Mother Lode

  “I can’t even imagine—”

  “Wait here. I have something for you.”

  Father Dumas hurried back to his study. So the saints knew that pain could lead to joy! Well, she knew a little about that herself!

  The priest returned carrying a small book.

  “Take this home. I think you will find inspiration in reading it.”

  “The Lives of the Saints.”

  “Yes. Right now you are so close to your own dilemma, you cannot see any doorways.” He smiled. “I am not suggesting you aim for sainthood, only that you pull back, gain some perspective. Then, perhaps, you will find the answer you seek.”

  The young priest looked so eager to be helpful Catherine could not refuse him.

  “And now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I have another appointment.”

  Catherine felt no desire to leave. In the dim light of the sanctuary she opened the little volume, noticed the inscription on the frontispiece. “To Francoise, affectionately, Carolyn.”

  Who was Carolyn?

  Catherine looked at the Table of Contents. She found Catherine of Sienna on page thirty-two.

  An hour later she walked home thinking about this strange Catherine. Perhaps if she gave up the pleasures of the flesh, she could find another kind of joy through strict religious practice.

  That evening she devoured the little book. Centuries ago there had been women, like St. Joan and Catherine of Sienna who commanded men of power. This Catherine had told the pope what to do! Where did this power emanate? Was it conviction spawned from a life of devotion and prayer? Were certain individuals pre-destined to lead, including a few women? Incredible that the pope should have given her audience, let alone taken advice from this unlearned young woman!

  There was something deliciously secretive and mysterious about going to St. Joseph’s. No one she knew attended, and that made it all the more appealing. When she left on Sunday mornings for mass, Thomas assumed she was going to the Congregational Church. Catherine found the service, with the flickering rows of candles, the drone of Latin litany and the shadows, all very seductive. As the swinging incense pot, wafting trails of smoke passed her row, she breathed deeply of its pungent fragrance. Here was a refuge, a true sanctuary.

  Although not a fine stone edifice such as she’d known in Edinburgh, St. Joseph’s had something of the old world about it that she loved. Here she found a way to escape the banal mining town that reminded her of a hastily thrown together theatrical set, with its high store fronts concealing the smallness behind and within.

  For three weeks she struggled with her decision. Sometimes she would pretend she’d made a decision to leave Chester and stay with Jorie. During these periods she’d feel a terrible ache, which didn’t go away no matter what she did it occupy her mind. Another day she spent hours pretending she was living with Chester in Virginia, where everything was lovely; but the pain she felt at leaving her son, imagining his waving good-bye to her as she left him forever tore her heart apart.

  She would wake from dreadful dreams where she knew he was dead! Nothing would do but for her to pad down the hall and peek in his room to make sure he was still breathing.

  He is of my flesh, my blood. How can I leave him?

  “I can’t go with Chester. I must give him up.”

  Dry leaves scuttled across the wooden sidewalk as Catherine left the church, and a cold wind from the north thoroughly chilled her before she reached home.

  I will be finished before the first snows. It was time.

  She would see Chester tomorrow and tell him. It would take a sheer act of will to hold her resolve.

  That evening it seemed that her prayers at last felt genuine. Catherine prayed with a fervor unknown to her before. She asked for forgiveness. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.

  She prayed for help in keeping her resolution, and that the sacrifice she was about to make would give her strength.

  And please, God, replace the pleasures of the body with a spiritual passion.

  A kind of peace descended on her. Whether it was simply because she’d finally made a decision, or because her prayers had been answered, she didn’t know. But she welcomed it as a balm. Dona nobis pacem.

  The next afternoon she rode to the knoll, tied Falstaff near the watering trough and watched Chester washing up by his trough. Bare-chested, his blond hair glistening with droplets of water, Catherine had never found him more desirable. She waited as he toweled himself dry and approached her, grinning.

  “Come inside.”

  He put his arm on her shoulder and guided her in with his easy authority.

  “I’d like some tea.”

  They sat quietly, sipping the hot drink.

  When she was ready she said, “I’ve made a decision.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “I can’t go with you, Chester.” She tried not to look at him. She felt tears straining to overflow their banks.

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “You could never leave your son, little mother,” he said gently.

  “But, I was thinking of it.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “I am truly sorry that you cannot join me.”

  He took her hands in his, and Catherine felt the tears she’d been holding back slide down her cheek. “This is the last time I will see you, Chester.”

