The Tunnel Page 9

  Facile, hell! There was the real trouble—the going, to use Trevil’s word, was rugged. She remembered a comment of her father concerning a certain jurist who had “diarrhea of the mouth and a constipated brain.” How she would have welcomed just a touch of the vulgar diarrhea at the point of her pen! There had been stomach cramps and brain cramps, finger cramps, body chills, lapses of memory, acres of consumed tobacco, quarts of deadening alcohol, hatreds, affections, sex yearnings, physical tiredness, mental ennui, pregnancy, labor pains, lies, truths, hunger, satiety, inhibitions, exhibitions, real diarrhea, and eight thousand more or less currently popular psychosomatic symptoms back of every word she had written.

  She had learned one thing, if she never wrote another line: whoring, and even murder, were preferable and more respectable occupations than spilling out your brains on paper. The whore at least had the privacy of a room, and the murderess, at the end, a chance to think out her secret thoughts in the sanctity of a death cell.

  The chronicler of secret thoughts was crazy as a bed-bug, renouncing all human claims to privacy not for just now, but forever and a day. Words once written were bridges burned. Thoughts inscribed were clothes discarded without possibility of finding another covering, leaving a naked imbecile to run at top speed through a world of sadistic voyeurs who shouted forever, “Unclean, unclean!” and pelted the idiot with stones.

  Death was no surcease.

  Five centuries might pass and the writer’s spirit still nude and helpless, shivering and afraid, might be forced to sit in silence and watch the mob fling dung or roses at his tombstone.

  It was lovely just to lie in bed and think. How foolish to suggest that her mind was cloudy! Her mind was a willing tool, a well-greased thinking machine. The sharp conflicts which occurred to rack her were between her mind and her body. Truly great things flowed through her mind, the answer to all her problems, but they only flowed when her body was safe, secure and warm, relaxed and not forced.

  She began to understand why people went to analysts. An analyst was like a competent secretary performing the arduous labor which the body rebelled at doing, sorting out the true from the false, picking out the chaff from the wheat, but most important of all pushing the point of the intractable pen which dried up all clear thinking.

  Yet Freud had said that self-analysis was possible, and wasn’t Freud the master of them all?

  She remembered quite well a famous psychiatrist Cam had brought to a party, a refugee with a narrow, olive, ascetic face, with too much neckhair and burning, intense black eyes.

  Looking back now, it was easy to see that Cam had brought him for a purpose—to let the erratic Natalie dive into those iris pools and relax there, floating around on her back.

  The doctor had studied with Freud for a year.

  Cam would be hurt to know that Natalie remembered the neckhair and the grime under the doctor’s fingernails, but couldn’t remember the doctor’s name. For that matter, she couldn’t remember the party, but then she had been having trouble with parties, merging them together into one grand debacle, a timeless, endless orgy seen hazily upward from the bottom of a pool of gin.

  She had a neurosis, or more likely a dozen of them. Also she was neurotic, but so was the whole country, so that was nothing to be ashamed of. She had culled those facts from a conversation which took place in the living-room after the other guests had gone. It was necessary to get this straight as it might be very important. For the purposes of clarity she would call the eminent psychiatrist “Dr. Neckhair.”

  “This country is in grave danger,” said Dr. Neckhair over his second highball. His hypnotic black eyes were fixed on Natalie as though she might be “this country.”

  She remembered the small balloons at the knees of his pants, the way he hitched himself up higher and leaned forward in the chair. Trev and Cam refused to help her, leaving it up to her to ask the obvious question. Her mind raced quickly over atomic bombs, Russia, inflation, Communism, labor unions, the decline and fall of the Republican party, the failure of the Church’s stabilizing influence, the radio, comic strips, and television. From the chatter she had heard at the party, just over, all of those items seemed to be more or less imminent dangers.

  She was certain that Dr. Neckhair must have written several important books. Also, he had that clear, fresh, eager look of the person whose mind has been thoroughly renovated in the psychoanalytical laundry. Natalie dismissed a quick picture of Uncle Sam lying flat on his back with Dr. Neckhair, notebook in hand, sitting at his head and sorting out poor Uncle’s dangers. The doctor must be very wise and very brilliant, but Nat doubted if he’d ever ridden through a tunnel.

