. Thompson said.

  “Shut the door, will you,” Garvey growled. “You’re letting all the bugs in.”

  The apartment might have been closed up for a century, the air was so stale and so still. Dust lay over everything like finely sifted flour. Cynthia had wanted to send a cleaning crew in here first, but Linda was superstitious about anyone else setting foot inside the door before she and Robin and Phoebe did. “Home,” she said, as she crossed the threshold. Mitchell came in a few minutes later with the luggage. He opened some windows for them and then left. Linda went from room to room, turning on all the lights, even though it wasn’t really dark out yet. The double-wedding-ring quilt was folded at the foot of her bed, where she’d left it the morning of the accident, and a rainbow was still trapped in the prism on the kitchen windowsill. A few cockroaches scurried for cover when the fluorescent lights flickered on. On the way here from the Thompsons’, Linda had asked Mitchell to stop at a 7-Eleven, where she’d bought some essentials—milk, bread, eggs, baby food—and the fixings for a supper of some of Robin’s favorites: macaroni and cheese, and instant butterscotch pudding. Now Linda made a shopping list that included Pledge and Combat. The words “Home, home” hummed like music inside her head as she and Robin bathed and fed the baby, as they set the table and ate their own delicious, starchy dinner. Then Robin helped her put the baby to bed and do the dishes. Phoebe didn’t settle in as easily as Linda. She kept standing on her knees in her crib—a recent mastery—rattling the bars and crying in a constant and desperate way. Robin had put the night-light on for her, and she and Linda had sung an assortment of lullabies. They had to take her out again after a while, and Linda rocked back and forth with her in the rocking chair, feeling so tired she was afraid she would fall asleep first. But she finally prevailed, and Robin lifted the limp baby from her arms and put her carefully into the crib. They tiptoed out together, exchanging conspiratorial glances, and Robin went to her own room, shut the door, and turned on the stereo.

  It was a few minutes after that, while Linda was brushing her caged teeth, that the doorbell rang, and she went down the hallway and looked through the peephole and saw Nathan. As she opened the door, she had a vision of the first time he ever came to the apartment, of how he’d grabbed and kissed her, and propelled her backwards in that ardent sexual dance. She became weak-kneed and furious at the memory, and limped back a few steps on her own, just in case. But Nathan wasn’t doing any grabbing this time; his arms were completely occupied by Linda’s ferns and ficus. They had grown rampantly since she’d last seen them, and they looked like some untamed jungle foliage instead of common domestic plants. If it wasn’t for their familiar blue and yellow pots, she might not have recognized them as her own. “Hello, Linda,” Nathan said. “Can I bring these guys in? They’ve really missed you.”

  Linda looked behind her, hoping and not hoping that Robin would appear. “You can put them down right here,” she said, “and then leave, please.”

  He stood there, a beautiful garden statue overrun by vines. “What happened to your teeth?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Just give me a chance to explain, amor, okay? I’m going to tell you the truth.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said. “I already know the truth.”

  “Only a little of it,” Nathan said. “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hear it,” Linda said. “Just go.” She turned and limped away toward the kitchen. He followed her, still carrying his burden of greenery.

  “I’m married,” Nathan said, lining the plants up neatly on the kitchen table, “but in name only.” Linda stood on the opposite side of the table and the plants formed a protective boundary between them, like a hedge, like the wall in a confessional. She could hardly see him. She leaned against the table and covered her ears, but his voice came through clearly, anyway, and the fronds of one of the ferns moved slightly with his spoken breath. “We’ve been separated for over two years. The love ended even longer ago than that. She lives in San Diego. We were dance partners there once, too. Delila and Diaz, I told you about that.”

  La, la, la, la, Linda said to herself, trying to blot out his words.

  “I should have told you. But it was so good between us, right from the start, and I was afraid it would spoil things. It was stupid, maybe, but it’s what I did. Linda, I’m sorry.” He paused, and then went on. “I’ve been going down to San Diego to see her, to talk about getting a divorce. She wants us to try again, but I don’t want to. I only want to be with you.”

