Mother Lode

  “No, they’re not. I didn’t think you were mature enough before to understand the difference, but perhaps you are now. Would you like to see them?”

  He could only nod.

  “Wait here.”

  Catherine retrieved the secret book, unwrapping the yellowed newspaper that carefully concealed its contents. If Arthur Johnson could teach her son anatomy from a scientific point of view, she could instruct him from an artistic one.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from my father. Like all of my art books, he gave it to me when I was able to properly appreciate it.”

  Still holding it closed, she looked at Jorie. “You must promise not to laugh, or get silly about this. If you do, we shall have to put it away. Art is something to be appreciated and studied seriously like any other subject.”

  He nodded.

  She opened the book to a page with a buxom nude. Catherine watched her son’s expression, gauging the effect the picture had on him.

  “What is your response to this composition?”

  His response was in his groin, but he tried to focus on the meaning of her question.

  “Uh, there’s not as much contrast in the background as the other one.”

  “Anything else?”

  He was still angry with her for taking him out of school, but he couldn’t afford to let those feelings deny him the feast of these wonderful pictures. He tried to remember what she’d said about lines. “The lines make good curves — in her body.”

  “I think you mean the artist has drawn her body in such a way that her curves make good lines in the composition.”

  “Aye, that’s it.” In a moment he added, “May I hold the book?”

  She laid it reverently across his lap.

  “That darkness in the corner — what’s that for?” he said to distract her from the real reason for holding the book.

  “You bring up an important point. With art, light is everything. Where do you think it’s coming from in this picture?”

  “From the window?”

  “Very good. Now do you see that with the tub there, the light can’t go through it? That’s why this corner is dark.”

  “Oh,” he said, starting to turn the page. He was eager to discover the other treasures this volume offered.

  “Not so fast,” she said, holding the page down. “You can’t discover all there is to know about a work of art in a couple of minutes. We’ll save the others for another day.”

  He was disappointed, for he’d have liked to devour every tasty morsel in one wonderfully satisfying meal, but he dared not complain.

  “What else do you observe about this painting?” she was asking.

  “He wanted to say, “She has lovely tits,” but he knew his mother wouldn’t like that, so he said, “Her hair is dark like the corner of the picture.”

  “Excellent! You observe how they resonate with each other. You remember that from the other books, don’t you? In a way, these dark areas speak to each other.”

  He didn’t know what she meant by that, but he wasn’t interested in her hair that much, anyway.

  She continued to admire the work. “And doesn’t she have comely breasts, Jorie?”

  He sucked in his breath knowing he’d turned red and the bulge in his pants was growing. “Yes,” he muttered.

  For days they studied the book of nudes. Like some extravagant and delicious sweet, she allowed only one at a time.

  “I want you to have a full appreciation of the female form, and the reverence these artists have shown for it in their works. The women’s bodies are not all alike, as I’m sure you have noticed.”

  “Some are fat.”

  “Rubenesque is a kinder word. Figure is a matter of fashion just as clothes are.”

  “Did artists get real women to pose for them or did they just imagine them?”

  “Real women, if they could afford to. Most of them were models who did this for a living. Unless they were friends of the artist.”

  “Isn’t that dirty?”

  “Oh, I suppose in provincial Michigan it would be considered so, but not in Paris. Most of the great artists of that period lived in one part of that great city where they could discuss their work over a meal and a bottle of wine. The models lived nearby, so they could get work. Sometimes the model was the artist’s lover.”

  Jorie swallowed. He couldn’t imagine such a grand life.

  She watched him carefully. “Perhaps someday you would like the experience of drawing a nude.”

  “Yes.” He knew he’d said it, but no voice came forth.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes.” It seemed he had to exert a great deal of effort to make the smallest sound, and then only part of the word was audible.

  Three days later he summoned the courage to ask if she knew anyone who might be willing to pose for him.

  “Oh, non, Jorie. Pas dans cette ville provinciale.”

  She let another week pass before venturing, “Jorie, if it’s truly important to you, perhaps we could work something out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone, whether you like the idea or not. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” He held his breath.

  “I’m not sure, but just perhaps you and I could work together. As your mother I would certainly not pose for you in the usual manner, standing naked before you. That wouldn’t be right. But perhaps if we could think of a way to do it indirectement . .”

  “You mean the mirror?”

  “No. That would provide me no screen of privacy at all.”

  Jorie looked puzzled. “Then how can we do it?”

