Mother Lode

  “He was engaged to Letitia Redson.”

  Engaged? “I didn’t know.”

  “She’s a widow—has a son about the age of Thomas’ boy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” Sarah hesitated. “It’s not for me to say,” she added softly.

  “Tell me.”

  “Letty says he jilted her.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “For you, I imagine.”

  Catherine blanched, and felt herself color as the heat climbed her neck and throbbed in her cheeks. Letitia Redson! That would explain why the woman had been rude to her on every possible occasion!

  “In any case they were seeing each other for almost a year. Letitia had every right to expect marriage, I suppose,” added Sarah.

  Catherine felt betrayed. Why had he never told her? Why had he made her the subject of unsavory gossip?

  She went to the parlor to summon the others for Christmas carols. Her eyes sought out Thomas. He was laughing, engaged in conversation with the men, telling some off-color story, she surmised, from the raucous laughter.

  She seated herself at the rosewood piano, and the women gathered around. Soon the men joined them, and everyone was caroling the old favorites. Catherine tried to focus on the music, but when she’d look up, there was Thomas, happy, almost handsome, giving full voice to old carols.

  “Round yon virgin, mother and child,”

  How could he look so innocent?

  “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”

  Could anything dismay Thomas tonight? Now he was singing in a lusty voice, abetted by the liquor he’d consumed.

  When they’d had their fill of singing, Thomas offered more drinks, and people sat together sipping tea or brandy. Catherine watched him in a new light. No longer the poor widower, left with a young child—he was a highly sought-after bachelor, a lady-killer. Staring at him, she found it took all of her effort to focus on her guests. She couldn’t wait for them to leave. Now Thomas was smiling at something amusing the surface captain’s wife had said.

  Why had he never seemed more charming, more desirable?

  At last the guests were gone.

  “How could you?”

  “What are you talking about? Are you going to spoil this lovely evening?”

  “Me! You spoiled it. You, you jilted Letitia Redson!” Catherine pounded Thomas’ chest. “And I had to find out from someone else!”

  It was Thomas’ turn to pale. He took her by the wrists. “I didn’t jilt her, Catherine. We were never formally engaged.”

  Catherine pulled away. “She thought so, and tells everyone you spurned her. She’s been dreadful to me. You knew, and you never told me why!” she screamed at him.

  “I didn’t see what good it would do to talk about her. I haven’t asked you about your former sweethearts.”

  “I didn’t have any!”

  “Catherine, I never meant to hide it. It didn’t seem important.”

  “Not important! Everyone knew but me! I’ve been the laughing stock—”

  “You are not the laughing stock. If anything you are the envy—”

  “How arrogant you are!”

  Thomas took a deep breath, and said quietly, “I promised Letty Redson nothing. We saw each other for awhile. That's all.”

  “A year!”

  “It wasn’t that long. I suppose she hoped we’d marry. But I never asked her. I didn’t love her.” He turned to his wife. “Catherine, I first saw you in your father’s house, when you were only fourteen, and I was married to Walter’s mother. I had business with your father, and when I went to Red Jacket I looked forward to seeing you. But you were a mere child and I was married.”

  “You noticed me— at fourteen?”

  “Yes. When my wife died I started seeing Letty. But I didn’t love her. Our boys knew each other at school. That’s how it got started.” Thomas tried to take her in his arms, but Catherine pulled away.

  “Would you have married her if I hadn’t agreed to marry you?”

  Thomas sighed. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t matter now. You did agree.”

  He pulled her toward him, and this time she allowed him.

  “Still, you should have told me. I shouldn’t have had to learn something like that from strangers.”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  As he began loosening her corset, Catherine sighed. “I feel as though my breasts are being released from prison.”

  “But they are still captive,” Thomas murmured as he cupped one in his hand.

  Catherine’s fervor was heightened by knowing that another woman had sought her husband. And the thought of Thomas watching her when she was but a girlchild, wanting her, allowed her in this moment to once again become fourteen, to imagine being taken completely, in all her youth and innocence.

  There was something familiar about that dream.

  Chapter 11

  Often Jorie would take drawing paper outdoors, sometimes quite far up in the hills. Observing with infinite care, he would draw tiny insects, flowers, butterflies and spiders, but never hurt them.

  Now that he was almost eight, Catherine bought him a book on wild plants and another with blank pages, in which he could draw pictures.

