Mother Lode

  “Jorie, it’s not only mining and engineering they offer. They have other courses, too, English and Geology and suchlike. We could study together. I’d read the texts too. I promise. And then we could discuss them.”

  “Ma, no! I want to be with boys my own age — discuss my classes with them.”

  “We could have soirees, like they have in Paris. That’s it! We have a lovely home, and you could invite some of the bright young men to come — maybe every Sunday night. We’d have discussions, then I could serve refreshments and you could even play the piano for them. You would become very popular.”

  He could see she was getting desperate, but he took a deep breath. “No, Ma, I don’t want you to be in my academic discussions, wherever they are.”

  Catherine blinked. He could hear the catch in her breath. “Well, then, I’ll stay in the background, just serve refreshments.”

  How pathetic she looked. And how he hated hurting her. But he shook his head.

  That evening Jorie eavesdropped on a conversation between his parents.

  “You made sure to tell me about all his literary accomplishments, my dear. Am I meant to conclude that he belongs in a mining school?”

  “For two years, Thomas.”

  “You’ve molded and shaped a little intellect after your heart, and here he is, too big for his books, wanting the University, if you please.”

  Jorie thought he heard his mother sniffle. He crept closer where he could just see through a crack in the door.

  “And deserving it, too, I might add,” Thomas said.

  Catherine gasped and shoved her hand in her mouth.

  Thomas looked hard at his wife. “You got what you wanted, woman, now be done with your blithering.” Thomas tapped his pipe. “You’ve another child to tend to. Had you forgotten?”

  In the end, Pa declared that he could go to Ann Arbor in the fall, and Ma couldn’t prevent it.

  Leaving home wasn’t that easy. His mother’s tears were so unbearable he tried to put his attention on little Eliza. But she clung to his neck and cried too. At three she was very attached to Jorie, and he to her. Totally without judgment of him, she was always delighted with whatever games he’d suggest or stories he’d tell her. For his part, he thought being with her was like a walk in the garden after leaving a smoky room.

  But now that he was on his way, the more miles he could put between himself and his family, the brighter would be the delights that lay before him. The train rocked back and forth, putting many to sleep. But not Jorie. The University would bring a new life, and he couldn’t be more excited.

  He had informed the dean that he would like to live in a boarding house. He was assigned such a room on Ann Street, near the campus. Six other students lived and ate in the same house, and although shy and uncomfortable with his peers, he found there was one with whom he could relate quite easily. Lawrence was also from a small town, and quite bright.

  Jorie saw a counselor regarding the classes he’d be taking, and was pleased to find that although most were required, there were also electives. He had chosen to major in science, but his favorite class was philosophy.

  He wrote to his mother:

  We are studying Socrates, who felt an unexamined life wasn’t worth living, that one should question and be critical of his society, and of himself. Imagine my surprise at reading this, as I first heard much the same from you! This gives me the confidence to continue writing against all I find abhorrent in Society. Although I know you miss me, it is you I can thank for instilling in me the quest for knowledge, the ever-deepening desire to explore what lies beyond the obvious. You would be proud of me, Mother.

  Your devoted son, Jorie

  Catherine pressed this bitter pill of praise to her heart. Oh, the irony!

  He’d never imagined there were so many ideas in the world. And he’d never had so much opportunity for stimulating exchange of thought.

  Having felt most of life that he was an aberration of his species, he was now discovering that he was part of a subspecies that actually took pleasure in learning. He remembered the story of the ugly duckling. Although still not comfortable with his peers, he saw the possibility. Perhaps in the spring, when they accepted new members, he might join the debating club.

  When her first letter came, he felt his hands shaking as he opened it. He’d thought getting away from home and the discipline of study would erase the attachment he had to his mother. But even at this distance, and as much as he loved school, he found that her tentacles still ensnared him. With shame he realized he missed her terribly. The distance helped him to see how strange their bond had been. Well, he’d always known it was unusual.

