Mother Lode

  They stopped talking, and enjoyed the quiet. Only an occasional crackle from the fire and the sound of their breathing broke the silence.

  When she left he said, “Come tomorrow, if you can.”

  She promised she would try.

  But Jorie was sick with another of his bad colds, and Catherine would not leave him. It was almost a week before she returned to the cabin on the knoll.

  He came out to meet her, his questions pouring out like a fountain.

  “I imagined all sorts of things. Next time, please send a message.”

  “And how discreet would that be? I must say I hadn’t a notion you’d be so concerned, Chester Bigelow.”

  She walked to the stove and sniffed the contents of the pot.

  He came up behind her and swept her up in his arms. “Now you’re funning with me, lass.”

  “It’s good for you to worry, don’t you think?”

  “No.” He dumped her on the cot, and proceeded to undress her. “I’ve waited all week for you.”

  This time there was no slow examination of her clothes or her body. He got her out of them as fast as he could, pushed his own off with careless urgency, and took his place beside her.

  “Not so fast, Mr. Bigelow. I think I should have a look at you, as you did me. Let me see. Here we have quite a bit of golden hair upon your chest. Damp, too. I would love to see it glisten in the sunlight, Chester, could we go outside so I can study you?”

  “Lass, you are asking for it.”

  They laughed and he raised her head and kissed her lips hard. He nibbled her lips so many times, she finally protested.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “That’s for being so cheeky.”

  He pulled her head away from him and looked into her eyes.

  “I’ve a good mind to spank you.”

  Since she offered no protest, but dared him to with her look, he turned her over and started paddling her with his hand. Her squeals were for naught. When he’d given her a half a dozen slaps he turned her back.

  She half expected him to apologize for this impetuous behavior, but he did not.

  Instead he said, “You deserved that. You are a wild mare in need of taming.”

  “Do you truly think I’m wild?”

  “I do.”

  “And you would tame me?”

  He laughed. “If I thought a few spankings would do that, I wouldn’t lift a finger to you.”

  Catherine tried to carry on at home as normally as possible. Now that school was out, she spent as much time as she could with Jorie in the mornings. They did the shopping together, and as always, Catherine was quick to see opportunities to further his education. A ground wasps’ nest or a tree splitting a rock — whatever she noticed, they discussed. Soon it was Jorie who was pointing these things out to her.

  Occasionally she brought him with her to meet Chester, and the three of them would take a picnic lunch somewhere. Catherine simply explained that Chester was a friend. Often Jorie would bring a book to read.

  “What do you have there today, lad?” Chester asked.

  “The History of Wolves in North America.”

  “Doesn’t look like a child’s book. How old are you?”

  “Almost eight, sir.”

  Catherine smiled. “Jorie has quite an affinity for wolves.”

  “Did you know, sir, that the wolf mates only once, for life? Just like people.”

  Catherine could not meet her lover’s eyes.

  She continued to see Chester as often as she could throughout the summer. Sometimes she was consumed by guilt and went out of her way to be nice to Thomas, and other times she felt such a loathing for her husband she could barely endure his presence. He showed no interest in her affairs, nor did he share his private life with her. Often he would leave early in the evening and come in late. Occasionally, he didn’t come home at all.

  Catherine reasoned that if he could lead a private life and explain nothing to her, she could do the same. Still, she was careful to be home by six when it was time for Helena to leave. Thomas usually came home shortly after.

  “Is your husband suspicious?” Chester asked.

  “I don’t think so. Perhaps he suspects, and doesn’t care. Maybe he’s afraid if he starts questioning me, I’ll question him, so better to leave it alone.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “I’m meant to think he’s at his grown son’s or over with Alice and Walter, but for all I know he’s carrying on with that Redson woman.”

  “Would that bother you?”

  Catherine frowned. “Not if he were discreet.”

  “Even if he is seeing someone, do not make the mistake of thinking he would abide your infidelity.”

  “Oh! It’s all so unfair! If he no longer finds me desirable, he should let me go where I am appreciated.”

  “Ah, if only it were that simple.”

  “Do you think I’m horrid?”

  His face transformed into a mischievous grin. “Terrible.” Then he sobered. “I am hardly the one to give you an objective answer.”

  “Will you be upset if I tell you that last night he came to me?”

  “Yes?”