  “This is a beech tree, Mummy. Like the one up on the hill. Did you notice all its eyes and toes?”

  Catherine laughed. “They do look like that, don’t they?”

  “I always feel it’s looking at me.”

  Catherine watched with pride. “Why don’t you color your pictures, Jorie? They’d be ever so much prettier.”

  “I don’t want to. I like them this way.”

  “Would you like to write little poems about them?”

  It started as a concession to his mother, but he found he quite enjoyed writing verses to accompany the pictures.

  His mother was proud of his artistic ability. His father grunted, thinking the lad should take an interest in sports and other activities more befitting his gender. Watching with dismay the development of his son, Thomas attempted to teach Jorie to play ball. The child’s lack of co-ordination irritated him, but he tried to keep his patience and encourage his son. Several times he noticed Jorie start for the ball, then halt in his tracks.

  “Why did you stop?”

  Jorie was quite sure his papa would not like the real reason, so he said, “Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it.”

  “Well, at least try.”

  But it became apparent to Thomas that there must be some other excuse, as often, with a couple of steps the ball would have been well within reach.

  “Run!” Thomas would yell. “Why did you let it go?”

  “I couldn’t catch it.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  The old familiar uneasiness came over Jorie as he tried to find the line between truth and avoiding his father’s wrath. At times like these he felt he was walking barefoot on broken glass.

  “I — I don’t like to kill things,” he owned up finally.

  “Spiders?” his father asked incredulously.

  “It seems everything has a right to live, even if it’s small.”

  “I see. And if a horde of ants invades our house, you would welcome them? Or a wasps’ nest in your bedroom? You’d like that?”

  Jorie squirmed. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Later Thomas turned on Catherine. “Why do you encourage all this nonsense? He’s more squeamish than a girl about bugs!”

  “Oh, he’s not squeamish, Thomas. Quite the contrary. He likes insects. He studies them.” Instantly she knew it was a mistake.

  “Likes? What are you doing to him?” He started to go, then turned back. “You’ve made a milk-sop out of him. Disabuse him of this nonsense, Catherine, or I will!”

  A week later there was an anthill on the veranda. As he left for work, Thomas instructed Catherine to see that Jorie got rid of it. She closed her eyes, implored the heavens for strength.

 
“Jorie!” she called.

  He came flying down the stairs.

  She took his arm and led him out on the verandah, showing him her discovery.

  “Get rid of these ants. You must.”

  Jorie looked up at his mother, blinked, bewildered. He couldn’t see what possible harm the small dark mound could do. He did not wish to upset this industrious family.

  “But Mummy — “

  “Kill them.”

  “No!”

  “Each and every one.”

  He threw his arms around a post and started bawling.

  “Stop that!” she shouted, and pulled him back to the scene. “You will do this!”

  He jerked away from her, ran down the steps, and up into the hills. He didn’t come home until suppertime. At dinner, his mother said nothing, but Jorie couldn’t look at her.

  He got ready for bed wondering why butterflies were appreciated and ants were something to be killed. He’d thought perhaps it was because butterflies could fly.

  But last week when a white moth danced around the lamp, he’d discovered they were no more welcome than the ants.

  “Is it because butterflies are prettier?” he’d asked.

  “They don’t come in the house,” she’d said.

  Neither had the ants, but he’d dare to say no more.

  He could hear her climbing the stairs.

  She entered his room. He sat frozen on the edge of the bed.

  “You disobeyed me today.”

  Jorie nodded.

  “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. You must learn to do exactly as you’re told.”

  He said nothing.

  “Come here, Jorie,” she said softly.

  He didn’t move.

  “Perhaps you need encouragement.”

  Still he said nothing. Suddenly her voice changed. “Come lie across my lap.”

  He did as he was told; the throbbing of his heart was so loud he felt certain she could hear it.

  “Now tell me what’s going to happen to you.”

  “You’re going to spank me.”

  “Yes. You will learn to obey me perfectly.”

  A strange mix of fear and excitement washed through him. He felt her undo the buttons on the flap. A prickly heat ran down his legs.

  “You are not to tense up. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  She caressed his bottom softly, preparing it for punishment. Gently, she slapped him several times. Then she pushed him off her lap and buttoned his flap.

  “Now, are you ready to mind me?”

  “Yes. I stayed relaxed, I didn’t tense up.”

