Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  Possessing neither skill in sport nor easy banter in conversation, Jorie had not been popular at school. The only boy who had befriended him was Frederick.

  Jorie admired the mild manner and intelligence of this solitary youth. Often they talked in the school yard about nature and the books they liked. There was a friendly competition between them. During spelldowns Jorie and Frederick were always the last two left standing. Frederick had collected stamps from around the world, and brought his collection to show Jorie.

  “I trade stamps with one man in Peru and another in South Africa. These are my favorites.”

  Frederick was impressed with Jorie’s ability to draw, and asked him to bring more of his work from home.

  Jorie spoke of him enthusiastically to his mother, and one day Catherine suggested he bring the boy home to meet her

  On the day he arrived, Catherine served them fresh apple pie, and engaged the lad in conversation. He was well versed in many subjects, and at ease talking with adults. Catherine, at her most charming, easily disarmed young Frederick, drawing him out on several subjects. He even told her of his desire to go to the University downstate.

  “It’s grand there, ma’am, with professors in every subject you can imagine.”

  “But that must be a long way off,” she said. You’re how old? Twelve?”

  “Thirteen, ma’am.”

  Jorie took Frederick upstairs and showed him his drawings and read him a few poems. The boy appreciated Jorie’s work and promised to bring his own sketches over some day. Jorie couldn’t remember a happier afternoon. He was sure the visit had gone well.

  After dinner that evening, Catherine kept Jorie at the table. Tumbling over his words of affection for the lad, Jorie turned to his mother.

  “Wasn’t it grand, Mum? You liked him too, didn’t you? I could tell by the way you laughed and chatted with him.”

  “What I’m going to say will be hard for you, Darling, and you must be very brave.”

  He looked up, concerned. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want you to make a friend of Frederick.”

  “But why?”

  “He isn’t right for you, Darling.”

  “But I like him. And he likes me!”

  “You have to trust me on this.”

  She saw the tears well in his eyes.

  “He’s too old for you.”

  “Only two years.”

  “You see, Jorie, you and I can not travel in our Golden Bubble if it’s contaminated by outside influences. We must keep it clean, uncluttered.”

  “He’s a very clever chap, with interesting ideas.”

  “They would only confuse you, Jorie.”

  “Oh, Mummy, please. He could be my friend.”

  “Isn’t Mummy your friend? Aren’t I enough for you?”

  He swallowed. “The other chaps have friends at school.”

  “And you may too. But not Frederick. Find a younger lad, who can look up to you.”

  She gently removed the napkin he was twisting in his hands.

  “I know it isn’t easy, but it would be a sacrifice, Jorie. You can do that for me, can’t you? I’ve made a tremendous sacrifice for you.”

  He started to ask what it was again, but she put a finger over his lips.

  “You must not ask. All I can tell you is that I gave up a friend who was far dearer to me than Frederick to you. I did this so that you and I could stay together. I know the pain of that kind of sacrifice, and yours will not go unappreciated.” She kissed his brow.

  He thought about all she’d done for him — the trips up the hill to look at the stars when he knew she was tired, the times she’d told him stories from the old country and the love that was lavished on him in so many ways.

  “All right, Mummy.”

  “Good lad.” She pressed him to her. “I know this is difficult. But when sacrifice is made for love, it’s beautiful, remember? Love has its own reward.”

  He nodded.

  “If you meet it with surrender, rather than resistance, you will be at peace with it. Do you remember how to make your mind go to a state of surrender?”

  “I think so.”

  “It takes practice, Jorie. You must use diligence and vigilance to keep it there.”

  She offered him another piece of pie, but Jorie had no appetite for food.

  Chapter 17

  The next year something started happening between his legs. It was pleasant in the strangest way, and when he reached down to touch himself, he discovered it was hard. He wasn’t at all sure it was normal.

  For the next few nights he was afraid to go to his mother. As close as they were he knew she wouldn’t understand what was happening, and it might worry her. He had awakened twice with something wet and sticky between his legs on his long underwear. If only he could ask Frederick about it, but they were not so close any more. There was no one to tell. He lived in a confusing state of excitement and fear.

  After a week his mother bade him to her bed again. As soon as he lay beside her, he felt the stiffness. She pulled him to her and ran her hand through his curls. In a few moments he sucked in his breath, and pulled away from her.

  “Tell me what’s troubling you,” she cooed, pulling him back to her. “Tell me.”

  “Nothing.” Why did she have to know?

  “You wouldn’t lie to your mummy, would you?”