  He rose and pulled her to her feet. “Then we must have a magnificent parting.”

  “No.” She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. “It is over,” she said softly.

  He did not argue.

  He held her long and tenderly, but it was she who pulled away and without looking back, took her leave.

  Giving Falstaff free rein to carry her homeward, Catherine raced away from the man who had returned to her the joys of youth and love.

  She would not return to the dull life she’d known before she met him; she had found something else. It was still strange and new, but she was determined to mine its mysteries.

  She would fashion her new beliefs for Jorie’s benefit, too.

  “I have made a sacrifice. A great sacrifice,” she called to the wind. “I intend to reap its rewards!”

  Chapter 15

  A yearning and terrible longing engulfed her each time she thought of Chester. She must, she would put him out of her mind.

  But it was time to focus on her young son, and bring him into the new teachings.

  She told Thomas where she was going to church and that she’d like to take Jorie.

  “Just don’t imagine you can have him baptized there.”

  She led him into St. Joseph’s and taught him how to dip his fingers in the holy water, and make the sign of the cross.

  When they left, she asked Jorie how he felt during the service.

  “I liked the smell and the candles. But I didn’t understand what the priest was saying.”

  “We will study together, and you will learn the Latin.”

  Rigorous study—yes, that would help her to forget!

  She began telling Jorie stories about the saints, and the sacrifices they made.

  As they were sitting in the parlor one day, Helena came in to add more wood to the fire.

  “Never mind. You needn’t bother now.”

  When she had left, Jorie said, “Why didn’t you let her tend the fire?”

  “It’s a sacrifice, Jorie. We needn’t always be as warm as we like. Do you understand what sacrifice is?”

  “You mean punishment?”

  “No. Sacrifice is voluntary. Sometimes it takes great discipline.”

  She told him how Thomas More had worn a hair shirt under his royal robes until the day before he was executed.

  “Wouldn’t that be very itchy?”

  “That’s why he did it. Sometimes monks whipped themselves and each other. In some parts of the world they still do.”

  His little mind was full of questions. “Why would they do that?”

&nb
sp; “It’s penance, Jorie. It’s to cleanse oneself of sin. Others take it further and are able to reach a state of peace, or even ecstasy by doing this.”

  “What is ecstasy?”

  “In this case, a tremendous joy at feeling you are closer to God.”

  She waited while he chewed over this.

  “Are there other kinds of ecstasy?”

  “Yes.” She felt a stab in her heart, as the familiar yearning came over her.

  “Do you make sacrifices?” he asked.

  “I made one very big one for you.”

  “What was it?”

  “I can’t tell you. But I can let you know about some little ones. Today I will not have lunch. And if I feel rumblings of hunger, it will remind me that I was able to make a holy act of sacrifice.”

  “I want to do that too. I want to go without my lunch!”

  “Are you certain? That means nothing to eat until supper.”

  “Yes, Mummy, I’m certain.”

  “Then it will be our secret. It wouldn’t truly be a sacrifice if we bragged about it.”

  The next day she told him she was not having desserts for a week.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Then I won’t either.”

  “Good boy.”

  One day when he asked to go out and play in the snow, she inquired if he wouldn’t rather make a sacrifice.

  “What would it be?”

  “To stay in your room.”

  “It’s cold up there.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No. Sacrifices are voluntary.”

  He looked out the window and saw the snow falling softly. “Then I’d rather play in the snow.”

  “Very well.”

  But he could see the disappointment on her face. He went outdoors, and slid down the hill a few times, but found no pleasure in it.

  The next day he told her he wanted to make a sacrifice. The smile she gave him made anything she’d ask of him worthwhile.

  When the sun had finally broken winter’s back, the melancholia which had gripped Catherine all winter released its hold, and again she reveled in the precious days of spring, with the scent of arbutus filling the hillsides. Then as spring ripened into summer it became warm enough to venture to her favorite haven.

  “Jorie,” she called. “It’s gorgeous. We can go to the cemetery to write!”

  He came flying downstairs with the little notebook she’d given him for drawing and writing.

  “No. This time you’re to bring your discipline journal. I fear you’ve fallen behind in recording your transgressions. This will be a good opportunity for you to catch up.”

  He retraced his steps slowly, returning with the required notebook.

  His mother set such a rapid pace as they walked across town; it was difficult to keep up with her. He arrived out of breath and flushed. She put him to writing forthwith, and refused to converse with him until his task was complete.

