Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  Wherever he went suspicion followed. An ill wind of whispers had escalated to full-blown confrontations. “How come you took your ma way out there that day? Didn’t you know the storm was coming in?”

  Did he know?

  Two lads he knew from school jumped out from behind a bush one evening and yelled, “Mother killer!”

  He stopped going anywhere except to work, and would leave the house no more than necessary. He made a small pine cupboard for Helena’s dishes. He fashioned a wooden puppet for Eliza Carving each piece carefully, it gave him some sense of purpose and kept him busy when he wasn’t at work. She squealed with delight, and asked him to make another so they could play ‘pretend’ together.

  Jorie could put off returning to the house no longer. He could not risk someone else finding the loathsome object first.

  This time the house was quiet. Not aired since the day of the storm, a musty smell pervaded it. The sound of scurrying mice reached his ears as he entered his room.

  From the back of the closet he pulled out a box of school composition books. Rifling through the pile, he found at last the one he was looking for—the journal of his transgressions and punishment. Presented to him when he was seven, he’d been required to record his misdemeanors in it for years.

  Jorie took the book downstairs and put newspaper in the kitchen stove. His hands shook as he lit the match, making it difficult to light the paper. As the flame finally rose, he tore the pages from the book, and one by one fed them to the blaze. A mixture of anger, sadness and remorse coursed through him as he sat transfixed, watching the flames curl and consume the record of his childhood shame.

  Chapter 4

  Walking to the poker game that night, Earl carried his memories about the girl he’d known in school. He’d been crazy for her then, when they’d both lived up in Red Jacket. What a country bumpkin she must have thought him! He, who’d never been outside Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and she, a young lady from Edinburgh, Scotland!

  She was fine looking, but it was her mane of red hair and her fiery green eyes that made everybody take notice. Well, that was a long time ago. Earl was always dreaming of making a touchdown, just to impress Catherine. It was the first year they’d had football at his school, and everybody was keen on it. And then yes, on that one day, the forty yard run all the way down the field with no one even close behind. The whole school was cheering him on. Nothing could stop him from reaching the goal post. Nothing did.

  But it hadn’t made a bit of difference. Catherine McGaurin had been too good for anybody. With a daddy that took her everywhere—to concerts, even to Paris—what did he have to offer?

  He thought about how her life had turned out. And his. Considering her fate, he guessed he’d fared better than she. He pulled his muffler tight around his mouth, as winds whipped up the snow drifts, blowing the cold, dry stuff into his face, smarting his eyes.

  He’d wanted to go out west, latch on to some of that land the government was giving away. Maybe he’d become an officer of the law, and bring order to some lawless town in the west. But then Cora Baker, the girl he was seeing, told him she was pregnant. Well, he did what all honorable men did under such circumstances—he married her. But she lost the baby. Or said she did. He didn’t know much about these things, and he believed her.

  Cora didn’t want to go out west.

  There would be other children, he figured. But they hadn’t come. That was his biggest regret. He would like to have had children. Still, they’had a pretty good marriage, good as most, he reckoned.

  Judge McKinney’s home loomed in front of him. George, the bachelor, accountable to no one, had an enormous antebellum house large enough to hold a family of eight. The games, previously held at Thomas Radcliff’s, had shifted to George’s after Thomas died last year.

  Iva opened the door, and led him inside. Rumors had circulated about who this mulatto was. Some said she was his daughter, by a woman he'd saved from the slave catchers back in 1855; another version was that Iva was no relation at all; she was his mistress.

  The woman led him into the room George McKinney had fashioned into the game room, though you could tell it wasn’t designed to be, as Thomas’ had been. Rather, it was more of a sun room, with curved bay windows all around the back, overlooking the garden. Still, it served well enough. Except, Earl thought ruefully, it was never warm enough in the winter.

  The others were already seated: Doctor Arthur Johnson, with his shock of white wavy hair, Buck Boyce, the prosecuting attorney and youngest member of their little band. Earl was glad to be here. He looked forward to these familiar and friendly, weekly games with his poker buddies. Maybe this diversion would clear his head.

  The pot of money was brought out and set on the floor. Named Matilda, the kitty represented the sum total of everyone’s winnings over the last ten years. Long ago they’d agreed to pool their spoils for some future project or joint flight of fancy. At first a gag, the longer it remained untouched, the harder it was to disturb. Perhaps they were afraid the spell would be broken if they did, he mused, and the games would end. Matilda had grown from a small pickle jar to a flower pot to a heavy iron kettle. The last once held enough stew to feed a crew of hungry miners at a boarding house. It was a ritual, bringing it out every time they had a game.

  Earl was the first to deal. “Five card draw. Ante up.” He placed the deck in front of the prosecuting attorney. “Cut ‘em up, Buck.”