  How sincere he sounded, and how contrite. And when had they last been this close without touching? She could simply reach through the fern and bestow her forgiveness. But working in a law office had given Linda a new perspective on ways the truth could be bent, on how language could be used to seduce and manipulate. She knew now that Nathan had been in San Diego the night of the riots, when she was rushing to his rescue in her bathrobe, like an idiot. And how many other nights had she spent alone and restless because he’d said he had “business” to take care of? Monkey business, her mother would have called it. What do you really know about him? Cynthia had asked, and Linda’s answer was based more on feeling than on fact. The essential and incontestable fact was that he had lied to her. Something like a coiled spring came loose inside her chest, and she swallowed deeply, past dregs of affection, longing, and even sympathy. “Go away, Natalicio,” she said in a flat and unfamiliar voice. “I don’t want to be with you.”

  Then the baby began to whimper in her sleep. Linda went down the hall to the bedroom and leaned over the crib railing to pat and rub her back, murmuring, “Shhh, it’s okay now, Mommy is here, we’re home. It’s okay, lovey shush, shush.” She could barely hear Nathan’s footsteps, or the sounds of the front door opening and closing behind him.

  26

  Like a Virgin

  ROBIN DIDN’T GET IT. Linda had split up with Nathan, for no good reason, probably, and now she’d gone out with this geek from work, who had a mustache that looked like he painted it on and a big, ugly brown Cadillac. He also had his picture inside a matchbook cover that Robin found in Linda’s purse. On the outside it said, “Have you been disfigured in an accident?” When you opened it, it said, “I’ll help you collect big $$$. Dial SUE-5555,” right above his face. He looked disfigured, if you asked Robin, but Linda went out to dinner with him the other night. The stuff that went on between men and women was probably the craziest and most interesting thing in the world, although Robin still had no love life of her own to think about. That guy, Richie, who’d kissed her and felt her up that one time, must have been whacked or juiced when he did it, because whenever their paths crossed now in school he acted as if he’d never seen her before.

  To make things worse, Lucy had gotten herself a boyfriend, a really cool, good-looking dude named Shay Cunningham. One minute she was just talking to him near the bus stop, and the next she was telling Robin, in this fake-dreamy voice, “Girlfriend, I think I’m in love.” A week later Shay’s picture was hidden in Lucy’s wallet, under her cafeteria pass, and his name was scrawled in ink on the palms of both her hands. She had to scrub them thoroughly every day before she went home. Carmel was the only one in their family who knew about Shay—she said her parents would think he was too cool—and she was sworn to secrecy. She covered for Lucy in exchange for some of the hot details, like how far they’d gone (not that far, yet), and what it was like. Robin was upset because she wasn’t Lucy’s main confidante anymore. Carmel told her every last thing, though, which only made her feel worse.

  It was a double-edged pain for Robin—she was jealous of Lucy’s sudden new status and happiness, and jealous of Shay, who had stolen her away and turned her into someone unrecognizable. Chickenshit Lucy, who would never cut classes with Robin, skipped out sometimes now with Shay, and then lied about it to he
r mother, without blinking those big, innocent brown eyes. She lied to Robin, too, canceling plans with her at the last minute by pretending to be sick, or busy doing something at home. And she never wanted to know anything about Robin’s life anymore; it was only “Shay and me” this and “Shay and me” that. It seemed there was some law that said you couldn’t have a boyfriend and a best friend at the same time. Lucy even looked different. She’d started wearing makeup to school and she’d developed this funny walk that made everything on her skinny body stick out and jiggle. Her sudden new favorite performer was Madonna; if Robin heard her sing “Like a Virgin” one more time, she was going to kill her.

  It had been hard enough for Robin to leave the Thompsons’ house and go back to live with Linda, without this added grief. If it wasn’t for Phoebe, she didn’t think she’d be able to stand it. Just weeks ago, she and Lucy and Carmel had been like that. When Robin’s episode of Love in the Afternoon was finally on, they’d all watched it together at their house, pummeling each other and screaming so loud when Robin appeared on the screen they didn’t hear any of Lady Audrey and Jake’s dialogue.