  “Well, perhaps we can’t. Unless you can find a solution.”

  The next day he said, “I have it—I could draw your reflection!”

  “How would you do that?”

  “I’d sit on a chair facing the window, at an angle, and you could stand behind me. I would draw your reflection in the candlelight. That way I wouldn’t see you. . . exactly.”

  “You’re very clever, Jorie, to think of that.”

  He frowned. “But it would have to be night. And the curtain would have to be open with light in the room!”

  “Yes, you’re right. No, we couldn’t do that,” she sighed.

  Jorie’s thoughts were still spinning.

  “But one of your bedroom windows backs up to the hill, where nobody ever goes, so it would be safe to leave the curtain open there.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Would that work?”

  She hesitated. “It’s a very serious thing. I don’t know if you’re grown-up enough, Jorie. And I’m truly not the right person. If only there were modeling classes in town, as in the big cities.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. I will consider it a sacred privilege and a gift from you toward my art education.”

  She smiled. “That’s nicely put, but I will have to give it careful consideration.”

  Suddenly Jorie thought of another obstacle. “Pa! “

  “We would have to wait until he’s out some evening.”

  Several days passed. Pa was out very late one night and not home at all the next. Still she didn’t speak of it.

  But a week later his father’s sister was suffering with a bout of influenza, and Thomas announced that he would see her through it. He left with a small valise.

  If she doesn’t say something now, she never will.

  All day Jorie waited, employing every nervous habit he had to keep the suspense at bay.

  At supper time she said, “On the matter of which we spoke earlier –Are you certain you want to proceed?”

  “Oh, yes, Mum.”

  Again she hesitated.

  “You are not to turn around when I’m undressed. Agreed?”

  He was afraid his voice would break if he spoke; he nodded.

  “Wait until the Eliza is asleep tonight, then come to my room.”

&n
bsp; He could hardly contain his excitement. He knew he had to be very grown-up about this or she would get angry and send him away. He would wear his baggy pants, which were actually too big for him, to avoid embarrassment.

  When the appointed time finally arrived, he approached her door, pressing his ear to it to determine if he could hear any noises from within. Detecting none, he finally knocked.

  She took so long to respond, he was about to leave. But here she was smiling, beckoning him to come in.

  He wanted to run away. How crazy! I’ve waited all day for this! He stood there, speechless. Already feeling the flush on his cheeks he knew he couldn’t bear to look at her even with her clothes on.

  Seeming to sense his fears she said, “Well, come in lad. I won’t bite you.”

  He forced himself to enter, hoping she couldn’t hear his heart beating, his groin throbbing.

  He’d forgotten to wear the baggy pants!

  “Sit down,” she directed him with an encouraging smile.

  He knew what to expect, so he took the hardback chair facing the window at an angle, and opened his sketch book. He could hear her behind him, undressing. Somehow he’d expected she’d be ready, wearing her dressing gown, but she had greeted him fully clothed, and now was taking ever so long to get out of her things. The thought of those mysterious petticoats, garters and bodices further excited his senses.

  He heard something snap and thought it must be the elastic garter. Then out of the corner of his eye, he could see she had lifted her leg onto the bed and was slowly rolling down her stocking. Just knowing aroused him. He stared at the pattern on the wallpaper and tried to pay her no heed. Finally she stepped behind him, framing herself in the window.

  Jorie drew in his breath. Although he could see only her reflection — and had to strain to see that in the dim light — he thought she was a goddess, more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. Forgetting she was waiting, he stared for some time. How thrilling it was. He was glad for the privacy this strange arrangement provided him.

  “Begin, Jorie. We’ve only a few moments.”

  He pulled himself together and quickly made a few strokes on the paper. The lines seemed all wrong and didn’t do her justice. He tried to erase, but in his nervousness, he’d been using so much pressure with the pencil that the erasures caused the paper to smudge. He turned to a fresh sheet and started again.

  “Two more minutes. That’s all I give can you. I’m very cold, and there’s always the chance that your father may come home.”

  He was more anxious than ever now.

  “Finish up. Don’t worry about how good it is. This is your first time.”

  In a few more moments she stepped out of the frame. He looked up and she was gone. Currents of frustration ran through his body. It had ended all too quickly.

  When she was robed, she said he could turn around.

  “Well, let’s see what you have.” She sat on her bed, indicating he should sit beside her.