  When the cards were dealt Buck bet one.

  “Arthur?”

  “Match.”

  It wasn’t long before the talk turned to the death of Catherine Radcliff. The wife of their friend Thomas, she had for years served refreshments on poker nights.

  The judge raised the doctor. “Didn’t see you at the funeral, Arthur.”

  “I was delivering the Freeman baby. Terrible – about Catherine.”

  “I’ll raise you one, George.” Earl pushed his chips to the center.

  “Most unfortunate accident,” the judge said.

  “If it was an accident,” the prosecuting attorney interjected.

  “You’re not suggesting, Buck—” The doctor was visibly upset.

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Arthur studied the prosecutor’s face. “It’s the way your mind works, Buck. Guess it goes with the territory — always suspicioning the worst of everyone.”

  Buck Boyce smiled. “That’s my job.”

  “Are you in, Buck?” Earl inquired.

  “I’m in.” He pushed chips to the center.

  The others matched.

  “How many cards, Buck?”

  “Two.”

  “Arthur?”

  The doctor seemed to have trouble focusing. “One,” he finally said.

  “How’s it look so far, Earl? Any chance of foul play?” the judge asked.

  Lord, he didn’t want to answer that.

  “How many, George?”

  “Two.” The judge’s ashes fell to the floor. “You didn’t answer my question, Earl.”

  “And three for me,” Earl said. “Too soon to speculate.”

  “Figured you’d say that. Always play it close to your chest, don’t you, Earl?”

  “You doubt the lad’s story, George?” the doctor inquired. “That gentle lad who refused to make a butterfly collection because he couldn’t kill them?”

  Earl scratched his elbow, but Arthur’s question to the judge took the limelight off him.

  “How do you know that — about the butterflies?” McKinney turned back to Arthur.

  “He was sick a lot. And his mother kept him out of school one whole term, when scarlet fever was going around. I got to know him pretty well.”

  “Buck?”

  “Fold.”

  “And I.” The doctor laid down his cards. “I used to stop by on my rounds. He liked to talk about science. Seemed like a lonely kid.”

  George said, “Three.”

  Earl knew the judge liked to bluff. “
Let’s see what you got.” He pushed his chips forward.

  George had a pair of Jacks, but Earl had three tens, and took the hand.

  Boyce shuffled. "Cards are getting gummy. Got any others, George?”

  “Nope.”

  More likely George didn’t want to leave the table just now to get them, Earl mused.

  “Earl’s known Catherine since school days,” George informed the prosecutor. “Up in Red Jacket.”

  Oh, here we go!

  “Sweet on her too, weren’t you, boy?” George teased, lighting his cigar.

  Earl hated to be called ‘boy.’ It rankled him that the judge, whether because of his superior position in society, or the difference in their ages, often treated him like he wasn’t grown up yet. He’d always known he hadn’t been included in this poker party because of his standing in the community; he was in because he was a damn good player and George McKinney liked a challenge.

  Finally, talk about the Radcliffs was dropped as the players turned their attention seriously to poker.

  When quitting time came at ten o’clock, Earl fed Matilda more than he had in a year.

  “She’s getting very fat,” he said.

  But when he left, the judge quipped, “Good-night, Sherlock. Have fun playing detective.”

  Earl decided to make a trip to the News, hoping to catch two birds. First he wanted to see Jorie, whose night shift would be finished in about half an hour. Then he’d find the man who did the weather reports there.

  He discovered Jorie working in the corner of a large room. On the table before him were wooden boxes divided into tiny compartments, each holding different letters.

  Jorie was bent over two boxes picking up the bits of lead. For a moment Earl stood back, mesmerized by the dexterity and speed in which Jorie’s hands flew from the boxes to the composing stick on which they were placed. Finally, Jorie looked up. A slight frown crossed his face.

  “Good morning, Mr. Foster.”

  “’Morning, Jorie. “I’d like to get some papers from the house that we’ll need in order to settle your mother’s estate.”

  He caught the boy’s hesitation. “Can you give me the key?”

  Jorie dug it from his pocket and handed it to the sheriff. Earl studied his face, looking for signs of something, anything. Except for a kind of melancholy countenance he’d worn since he was about thirteen, Earl could decipher nothing.

  “Anything over there I can get for you?”

  Jorie paused. “I’d like my mother’s rosary, if you can find it.”

  “Where did she keep it?”

  “In her room, I think.”

  What was Catherine doing with a rosary? The only church he’d known her to attend was the Congregational, and the funeral service was conducted by their new minister.

  He left Jorie and asked a man in the hall, “Who does the weather report around here?”

  “Jack Bickerson.”

  Earl found the man at his desk, squeezed between two others. It was impossible to have a private conversation here. He leaned over the desk.