  Even as he wrote, he could feel a prickly heat, for surely when he was finished, in this private sanctum, she would exact his punishment.

  When he showed it to her, she nodded her approval and bid him fetch a rose from a nearby bush.

  Jorie did so, quite certain of the new correction she had in mind for him. When he returned she told him to bare his back and lie over her lap. He heard the snap of the branch as she broke off a piece.

  She gave him the rose, freed of its stem. He closed his eyes, taking in the sweet scent of the floribunda, anticipating what she must be planning.

  She was transported back to her father and the wild roses in the woods. Daddy found a use for everything.

  You know the flowers, Princess. Now you must meet the thorns.

  “Listen carefully, Jorie. Each time you feel the thorn, you are to pull off a petal from the rose. When all the petals have been removed your punishment will be complete.”

  Gently she stroked his back with the stem, allowing the thorns to scratch his back. She paused for him to pull a petal off. Once he caught on to the pattern she’d established, she applied more pressure.

  “Keep breathing, Jorie.”

  Daddy drew the thorn across her skin, this time from the base of her neck all the way down her spine.

  When it was over she touched her finger to the tiny droplets of blood and showed it to him. “Do you know how much I love you, Precious?”

  He watched as she licked the blood from her finger.

  That evening she wrote in her diary:

  July 15, 1991

  Today as I sat rocking Jorie in the cemetery, I gave thanks to the heavens that I have this soft piece of clay, so fine, yes, like porcelain, and very pliable. Will it hold its shape? But no, I do not wish him to be cast in any final form. Like clay, I can keep him moist, malleable for years to come. I am his potter.

  As my father did with me I will take him by the hand and lead him into new pastures.

  I have left my mark on him already. He is no sweetheart or husband to forsake me. This is my son! He is mine and I will have him for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 16

  Autumn came again all too quickly. Looking up from her sewing, Catherine gazed at Jorie. He was no longer doing his homework, but working on a sketch.

  “Show me your drawing, Jorie.”

  He brought it to her. “It’s just a girl at school.”

  “I have something more appropriate for you to study if you want to learn portrait art.”

  She brought out a book with pictures of the saints.

  “Practice copying these pictures. Then I can see if you are making a true likeness of the features.”

  He wasn’t very interested, but he knew it could improve his skills.

  “These aren’t photographs, are they?”

  “No, they’re renderings. That’s how artists learn— by copying the masters. Meanwhile, of course, they are developing their own style.”

  He worked with these pictures for a few weeks, and was surprised one day when his mother said, “How would you like to sketch Mummy?”

  “Oh yes! Could I?”

  “Perhaps when you get home from school tomorrow.”

  It was unusually warm for fall. Catherine sat on the swing, taking in the fragrance of the Concord grapes on the vines behind her. She had taken extra pains to put her hair right, and apply a little color to her cheeks and lips.

  Jorie came running out with his pencils and drawing paper. He sat on the edge of the whicker chair. “This will be fun, Mummy. You look beautiful.”

  While he sketched, Catherine began to chat. “Did you know that I studied painting when I was a girl?”

  “No.”

  My father encouraged me, but my mother didn’t approve.”

  “Why?”

  “She said my work was childish, and Father shouldn’t fill my head with foolish notions.”

  Jorie stopped drawing. “That’s sad, Mummy. Did you stop altogether?”

  “Yes. But I saved some of my sketches. And I have books with beautiful pictures of paintings by famous artists.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Some day, yes.”

  When they had finished, she broke off a cluster of the purple fruit.

  “One for you,” she said squeezing the grape from its skin, “and one for me.” In this way they consumed the whole bunch.

  She taught him about perspective and proportion, shading and light. Together they devoured the books she brought out of her chest. He learned to look for the focal point and the source of light by studying Rubens, Raphael and Michelangelo. They’d play a guessing game where one of them would open the book at random, cover the artist’s name, and the other would try to identify the painter and the picture.

  Sometimes she made a test of it. If he got most of the answers right, he could sleep in her bed that night.

  Thomas had been out for hours. When he returned, as she passed him in the upstairs hall she caught the unmistakable s
mell of perfume, Curiosity, more than anything, made her wonder who it was. And although she’d long suspected it, knowing he was seeing someone else made her feel totally abandoned. She had lost them all—her father, her lover, and even her husband. Well, she could hardly call the kettle black.