Mother Lode

  November’s dreary landscape with its denuded trees and dark overhanging clouds did nothing to improve her mood the next day. Catherine looked up from her sewing, studied the face of her young son. He’s all I have.

  She looked so forlorn, Jorie said, “What shall we do to cheer you up, Mummy?”

  It was Helena’s day off; they were alone. “We must think of something new. We have to keep inventing life or it will drown us in banality.” She put aside her sewing. “I don’t have the temperament for the God-forsaken towns it’s been my destiny to live in here. I should be in Paris. Or Rome.”

  Her thoughts carried her back to the summer in Paris with Daddy. In a shop on St. Mark’s Square he’d taken her into a glassblower’s shop. Here she’d fallen in love with a small glass globe, its silver lid topped with a ballerina.

  “May I have it? Oh, please, Daddy!”

  “If that’s what your heart desires, Katie. We shall keep our balm in it.”

  In Paris they stayed in the home of his friend. During the day they took in the wonderful sights and smells of the city; in the evenings he took her to the ballet or opera. One day he bought her a beautiful lace handkerchief. With a look that both excited and frightened her, he told her he had a very special purpose in mind for it. Though they spent the rest of the day in galleries and shops, she barely remembered anything until they were back in their room.

  Tonight we have la maison all to ourselves, mon cher. We’re going to play ‘Othello.’

  She knew the story. Often they had read the great plays, and sometimes in their walks in the forest they had improvised scenes. But tonight would be different, he’d said. Tonight they would play the death scene with costumes and properties.

  After a quiet supper of leftovers he assumed the role of Othello. When it came time to show her the handkerchief, claiming it as proof of her infidelity, his anger rose to such a pitch that while she knew he was acting, Catherine became frightened. Despite her insistence that she’d done no wrong, he bid her go to her chamber, get into her nightgown and wait for him. With her head and heart throbbing, she did as she was told. She knelt, saying the prayers of Desdemona, then composed herself in bed, lying against the soft whiteness of the down pillows.

  She heard him climbing the stairs, a pause outside her room, and then the door opening. She was shaking as he came to her side and asked if she’d made her confession to God. With tears coursing his cheeks, he held her face in his large hands and told her how beautiful she was, how innocent she looked.

  “But you have betrayed me. You must die.”

  Despite her desperate pleas, he’d covered her face with a pillow. Panic set in, as Catherine fought to free herself. She feared her father had gone as mad as Othello.

  But in a moment he removed the pillow, and bent to kiss her forehead.

  You were wonderful, dear Catherine. You played your part exactly right. Now I must resuscitate you, my lovely Princess.

  He put his mouth to hers, and she responded.

  It was an extraordinary summer: her father’s touching and then withholding, touching and withholding, her passions rising in a bacchanal of desire. But though she had begged him to, he would not take her maidenhood. All summer she had known the bittersweet taste of that longing. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Daddy.

  Catherine brought herself back to the present and looked at her son. Sometime, when he was older, she would make Jorie desire her. There was no power like that of withheld favors.

  For now they would play another kind of game.

  Jorie watched the change in his mother. First, it was as though a mask descended over her face, tightening her lips, narrowing her eyes. Then her posture changed—more erect. By the time she spoke he had already anticipated the change in her voice.

  “Jorie, get your scarf.”

  Fetching the dark blue muffler she’d knit for him he wondered in joyful dread what lay in store. He knew better than to ask.

  They were in the kitchen. “I’m going to blindfold you. Then you will open your mouth when I tell you to. You will accept whatever is put into it. Do you understand?”

  He was breathless. “Yes.”

  She pulled on the ends of the itchy wool fabric tightly. “You mustn’t be able to see. Do you trust me? Are you willing to accept whatever I choose for you to ingest?”

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “That’s right. You will be given various substances which you will identify and describe. Now then, stand still and wait for me.”

  He could hear her moving about the kitchen, fetching the things she meant for him to taste. In this state he heard creaks in the wooden floor he’d never noticed before. The smell of wool socks drying near the stove reached his nostrils. He felt slightly dizzy as he listened to the sounds she made: a dish being set on the table, a jar being unscrewed.

  “As you experience each taste, I want you to find the words to describe it. Experience each item slowly, with your tongue, your teeth, your whole mouth. Then the words. But first the experience. Now I would like you to put your hands behind your back.”