  Catherine cringed. “I had to let him.” She waited for some kind of explosion, but he just nodded.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say something? Aren’t you even jealous?”

  “He’s your husband, Katie.”

  “Yes. Well, I can tell you I could hardly bear it. I feel clean with you, but with him I feel soiled. Can you understand that, Chester? It’s as if I was being unfaithful to you, to allow him to touch me.”

  “You must continue to be his wife.”

  “Oh, Chester, I don’t want to!”

  “Well, right now, you are mine.”

  Soon the all-too-short summer was over. Jorie was back in school, and the precious warm days of early fall were upon them. The rainbow of magentas, oranges and yellows that the maples and birches displayed, with the sky that deep shade of blue seen only at this time of year dared anyone to stay indoors.

  On one such afternoon they had gone walking in the woods.

  “It must be the light, so low in the southern sky, that gives everything that special patina, don’t you agree, Chester?”

  He nodded, pre-occupied, she thought.

  “And creates longer shadows, even in mid-afternoon.”

  They dismounted, tied the horses, and continued their journey by foot.

  “All my senses have been heightened, since I’ve been with you,” Catherine said. “Can you feel the crunch of every twig under your feet? And the smell of wood smoke coming across the valley?” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t want it to ever end.”

  He stopped, and turned her to face him. “I have something to tell you, Katie.”

  She had dreaded this moment. “No! I don’t want to hear it! Don’t say it.”

  “I must. You knew the day would come.”

  “You said there was more to do—”

  “But I will be finished before the first snows. I’ve been summoned back east.”

  “Don’t go! Please tell them you won’t.”

  He held her to his breast as Catherine gave vent to her feelings. “I can’t let you go,” she sobbed.

  “Then come with me, Katie.”

  “Do you mean it?” She studied his face.

  “We could make a new life, the two of us, where no one knows us.”

  “Chester, do you think for a moment I could leave Jorie?”

  “Think about it, Catherine. This is not the place for you. I’m offering you a new life.”

  She was silent.

  “It is your choice, Catherine.”

  Chapter 14

  For days Catherine was in a tailspin. She could not imagine leaving Jorie, and she could not imagine letting Chester go without her. He was right; she didn’t belong in this God-forsaken country. They could live in Virginia, where it was warm, where t
hey’d make new friends.

  Chester coaxed, “Leave Jorie with his father and come away with me. He can’t force you to stay.”

  “I would not be as far as Chicago before I would drown in tears at the thought of leaving my Jorie. I would bring you no joy, being constantly in a state of mourning for my son.”

  Chester nodded.

  “Is there no other way?” she implored.

  “I could say that I’d come back some day. But I won’t lie to you, Katie. The truth is I have no love for this frigid country. The summer is short and the winter long. I want to go back east, and I would be happy to take you with me.” He smoothed her hair. “It is you who will have to decide. You have time; I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

  “But if you loved me—”

  “Don’t, Katie.”

  Sleepless nights continued. One morning she passed St. Joseph’ s, the Catholic Church in the center of town. A woman was leaving through the large oaken door, and it occurred to Catherine that she could go inside, unseen by anyone she knew, and try to bring order to her thoughts in the stillness of this refuge.

  Quietly, she entered the sanctuary. It took her a moment to get accustomed to the darkness. Immediately she became aware of incense. Tiny candles in little rows flickered in one corner. She saw no one else, walked down the aisle, and slid into a pew. Her eyes took in the surroundings so unfamiliar to her — a statue of Mary in white and blue plaster and another of Jesus. A large crucifix stood behind the altar; she spent a long time allowing the sights and smells of this dwelling to permeate her senses.

  Catherine hadn’t prayed in years, didn’t feel comfortable doing it now. But she found that watching the candles flicker in the quiet, darkened sanctuary brought her a feeling of peace. She returned, and each time felt some of the agitation leave her during her stay.

  On one of her visits she felt someone slide in beside her. Without lifting her eyes, she could tell by glancing at his lap that he was in a priest’s garb.

  She waited for him to speak.

  “I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “but I have seen you coming here this week. I am Father Dumas. If you would like to talk to someone, I am available.”

  “Thank you.”

  She had not thought to divulge her secret to a single soul, let alone a Catholic priest.

  He waited for her to say more. “I’m not Catholic,” she added.