  “Did you write a forecast of the blizzard last week?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Would that have been the day before the blizzard?”

  “No, sir. Didn’t hear of it until the day it came. Those storms come up so fast over Lake Superior, there’s not always warning.”

  “You get your information from the ships out there?”

  “Yes, sir. Morse Code.”

  Earl lowered his voice. “Did Jordan Radcliff talk to you that day?”

  “Who?”

  “Jordan Radcliff.”

  Earl could feel all neighboring eyes upon him.

  “Can’t remember.”

  “I mean did he ask you for a weather report?”

  Jack tried to think. “Might have. He did sometimes.”

  Earl repeated, “He did sometimes.”

  “Everybody did sometimes.”

  Toby Wilson’s office was two blocks away. Earl decided to ask the Radcliff’s lawyer about the wills. There was a sign on the door: “Closed for family emergency.” He was informed by the stationer next door that the lawyer had been called away to settle his father’s affairs downstate.

  The Radcliff place had always seemed a little eerie to Earl, even when he’d gone there regularly to play poker. With its steep gables, lying mostly in the shadow of the pine grove, today it appeared downright spooky.

  Inside, the silence was an ominous presence. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt Catherine’s spirit was all about, and he wasn’t a man to believe in such things. Probably just some stale perfume playing with his mind. Funny, how quickly a deserted house could take on something of its dead owner, he mused.

  He expected to locate Thomas’ will easily enough, and perhaps Catherine’s, in the oak roll-top desk. He’d seen Thomas go to it a number of times, knew it was where he kept his important documents. But the papers weren’t there. Probably Wilson had them. Their content could be significant.

  Now for the rosary. He’d only been to the top of the stairs once the day of the funeral, and he hadn’t taken much notice then. Ascending the steps now, he felt he was pushing through an invisible wall of privacy. The stairs creaked as he climbed them, each with its own note.

  He saw the little girl’s room first. Strange way to decorate a bedroom, he thought— hand-painted peaches and bananas bordering the ceiling. No clothes, not a single toy. Jorie’d probably taken everything over to O’Laerty’s.

  The only sign of life anywhere were the droppings of mice sprinkled liberally throughout. The visible traps had all been sprung.

  He found Catherine’s room a picture of femininity. Everything was white, from the window coverings of lace to the quilt on her bed.

  He had the distasteful experience of going through the dead woman’s dresser drawers. Always feeling he was intruding when his job called for this sort of intimate search, when it was someone he’d known it was almost embarrassing.

  He found no rosary, only a lot of jewelry. Perhaps Jorie might like something else of his mother’s. It might loosen his tongue, even bring on a confession. He put a string of amber beads in his pocket.

  Further down the hall he found the boy’s room. It certainly had his stamp on it. A bookcase held volumes of poetry, nature and a collection of rocks. One on geology was inscribed by Dr. Johnson, For my young friend, Jorie Radcliff, with high hopes for his future contributions to science. It was clear Arthur had an interest in the boy.

  On the top shelf of his closet Earl found two locked diaries. But the shocker was that toward the back, under a pile of clothes, he found some drawings of nudes. The face on them was unmistakably Jorie’s mother. What kind of kid would imagine his own mother naked, and affix her head to the pornographic outpouring of his imagination?

  Earl decided he’d best secure the diaries and drawings in his office. That meant a trip across the bridge to Houghton.

  Battles over where to locate the county seat had been waged more than once: whether to be in Houghton, on one side of the long, narrow lake, or in Hancock on the other. A thorn in Earl’s side, Houghton had finally won out. That meant he had to trudge back and forth across the bridge from his home in Hancock to Houghton where the courthouse and his office were. And Hancock, after all, had a population of four thousand, several hundred more than Houghton.

  Hunkering down in his coat, he was almost knocked down by the winds. Thank God, the old wooden bridge had been replaced by a steel truss. Yet, real or imagined, he could still feel its sway, and the fear that it would collapse beneath him never left.

  He kept his mind occupied with the puzzle before him. He knew Thomas’ other sons had gotten a chunk of money or stock certificates when they turned eighteen. Thomas Radcliff had made sure his friends knew whenever one of his boys got their ‘sizeable sum.’ Earl thought he was bragging, a way of letting them know how well he was doing.

  Because Jorie had just turned eighte
en, if it was murder, the timing could be relevant: Jorie might have waited until he got his inheritance.

  But no large amount had been deposited into Jorie’s account—he’d checked on that in the morning—and none withdrawn from Catherine’s. He’d asked if there were other accounts or safe deposit boxes, and inquired of other banks. Nothing. Of course, Jorie could have received stock certificates. Frustrating that Wilson was out of town. He might have some answers.