âThe Tunnelâ
ALAN CHEUSE (1940â )
New Jerseyâborn Alan Cheuse taught at Bennington College and at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee, before his current position in the creative writing department of George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia. He is the author of ten books of fiction and nonfiction, among them the novels The Grandmotherâs Club (1986), The Light Possessed (1990), and To Catch the Lightning (2008), and the short story collections Candace (1980) and The Tennessee Waltz and Other Stories (1992). As a book commentator, Cheuse is a regular contributor to National Public Radioâs All Things Considered. The selection below is from Cheuseâs story collection Lost and Old Rivers (1998).
One week after their candidate lost the election Jas and her roommate Sharon were getting ready for a party, Jas stepping into her flashiest skirt, the silver-sequined wraparound, and wondering about a blouse. She was a tall girl, so skirts like this looked good on her. She had narrow hips, long legsâgood, firm breasts, that was true, and a long neck. My swan, her dad used to tease her lovingly. My swan. Who wanted to be a swan? Swans were oddly beautiful, but were they happy? That was the question that bothered Jas whenever she recalled her fatherâs pet name for her.
When she thought of her mother, it was another sort of memory, much more deeply tinged with emotion. Her mother had told her nearly every day of her life that her eyes were beautiful, and Jas felt her chest constrictâand seem to turn to ice at the same timeâat the picture in her mind of her mother, just before she went into that last surgery, unable to speak but blinking hard at her, blinking, blinking, which meant, your eyes, your eyes. All she needed was to have a boy look her in the eyes and heâd be a goner. That was her motherâs constant refrain. But so far no one tall enough to look properly into her eyesâand there had only been a few of those anywayâwas anyone she wanted to look back at. There had been one or two guys at school whom she had gone out with more than once, but nothing happened with them. All they wanted was sex, and she just couldnât, not yet, not so soon, she told herself, after her motherâs death. There had been no one in the year after graduation when she had worked in downtown Detroit. No one these last six months when she had worked on the Committee to Re-Elect the President, first in Michigan and thenâbecause of a little fling Sharon had had with a committee man passing through the state, a two-night stand, actuallyâhere in Washington.
âFletcher said itâs going to be a great party, even if we did lose,â her roommate said, stepping up next to her in front of the mirror.
Jas gave her a queer look.
âYou didnât ask him to bring a friend for me, did you?â
âNo.â Sharon looked at her in the mirror looking at her.
âLook me in the eye and say that,â Jas said, turning to Sharon and touching a hand to her friendâs shoulder.
âIâll call a taxi for us,â Sharon said, moving toward the telephone.
âI knew it!â
Jas stalked past her, went to the window, pretended to study the dark street below.
In the taxi, Jas enjoyed seeing the wide marble buildings lining the wide avenue, and as they approached Georgetown, the narrow but stately colonial brick houses with an occasional wood-frame mansion between. Up toward Dumbarton Oaks the vehicle carried them, the driver listening intently to the scratchy radio calls in a language neither girl could put a name to.
âGood address,â Sharon said when they pulled up in front of a three-story house with a wonderful white porch on R Street.
âWhose house again?â Jas had forgotten.
âDaughter of Senator Whoosis,â Sharon said slyly as they stepped from the cab into a gutter full of crackling leaves.
âRepublican or Democrat?â Jas said.
âWhat do you think?â Sharon said. âDemocrats have all the good parties.â
âTo make a bad pun,â Jas put in.
âOuch,â Sharon said. âBut itâs true. Fletcher knows her husband, a photographer. They met on some trek or other in the Himalayas.â
âTibet or not Tibet, that is the question.â
Sharon gave her a playful shove as they climbed the steps to the front porch.
âYou have a great sense of humor. And such great eyes.â
âThanks,â Jas said, noticing heads bobbing past the large picture window. Through the glass panes in the door they could see a thick curtain of coats hung on hooks along the wall.