  “Please, I don’t want to show you. It’s not like you at all. You’re beautiful, and this is ugly.”

  She smiled. You were no doubt nervous, Love. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Let’s have a look.” She held out her hand for the paper. Shamefaced he gave it to her. He’d drawn her torso too large for the paper, not leaving room for her feet.

  He held his breath while she studied his efforts seriously. “You must learn to make a few large, sweeping strokes quickly that will generally outline the subject. You can fill them in later. That way, you don’t waste a lot of time on a drawing that will never fit on the page.”

  She turned the paper sideways, and back again. “In terms of composition it isn’t very interesting, but that’s not your fault. You see the vertical lines of my body? And the vertical lines of the window frame? They’re parallel, and that doesn’t make for a very appealing composition. Perhaps next time I could give you a pose that wouldn’t parallel the `frame.’”

  He barely understood what she was talking about. He only knew she’d taken his efforts seriously, and her comments had been kind.

  She rose, and he knew he was being dismissed.

  “One more thing, Jorie. You are not, ever, to discuss these drawings or show them to anyone. People would misunderstand us completely.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “These rendezvous will be part of our Golden Bubble, a space where you and I alone may tread.”

  She enfolded him in her arms then. Sucking in the sweet scent of her perfume, he wished that all the clocks in the world would stand still.

  As soon as he was under the covers, his hand found his throbbing penis. He lay awake that night reliving what had transpired. How grateful he was that she hadn’t made fun of his paltry efforts, had refrained from commenting on the poor likeness. How understanding she’d been. And there would be more times like tonight.

  No doubt you were nervous. That was putting it gently!

  He couldn’t wait to have another go at this new project. But he dared not broach the subject himself for fear his mother would think him too eager, would suspect his motives. In the nights, he saw her over and over in his mind — the lovely curve of her bottom as it disappeared into the shadows. He would try to capture that the next time. But maybe she’d changed her mind; maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. Two days passed.

  Finally, she came to him.

  “Would you like to have another art lesson tonight?”

  “Oh, yes, please!”

  “Well then, suppose you come to my room tonight at nine o’clock.”

  “Yes.” He tried to sound more grown up than he felt.

  The hours passed slowly. He took out the pencils, and practiced from memory what he had seen before. How to get the shoulder — he couldn’t remember that part at all. He would have to pay more attention tonight. If he did poorly again he feared she’d be disappointed, declare him an unworthy student. And where was the source of light? He’d have to put that in the picture. What little illumination there was came from her left, he remembered, from the candle on her table.

  Still, his mind wandered from the serious task before him to the unadorned figure of his mother. What if she were to turn, come through the glass? Escape the dark branches that tapped at the window, reminding him of the barrier of separation. Fanciful scenes played in his mind, while his body ached for release. But he would not give in to it, not yet.

  When the hour finally arrived, he gathered his drawing materials and walked toward her room. His knock was so soft he was sure she hadn’t heard it, and knocked again.

  “I heard you the first time. You mustn’t be so impatient.”

  As she undressed slowly behind him he tried to will himself to dispel his sexual feelings, tried to force his thoughts to turn to other matters — anything. The soapy dishwater came to mind, but then he saw it sliding down her back. He was pouring it over her and they were both laughing. He thought about the stars, but she was sitting beside him on the hill, cradling his head in her lap. His body was not the least obedient. Again he could feel the throbbing. At least this time, he’d remembered to wear the baggy pants.

  He heard the rustling of her petticoat and his attention was brought to the nearness of her. He would like to take a closer look at those secret garments.

  ”Are we ready?” The question came so close to his ear, he jerked to attention, felt her warm breath stirring the little hairs on the back of his neck.

  He could only nod.

  As he raised his head, she was turning around behind him, and he thought he’d burst. She had her back to him, the reflection of her beautiful round bottom cheeks three feet in front of him! And the real ones were right behind him! At the same time the most delicious fragrance greeted his nostrils. He wanted to go to her, be swallowed by her, or at least lie down and comfort himself.

  “I promised you a new pose,” she was saying. Her arms were raised high above her head, and a hip thrown to one side. He stared at the marvel before
him. His eyes followed the superb curve down her arms, turning inward toward her body as far as her waist, then out again where her hip thrust out, and finally back to center at her feet.

  “Think of it as Woman Stretching Upon Rising. That will give you some context. Now get started. I can’t maintain this pose for long, so you will have to work quickly.”

  He tried to see her as an artist would.