Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  Catherine added a sprinkling of water to the pie dough she was making, worked it into the flour.

  “Is she pretty?” She worked the dough into a ball and slapped it on the board.

  “Oh, yes, Mum. She’s very pretty, and she’s only nineteen.”

  “How do you know that?” She punched the dough, flipped it over, punched it again.

  “She said so.”

  “Why would a teacher tell the class her age?”

  “She didn’t tell the class, just me.”

  “And how did that come about?” She shaped the dough into a perfect circle with her rolling pin.

  “Well, I figured it out. One day she told me she started drawing at my age. And another time she said she’d been drawing for five years, but still wasn’t as good as me.”

  “I see.” She tossed the disk into the waiting pan. “When do you have these tête-à-têtes?”

  “Usually at lunchtime, when the others go outside.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Not always. I’d rather draw.”

  “You need exercise too.”

  The baby was fussing in her kitchen basket.

  “Pick her up, Jorie. You can always calm her down.”

  Jorie took Eliza in his arms, watched her as she reached inquisitively for his face. “I must draw her,” he decided, “in all her innocence.”

  Jorie and Miss O’Dell continued to converse before and after school, as well as at lunchtime.

  One day he forgot his lunch, and Miss O’Dell said, “I’ll share mine with you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t Miss. I’ll be fine.”

  “No, I won’t eat unless you do too,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

  “All right, if you put it that way.”

  But he wouldn’t take more than the apple and one of three small cookies.

  At home, his mother pointed to the lunch pail still on the table, and asked, “How did you manage without your noon meal?”

  “Miss O’Dell offered to share hers with me.”

  “And you accepted?”

  “Well, she made me.”

  “Made you?”

  “She said she wouldn’t eat if I didn’t.”

  “Well, I never!”

  Although Miss O’Dell usually stayed after school to check papers, as well as do her chores, one day she suggested that if Jorie would wait a bit, she could leave early, and they could walk together until their paths parted. Delighted, Jorie helped her with the chores — drawing water from the well for the drinking bucket, bringing in firewood for the stove and sweeping the floor.

  As they walked along the lake road she told him a little about her life, how she had been brought up on a farm near Lake Linden, and had then gone to school for two years in Redridge to get her Life Certificate for teaching. She said she didn’t know the Houghton-Hancock area very well yet, but had recently been attending a church, and hoped to become more acquainted with the people.

  “Are you married?” he ventured.

  “Goodness, no. If I marry, I’ll lose my job.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, the school board has its reasons, I suppose.”

  “Did you ever have a beau?” Jorie wanted to take the words back, but Miss O’Dell didn’t seem to mind the question.

  “Once. Back home.” She looked wistful. “He was an engineer. But he took a job in South America, and I, well, I studied to be a teacher.”

  “You must be lonely, then.”

  “You know all about that, don’t you?” She surprised him.

  He reddened. Well, of course, she must have noticed that he didn’t mingle much with the others. Perhaps that’s why she’d brought the book, to let him save face by giving him something else to do at lunchtime.

  “I’m sorry.” She touched his shoulder.

  “Oh, no ma’am. It’s true, I don’t seem to be able to mix with the other lads very well. I’m no good at sports and no one seems to like the things I do. Except,” he swallowed, “Frederick.”

  “I seldom see you together.”

  “My mother prefers I not associate with him.”

  He was sure Miss O’Dell saw the twitch in his cheek. “You would have liked him for a friend?”

  Jorie lowered his head and nodded. He told her what his mother had asked of him.

  “Does she often ask you to make sacrifices?”

  Jorie hesitated. Suddenly he was in deeper than he’d realized. He’d already said too much, but he didn’t know how to stop.

  “Well, sometimes. She believes sacrifice strengthens character, and is an act of love.” He hesitated. “Do you believe that, Miss O’Dell?”

  She answered slowly. “Sometimes, I suppose, under certain circumstances. What sort of sacrifices does she ask of you?”

  “Oh, mostly little things — like going to bed without supper, or sitting for awhile without doing anything — just thinking.”

  “Thinking? About anything in particular?”

  “Yes, she gives me assignments, you could say.”

  Jorie thought that perhaps Miss O’Dell could see that he was uncomfortable. She said only, “Well, I’m sure she has her reasons.”

  “Like the school board,” he smiled.