  He squirmed away from her.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  He wished he hadn’t brought his candle in to the room; he felt the single flame light up the whole room, distort his face, magnify his shame. Shadows danced on the ceiling, on the bed, mocking him.

  She pulled him back to her, touched his skin lightly. He felt her hand slide past his genitals in a quick brush.

  “It’s all right, Jorie. It’s . . .natural.”

  A long silence followed, while he tried to take this in.

  “You mean it’s supposed to get that way?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘supposed to.’ But it can happen to boys who are growing up.”

  So there was nothing wrong with him, and she did understand. He should have known. Although embarrassed, he was much relieved.

  She turned to him, in that way that was beginning to make him uncomfortable. “Only twelve years old, and already you are growing into manhood. My little boy, my darling, where did the time go? It is too soon, too soon for you to grow up.”

  She hugged him tightly, and then the feeling got stronger and he didn’t know what to do. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he slid one hand downward.

  “No, Jorie, you mustn’t play with it.”

  She gathered his hands in hers. “That’s wrong, and God could punish you for that. Just lie here quietly with me.” She rocked him gently. “You must confess to me each time the hardness or the wetness comes.”

  He started to object, but she was saying, “If we are to create our fragile bubble together, then you must keep no secrets from me.”

  He had little success with the mental diversions she had suggested, but learned that if he threw his covers off and lay there in the frigid room, he would lose that strange compelling desire that made him want to rub himself. He thought if he could fall asleep that way, the mess wouldn’t come. But he couldn’t stand the cold for long, and cursed himself for being a coward, as he pulled the quilt up. What if his father were to find out? He trembled to think. Could he trust his mother not to tell him? It was all so much like the time he’d tried to stop wetting the bed. Again, his attempts to control his own body seemed hopeless.

  His mother was pleased that he was working at his problem, but then would grow sad and somewhat detached when he confessed his failures. She gave him prayers of penance to say, and told him to ask God for help with this new challenge. She said nothing of chastisement, but finally, the fear of losing her love drove him to ask for punishment.

  She was delighted that he wanted atonement; it always brought him back to her. Afterwards she’
d draw him to her, assure him of her love. Often with tears flowing down her cheeks, she would express appreciation for his devotion to her and to God.

  But he didn’t feel clean because he knew the feeling would come back; he knew he wanted it to.

  So he renewed his efforts, even bringing in handfuls of snow from the ledge to place between his legs. The sense of having let her down was excruciating. And God, too. But it was Mummy he most wanted to please, and he didn’t know how.

  One night the feeling was so strong he couldn’t resist rubbing himself, and as he continued, the sensation, rising into crescendo to its peak was so wild and wonderful that he didn’t try to prevent it. After that he found it harder and harder to refrain.

  He stopped making his confessions. Sometimes he resisted the urge because he felt guilty, but just as often he gave in to it. The guilt from not being honest with his mother was as bad as the guilt for having committed the sin. But the thrill he felt while he was engaged in the act transported him beyond anything he’d known. It was the closest he’d come to the feeling of rapture that she’d said the saints had, which he hadn’t been able to feel in a religious way at all.

  One day she said, “Do I understand by your silence that your sexual arousal has decreased, or perhaps disappeared altogether?”

  Jorie reddened.

  “Since you have come to confess neither your failure to resist temptation, nor those times when you triumphed over it, I should assume, I suppose, that you no longer are subject to such arousal?”

  He noted the bite of sarcasm in her voice. Looking at the floor, he shook his head.

  “Look at me! Are you studying the pattern in the carpet?”

  He raised his head, but did not meet her eyes.

  “Well, what have you to say?”

  “Both.”

  “Both what? Don’t prevaricate with me. Form a sentence and make yourself understood.”

  “There have been times when I gave in to it, and times when I didn’t.”

  “Gave in to what? Be specific.”

  “You know!”

  Why did she torture him so?

  She was silent for a few moments.

  “Why haven’t you told me?”

  Did he have to explain? He wondered if other boys had to confess this sort of thing to their parents.

  “It’s embarrassing. Whether I do it or not, it’s embarrassing to tell you.”

  She took his hand. “Mortification is a very old tool of purification. It is also a tool to use in deciding your course of action. If you are discomfited in telling me when you have relieved yourself, doesn’t that very fact suggest something to you?”

  “But I’m embarrassed either way!”

  “We’ve talked about how sacrifice strengthens your character, its sacred origins and how it is an act of love.” She paused. “Do you love me, Jorie?”

  “Yes.”