  “Whatever your faith, you have come here. I am not suggesting confession. I offer my ear should you wish to discuss your problem with someone who can keep a secret.”

  She hadn’t said she had a problem. But I suppose my very presence here establishes that.

  She shook her head.

  He placed his hand over hers. “If you should change your mind, my study is through that archway.”

  He rose to leave, and Catherine’s eyes followed the little man until he disappeared.

  She thought about the priest that night and wondered why she’d been in such a hurry to reject his offer. No, she wasn’t Catholic, but he knew that. Certainly there was no one else she could turn to.

  The next day she knocked timidly at his study door. It was opened by a nun.

  “Is Father . . .” She couldn’t even remember his name!

  “Father Dumas is not here. Whom shall I say called?”

  Catherine shook her head. “He doesn’t know my name.”

  “I expect him back shortly. If you’d like to wait in the sanctuary, I’m sure it won’t be long.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Catherine became lost in the serenity of the refuge. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting when she felt the priest’s presence beside her.

  “Would you like to come to my study?”

  “Could we just stay here?” she ventured.

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Wherever your thoughts take you.”

  “I have a most dire decision to make.”

  She told him about Chester, her marriage, her son, and the terrible choice she had to make. Sometimes the tears she’d been holding back rolled down her face.

  He offered no hell and damnation judgments, only gentle promptings when she lost her thoughts. The telling of her story was made easier by the dimness of the church; sitting beside him allowed her not to look at him directly.

  “Well, now I’ve told you everything.” She took a deep breath, drawing in the scent from the candle box.

  Father Dumas was quiet.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what a terrible sinner I am?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Catherine was silent.

  “Did it help to sort out your feelings? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Catherine sighed.

  “Ask God for help. Prayer brings new insights to old questions.”

  “Then what was the point of telling you everything?” Immediately she regretted her outburst.

  “So you could hear the story, untangle it.”

  Catherine let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m so confused.”

  “Pray tonight. Perhaps the answer will come in the form of a dream. If you would like to come back, I’ll be here tomorrow, Lady.”

  Lady! He had called her lady after all she’d revealed to him!

  That evening Catherine prayed, or tried to. She had been so removed from this experience that it felt uncomfortable to her. Her dreams were disturbing, and in the morning she could remember nothing.

  The next day she reported to Father Dumas.

  “Can I tell you a story, Lady?”

  “My name is Catherine.”

  He smiled. “Like the saint.”

  “There’s no comparison.”

  He brightened. “You are familiar with the saints?”

  “Not at all. But I know they wouldn’t be called saints if they’d behaved as I have.”

  “Do you imagine that all the saints start out leading impeccable lives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m sure you know of Mary Magdalene. Jesus saw her love, the beauty of her soul. He did not condemn her.”

  Catherine glanced sideways at him. For the first time she realized how young he was, perhaps younger than she. It seemed absurd to call him Father. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  She hoped he wouldn’t think her too impertinent. “How is it that some people can make a choice to give up all pleasures of . . .?”

  “The flesh?”

  She felt herself color. “It is beyond my grasp.”

  “There is another kind of passion, Catherine, if I may call you by your Christian name. It is a spiritual passion.” He chuckled. “And I can tell you, it’s more reliable than the physical variety.”

  “Spiritual passion?” To Catherine it was an oxymoron.

  “Yes. Once you give it a taste, the soul has a hunger and thirst every bit as persistent as the body’s. And the gratification is greater.”

  “How could that be?”

  “I can’t describe it adequately; you have to experience it. A feeling of peace and joy transcends all worldly concerns. I can only say that many who have tasted both claim to have reached a state of ecstasy that compares to no physical pleasure.”

  “Ecstasy!” She wondered if the young priest had achieved this.

  “Many of the saints reached such a state. Laymen, too.”

  “How, how did they do this?”

  “Some through visions, some through self-sacrifice. Catherine of Sienna, who is your namesake, ate and drank almost nothing in her later years. And when she found she could not keep clean the hairshirt she’d been wearing, she cinched a metal belt under her clothing very tightly.”

  Catherine was incredulous.

  “Though it may sound terrible to you, Catherine of Sienna lived a life of joy!”

  She could only shake her head.

  “This young woman commanded such respect
that even her confessors fell at her feet as disciples. And she had the audience of the pope.”