The Tunnel

by Baynard Kendrick

  Day by day she found herself increasingly irritated by his courtliness, standing more in fear of his self-control. Had she loved him when she married him? Another question difficult to answer, for she found she didn’t know. She had thought he would be like Robert Helms, virile and strong, rough and demanding, able to understand that only by seeking selfishly his own sensual satisfaction could he ever give her the contentment she demanded.

  It was frightening to find that consideration for women was a trait which could so quickly pall. She had married not only Trevil Sherrett, she had married his mother. Her home and bed and meals and life were shared by both mother and son. Now fear had closed in on her since the mother was gone. Deep in her heart she had begun to believe that Trevil felt that his marriage had hastened the death of his mother. For a man imbued with such calculating self-control, there could be but one revenge for death—to cause his guilty wife to be the next one to die.

  The train had entered the tunnel there, and the darkness had closed down.

  Chapter 4

  Natalie went to bed early. She had been going to bed early for a long time, leaving others in the living-room below. The night light burned on the table beside her. There were cigarettes there, and an ornate lighter. An unread book lay open across her breast, hiding the dainty embroidery of her blue silk nightgown.

  The window of her bedroom looked down into the valley, but, being one story higher than the drawing room, it commanded a better view. When the weather was clear she could see a road that passed the Sherrett house in front, then curved around and ran downhill to cross the railroad tracks at the westward end of the tunnel, one of those death traps still to be found in too many spots throughout the country.

  An amusement offering an occasional break to the dullness of existence could be garnered on sleepless nights by sitting at the window and watching the headlights on speeding automobiles as they dipped down into the valley to cross the railroad. The unseen occupants of the automobiles were always subjects for interesting speculation. Where were they going and where had they been? Had life touched them lightly, or left its mark with livid scars? Had they loved and lost and tried again, only to be thwarted by suspicion?

  On nights like tonight the thwarting suspicion had full play. Perhaps it had something to do with the weather in West Kenwood which had measurably changed within the past few months. There had been many nights in months gone by when the stars shone brightly over apple blossoms in the orchard and the moon leered at her through the bedroom window, bringing cheer. The night that the car went down the road and was smashed up by the train at the crossing had been foggy, but not too foggy for her to miss the glare of the firebox as the engine entered the tunnel and to see the two yellow blobs in front and the red ones in back of the automobile heading for disaster down the hill. She remembered—

  Natalie picked up her book with determination. It was an incident that was closed. However, there were a few things about it that she could secretly recollect and treasure to herself without being told she was silly. One of the most important changes growing out of the tragedy was the fact that on that particular night of swirling mist the stars and moon had found an opportunity to disappear permanently.

  She amused herself by turning over pages in the book and listening to whispers that came upstairs from the drawing room. The whispers were far more thrilling than the printed text, for they carried with them the heady excitement of eavesdropping.

  She found that holding the book was tiring. Trevil’s keenness and perspicacity seemed to grow along with his deceitfulness. He had developed an annoying instinct which detected instantly when she was weary, and she was weary quite often, particularly after the effort of sorting out clean teacups from piles of soiled dishes and crumpled napkins and egg-stained knives and forks.

  She wondered if he knew that she had found all those empty deviled crab shells hidden under the sink in the gloom of the kitchen while she was wearing herself out preparing tea. He had been very evasive. So had Cam and Sarah.

  Natalie decided that he probably had some justification for being angry with her about the party Saturday night. She usually drank with great discretion, but, try as she might, she couldn’t remember who had been there—except Mona, of course.

  One’s best friends always underrated one. Even more than Mona’s well-concealed plays for Trevil, Natalie resented being thought a fool. That evening dress of Mona’s, molding her blonde voluptuousness closer than wallpaper, was worse than appearing at a church supper with nothing on. Now that the mistress of Sherrett Manor was safely upstairs in bed, Trevil, mellowed over his fifth Scotch highball, was expounding Mona’s beauties and talents to Cam and Sarah.

  Natalie closed her eyes, the better to hear. The whispers came padding up the polished oak stairs, crossed the landing, and made a right turn to the second floor where they crawled along the hall and crept in under the door to climb up the bedpost across the counterpane and into her ear, tickling her with their feelers like a loathesome parade of roaches.

  “She designed this whole new line of fabrics that we’re putting out at the mill next year. On the strength of that, the factors gave us a quarter of a million additional credit. We’re featuring it in our advertising as the Mona Desmé line.” Trev’s voice was very clear, almost exultant.

  Sarah said, “I wish I had the brain to make twelve thousand dollars a year.”

  Natalie put down a vindictive thought that Sarah Olessa didn’t have brains enough to mix a good martini. She wished she had brains enough to make twelve thousand dollars a year herself. She would get out of the Sherrett house forever, find some man who loved her as much as Bob had loved her and would hold business conferences with her two or three nights a week in town.

  There must be some way of working out love and marriage and happiness without putting men in uniforms and sending them off to a war. Life had never held a hint of danger when she was married to Bob, nor any when she had found sanctuary in Trevil’s love after Bob was gone. But she had married them both while they were still in uniform.

