Mother Lode

“Draw my arms first; I can’t hold them up much longer.”

  Forcing himself to put pencil to paper, he did as she told him.

  “At least you won’t have to work with all parallel lines this time.”

  He could hear the first drops of rain on the window. She lowered her arms.

  “Please don’t leave,” he implored.

  She was still holding her position. “A few more minutes, but you won’t be able to see in the rain.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  He was squinting, hurrying to get more of her on paper. Already the picture in the glass was a wavy blur, her features distorted. Again he’d drawn her too low on the page. He’d forgotten what she’d said about that. He sighed in frustration.

  So bent on fixing his mistakes, he did not see her leave the frame. When he looked at the window, like an apparition, she had disappeared.

  “I’m not finished!” he wailed, whirling to face her before he thought. Too late he jerked his head back to center.

  “Thrusting her robe in front of her she rasped, “You have broken our agreement. Leave me!”

  In despair Jorie left the room, barely able to contain the stinging tears until he was out of her sight. Reeling with disbelief, he stumbled down the hall. Standing at his own window he watched the rain sliding down the windowpane mirror the tears running down his face. The thunder in the distance seemed to generate within his own wretched belly. And in the lightning he saw an angry god hurling thunderbolts.

  How could all that had been so precious to him be dashed in one careless moment?

  When sleep finally came, in dreams they were walking in the wood, but he could only see one side of her; her far side was in the shadows. It seemed she was being sucked into the darkness, devoured by it, until only a sliver of her remained shining in the moonlight. Frightened, he put his arms around her to assure himself that she was still there, but nothing remained of her but a tiny silver thread. Then that was gone too.

  He awoke in a cold sweat, his pillow soaking wet.

  In the hours that followed, sleep did not return. Only the wretched feeling that he had betrayed her trust.

  The next day she said nothing, and the strain between them was palpable. But three days later she said pleasantly, “Would you like to give it another go tonight?”

  He thought he must be dreaming. “Do you mean it?”

  “You must remember the rules.”

  “I will. I promise!”

  “Be sure you do.”

  The thrill of having another opportunity to capture her likeness was delicious. But even greater was the ecstasy at having his banishment lifted. He would get it right: He would behave properly and focus on getting her whole figure on the paper.

  They did the washing up together in silence and Jorie broke a cup. His mother said nothing. Looking up nervously, he received her “forgiveness” smile.

  She left the kitchen before he was quite finished, leaving him to wonder if she’d forgotten, or changed her mind. But no, he didn’t think so. She’d have said, wouldn’t she?

  Still, when the time finally came, and he approached her door with his tablet and pencils, he felt more trepidation than before.

  The door opened promptly, and with only a glance toward his mother, he took the six steps to the chair.

  With his ears tuned to every sound, he could hear the unfastening of the buttons. He hoped she could not hear the pounding of his heart.

  Just then the jarring sound of the doorbell jangled through the house.

  Every fiber in Jorie’s body froze. Was it Pa? No, he had a key. Why did anyone have to come now!

  “Go answer the door, Jorie.” His mother’s voice was sharp, husky.

  Jorie left the room reluctantly and descended the stairs slowly. Half way down the grating sound of the bell again reached his ears. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the sheriff.

  “Hello, lad. Is your mother here?”

  “Is anything wrong, Mr. Foster?”

  “Hope not. That’s what I came to find out. Where’s your ma?”

  “What do you need her for? She, she’s upstairs.”

  “Well, do you think you could get her for me, Jorie?”

  “I guess so.”

  Just then Catherine appeared in her woolen robe.

  “Earl Foster, what brings you here?”

  “Well, I know Thomas is away, and I just came by to see if you and the children were all right. Didn’t see any lights down here—”

  “That’s because I went to bed early with a headache.”

  “Oh, sorry to bother you, Catherine. Just wanted to make sure—”

  “Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  She closed and locked the door, fairly seething with rage. Under her breath she hissed, “If Earl Foster isn’t the most incommodious busybody ever! Always showing up at the wrong time!”

  She turned to her son. “Go to your room, Jorie. It’s over.”

  “For good?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 22

  The days were joyless. He longed to be back in school again with Miss O’Dell, and the other chaps, however dissimilar they were. When his father returned in three days Jorie was never so glad to see him.

  In May Thomas said, “With all this time on your hands, how would you like to come work up at the mine for a spell? Until school starts in the fall.”

  “Do you mean it, Pa?”