  They laughed at that, and spontaneously, without knowing why, Jorie hugged Miss O’Dell. Then he was so embarrassed he grabbed his lunch pail and ran off.

  “What did you and Miss O’Dell talk about today?” Catherine handed him a scone fresh from the oven.

  He looked for an escape. “Where’s Eliza?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  Jorie scanned his recent conversation quickly. What part of it could he tell her without arousing her ire?

  “Not much. She told me she had a beau once, but he went to South America, and she couldn’t get married anyway, because the school board didn’t allow it.”

  “I see.”

  Catherine would bide her time. No point letting Jorie know how upsetting these conversations were to her, how inappropriate for a teacher to take a pupil into her confidence. She would gather more information.

  The next week, while Jorie was sweeping the classroom floor, Miss O’Dell offered him a chocolate. He shook his head. “I’m not having sweets this week, Miss O’Dell, but thank you very much.”

  She frowned. “Another sacrifice?”

  He reddened. “Yes, ma’am. But it’s not because I did anything wrong. It’s not punishment.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “My mother’s. But I didn’t have to. I never have to—it’s up to me.”

  “Do you always follow her wishes in this regard?”

  “No. But we get along better when I do.”

  Miss O’Dell nodded.

  “She says it helps to keep our bond strong.”

  Suddenly Miss O’Dell changed the subject. “Are you planning to go on to college?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “I think it would be splendid if you could go to the University of Michigan. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes.” He got excited. “That’s where Frederick wants to go! It’s in the Lower Peninsula, near Detroit, isn’t it?”

  “Ann Arbor, yes. I wanted very much to go there, as my beau did. They have several different colleges — everything from Law School to the College of Literature, Science and Arts.”

  “They allow women?”

  “They do now, since 1870. But I didn’t have the money. I have dreamed of it often — the great variety of studies, the grand buildings, standing as silent sentries to higher education.”

  Miss O’Dell seemed far away and Jorie waited patiently for her to come back. When she did, she seemed embarrassed, and Jorie felt sad to think she’d been denied something she wanted so badly.

  She pulled herself together. “Forgive me, I do tend to romanticize it.”

  “No, it’s all right. I want to know all about it. Please.”

  “There’s a very l
arge square, with a diagonal walk running from one corner to the other. Almost all the buildings are built on the perimeter of this square. No runaway horses to watch out for. Very pastoral, with a few sheep grazing, I’m told. I can picture it all in my mind.”

  Jorie wondered how she knew so much.

  “My friend wrote letters for a time, describing the campus to me. I think it must be beautiful. Oh, Jorie, you should go!”

  The subject of Women’s Suffrage was a hot topic all across the nation, with raging debates and impassioned speakers extolling the woes or blessings of women getting the vote. Beginning in the eighties, it would fire up, then die down, and every now and then burst into emotional flames again. Miss O’Dell led a discussion in her classroom, and encouraged everyone to study both sides of the issue, and speak their mind on the subject.

  After school one day she told Jorie that The Copper Country Evening News had announced they would be accepting essays addressing the question.

  “I think you could write a compelling essay.”

  “For the newspaper?” He was astounded. “Is this a student project?”

  “No, mostly adults will be submitting, I should imagine. But there’s nothing said to disqualify students.

  He thought about it that night, and looked at the paper to see what he could find out. He read some old papers to get filled in on the subject. He could see the issue met with much resistance from a large portion of the male population. It evoked such questions as, were women truly equal to men? Since it was in their very nature to be soft, receptive, and skilled in the domestic arts, was it fair to expect them to grasp the complexities of politics? If women were expected to strain their minds regarding politics, what implications did this have toward other areas of their lives? What price would marital harmony pay for propagating such ideas? Some said women would vote as their husbands directed in any case, so didn’t that put married men at an advantage, giving them, in effect, two votes?

  He asked Miss O’Dell if she knew any more about the matter.

  “Women in Michigan have had the right to vote in school elections for some time now. Some say that was a mistake, as it only whets their appetite for more!”

  He could see she was getting excited about it. “Do you have a stand on the subject?”

  She smiled, and he reddened.

  “Well, of course you’d be for it. Probably all women are.”

  “Would you believe that some are not? They feel the affairs of the world should be left to the men, and the business of the home to them.”

  “And how do you feel about women getting to vote?”

  “I’m definitely in favor of it.”

  “It’s the men who vote now, so they’re the ones who need convincing. If you could add your masculine voice to others, it might make a real difference.”