  “That’s because I didn’t hurt you. Don’t count on that every time. But if your mind accepts it, your body will open easily to it. Pain doesn’t need to cause suffering.”

  Jorie tried to take this in.

  “You must not resist me as you did when your father was so hard on you. We will go slowly. I will never ask more of you than you can accept.”

  As he stood before her, she clasped his hands in hers. “Your father and I have different views on discipline. I don’t believe it improves a child unless he understands and fully accepts his punishment. Do you follow my meaning, Jorie?”

  He wasn’t sure; his mind was already too crowded to take in more. “I think so.”

  She brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You know I love you very much, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And I love you.”

  “Of course you do.” She gave him a big hug. “For those who are not loved are not truly disciplined. Their punishment is only abuse.”

  ”Were you punished when you were little?” he asked.

  Catherine sighed and looked away.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “My mother whipped me. But she had little affection for me.”

  “That’s sad, Mummy.”

  “I don’t recall her ever telling me that she loved me.”

  “Did your Papa ever punish you?”

  At first Jorie thought she didn’t hear; she had such a faraway look in her eyes.

  Finally she said, “Yes, but I knew he loved me.”

  As she lay beside her young son Catherine let her mind return to the strength of her father’s arms as he held her across his lap, to the warmth of his hand as he’d caressed her bare bottom. She could still feel her spine tingle as it once did. The slaps would come, first gently, then hard enough to make her cry. Until, holding her close, he’d explained that in order for her to benefit from her punishment, she must surrender to it willingly in mind and body. He had taught her this, as she was teaching her child.

  It had all seemed quite fitting. It was time, Catherine decided, time to start her son’s training in earnest.

  The next time he was punished, she said, “I have something for you.” She showed him a new notebook like the ones he used at school.

  “A copy book?”

  “Yes, but this one is for a very special purpose. It is to be your discipline journal, Jorie. In it you are to record each of your transgressions, and the punishment you received.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. And just as important, you must record the feelings that come up, such as those of appreciation, love and surrender.”

  “It sounds like homework.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And if you feel resentful, you will write that down.”

  “Will I be punished for that?”

  “We will just have to work on removing that feeling.”

  Chapter 12

  Portage Mine was not the best place to be in the spring of eighteen ninety. Many small companies had opened and closed in the Peninsula. The Portage was at risk to follow suit. Existing shafts were turning out too high a percentage of poor-rock. But outcroppings of copper and the presence of calcite on the eastern parcel caused Thomas to believe that site worth exploring. The borings he ordered raised his hopes further.

  He approached the agent in charge of the mine. “There are promising veins of pure copper in that conglomerate, Clark. I think we should set our sights there.”

  “I don’t know, Thomas. Sinking new shafts, stoping out drifts, purchasing engines, boilers—it’s awful risky.”

  “I know, and more track will have to be laid to carry the rock, but—”

  “Beckler thinks the whole idea of a shaft across the road is folly now. Says we ought to go deeper in some of our existing shafts.”

  “It’s not feasible to go any deeper. The machinery we’d need, the timbers required—”

  Clark Ahlers waved him quiet. “I know, I know.”

  “It could save the Portage, Clark.”

  “Or finish it for good.” Clark Ahlers took out a cigar, fiddled with the clipping and lighting of it for some time. Finally he said, “Start with an exploratory shaft, then.”

  The sixty foot shaft was impressive.

  Ahlers said, “Go ahead, but something bright and shiny had better show up.”

  Everyone was excited, and all hoped the Number 9 would put new life in the Portage.

  Months were spent sinking the new shaft and blasting horizontally to create long, narrow drifts that would be tunneled into larger areas to be stoped out. All through the shaft and drifts, stulls were erected of huge timbers to support the walls. A modern shafthouse was erected over the collar of the opening. When it was ready, more miners and trammers were hired. Load after load of dynamite was hauled to the new location.

  Thomas waited impatiently for reports on the yield. Sometimes the results were good, but on the whole the shaft was barren. He kept praying they’d break through to richer veins.

  “Poor-rock— that’s all we have, Radcliff.” Clark looked very somber. “Your rainbow isn’t leading to a pot of gold.”

  Thomas begged for more time

  “One month. If it doesn’t improve, we’ll have to close it.”

  In two months time the shaft was shut down. I
n three the entire mine closed. Hundreds of miners and trammers were let go. Thomas was dismissed.