Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  He nodded.

  "There's a fine line, you know, between putting forward fresh ideas, and being so radical you offend people. You can only move the public a little at a time, and you tend to be rather outspoken."

  Catherine chopped up the vegetables and meat with a vengeance. It wasn't that she minded making pasties; she could do that in her sleep. She had been sending out her packet of poems for the past year to various publishers, and today had received yet another rejection notice. The poems were beginning to look shabby, worn around the edges, and she would have to painstakingly copy every single one of them again before resubmitting them.

  "We find your material unsuitable for our publication," she mimicked as she diced the turnips.

  Why was it so hard to be a woman? She was sure that's what it was. In the one way she could have expressed herself as an individual she was thwarted. She could have sent them out with a man's name as George Eliot and George Sands had done, but her poems were obviously written by a woman and she would not betray them by editing, removing the very pearl from the oyster.

  What did anyone here actually know about her? Did they have any idea of the yearnings, disappointments, fantasies held in her breast? She knew other women had lost children and husbands, but she could find no passion behind their paste-like faces. Perhaps it was just that their masks were so thick she could not see beyond them. Catherine knew she wore a mask too, but if she ever met a like soul, she was sure they would lock eyes and know instantly.

  There was no way she could share her work locally. The Ladies Oratorical and Dramatic Society would be shocked, outraged at her pieces. Some had been scandalized when she read poems by Walt Whitman.

  She finished cutting up the turnips, tossed them in with the other vegetables and beef, and flipped the mixture onto the awaiting crusts. One for Thomas and one for Jorie to take to school the next day. In the morning she would heat them on the stove and wrap them in newspaper to keep them warm for lunchtime.

  Well, if she couldn't make a name for herself in writing, surely Jorie could. It was his last year of school. She could put her energies into his career. He would have her as a mentor and agent, something she had never had. And besides Jorie was a male. That made all the difference. He would just have to stop writing ode-to-an-onion kind of pieces and focus on serious work.

  Essays. Yes, that would be it. Suitably masculine. They were very popular these days, and their authors often traveled a circuit, frequently stopping in Houghton and Red Jacket to give talks on their subjects. People like James William Bryant. Even the amusing Mark Twain.

  Her son could be a purveyor of ideas; she liked the sound of that. She folded the dough over and pinched the edges of each pasty. With her tutelage there would be no telling how far he would go. Of course he'd attend college. The school of mining across the lake wasn't ideal for his talents, and Catherine winced a bit as she thought about that. But it would give him credentials, and if he had to, he could supplement his writing career as a mining engineer. He'd spoken of the University of Michigan, but she had no intention of losing him to some distant arena. No, the college across the lake would suffice, and he could live at home.

  Chapter 23

  The pots on the stove were boiling, ready for her bath. Helena was home with a toothache, and Catherine was tired from doing her work and preparing supper. A nice hot bath would soothe her aching legs.

  She went upstairs and changed into her dressing gown and brought down the towels. When Jorie got home he’d bring the copper tub from the shed and pour the steaming kettles for her bath.

  As he walked in the kitchen door, Catherine noticed that at sixteen he was good-looking with an amazing resemblance to her father. It's not that he always reminded her of him — she could have gotten used to that. It was just when she looked long into his deep blue eyes or he turned his head a certain way that she was taken by surprise; and each time the experience caused a quick intake of her breath.

  "Frederick’s going to the University next fall. He just got his acceptance letter.” Jorie’s face was flushed.

  "You haven't kissed your Mummy."

  He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

  “I’m going to have my bath now,” she said. “I’m only waiting for you to get it ready for me.”

  He fetched the copper tub, and set it on the kitchen floor near the stove.

  "I want to go to the University, Ma."

  “I think it needs wiping out.”

  “What does?”

  “The tub, Jorie. Focus.”

  He grabbed a rag and ran it around the inside of the tub.

  She said, “The water’s ready on the stove, you can pour it for me now, if you will.”

  “Could you just listen to me first, Ma?”

  “It won’t stay hot forever.”

  She picked up a kettle and poured it herself. He carried the second and the third, emptying them in her bath.

  “Will you get the cold bucket now from the rain barrel?”

  “I’d like to apply for admission.”

  "You didn't answer me, son."

  "What did you say?”

  "I asked you to fetch the cold water."

  He went out through the shed to the rain barrel, dipped a bucket into it, brought it back to the house and set it on the floor.

  “I’ve sent for an application.”

  “Pour it, Jorie. What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m trying to talk to you!”

