Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  She lay awake listening to the stories he told—tales of heroism, Greek and Egyptian myths.

  “And that explains your middle name, Isis. The goddess possessed all knowledge, beauty and power. And so shall you, my Dearest.”

  Away from home they could talk about anything. At a sidewalk café on the Champs-Elysees they were having a chocolate.

  “Why did you marry mother, Daddy? You appear ill suited to each other.”

  He looked at her and then away, seeming to watch the endless parade of carriages.

  Finally, he said, “I came from a well-positioned family in the old country, and was expected to marry into my own class.” He paused, took a sip of his drink. “When I was twenty-four we had a comely servant girl. She offered me her favors, shall we say, and became pregnant with my child.”

  He paused, finished his drink.

  “What became of her?”

  “She was discharged, of course, and I was banished from the family—albeit with a sum of money.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I made this unschooled girl my wife.” He paid the bill and stood up, deepening the crooked furrow that ran like a streak of lightening from his hairline to his nose.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes. She was pretty enough, then. But like a paper fire that first burns brightly, after the sparks died down the marriage turned to ash.” He started walking. “You are right: We are not well suited.”

  Catherine hurried to catch up to him. “And the baby?”

  “Your sister, Margaret, so much like your mother.”

  “Oh, Daddy, how very sad!”

  He put his arm around her and guided her across the wide avenue. “But you, Katie, make up for all of that.”

  That winter he had taken ill, and in two weeks was dead of pneumonia.

  Catherine felt she’d fallen off the edge of the world. After months of melancholia, she finally roused herself. She remembered all her father had said about courage, and how he'd admired her strong spirit.

  "You'll be a survivor, Katie. Never let anything best you."

  Then for you, Daddy, I will go forward.

  Three weeks after her seventeenth birthday, the wedding day came.

  "Ow!” The heat of the curling iron on the back of her neck brought Catherine back to the moment. "Mummy, you're burning me! Will it show?"

  "No, yer hollerin’ aboot nothin’," her mother replied. "Sit ye still, Catherine. I canna curl yer hair with ye bouncing all aboot. Do you want curly wood shavins stickin’ straight out ‘o yer head on yer weddin’ day?"

  They were in the kitchen by the stove, and Catherine tried to concentrate on giving her mother a hot curling iron in exchange for a cool one, which she replaced on the stove. With great care she could do this without moving any part of her body save her arm.

  "Keep turnin’ them, so they'll be hot on all sides."

  Catherine picked up the ivory looking glass and studied her likeness with objective detachment.

  To herself she said, “I am not beautiful. But I cut a fine figure, and Papa would say I am striking.” She held the mirror higher, and raised her gaze to meet it. “I believe my large green eyes are my finest feature.”

  In spite of herself Catherine was getting excited about her wedding and the prospects of living in a lovely home built just for her with a magnificent view.

  Barbara MacGaurin touched a wet finger to the irons, listening for sizzling sound.

  “There, ye see, there’s not a hot one among them. Ye’ve let them all go cold.”

  She snatched the looking glass from her daughter’s hand. Catherine sighed and resumed her task.

  As she did, she looked down at her lovely silk and linen underthings. They had been conveyed all the way from Scotland, as such luxuries would be hard to come by in this part of the world. But they had only brought one wedding gown, and her sister had worn it first.

  The dress was lovely, she acknowledged — finer than anything she’d seen in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula. It had delicate lace with rows of ivory ribbon threaded through the neckline and cuffs of the full sleeves, and little pink rosebuds made from even finer ribbon sewn onto the ivory. If only it was new for her!

  Catherine sighed. "This is the last time I'm wearing anything of Margaret's. If I must be wed to a man I don’t love, at least I’ll be rich.”

  “You mustn’t speak o’ marriage like it were a bag ‘o gold tae dip yer greedy hands in.”

  “He said he’d take me to Chicago on one of the new clipper ships, with a band and everything.”

  “Wheesht.”

  So on this crisp, windy day in September, with the autumn sky a rich deep blue, Catherine and her mother climbed into her brother-in-law’s buggy, and set out for the long ride to the little wooden church in Hancock. The inside was adorned with hardy gold and rust chrysanthemums. How exciting it was, this unfamiliar church all decked out just for her!

  After the ceremony there was a supper in the basement social hall, where venison, roasted all afternoon on Carter's spit, was the mainstay of the meal, and spicy hot cider kept the chill at bay. Neighbors brought hot dishes, and there were cakes and every kind of pie for dessert. A quartet had been engaged by Thomas for the occasion to play the popular songs of the day.