  The trouble had only started when Trevil returned to his business again. Maybe it was her own fault, for she was the one who had told him about Mona Desmé and her fabric designing.

  She put her finger in her ear to shut out the creeping bugs of suspicion parading up from the room below. With one ear closed, the electric clock on the table by the night light took up a resonant hum.

  Maybe the trouble had started on a train, leaving somewhere and going somewhere.

  Down in the valley, one was nearly due.…

  She was in the club car talking to a girl of eighteen, who had left a husband, too. So many women were travelling then, alone or with babies. Some moving east and as many west. Others north, and as many south. All of them smiling, all of them brave. All of them wondering where their husbands, so recently acquired, had been ordered.

  “I’m Natalie Helms.”

  “I’m Marian Turner.”

  You never said, “My husband’s Captain Robert Helms. He was ordered overseas six weeks ago, and I’m on my way to meet his people in Richmond.” The smiling child at the table with you didn’t say, “My husband went out two months ago and I’m expecting a baby and going home to my mother.” Those things all came out later. Somehow all women who met, with that common bond, simply knew.

  Marian showed you the card she had filled out to let the club car steward know where she could be found on the train. Natalie said she’d filled out one, too. Bedroom “A” in Car 2601.

  “A bedroom? You must be rich.” The girl’s eyes were round with admiration. “An upper is the most I could afford.”

  “Come in and visit me,” Natalie offered, “and we’ll play gin.”

  “I’d love to.”

  She could remember how the train had swayed the first night out, the taste of the rationed food, the rain and sleet against the windows, the sagebrush and the mesquite, and the change of time as the streamlined train roared
eastward.

  It must have been the following day that they went through the tunnel. She couldn’t remember what state she was in. It might have been New Mexico or Arizona. Anyhow, it was gloomy and she was lying down and suddenly the world grew dark, and after a time the train came out into pouring rain and stopped somewhere at a stucco station. There was a boy on the platform, sitting in a wheelchair. He had lost a leg, but he gave her a smile when she looked out the window.

  The buzzer in her bedroom sounded. The porter was there when she opened the door.

  “There’s a message for Mrs. Natalie Helms.”

  “There can’t be any message for me.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s for you.”

  The train moved off and went into another tunnel.…

  The electric clock on the table beside her was humming louder. She couldn’t sleep until the train came along and whistled in the valley. Either the clock on the table was wrong or the train was ten minutes past due. She heard the footsteps ascending the stairs and knew who it was without seeing. She heard them come stealthily down the hall and pause for a wait outside of her door.

  Trevil must think her an awful fool. But he was really the fool himself, jealous of a man who was dead. He must have seen the change in her, the suspicion grown to certainty. She might not make twelve thousand a year, but she had more instinct in her little finger than Sarah Olessa or Mona Desmé. She had the sensitivity to feel jealousy in the man she loved. She had the courage to face the fact that he wanted another woman. She had the knowledge to know he was ruthless. He was playing a chess game with living pieces in which his wife was only a pawn.

  He knocked on the door, but she played asleep and didn’t answer. He came in then as she knew he would, carrying a tray.

  “You didn’t eat your supper, darling.”

  There was no use pretending, for he’d continue until she answered. She opened her eyes and gave him a smile.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  A whistle came up from the valley.

  “Great heavens, Nat,” he said with a touch of exasperation, “you haven’t eaten a thing in days. Here, take some of this. You might think I was trying to poison you.”

  Chapter 5

  Look at yourself, Natalie Sherrett. The woman on this train is you. It’s not Mrs. Sherrett, Trev’s mother. She’s dead. It certainly isn’t Mona Desmé, nor the placid Sarah Olessa. They’re riding with you, and there may be plenty of other passengers on board, but you’re very little interested in probing into the depths of what they are thinking. Maybe things haven’t changed for them at all. Maybe the landscape looks the same and all their familiar friends have not alighted at some unknown station to be replaced by strangers. Perhaps they’re riding behind you, and their car has not yet entered the tunnel.

  Why dodge the issue any longer? The one you’re really interested in is you. You got on the train the day you were born, so obviously your mother must have been with you in spite of the fact you say you can’t ever remember having known her to be along.

  Well, for the sake of argument, let’s suppose that she was there, too. Certainly the experience was pleasant. Restrooms and lunchrooms were easily available, and your body was always kept snugly warm. Doesn’t the same thing hold true today? You’re still well fed and warm, but your husband is trying to poison your food, and marry Mona.

  Are you sure of that?

  Certainly I’m sure. The tray’s right there with the poisoned food untouched upon it, food brought in from the dining car. Natalie Sherrett isn’t a fool. She’s ridden all her life on trains, on this one in particular. If she went to a psychoanalyst, he’d make her he on a couch all day and bare her soul at twenty dollars an hour. Well, Nat can strip her soul for herself, if she stripped her body for Robert Helms.

  Strip, Nat, you’re in the tunnel. It’s dark, and no one can see you. Bob Helms is dead, so you’ve nothing to fear. But Trev’s always the same—a gentleman whether your clothes are off or on.