Sharon rang the bell. Jas felt a little jolt, the old pain in her chest. Ever since the end of sophomore year at college it had visited her regularly. Will I ever be happy the way other people seem to be happy? And then, as usualâfortunatelyâher mind danced away from the thought.
There was a lot to distract her once they went inside. Their hostess, a petite woman wearing a long black dress and a Tibetan necklace of some sortâSharon asked, so they learned that it was from Tibetâintroduced them to the nearest group of people: a broad-chested national correspondent for a chain of midwestern newspapers, his mousey wife, a weak-chinned professor of philosophy from Georgetownâmaybe heâd been a priest once, Jas figured from the way he spoke and looked at herâand a sour-faced fellow who wrote a political column for one of the local newspapers, the one with the lowest circulation. None of the men came up to Jasâs collarbone.
âI understand youâre going to be out of a job,â the philosophy professor said.
âThatâs right,â Jas said. âWe lost.â
âPoignant,â said the professor.
âAre you looking around?â said the wife of the national correspondent. âThereâs always something else to do in this town.â
Before Jas could think of a response the circle of people shifted, and the national correspondentâs wife led him across the room but not before Jas caught a whiff of his foul-smelling breath. A thick-necked, shifty-eyed bull of a man the color of maple syrup drifted past; people said hello, hello, and then he was gone to another room. Then Sharon appeared, accompanied by the tallest guy Jas had seen in town in the past six months of her stay.
âJas, this is Charles. Charles, Jas.â
âMy name is actually Josephine,â Jas said, âbut nobody calls me that.â
His eyes were level with hers and she stared a moment, watched him blink.
âCan I get you a drink?â
âOh!â Jas laughed and swept her right arm out to the side, knocking someoneâs shoulder with her outstretched hand.
âExcuse me,â she said as the man turned to stare at her with cold blue eyes, glaring at first and then smiling, his cheeks crinkling up in a charming way.
âOf course,â he said and turned back to his conversation with the national correspondent and his wife.
âEasy on my boss,â the tall guy said.
âThatâs your boss?â
âThatâs my Senator,â he said. There was something about this young manâs eyes Jas noticed nowâthey were red-rimmed, as though he lacked moisture for his contacts or had been up all night talking, and whatever else. âSomething to drink?â
And she said, yes, fine, and he brought her a glass of wine and asked her questions about the office and commiserated with her about its imminent closing. He managed to ask if he could call her.
âMay I?â he said, like some lanky little boy in grade school asking for permission for a bathroom pass.
He called a few days later, catching Jas and Sharon in the middle of clearing out their closets.
âOh, my God,â she heard herself say, trying to dig herself a little cave amidst the pile of sweaters and old running clothes. âI canât, I just canât.â
âYou mean you wonât?â His voice sounded mournful at the other end of the line.
âIâm just so busy,â she said. âWeâre closing our office, and Iâve got tons of work before I even start looking for another job.â
âSo youâre going to stay in the city?â
âI donât know,â Jas said, her voice turning a little childish. âI donât know.â
âItâs something to do,â Sharon said after Jas had hung up.
âI am not going out with someone just because we are the same height.â
âI know people whoâve gotten together for worse reasons,â her roommate said.
âWho?â
âOur parents.â
âIf he calls again, Iâll see,â Jas said, plucking at the collar of an old sweater from college with her sorority letters embroidered on the sleeve.
But she must have really put him off, she decided. Weeks went by, and they were nearly out of a job when Rosaliza, the secretary-receptionist in their soon-to-be-former office, suggested that Jas do a little research on government agencies where they all might look for something. Thatâs what you were reduced to in this town if you worked for the party out of power and you had little experience and fewer contacts. So she found herself in the Library of Congress spending hours going over lists of possibilities. The high-ceilinged room where she sat suggested such promise, the gilt of its decorations, the names of the greats, that she worked on and on in the midst of many others, from the elderly with noses pressed to their books to girls new to college whose purposes would in a few years turn out, she guessed, to be similar to her own. Find a job, hope for ...