  Catherine left her husband’s side to speak with her sister. Margaret and her husband were moving to Wisconsin in a fortnight. Well, it was doubtful either would waste much time mourning the loss of the other.

  After a brief exchange, she heard, “Evening, ma’am.” She turned to see Thomas Junior and his brother William. “We came to wish you well.”

  “Why, thank you, lads.” Perhaps they were too old to call ‘lads’.

  How clumsy they looked in their ill-fitting suits, and turned up collar points. Tom, a shaft captain at the mine, and William, one of the shift bosses, were not accustomed to dressing up. She thought they looked like country bumpkins, uneducated and unrefined.

  “I am so pleased you’re able to be here.”

  They nodded.

  “And where is your little brother?”

  “Walter’s staying with Aunt Alice,” Tom replied. “Pa didn’t think he’d take to the wedding.”

  “How do you mean?”

  The older brothers exchanged a quick glance, and Tom cleared his throat. “Well, getting a new ma, and all.”

  “Ah.”

  For a few moments no one said anything. Tom kept rubbing one balled up hand with the other, as William twisted his neck like a horse trying to free itself of its bit.

  “You must come to call some time,” Catherine finally ventured.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  For once she was tongue-tied, and so were they. With relief she saw Thomas crossing towards them. He gave his sons a nod, claimed his bride and whisked her to the end of the hall reserved for dancing.

  “Oh, Thomas, we could think of nothing to say! They just looked at me like I was some kind of ice-cream to lap up.”

  “And so you are. I intend to do just that this evening.” He nuzzled his nose in her neck.

  Catherine giggled, and Thomas swung her across the floor to The Blue Danube Waltz. Soon they were joined by other keen dancers for the Tri-Mountain Two-Step and the Stamp Mill Waltz.

  Catherine hadn't had such a fine party since her sister’s wedding, but still she was glad when Thomas indicated it was time to leave.

  As they approached the carriage, they were greeted by another group of noisy enthusiasts with whistles, bells and saucepans.

  “Oh, no!” Catherine moaned, as she heard the first rattle. “A shivaree! They’re going to follow us home!”

  “Get in.”

  Catherine spotted someone she knew. “It’s Earl Foster! What’s he doing in Hancock?”

  “You know him?”

  “Och! We were in school together!”

  “He’s probably in love with you,” Thomas smiled.

  “They’ve been lying in wait for us! Tell th
e driver to hurry, Thomas. Let’s get away from here.”

  “First I have to wake him.”

  Catherine could hardly hear him over the din. “How can he sleep through this noise?”

  “I suspect he’s been tippling some.”

  Finally, they were underway, with the noise-makers running along side, rattling their assorted instruments.

  “Can’t we go faster, Thomas? And outrun them?”

  “It’s all harmless fun—a serenade.”

  “They’re making rude noises, Thomas.”

  “Raspberries.” Thomas laughed. “Just ignore them.”

  With libations in hand, the noise-makers followed the newlyweds.

  “What a bunch of hooligans. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “Catherine, relax. You can’t change tradition. They’re just looking for a bit of fun. It’s a wedding, remember?” He smiled and took her in his arms.

  “They’ll see us!”

  “Let them. Give them something to get excited about.”

  Catherine giggled. Catching sight of the couple through the window provoked louder, more exuberant shouts and catcalls.

  Thomas kissed his bride long and hard, as noses pressed and knuckles wrapped at the window. Raucous laughter and loud hoots accompanied their glee.

  “That’s enough,” Thomas waved good-bye to them and closed the carriage curtains. “They’ll go home now.”

  The driver snapped his whip and the horse settled into an easy canter, leaving the merry-makers behind. But soon after the bride and groom had reached their bedchamber, the boys had caught up. Small pebbles pelted the window, and the taunts continued from below.

  For the most part Catherine was oblivious to it, for the only stimulus she was responding to now was the stir that rose in her body from her husband’s touch, creating a tarantella that had mounted increasingly these last days.

  “I’ll try to be gentle. But it will hurt the first time,” he warned her.

  She bit her lip. There was an ache inside her she could only look to Thomas to satisfy now.

  Two weeks after the wedding, Thomas’ sister Alice arrived with six year old Walter, who had been in her charge while the newly-weds became accustomed to each other.

  “This is your new mother,” the aunt told Walter. The boy frowned, looked at the ground.

  “Show some manners, Walter,” his father admonished. “Take the lady’s hand.”

  Walter obeyed, but did not lift his face.

  “What class are you in?” Catherine asked.