  You’d have to get used to an analyst, get to know him, perhaps even fall in love with him. But you know and love sweet Natalie now.

  What cracked up?

  It isn’t the train—It seems to be running smoothly. Perhaps it went off on a siding somewhere back along the line, and you fear that you’re hurtling toward destruction. You can’t remember this tunnel, can you? It seems to be awfully long.

  An analyst would make you talk at twenty dollars an hour. He’d take you back to the day you boarded the hurtling train in swaddling clothes. Notebook in hand, there behind your back, he’d make notes of your endless prattle. Hour after hour, day after day, and year after year he’d listen to your babbling. When all was done and your money was spent, he might or might not tell you what was wrong.

  Well, here’s your chance to babble on for nothing.

  “Just lie down on the couch, Mrs. Sherrett. Now, relax. Don’t be nervous. Free yourself from tension. Start with the first thoughts that enter your head. I don’t need continuity. Just let yourself go. I have plenty of time, as long as I can fit you into my appointments. You’ll gain confidence as our talks progress. I’m quite aware, though you may not be, that most of your ills are psychosomatic, though you are probably unaware of the meaning of the term. Through my intimate knowledge of Jung and Freud and Havelock Ellis and Adler, I’ll sift the facts of your life, Mrs. Sherrett.… I didn’t quite catch what you said, just then.”

  “I’m sorry if I was speaking too low. I said that perhaps they’re all wrong.”

  “Jung and Adler and Freud all wrong? My dear Mrs. Sherrett!”

  “I’m not your dear Mrs. Sherrett. I’m a patient at twenty dollars an hour, and you’re my dear psychoanalyst—too dear, and I use the word in the sense of being expensive—unless you can tell me quickly why the world has changed.”

  “But the world may not have changed, Mrs. Sherrett. Perhaps it’s you.”

  “Then what changed me? I’m riding a train, and going through a tunnel with strangers, and one of them, my husband, wants to kill me.”

  “A curious manifestation, indeed, Mrs. Sherrett, but not too unusual when compared by an expert with parallel cases. You were sent here by—?”

  “By no one. I came myself, and now I think I’ll leave myself. I’m full of curious manifestations, and I’m scared of you. I’m afraid if I talked for two thousand dollars you still wouldn’t find what was wrong.”

  “I’ve helped many women.”

  She was bound to have her parting shot. “Talking to you has made me believe more firmly that Jung and Adler and Freud and Havelock Ellis may be wrong–even you, my expensive Mr. Psychoanalyst, may be wrong. Isn’t it possible that like the boy in the parade I’m the only one in step? We’re beginning to worship cleverness only—and to think that minds are greater than souls. Sex has become as common as liquor. For all its faults, Mr. Psychoanalyst, drinking during Prohibition was quite a lot of fun.”

  She went out, slamming the office door, recognizing fully how much irritation had been engendered within her from this imaginary interview.

  It was pleasing to recognize the irritation, and showed quite a little progress. Her analyst had certainly milked her of nothing concerning her irritations. She had kept those strictly to herself, as she had all mention of Trev, or Bob, or Mona Desmé.

  But since there was no psychoanalyst, hadn’t she just been fooling herself?

  Let’s look at the irritations, Natalie. The woman riding on the train is you. You loved the train in childhood. Your journeys were always pleasant and the tunnels always exciting. You danced with delight at the very thought of riding up to the camp in Maine, and built wonderful pictures of travelling from the east to California when you went out there to school. Even when the train was late you were never irritated then. Now you grow violently angry at minor things—your daily chores, a burned-up chop, the smell of crabs, the ticking clocks, and when you want to be left in peace, the sound of Trevil’s radio.

  As a
child, bad food, not anger, was the only thing that could make you violently ill. Think of those wonderful journeys again, westward with Mona Desmé. There was interest in every field, beauty in every snow-covered tree and sunlit valley, adventure in every boy on the train, mystery in every old vacant house that flashed by the window. If all those emotions have turned to anger, then you must be the one who is wrong. The trees are still there, and the houses, and the peaceful sunlit valleys. Why be angry if you can’t see them? Neither can the other passengers. Why be angry at Trevil who loves you? He’s just another boy on the speeding train.

  If Trevil were only with her now, standing by her shoulder as she rode, he could look out of the window as she was looking and see that the orchard was still there. But Trevil wouldn’t be able to see the change as she had seen it in the last few months.

  There, now, was the real seat of the trouble. The orchard looked the same to other people, but different to Natalie Sherrett. She could picture the trees as gnarled and brown even when they were green, see the slope as snow-covered even when the sun made it so bright as to hurt her eyes.

  If only Trev weren’t so patient with her, and Sarah Olessa and Mona, and Dr. Cam. There was a time, not too far distant in the background, when any one of them would have been eager to disagree with her about any scene. Mona had always been ready to argue with her that black was white. But now, Mona only nodded sagely when Natalie told her that something white was green. Therefore, or ergo, or q.e.d., Natalie had proved beyond question that those people with whom she was so familiar had changed. She had proved that Robert Helms had returned and met his death in a car. She had proved that things, at least to her, were exactly as they seemed.