  “You’re pretty good with figures, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you fifteen now?”

  “Yes. I mean I will be in the fall.”

  “Two more years of school?”

  “Two more in high school.” He wanted to say something about college but Pa was talking about the job.

  “The bookkeeper could use some help.”

  “What does Ma say about it?”

  “Haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “You think she’ll object?”

  Jorie nodded. “Probably.”

  “Well, I’ll speak to her.”

  Maybe he was imagining it, but it seemed his father was kinder than he used to be. Maybe Pa had noticed that he was growing up and was somebody you could have a conversation with.

  After dinner Catherine slammed down the forks she was drying, and addressed her husband. “He will do no such thing! I promised him years ago he’d never have to work in the mine!”

  “He’ll not be in the mine. He’ll be in the bookkeeper’s office. Be good for him. You don’t want him in school—”

  “You know why!”

  “The lad’s got to be doing something. Idle hands all these months.”

  “We’ve been working on his studies.”

  “He needs to apply some of those skills in the real world.”

  “The risk of scarlet fever is everywhere!”

  “We don’t have any cases there. That’s pretty well blown over now.”

  “You make it sound like a spring storm. It’s taken lives in this town, Thomas! Sixteen of them!”

  “You can’t isolate him forever.”

  “Must all your sons work at the mine?” Catherine tried to compose herself. “Earl Foster could probably use him again this summer in his garden. That’s much more suitable to his nature.”

  “His nature! For God sakes, woman, I’m tired of hearing about his nature. He needs to be around men.”

  “Thomas!”

  “When did you plan to cut the cord, Catherine? When did you plan to pull him from your teat?”

  In the end, Pa won; Jorie would go to work with his father.

  He got up early on his first day and spent considerable time trying to tame the cowlick in his hair. He’d have to ask Pa if he should start shaving; tiny hairs were appearing on his chin. Pa had told him to wear a clean shirt with a tie and his good brown sweater. When he came downstairs his mother had a hot breakfast ready for them.

  Her lips quivered as she said,
“I’m sorry you have to go. I tried to convince him—”

  “I want to, Ma.”

  “You want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever for?”

  How could he put it? “I need to be doing something.”

  Thomas came down and started talking about the job, sparing Jorie further argument and his mother’s injured looks.

  The first few days took Jorie more by surprise than he’d expected. He’d never heard so much foul language in his life, and wasn’t quite sure what some of it meant. The filthy spittoon was used as a target, and sometimes Jorie had to dodge the bullets. Soon he was goaded into trying this manly custom by the others. After getting sick on his first wad, much to the amusement of the three men in the office, he gave up trying. In addition, the room was so filled with smoke, he had to go outside to get air every hour or so.

  He received a new kind of education from the stories they told. The man named Jim told the best. One day after Lars Jensen came by to ask about his paycheck Jim started in.

  “You heard what happened to Lars and his fiancée?”

  “No, tell it, Jim.”

  “Well, one Sunday afternoon a few years back, he was takin’ his sweetheart out for a ride in his buggy, up around the lake, toward Laurium. He started pitchin’ her a little woo, spoonin’, and meanwhile ignoring the reins. Anyway, his horse, doing what it always did on that particular road, turns into the circular drive of The Luce Women of Laurium, and stops at the front entrance!”

  “No!” Loud guffaws from the men.

  Jorie could feel his face color, and pretended to be so deep in his work he didn’t hear.

  “Now Lars looks up to see why the horse had stopped and saw they were at the Pleasure Palace. ‘Wonder why the horse turned in here,’ he says, all innocent. His sweetheart didn’t know either, never having been there. He turned the horse around fast just as the Madam Luce come out to greet him, calling him by name. But Lars continues up the road, keeping a tight rein on the old gelding now. For awhile it looked like he was going to get away with it, until the girl up and tells the story at the dinner table that night in front of both her parents and Lars.”

  There were guffaws and chortles from the men in the office.

  “Fuck, Jim. You’re not fibbin’?” the other man choked.

  Jim continued his tale. “’You won’t believe what happened this afternoon,’ she says to her family.” He raised his voice to imitate the girl and the men laughed again.

  “For no reason at all Thor, that’s Lars’s horse, turns in to the drive of this beautiful Southern style mansion, with big white pillars and beautiful red velvet curtains. I think you’d call it an ante-bellum house, Daddy, but I’m not sure about the architecture. The prettiest woman comes out — she’s all in red velvet too, and says ‘good-afternoon, Lars.’ Didn’t she, Honey? But he didn’t even know her, so he just drove off real fast. Now isn’t that the strangest thing?”