  “Don’t go to school yet.”

  Catherine offered him some cake, which he took outside. Unmannered, unlessoned, and unattractive, he held no appeal for her at all.

  “He just lost his ma last year. It will take him some getting used to.”

  For me, as well. “He’ll be going to school this year, won’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  In the weeks that followed Catherine tried to make Walter feel comfortable. She could see he was a lonely child, mistrustful. Well, who could blame him; he’d lost his mother so suddenly in a bout of diphtheria. But when her efforts were rebuffed, she grew impatient, complained to her husband.

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  “He loved his mother very much.”

  “Well, I’m not his mother.”

  “Give him time, Catherine.”

  She bent her efforts toward her step-son, and gradually, the child began to respond. He stopped banging his head against the wall at night, and began conversing in more than monosyllables.

  “Look what I found.” He laid a horseshoe on the table.

  “Get that rusty thing off my tablecloth. Take it outdoors.”

  Walter picked up the horseshoe and headed for the door. Catherine, lamenting that she’d spoken so sharply, followed him.

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Throw it. Want to see me?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Walter drove a stake into the hard surface of the drive and demonstrated the game to Catherine. Several times he hit the mark on the first try.

  “You want to try?” he ventured.

  She hesitated.

  “Go on, mum, have a go at it.”

  Reluctantly, she took the rusty crescent in her hand.

  She was so far off course, Walter laughed, and Catherine turned crimson. Wanting to chide him, or run off, she nevertheless remembered her position and remained still.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” he offered.

  She allowed him to instruct her, noticed the action in his wrist. When she tried again, she came much closer. They took turns for some time, Catherine showing some improvement.

  “You’re better than I am.” Catherine brushed her hands off, started back to the house.

  “Were you doing your best?”

  “Of course I was.”

  The boy showed a shy smile of pride. Catherine tousled his hair. “You’re the winner. There, are you satisfied?”

  He slipped his hand gingerly inside hers.

  For this, Thomas gave her good marks.

  “He needs you, Catherine. He cares for you far more than you realize. You are his mother now, you know.”

  Her stomach rebelled.

  I’m only eleven years older than he! I don’t want to be his mother!

  How she missed Red Jacket! When they strolled downtown Hancock on a summer Sunday, she’d see girls arm-in-arm with lads their own age. And there she was with a husband more than twice her age.

  Still, as Thomas expressed his passion frequently, Catherine responded. Before long she felt the quickening of new life in her belly.

  “It’s going to be a laddie, sure,” the midwife told her.

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s just the knowin’ I have. Ye’ll see yersel when the we’an comes.” Her penetrating eyes persuaded Catherine.

  “Ye’ve had no mornin’ sickness?”

  “Not once.”

  “Then it’s certain to be a laddie. The others, they’re not so considerate.”

  Catherine laughed.

  “You’re the lucky one,” the midwife told her. “He’ll be a blessed we’an, never givin ye a bit o’ trouble.”

  But Catherine’s mother wasn’t convinced. Down for a visit, she said, “It’s bletherin’ tales she’s tellin’ ye. Country folk’s superstitions fae the auld country.”

  “But you’re — “

  “—fae entirely different parts, daughter. We never believed such foolish cracks in the big city.”

  It was a sweet and mellow time for Catherine, carrying this child. When she felt the quickening, she held her belly, eagerly awaiting each tiny movement.

  “Aye,’tis a laddie. I have the knowing, too,” she’d murmur.

  On a sunny afternoon in October, Catherine felt labor pains and knew that her time was approaching.

  “Fetch the midwife,” she told Helena.

  “Is it not too soon, mum?”

  “No. Hurry!”

  The pains started coming quickly, and Catherine, alone in the house, became alarmed. Autumn winds were kicking up, rattling the windows, a sound that always made her uneasy. Where was the midwife, and had that foolish girl gotten lost? In frustration she got out of bed, walked around the house, periodically doubling over in pain. Why couldn’t this have happened at night or on the weekend when Thomas was home?

  It would be soon; the pains were one on top of the other now. She went back to bed, and bit down on her pillow each time they came. The Portage whistle blew, signaling the end of the work shift. Maybe Thomas would get there in time.

  Then she could feel herself opening; there was no holding back the child. She let out one loud scream as the baby emerged. That was the last she knew.

  How long she’d been lying there before the midwife arrived she didn’t know. She heard a voice that sounded very far away.

  And then: “Dinnae I tell you it would be a laddie?” The midwife handed the ba
by to his mother. “He’s all cleaned up for ye.”