  Carmel was as loyal as ever to Robin, but without Lucy around, she wasn’t a complete and satisfying friend. Her babyish habits were much more noticeable and annoying lately Robin hated the way Carmel kept touching her arm when they talked, and how bouncy she was. But there was nobody else to hang out with, nothing else to do.

  One afternoon, when Lucy was out somewhere with Shay, Robin lay across Carmel’s bed, polishing her nails and listening to Bon Jovi sing “In These Arms.” Carmel plopped down beside her, making the whole bed shake, and tipping over the polish. She poked Robin in the ribs and said, “So just guess where they are today!”

  Robin jumped up and shouted, “Keep your hands to yourself! And if I hear one more word about your asshole sister and her asshole boyfriend, I’ll gag!”

  Carmel’s eyes immediately filled with tears, another thing about her that drove Robin crazy. Her feelings got hurt if you looked at her the wrong way.

  “I’m going to the mall,” Robin said, and Carmel’s tears spilled out. She looked as if she’d just been hit by a bus. “So, do you want to come?” Robin added grudgingly.

  “I can’t,” Carmel said, sniffling. “I’ve got too much homework to do. And I have to vacuum in here. It’s actually Lucy’s turn, but I’m switching with her.”

  “Well, goody-goody for you,” Robin sneered, bringing on another flood of tears, and then she took off.

  She caught a ride in a florist’s delivery van to the Glendale Galleria. It occurred to her as she strolled around there, eating a beef burrito and looking into the shop windows, that she might run into Lucy and Shay. She’d already seen other kids from school, all of them traveling in cliques, like herds of sheep. Some of them said hi to her, but nobody asked her to hang out. Big deal—she didn’t need to hang out with a bunch of sheep. And at least this wasn’t the mall where Linda worked; the last thing Robin needed right now was getting the third degree from her: “Where are all your friends? How did you get here? You didn’t hitch, did you?” How did she think Robin got around, in a private jet?

  Robin wished she had Phoebe with her, but she was at Cynthia’s house until Linda got home from work. That whole setup was ridiculous. Linda said it was just until the baby got over her “social anxiety,” whatever that meant. It was probably only some more bull that Cynthia made up and Linda swallowed. There was nothing wrong with Feeb and there was nothing wrong with her old day-care center. Robin used to be able to walk over there and pick her up right after school. Now she had to wait until Mitchell delivered her to the apartment every evening, like a package.

  Robin went into the five-and-dime and skimmed one hand over a counter display, right near the entrance, of small plastic toys: monsters and robots and dinosaurs. Without really thinking about it, she snagged one of the dinosaurs, a pinheaded purple freak with a spiky spine and a forked tail, and shoved it into her knapsack. This was the part of shoplifting she liked best—that instant rush and the thought: I did it! But it was usually followed fast by a letdown: So what, who cares? Sometimes she wondered why she was never caught, except that once. Maybe it was because she didn’t think before she took something, didn’t start acting suspicious while trying to act nonchalant. It was all pure impulse—wham, bam!—and then it was over. Or maybe it was because she’d never taken anything really worthwhile, from one of the swankier shops. She put her hand into the knapsack and fingered the dinosaur’s spikes as she walked through the electronically monitored doorway, with her ears burning and her skin tingling, but without setting off any alarms. The dinosaur probably wasn’t valuable enough to have one of those security tags on it. She would give it to Phoebe tonight, to remind her that Robin was her real family, and that not only rich people give presents.