  Jorie blushed. “I’m only fourteen.”

  “They needn’t know that.”

  He spent two evenings writing and re-working his piece. On the third day he presented it to Miss O’Dell after school. She read it through silently, nodding gently as she did. When she’d finished, she looked up.

  “It’s very good.”

  “Do you think it’s convincing enough to print?”

  “You must submit it. You will, won’t you?”

  She offered to mail it for him, and they waited a week to see what would happen. Finally the essay appeared in the paper, no mention made of Jorie’s age, stating simply that it was written by Jordan Radcliff of Hancock, which made Jorie feel very grown up.

  He hadn’t said anything to his family, but they discovered it on the night it appeared.

  His mother was jostling little Eliza on her lap. “It’s well written, but why didn’t you tell me about it beforehand? I could have helped you with it.”

  “Miss O’Dell didn’t think it needed improvement.”

  The baby was crying.

  “Jorie, you are only fourteen. When you wish to do things that are put before the public, your parents have a right to know. You represent the entire family when you speak out like that. You should have shown it to me first.”

  “Are you angry with me? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  Catherine looked at Eliza. “Oh, you are the fussy one.” She got up and put her in her basket. “I must get the supper on.”

  The baby bawled louder than ever. When Jorie picked her up she stopped crying immediately. It pleased him that he was able to stop her tears.

  Later, after reading the evening paper, his father slapped him on the back and said, “Good job, lad. A fine piece of work.”

  He was so dumbfounded by this hard-won praise he stood speechless. But he was proud indeed to have won a point with this hard taskmaster.

  Jorie wondered if he were in love with his teacher. Sometimes he wished he was as old as she was, and that he could court her. She was too lovely to ‘die on the vine’, an expression he’d read in a novel.

  He was telling her about the hill behind his house one day.

  “It’s very dark and still, especially when there’s no moon — a beautiful place to look at the stars and meteors. And last year it was grand, watching the aurora borealis. All those colors, bursting from the heavens. I tried to capture it on paper. But you can’t draw light. Did you see it, Miss O’Dell?”

  “One night I did, yes.”

  “Do you have a star line?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s an invisible path that goes from your special star to you. Only sometimes it is visible, if you concentrate very hard you can see it. And messages travel along this line.”

  “What kind of messages?”

  Jorie caught himself. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’ll get in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “My mother thinks certain things shouldn’t go outside the family — most things, actually.”

  “Will you be asked to make another sacrifice?”

  “If she feels I disobeyed, she might punish me.”

  “How does she punish you, Jorie?”

  Jorie squirmed. “It’s not always the same. She likes me to think of new ways.” Now he knew he’d gone too far.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I’d best be going.”

  When he reached home his mother was angry. “Where were you all this time? With that teacher, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you staying after school with her.”

  “I like to talk to her.”

  “Why? Most lads are glad to get out of school. It’s not natural, hanging on to the teacher like that, after everyone’s gone home.”

  “I don’t hang on to her. She likes me, and it’s easy to talk to her.”

  “Did you tell her things you shouldn’t? What have you told her?”

  “I mentioned my star line.”

  “What must she think of you — spouting such gibberish? What else?”

  “I told her you were very intelligent and taught me a lot of things.”

  She was bearing down on him. “Go on.”

  Jorie swallowed. He could hear the crickets sound their evening song. And then he was riding Peggythis far from home, straight up his star line.

  “Don’t prevaricate with me!”

  Her shrill voice brought him back.

  “I told her once about making sacrifices.” He saw his mother’s face flush. “I explained that it builds a strong bond between us.”

  The words turned to ash in his mouth.

  “I see.” She fairly hissed. “And did you fail to remember that all of these things are to be discussed solely between you and me? What you have done is pernicious, baneful. You have defiled our Golden Bubble!”

  He could feel the heat crawl up his neck.

  He could see her trying to contain her anger. “Go to bed, Jorie. Just go to bed.”

  The letter asking for an appointment had reached the Super
intendent, and he had replied that he’d be happy to meet Mrs. Radcliff Monday next at ten o’clock. On the appointed day, Catherine arrived at his office fifteen minutes early. Dressed in an attractive but modest navy blue suit and wearing no make-up, she thought she looked appropriate for the occasion. She sat in the corridor eagerly awaiting the interview, the letter in her hand.