  She didn’t tie them, but somehow he felt even more helpless.

  “I am not asking that you enjoy every taste. It matters not whether you like the things you taste, only that you report your preferences along with a full description of what you’re tasting.”

  He heard a loud pop, almost an explosion that made him jump. Then he realized it was only the wet wood in the stove – a sound he’d heard a thousand times before.

  “You will swallow when I tell you to and not before. You are to spit nothing out. Is all this clear?”

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” she corrected. “Open your mouth.”

  He did, but nothing was put into it. Confused, after a few seconds he closed it.

  He felt a sharp slap on his face.

  “Did I tell you to close your mouth?”

  “No. No, Ma’am.”

  “Open your mouth.”

  He did so, and this time he felt something cool put inside.

  “Now chew it. Slowly.”

  He felt its rubbery smoothness. It was only a piece of hard-boiled egg. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but suddenly he felt great relief.

  “Do not gulp it down, nor chew it with haste. Be ready to describe the exact textures and tastes.”

  He chewed it very slowly, couldn’t talk with his mouth full, forgot and swallowed it.

  Another slap.

  He could feel his face redden. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “Describe what you tasted.”

  “It was egg.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was cool and hard — “

  “Hard?”

  “I mean, well, it’s not soft like applesauce,” he stammered.

  “Think of a more appropriate word than hard. It is not hard like a stone, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what word does describe its texture?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You disappoint me, Jorie. The word you want is firm. Now, did it all taste the same to you?”

  “No. The white part was smooth and rubbery, and the yellow part wasn’t.”

  “Let’s hope you do better on the next. If you’re going to be a writer you must learn to describe things not only accurately, but in fresh and original ways.”

  He could hear her unwrapping paper. Then the familiar unpleasant odor assailed his nostrils before anything reached his mouth. Limburger cheese. She knew he hated it! The offensive smell had often caused him to leave the room. Now she was making him eat it.

  He opened his mouth obediently, and let it lie on his tongue, leaving it open to avoid breathing through his nostrils as much as possible.

  “Close your mouth. Breathe deeply. Now, note the smell objectively.”

  He let his mind leave this scene, employed his old habit. Nine times seven is sixty-three. Nine times four is thirty-six.

/>   “Chew it, slowly,” she was saying. “And do not swallow until I tell you to.”

  “Eight times seven is fifty-six.”

  It seemed forever before she said, “Swallow it."

  He started retching.

  “Stay with it, meet the fear, Jorie, and overcome it. How will you conquer the big fears in life if you can’t overcome a simple aversion to cheese?”

  He brought himself back. With sheer will power he kept his stomach from erupting.

  He forced himself to swallow, not at all certain it would stay down.

  “I said describe it!”

  How could he describe it without putting his attention on it?

  “It tasted . . . awful.” The heat; it was too warm in here.

  “I am not interested in your subjective opinion.”

  “It has a strong odor.”

  “Like?”

  “Like nothing else. I can’t think of anything else that smells like it. Except . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Vomit.”

  “Texture?”

  “Something like egg — the white part. A bit rubbery, but not as firm.”

  He started retching again.

  “Keep it down, Jorie. Discipline yourself. Keep it down.”

  He took deep breaths through his mouth, tried to imagine lying under the stars, breathing in the heavenly scent of the lilies of the valley.

  “Your father is right; you need toughening up. Would you prefer his methods?”

  “No,” he gasped. Finally, he was quite sure he had his stomach under control.

  “There, what I want you to remember, Lad, is that you overcame a fear, an aversion. You wanted to run, to throw up. But you didn’t. You disciplined your body. Not unlike sacrifice and penance. Of that you can be proud.”

  When the tasting was over, she removed the scarf and took him to his room in the cold, unheated upstairs.

  “I am teaching you obedience, Jorie. We will sometimes use games to learn our lessons.”

  After that she cuddled him. “I wouldn’t bother with all this if I didn’t love you so.”

  What she said was confusing. He wanted to think about this some more, but she was talking about something else.

  “Now Mummy wants you to make a sacrifice for love for her, if you’re willing. Oh, don’t look so frightened. Just a little sacrifice.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d like you to go to bed now, without supper.”

  He was disappointed. He had supposed it would be something grand, worthy of a knight. “At four o’clock?”