  “Watch your tone of voice. I want to take my bath now.”

  “Every time I bring it up you change the subject!”

  He picked up the bucket, ready to dump the whole thing in the tub.

  “Not so fast. Let me test it first.” She raised her gown, exposing her leg and swished it with her tiny foot. “All right, a little more. That’s enough. It cools off so fast. Now turn around.”

  She slipped out of her dressing gown and stepped into the tub, as Jorie turned away. Making small whimpering noises, she finally lowered herself into the hot water.

  The steam rose around her. “Hand me the small towel and the pot of soap.”

  With his back to her he did so. “And scrub my back.” She placed the small towel across her chest. “Do I have to tell you everything?” He picked up the brush as he had so many times before, dipped it in the soap, and ran it over her back.

  “Ouch! Not so hard!”

  He threw down the brush in total frustration, kicked a chair over and strode out of the room.

  “Jorie, come back here and pick that up!"

  Reluctantly, he returned to the kitchen and righted the chair.

  "I think you'd best go upstairs until you have that temper under control," she directed.

  "That's just what I plan to do."

  He picked up his things and tore up the stairs two at a time. Tossing his books on the floor and himself on the bed, he lay fuming with frustration. Anger and arousal met in a collision of feelings he couldn’t sort out. He unbuttoned his fly and relieved himself in the only way he knew.

  But when it was over, he felt worse than ever. He knew what had incited his desire, knew that all it took was the most fleeting sight of his mother’s body, and the picture of her sitting naked in that tub, to bring him to climax. He was filled with self-loathing.

  He had to get away from her.

  He'd been trying to talk to her about the University for months now, and always she changed the subject. When he brought it up to Pa, he’d said, “Talk to your mother.”

  The application he'd sent for was waiting for him to fill out. He would have liked her approval, but if she was going to stall like this, he'd send it in anyway, and see what happened.

  He took the form from The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Just filling it out made him feel closer to obtaining his goal.

  In the morning before school, he took the letter to the post office, stopping at the window to buy a stamp.

  Mr. Gilroy unabashedly read the
address, and turned to Jorie. “The University, is it? Well, I guess our little college here isn’t good enough for you. Winning prizes and all kind of swells your head, I reckon.”

  Jorie colored and dropped his eyes. Mr. Gilroy’s son had not been able to get his essay published in the paper.

  The weeks went by slowly as Jorie waited for a response from Ann Arbor. Perhaps they didn’t let you know if you were not accepted. Then an awful thought occurred to him. What if Ma saw the letter and kept it from him?

  “Oh, my God!” he thought. “How will I ever know? I can’t accuse her.”

  Finally, the letter came. He knew Ma was upset about something when he walked in the kitchen. She was looking down at a large manila envelope in her lap. Then she raised her furrowed brow to him.

  “Tell me what this is, Jorie.”

  Hadn’t she opened it? His heart was pounding. He wanted to pounce on the letter, but stood paralyzed, in front of her.

  As if reading his mind, she answered, “No, I have not opened it. You will please to do so now, and let me know what it says.” She handed it to him.

  With shaking hands, that were both sweaty and cold, Jorie took the letter from her, and tried to open the envelope carefully. He wanted to savor the delicious anticipation that caused his heart to leap about in his breast.

  In exasperation, his mother said, “For heaven’s sake, son, tear it open.”

  He didn’t want to tear it, not even the envelope. Why couldn’t he have this one moment of heightened expectation to himself? Perhaps he’d have laid the letter aside until after dinner. Maybe he’d have taken it to Frederick’s to share with him. But here was Ma, demanding her satisfaction.

  Suddenly, he turned and ran upstairs with the letter. He would not be bullied into having this experience spoiled by her. And if the University rejected him, he would not lay his embarrassment and disappointment bare for her rejoicing.

  “Come back, here, Jorie!”

  He ignored her, went in his room, and closed the door behind him.

  “Jorie, you come back here! You hear me? I said, right now!”

  He listened, waiting to see what she would do. She did not follow him up the stairs. He lay down with his hand on the letter under his pillow. He closed his eyes and imagined a letter of acceptance, as he had done over and over before. Then to prepare himself for the worst, he tried to imagine the University had rejected him. There was a sense of dread, but beyond that, he hadn’t thought what he’d do.

  Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he opened the envelope and removed the letter. His eyes caught the first words, “We are happy to inform you. . .”