  She sat down and finished half a strong Tom Collins in order to conjure up courage enough to face the nation’s danger. The three men watched her drinking with obvious disapproval. She had learned a long time ago that you had to do everything for yourself, so she swished the ice around very slowly with the tip of her finger, and gave the doctor the opening he was so eagerly seeking. “What’s the country in danger of, doctor?”

  “I’m interested in your opinion, Mrs. Sherrett.”

  Nat stared accusingly at Cam, certain now that he had dragged Dr. Neckhair in for some ulterior, medical purpose.

  “Fear,” said Nat. “The country’s in danger of scaring itself to death over nothing. It’s afraid that the ghosts of its boys will return and confront it with the pieces of broken promises which are lying all around. It’s also in danger of too many psychiatrists, and too many psychologists.” She refrained from adding, “such as you,” but the doctor understood it.

  “Interesting.” Dr. Neckhair’s accent became a little thicker, and Natalie chuckled inwardly, deciding she had him perturbed. “Vy do you t’ink psychiatrists and psychologists are a danger, Mrs. Sherrett?”

  “They’re making fears popular,” Nat told him. “Too many people are trotting to them to be told things they should find out for themselves.”

  “Goot!” said Dr. Neckhair slowly. “Very, very goot!”

  “Thank you.” Nat gave him the thanks gratuitously, failing to understand why her statement had been that profound.

  “But not, by any means, all of the picture,” Dr. Neckhair continued. “This nation, the most powerful in the world, is in danger of becoming enmeshed entirely in neurotic trends. Such a situation produced both Hitler and Stalin and other famous neurotics of history—Julius Caesar, Frederick the Great and Napoleon, to mention just a few. The worse their neurotic rulership became, the less they could tolerate criticism. Constantly, and with increasing fervor, they strove to show that their deplorable actions were right and good. Everything in a dictator’s life is focused toward maintaining the sanctity of his own neurotic structure.”

  Natalie looked toward Cam Olessa for help, and found him nodding sagely. She finished her drink and said defiantly, “That’s why I think psychiatrists are dangerous. So far as the American public’s concerned, you might as well be speaking German. I suppose you know what you’re talking about, but I don’t. Maybe it’s part of this neurotic trend, but Americans have to appear brighter than they are. I’m better educated than average, and I’m still not very bright. Yet psychiatrists and psychologists keep on pouring out books and lectures for millions of minds that are frightened and ill. Wouldn’t it be easier, doctor, if you made yourself clear? I don’t believe that one person out of a million actually knows the meaning of inhibition, libido, psychopath, ego and id, or any one of the hundred terms you toss about so freely. I don’t know what a neurosis is, and I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about when you speak about neurotic trends.”

  Trev raised his head with a startled gesture. Dr. Olessa grinned and said, “Touché!” Dr. Neckhair drew a deep breath and expounded clearly on the subject for twenty minutes.

  At least, at the time it seemed clear. Now, trying to write it, Nat found herself full of haziness over neurotic trends propelling people toward dependency, and equally strong
trends propelling people toward independence; trends toward expansiveness fought with trends toward a narrow, constricted existence.

  Then there were needs for social recognition; personal admiration and achievement; neurotic needs for a partner who would take things over, at the same time giving affection and approval.

  The needs bred dreads—the dread of helplessness, the dread of uncontrollable situations, the dread of stupidity, the dread of desertion and being alone, the dread of spending.

  Nat looked them over and wondered why those things had stuck in her head when so many had gone.… Take the dread of spending—why had she written that down? Trevil had plenty of money and was making more. She would ask herself a bare-faced question:

  Had she neglected doing the house over because of fear of offending Trevil or smirching the memory of Trevil’s dead mother, or were those reasons merely subterfuges? Might she not be afraid of bad judgment, or have a dread of making any demands on Trevil? Or merely be afraid to spend the money with prices so high? Or did she need Bob Helms to make decisions for her?

  Somehow she had to get an honest answer, but her mind had become a battle ring, a prize ring full of conflicting forces engaged in a battle royal. She was far too weak to compete against them.