  The boys couldn’t stop laughing and Jim enjoyed how well his little story had come off.

  When he could get his laughter under control, the one called Ben asked, “Did you make this up, Jim?”

  “Not a word. Whole town knows the story.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, poor Lars had planned to marry this girl, but that was the end of the romance. Her pa knew all about The Luce Women of Laurium, having had a few pokes there himself, no doubt.

  Jorie wondered if his father had ever been at a bawdy house.

  The work presented no challenge. The only difficult part was the many errors he discovered in the books; he wasn’t sure whether he should point them out or not.

  “Better not,” Pa said, looking up from his newspaper. “They’d just think you were a fresh kid, and if you think they’re having sport with you now, just imagine what they’d do if you bested them.”

  Jorie was glad for his Pa’s advice, but whenever he could do it without causing a chain reaction, he corrected the figures in the ledger.

  Thomas looked at his son, now becoming a young man. “How do you like it there? Different from school, eh?”

  “Oh, yes.” Jorie nodded his head vigorously.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “They chew a lot, spit a lot, and tell dirty stories.”

  “You’re growing up, son.” He returned to his newspaper, then looked up again. “What kind of stories? You got one?”

  Jorie colored. “You want me to tell you?”

  “Yeah, I could use a good tale.”

  Jorie started telling him the one about the Pleasure Palace, all the time asking himself why he was doing this. Would Pa get mad at him, or pull him off the job? But he’d started, and he couldn’t stop now.

  When he finished, he held his breath, but Pa rolled with laughter, and clapped him on the knee.

  “Good one, son. That’s a good one!”

  For a moment Jorie froze, then their eyes met. He started laughing, self-consciously at first, then in full voice with Pa.

  Jorie realized that with his pa he had passed some sort of initiation.

  After a few weeks with his new teacher in the fall, Jorie decided Mr. Smythe was neither friend nor foe. He was a hard taskmaster, but for once this gave Jorie an edge. Studying helped to push certain scenes, real and imagined, out of his mind. Besides, he hoped to go to the University, and he knew he’d have to excel if that was to happen.

  He had two poems published in a nature magazine, and an article in The Copper Country Evening News.

  One evening his father sat with him in the parlor smoking the pipe Jorie had given him. He tamped the tobacco down.

  “I finally got it broke in, son. Fine pipe.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re becoming quite a writer, aren’t you?”

  Jorie tried to swallow the immense pleasure he felt.

  “Have you thought of what you’ll want to do when school’s out?”

  “I have another year to go.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know, Pa.” Why had he said that? “What I mean is —” Oh, God, he wasn’t ready for this pitch. “I’d like to go to college.” He took a deep breath. “I mean the University.”

  “In Ann Arbor. That would cost a great deal of money. Room and board on top of tuition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just then his mother came into the room. “Eliza’s calling for you, Jorie. I can’t get her to settle down.”

  Jorie looked at his father.

  “You’d better go.”

  Damn! What awful timing. Now Pa would tell Ma what they were talking about, and that would be the end of it.

  When he came downstairs his mother said, “It’s much too soon to be talking about college. That can wait another year.”

  He looked to his father, but Pa was engrossed in the paper.

  No more was said that year about college.

  The fall term of his last year went quickly. By spring everyone was already talking about the millennium, even though it was still months away. Grammar school children's visions of what the coming century would bring were drawn on huge pieces of butcher paper and posted in the stores and banks. Adults were publishing stories and articles which prophesied such unbelievable exploits as outer space exploration with the aid of strange new rockets; and expeditions deep into the crust of the Earth where communities of beings lived without need of air, water or light. Some of the best-written pieces and some of the most fanciful were published in The Copper Country Evening News.

  One was Jorie's. He didn't write anything about exploring outer regions. Rather it was about taking care of what we had, preserving it for generations to come. He had read John Muir’s essays about preserving more land in the west to be set aside and declared as national parks. Jorie wanted to go on record as being in favor of establishing a national park in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, at Brockway Mountain.

  The piece he wrote was well received, and folks
told Thomas Radcliff they thought his boy had a real knack for writing. Thomas passed the compliments along to Jorie. Catherine was proud too, and told him so.

  "Now aren't you glad I helped you edit it?” she said. “That part about saving the wolves would have just annoyed people, and then they wouldn't have even read the rest."