  There was a fancy gift shop next door called Happy Hands that boasted the works of “noted American artisans.” That meant things like faggy handmade sweaters and teakettles with wings, but Robin wandered in anyway. There were just a few other customers, and nobody her own age, which made her pretty conspicuous. Two women in saris were unfolding a tablecloth between them, a fat man played with some wind chimes, and a salesman was showing a tray of jewelry to a platinum-blond woman in dark glasses. He eyed Robin over the woman’s shoulder, and Robin turned away and looked into a showcase of miniature crystal objects: animals, flowers, musical instruments. Everything good in this place seemed to be locked up behind glass. It was sort of a personal challenge. Robin stared at the dazzling array in the case for a couple of minutes before she noticed the small silver key stuck into the sawtooth lock. Was it some kind of trap? She stepped closer to the glass, pretending to get a better look at something inside, and her breath left a patch of moisture that came and went. The key looked like a regular key. There were no strings or wires attached to it. Robin slid her right hand up her own chest before letting her fingertips graze the icy glass. Then she walked them carefully across and down toward the key, shifting her torso to cover her maneuvers. The key turned with the slightest click, but Robin’s heart bumped as if a bomb had gone off inside the showcase. She glanced around behind her, trying to stay calm, to seem casual. Luckily, that fat guy was still hitting the chimes; they were ding-donging like mad. The two women were going through a pile of woven shit now, and the salesman was showing the blonde more jewelry. No one seemed to have heard the key in the lock or Robin’s runaway heart. She pressed the flat of her hand against the glass panel right near the lock and started to slide it open. There was a faint rumbling, but no squeaking, as she had feared, and the panel moved smoothly along its track. Robin grabbed the nearest piece of crystal, a little harp, her fist quickly smothering its brilliant light. It made her think of the magic harp in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” her favorite childhood story because it was scary, and because Jack’s mother was so proud of him in the end for making them rich and happy. But first Jack had to take a lot of chances: stealing the giant’s hen, then his money bags, and finally his magic harp. The harp called out “Master, master, master!” to warn the giant that it was being stolen, and he came roaring down the beanstalk after Jack. The harp in Robin’s knapsack only made a little ping against something, her keys or that plastic dinosaur, when she dropped it in, and nobody seemed to notice anything.

  The important thing, she knew, was to take her time leaving, not to arouse suspicion by being in a big hurry. She even strolled a little further into the store first, and faked an interest in some boring silk scarves in another case, while she silently and slowly counted: One banana, two banana, three banana … all the way up to thirty. Then she started walking toward the doorway at a nice, leisurely pace. An earsplitting alarm went off as she passed through it, but she kept going. She’d barely made it out into the mall before a big black guy in cutoffs and a mesh T-shirt grabbed her by the arm. “Yo, baby,” he said. “Where you off to?”

  “Hey!” Robin said, trying to get free.
“Let go of me!” But instead he hooked his arm tightly through hers and marched her back into the store, setting off that stupid alarm again.

  The salesman was waiting for them near the front counter. “Thank you, Michael,” he said.

  “Yeah, Michael, thanks a million,” Robin said, and the guy laughed. She glared at him. Weren’t security guards supposed to wear uniforms?

  “Let’s have it,” the salesman said to her, holding out his hand.

  “Have what?” Robin said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she was only playing for time. This was different from the shoelace incident—this was genuine trouble—and she had no idea what she was going to do next. She looked around and saw that a little crowd had gathered. The fat man, the women in the saris, and a saleswoman who’d come from the back room were all gawking at her, in that disgusted and fascinated way people gawk at the victims of a car wreck. Only the blond woman in the sunglasses ignored the whole scene; she was busy writing something at the cashier’s desk. In profile, she looked familiar to Robin, like someone famous seen in person for the first time. Her hair reminded Robin of Lucinda Blake’s. But it couldn’t be, could it?

  “You’ve tried to pull this sort of thing here before,” the salesman said to Robin, which wasn’t true. She’d never been in this place—she hated stores like this. “We’ve had our eye on you for a long time,” the salesman continued. Then he nodded, and the guard wrested the knapsack from her and began pulling things out of it and piling them up on the counter: the crystal harp, the plastic dinosaur, a bottle of blue nail polish, Robin’s keys, the matchbook with that geek’s picture inside, one of Feeb’s pacifiers, a few chewed-up pencils, some loose change, a tampon, a bag of Gummi Bears.

  “Hey!” Robin said, before he was finished, just to say it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the blond customer approaching. Great. Why didn’t they sell tickets?