  Then why try?

  Life would be so much easier, so much happier, if once and for all she gave up the struggle. There was much more safety and happiness in joining in with the rest of the country. Then the country could join with the rest of the world. Snug as bugs in a rug together, they could all speed on to perdition through the endless length of the tunnel.

  Chapter 16

  “I don’t think you have enough to do.” Mona Desmé daintily disposed of the burned-down cigarette in her amber holder and bit with appetite into her chicken salad sandwich. “That house, big as it is, can’t keep you busy all the time. Housework really isn’t for you, darling. You’re the sort of person who isn’t happy unless her mind’s full of things.”

  Mona’s clear blue eyes and slender fingers were annoying Natalie again. Or maybe it was her air. She had adopted that nice detachment of genial frankness so necessary when one good friend feels the moment has come to be frank with another.

  Watching her, Natalie felt that the day had passed when she and Mona could criticize each other’s clothes and hair and walk, and remain assured that such criticism was mutual and entirely friendly. Advice from a woman who wanted Trevil could be nothing but malign.

  Natalie said sweetly, “I see what you mean,” and hoped that Mona had brains enough to see what she meant, too. She had no intention of taking up any outside work that could hold no interest for Trevil. The rift between herself and her husband was wide enough now. Almost too wide to heal.

  She and Mona were lunching at the country club.

  The big dining room with its diamond rows of unadorned pine tables, each held captive by four chintz padded chairs, had the sanitary unimagination of country club dining rooms everywhere. The tremendous hewnstone fireplace was supposed to be comfortable. Actually, in summer it became an immobile monstrosity, leaned against by golfing mothers while they chattered over cocktails and kept an eye on their racing sneaker-footed youngsters. Now, the fairways covered with snow, the log fire served as a grill to broil the few women lunching at the doily-clothed tables, ignorantly moved too near.

  Mona’s hat had a black velvet crown with a wide wicker brim. A black velvet ribbon was tied under her chin. Attractive, yes, but certainly odd for winter. It gave Nat a feeling that Mona would do anything to attract attention.

  Natalie put a hand to her own sleek hair. She had always detested hats and only wore them when it was absolutely necessary. When she put a hat on, she felt as though she were clamping a cover on herself.

  “I have plenty to do,” she said. “Not being a housewife yourself, you wouldn’t understand, darling.”

  Mona laughed aloud, as if delighted with the small poke. Then her eyes grew serious again. “I do understand,” she said, “that you’re chasing yourself around like a squirrel on a treadmill. That making beds is good for the muscles, but doesn’t do a thing for the mind. Daily conversations with the butcher aren’t particularly fulfilling as far as intellectual stimulus goes.”

  “Of course, if I could make twelve thousand a year, I could afford to hire a housekeeper.” Natalie shrugged. “But I don’t have your talents, Mona.”

  Mona carefully wiped her fingers with a paper napkin which was embossed with the club’s motto, “Lux Veritas,” and which had a design of golf clubs around the edges. “Maybe this is what I mean,” she said, her eyes grown stormy. “If you were properly busy and occupied, you wouldn’t have to say things like that to me or anyone else.”

  Mona’s tone was one of real hurt, and Natalie suddenly saw herself as foolish and spiteful. Mona had never given her any reason to doubt her as far as she and Trev were concerned. Mona was her best friend. Sleek and sophisticated as she was, the Mona Natalie had always known was as simple and straightforward underneath as anyone Natalie had ever called a friend.

  “I don’t know.” Natalie turned to stare about the room. “Forgive me, please, for—anything I say. I’ve been a little confused lately. I’m—still confused. I’m—in the dark, Mona.”

  She pushed back her chair and rose in one movement, afraid that if she sat for another second at the bleak pine table she would completely break down and cause a scene.

  What had happened to her, anyway? Why should she feel so tired and exhausted, so loose-ended? She had always liked to keep things under control. When she had been a small girl, her own private world was neat and ordered, her dresses pressed and on hangers, her shoes polished by her own hand. Her schoolwork had been done on time, if not brilliantly then at least thoroughly. She never could stand the feeling of days going by with things put off, unclassified, unkempt, disorderly. She liked to have her feet firmly on the ground. She liked to take small steps toward definite goals, small goals, but goals which meant something. When she grew older, she had made her own clothes, spurning her mother’s sewing machine, which took the seams in great speedy gulps, and doing all the seams by hand, with small, neat, plodding stitches. When the dresses were finished, they were not as striking as Mona’s, but still of beautiful design.