  He knew what was coming.

  Suddenly he was on Peggythis riding high in the sky, riding right through all the constellations, coming to rest near the Seven Sisters. But there were only six. He must find the seventh — the one that was hiding in shame.

  “Answer me, Jorie!”

  Reluctantly he came back to her.

  “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “Where were you?” But she didn’t wait for his reply. “Jorie, in the name of love for your mother, I am asking you not to do this. You must resist these animal urges. If you do not, you are no better than they! God did not give us dominion over them for naught.”

  He was silent.

  “It is a weakness of the flesh,” she continued, “and you do not have to give in to it. You can overpower it with self-discipline and the help of God.”

  She paused. “Do you remember how you learned to overpower your resistance to punishment? Discipline, Jorie. The mind has dominion over the body.”

  Still he was silent.

  “Let us pray together.”

  She retrieved her Bible, and read a passage about abstaining.

  “Get down on you knees, Jorie.”

  When he protested, Catherine said, “Shall I call Helena in to witness?”

  “No!”

  When they were both on their knees, she closed her eyes.

  “Mary, pray for us sinners now and at our hour of death. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, and blessed is the fruit of my womb, Jorie. We ask that thou help him in overcoming this temptation of the flesh, so inappropriate at his tender age. Give him the strength to fight off these demons of the flesh, and rise victorious above them. In the name of the Father, the Son and The Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Jorie mumbled.

  “Keep praying, Jorie. Go up to bed now.”

  He got up slowly, and as he was leaving the room, she called to him, “Do you remember the Golden Bubble, Jorie?”

  With his back to her he nodded.

  “Think about what it’s worth to you.”

  Catherine knew she was gambling with high stakes. She had to rely on the power of her previous teachings, hoping the ground work had been laid carefully and securely enough for him to make the right choice.

  Flashes of her own erotic feelings danced before her, confronted her with questions: What was it that made his behavior so abhorrent to her? Was it the act itself, or Jorie engaged in it? She pushed the thoughts away. Enough that instinctively she felt it was wrong, that it violated all her sensibilities.

  For five days Jorie abstained. But on the sixth night he again sought release, and many nights after that.

  It was not as easy to overcome as his mother supposed.

  The stable was a place of quiet solitude for Jorie. His chores had taken him there every day to feed and groom the horses and occasionally to clean out the stalls. Although he cared nothing for riding, he enjoyed grooming them and felt great fondness for Falstaff, often talking to him and giving him extra treats. Jorie rather liked the odors in the stable — the particular mixture of leather, hay and animal smells. When his work was done he could make himself a comfortable bed of straw and get lost in daydreams. He fancied no one knew he used it as his secret lair. At thirteen he thought he’d reached an unspoken truce with his mother. She no longer made him undergo the painful inquiries into his sexual habits. He wasn’t sure if she accepted it, or assumed he no longer indulged.

  On one particular warm September afternoon, after finished the mucking out and replacing the old straw with new, he decided to have a lie-down in his favorite corner. Breaking open a bundle of clean straw, he unraveled himself upon it, relaxed in the sweetness of the soft sounds coming from the stalls. The tender breezes and late afternoon sunlight found their way through the door at the far end of the barn.

  Soon his hands were fumbling with the buttons on his fly, and within moments he was in an ecstasy which defied obedience to any but the powerful drive within. She had said, we are not animals, we must govern the body, but here in this most animal of places he could not help himself, had barely tried to for some time now. Here, by himself, he was able to relegate the guilt to some dark recess of his mind— for at least for as long as the rapture lasted.

  Caught in the web of carnal pleasure, he did not hear her footsteps or even the welcoming whinny of her horse.

  Not until he’d finished did he become aware of his surroundings. Only then did he open his eyes to see her towering over him.

  Fear exploded in his belly, but it was his shame that overpowered him.

  “Get up!”

  He scrambled to his feet, yanking at his pants.

  “No. Drop your britches.”

  With mortifying difficulty he did as he was told, stood there exposed in his mother’s presence. For a long time she just looked at him, slowly up and down, while he stood shaking before her. Had she watched the whole thing? Had she seen his swollen penis, his hand pumping it up and down? He could not bear to think of it.

  Finally she declared, “You must be punished. You know that.”


  Would she tell Papa? Would the beatings return, worse than before?

  She moved a few feet away, pushed aside the straw that covered a large flat stone that had been left in its bed when the ground had been prepared for the stable.

  “Come here, Jorie.”

  He started to pull up his pants so he could navigate the space between himself and the rock.