  “Yes. Many saints fasted for a very long time as a discipline, or as an expression of their passion for our Lord.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m only suggesting you give up one meal, and go to bed early to reflect on the sacrifice you are making out of love for your mother. Do you think you can do that? You don’t have to.”

  He felt her warm breath caress his cheek, her hand stroke his back.

  “Only if you want to, Darling. Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Sacrifice comes from the same Latin root as sacred. It’s a holy thing if done with the proper attitude. Pure surrender, bearing no resentment.”

  Again he was confused, but there was something exciting about it. “I’ll do it.”

  She kissed him on the forehead. As she was leaving the room, she turned back to him. “There’s one more thing. The next time Limburger cheese is offered at the table, you’re to eat it, surrender to it completely.”

  Thomas finished his pear and cheese, and looked up at Jorie. The lad had actually eaten the Limburger!

  “Did you enjoy it?” his father asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why’d you eat it?”

  “I thought I’d try it.”

  “He’s been trained, Thomas. He will do as he is told. Even eat Limburger,” she boasted lightly.

  “Humph.”

  Jorie colored. Why did she do this? Just when he thought they had a secret she spoiled it.

  “You see, Thomas, I am not without my ways of disciplining the boy.”

  “How old are you now, lad?”

  “Ten, sir.”

  Later, alone with Thomas as she was serving his tea he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but if he’s getting over all his squeamishness, it must be effective.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.”

  He so seldom complimented her on anything these days, Catherine pressed this morsel of praise to heart.

  “I won’t be home for dinner,” Thomas announced. “It’s Walter’s birthday. I’m taking him and Alice to the new restaurant on Quincy to celebrate.”

  Catherine nodded.

  “Being his eighteenth, he’s getting his sizeable sum to invest. Good training — giving youths money to invest before they start frittering it away.”

  He turned to Jorie. “If you keep your nose clean, you’ll get a sizeable sum on your eighteenth birthday.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that money?”

  Thomas laughed. “Yes, and a good deal of it. Money and stocks.”

  Jorie was happy to think his father might hold him with the same regard as his other sons.

  After he left Catherine decided it was a good time to deepen Jorie’s understanding of sacrifice. Again, she asked him to forfeit supper and go up to bed. She lay on his bed with him, holding him against her.

  “Sacrifice is one of the openings to a life within a life. Many accept their circumstances at face value, and look no further. You are a lad living in a mining town. Are you willing to let that be all there is?”

  “No.”

  “You are meant for more than that. You are sensitive and imaginative. I want to help you find the golden tunnels to all kinds of experiences, regardless of your geographical circumstances. Sacrifice is one such tunnel. Are you ready to go on the adventure?”

  “I think so.”

  “There can be great richness if you are willing to plumb its depths. Your half brothers are miners of base metal. But we will turn the base metal of our existence into gold! Not in that underworld, but within! For only in the inner world will you find relief from the outer.”

  Jorie’s young mind spun round grasping fragments of this new information.

  ”How else do you suppose your mother has survived this dreary God-forsaken land?”

  “I’ll do it, Mummy. I want to go on this adventure with you.”

  “You and I will ride inside a Golden Bubble!”

  “Oh, Mummy, yes!”

  She smoothed the damp curls lying flat against his brow. “Just the two of us. Our secret.”

  He kissed her. “Our secret.”

  “Being alone tonight will be good for you. So much to think about, you need time to digest it all. So I’ll bid you good-night.”

  She closed the door softly.

  With only the tumble of his thoughts for company, his confused, yet exciting feelings presented him with much to chew on. He heard the grandfather clock strike mid-night before he finished. Only then did sweet surrender envelop him and bring him sleep.

  Portage Hill was a mile from Hancock, and the Radcliff home had no immediate neighbors, except a Finnish family, the Kukkonens, who had a modest bungalow nearby. Mr. Kukkonen worked in town as assistant to a blacksmith. People often dropped their laundry off there, and each evening he brought it home for his wife to wash and iron. They had two children, but Jorie was not allowed to play with them.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they are Finns. You come from better stock.”

  “Stock?”

  “Jorie, don’t exasperate me. You are of Scottish descent. The copper country is made up of a band of international ruffians, all inferior to the British, but none so much as the Finns.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s enough.”