  She had always taken care and pride in her body, too. There were two or three sports in which she excelled because she had learned them so painstakingly. When she had learned to ride, she had refused to go out on the trails until she could make the horse obey her in the ring, until she had exactly in mind what it was to trot, to post, to gallop.

  Months, after that, had been spent on small jumps, forcing her patient beast over and over a foot-high hurdle until her form was perfect enough so that she felt she could try fences and ditches outside.

  With skiing she had doggedly stuck to the practice slopes until she could make at least eight perfect stem turns in a row without staggering or faltering. She believed that the masters took more pride in stepping and turning gracefully in small, lovely sprays of snow than in making thunderous rushes down the mountainside.

  Now it seemed that everything was getting away from her, that she was rushing onwards without knowing where she was going or how. She could not see her way ahead; she hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next; she could cope with nothing.

  “All right,” Mona said. I didn’t want coffee anyway.” Mona gathered up her bag, which was a great orange affair shaped like a pumpkin, and her gloves, and followed Natalie to the coatroom.

  “Nat,” she said, “to start, why don’t you do something about that house, since you’re so fascinated with it?”

  “You mean—fix it? Trev wouldn’t like that. It’s the way Mrs. Sherrett wanted it.”

  “Nonsense. Trev wouldn’t mind. He just doesn’t see what a gloomy, cluttered-up place it is. I’ve always itched to get my own hands on it. It would be something to—”

  “To occupy my mind?” Natalie became very busy with
her long red coat. There were a lot of buttons on it, set every couple of inches from neckline to hem. Everything Mona said had a double meaning. How did Mona know that she found the house almost too depressing to bear? Had Trev told her that the last thing he wanted in it was change? For change would erase the last clinging dust of Mrs. Sherrett. If Natalie did anything about the house, Trev would know how she had felt about his mother.

  Mona’s car was like Mona herself. Long, shiny, and a gay shade of blue; a roadster, so that in summer Mona looked exactly like all the women in advertisements who drive, laughing and beautiful and unruffled, through the valleys and up the hills and into the wide gravelled ways of mansions, who exchange compliments with the smiling gas station attendant. The breeze that swirled through the half-open window now, though it was winter and cold, felt dead and muggy to Natalie.

  She sat up straight and closed her eyes. The crack, crash of the tire chains clicked off the fenders like the vicious metal of train wheels on steel. A whistle sounded, once, twice, warningly Ahead was a point of bright white light, marking the end of darkness. Anyone in her path, anyone or anything, must be ground and smashed under iron wheels, hurtled sky-high into oblivion.

  This was no train Natalie had ever heard of; it was barely three o’clock. After the noon special, there was nothing until the 4:23. Or was she wrong again? They really might have changed the schedule without notification.

  If she could find out what time the trains ran now, tomorrow she would go into the city and do a little shopping.

  She seemed to be spending so much time in bed that she really ought to get a new bed jacket, a warmer one, so that she would look pretty when the chess game was in progress, up in her room. Perhaps she ought to get a bed jacket for Sarah, too, to discourage her from wearing the white nurse’s uniform.

  She wondered if Sarah bothered about such things, or if she simply did her hair up in curlers and dropped off to sleep. She amused herself by wondering exactly what Sarah wore to go to sleep in. None of the usual things seemed to fit; not satin or silk nightgowns with lace and narrow straps and flounces around the hems; certainly nothing in pale blue or pink or cream. Neither did candy-striped pajamas fit, red and white or green and white. Or sophisticated white silk pajamas with Sarah’s monogram, SO, on the pocket. The nearest Natalie could get was something voluminous and old-fashioned in white lawn or plain cotton; Natalie could remember her mother running fresh blue ribbon around the necklines of nightgowns and slips (shifts, they called them then). You used the ribbon as a drawstring; yes, Sarah might have something like that.