  He didn’t know what made him do it, but he fell on his knees and gave thanks to God. “I know you are my ally, for in this thing, oh Lord, surely my mother is not. And yet, you have seen fit to guide me in this direction, to help me.”

  Then he read the complete letter over and over, until he practically had it memorized. There were more papers, regarding housing. And they had included a catalogue of courses. It made him feel as though he was already on his way. He wouldn’t think, just yet, about the little paragraph stating that since he would still be under the age of eighteen when the fall term began, it would be necessary for his parent or guardian to file a letter giving consent to his admission.

  Sitting over a cup of tea in the kitchen late that evening, she felt the last of the warmth coming from the stove as her mind spiraled inward and downward. Had she pushed him too far demanding that he open the University letter in her presence? Some cliché about honey and vinegar flitted through her mind. Was this letter from the University of Michigan an application, or had he already applied and this a notification of acceptance? It never occurred to her that he would be rejected. If he’d stay in the North Country, she thought he’d be content in the end. But once he left, he’d be lost to her forever. Her job was to keep him home, and keep him content.

  Well, the battle wasn’t lost yet. The cost would be very dear. If they didn’t provide the funds, there was no way he could go, and that would be the end of it. He’d be upset, but he’d get over it. She tried to relax.

  She waited until morning, and then got it out of him that it was a letter of acceptance.

  “That doesn’t mean you’re going,” she reminded him.

  All week Jorie pored over the catalogue from the University. He waited until the weekend for a chance to talk to Pa alone, when Ma would be gone to do the shopping. On Saturday he could hear Pa out back chopping firewood. He put on his jacket and went to help him.

  “I’ll spell you for awhile, Pa.”

  “Pick up the other axe.”

  The duet of their axes, point and counterpoint, rang out through the spring woods as they worked together splitting the logs. It felt good to dissipate his energy this way.

  When they’d finished Jorie said, “Can I talk to you, Pa?”

  “Just let me get a cup of tea, to warm up my old bones.”

  Jorie waited in the parlor, fearing his mother would return before they had a chance to talk.

  Finally Thomas settled himself in his favorite chair, blowing on his tea. Jorie waited while Pa poured part of the tea into the saucer and back into the cup.

  “Your mother doesn’t like me to do this,” he said sheepishly. “What do you have on your mind, son?”

  He handed his father the letter from the University.

  “What is it?”

  “Read it, Pa.”

  Thomas set his tea down and opened the envelope. Then he fumbled for his glasses.

  “Have you seen them? I always leave them right here on this table.”

  Jorie went to the table and felt around on the floor. He was getting more nervous. Ma had been gone over an hour.

  “Here they are.”

  “I must have knocked them off.”

  Finally, Pa had his glasses firmly planted on his face and picked up the letter. When he’d finished reading it, he looked up. He studied his son’s face for such a long time Jorie wondered what he thinking.

  “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  His father’s eyes fell to reading the letter again.

  “Your mother thinks you ought to go across the lake.”

  “I know, but that’s not the right kind of school for me.”

  Then he found himself going on about the wonders of the University: “Just as the word implies, Pa, they have courses about everything in the universe! I could show you the catalogue, Pa. It’s quite astounding.”

  His father was still looking at the letter.

  “With all due respect to you, Pa, I’ve no interest in mining.”

  “I know that.”

  Jorie licked his lips. “Can I go—to the University?”

  “I can’t ignore your mother’s views. But if you don’t go this fall, you can, of course, when you’re eighteen. That’s only another year. You’ll be getting your sizeable sum then, like your brothers.” His father paused, sipped his tea. “If you want to use it for your education that would be fine with me. You’ve a good mind, and it deserves to be developed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jorie’s throat swelled up. His father had given him few words of praise. And the ‘sizeable sum’ — well, it had been mentioned before, though he hadn’t dare count on it.

  Still, he wanted to go to the University now. He thought he’d suffocate if he had to wait one more year.

  “Will you talk to her?”

  “You want me to take on your battles? Don’t you think I have enough trouble with her on my own?” Jorie saw a little smile in the corner of his father’s mouth.

  His father rose to leave, but turned, waving the letter. “Whether you go or not, this acceptance is quite a feather in your cap.”

  Two days later, Catherine called to him.

  “I see you’ve wound your father around your finger.”

  Jorie held his breath.

  �
��At sixteen, you’re much too young to be thinking about going so far away from home for any reason.”

  “I’ll be seventeen in the fall.”

  She shook her head. “Go to school here, at least for two years. Like other boys. Then we’ll see.”

  “I don’t want to go to the mining school.”