  He didn’t know what kind of relationships other boys had with their mothers, but he knew it wasn’t like his; it just couldn’t be. He’d heard some say they were homesick, and maybe that meant they missed their mothers, but he doubted if they missed them in the same way he did. He thought about the training he’d had in discipline and sacrifice, and wondered if others had experienced anything like that. He didn’t think so, and sometimes this made him very angry with her. But he knew she loved him, so it was difficult to fault her for the intense feelings he had. No, there must be something wrong with him.

  The first letters he received from her were so sad that when one came, he would brace himself, scan it quickly, and turn his mind to his studies. But inevitably he would pull it out before turning in for the evening, read it slowly, taking in her scent and the breath behind the words.

  Pa sent him money each month, and if he was careful there was some left over, which he used to attend the Men’s Glee Club and other musical events.

  As the holidays neared his mother wrote:

  I can hardly wait for you to come home. There will be wonderful activities for the millennium, which you will enjoy. There’s to be a sculpture contest on the lake with huge towers of ice to be carved, one for the old century and one the new. Points will be given for speed and artistic achievement. Everyone will be there, watching and cheering on their team. And there will be a parade on New Year’s Day that is sure to be jolly. It’s almost the Twentieth Century, Jorie! Can you believe it? I count the days until your return.

  But Jorie asked permission to stay in Ann Arbor over the holidays. The semester wouldn’t be over until the end of January. He wrote that he had a paper to prepare for his philosophy class, due when the holiday ended.

  He tried not to think of the real reason.

  Pa wrote that he didn’t have to come home and was proud that he was leaning into the wheel so hard. Ma objected, but on the whole took it rather stoically, he thought. Maybe she’s getting used to it. She went on to tell him of the wonderful gala they were going to up in Red Jacket.

  To assuage my disappointment in your not coming home, or perhaps for letting you go so far away in the first place, your father is making an extra effort to be kind to me. We will take the train up with other members of his men’s club and their wives. Then there will be a lavish dinner, followed by dancing to an orchestra. Everyone will be dressed in their finest and your father gave me money to purchase a new gown and shoes for the occasion. It won’t replace your absence, dear, but it is something to look forward to.

  He felt very grateful that his father was taking up some of the slack.

  On Christmas Eve Jorie went caroling with a group of other students who were staying in town. Like something out of a picture book, huge gentle snowflakes fell slowly as they sang their way through the lamp-lit streets. It was almost warm compared to the Upper Peninsula.

  One of the “town boys”, another science major and his lab partner in zoology, invited him to his home for Christmas dinner. When Alan’s mother discovered that Jorie could play the piano, she laughed, “Well, now, you must sing for your supper!”

  Jorie broke out in a sweat when the telegram came.

  “Father dying. Come home.”

  It was the last day of the year, the century. At all the stops along
the way, banners flowed from the little train stations. “Welcome, Twentieth Century!” “Here’s to Progress!” The excitement in the air was everywhere. People bustled on to the trains with bundles of food, on their way to nearby relatives, with whom to share the occasion.

  But for Jorie, the lugubrious ride home on the train seemed interminable. Guilt coursed through him. He should have gone home for the holidays. He’d have been there, would have had a chance to see Pa before he took sick. He prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

  Maybe he would not die. Jorie didn’t even know what was wrong with him, and Ma was prone to exaggerating. Perhaps it was just Ma’s way to get him home.

  His mind went back through the years. Scenes from the past played on the stage of his mind. How he’d hated and feared his father when he was small. How little they’d communicated. Only recently they’d begun to soften toward each other. It seemed they were just on the point of a breakthrough.

  He’d never bothered to wonder what his father’s dreams and disappointments were. Was he grief stricken when his first wife died? How must Pa have felt about sending Walter away? He hadn’t seen his half-brother since he was about five. If Pa was in the hospital, he supposed he’d be seeing Walter now.

  Thoughts continued to race through his mind as the hours dragged on. He forced himself to turn his mind back to school. Damn! He should have brought his books home, and the paper he was working on. In such a hurry to catch the train, he’d stuffed only a few clothes in his satchel and run down State Street toward the depot. He sank back in his seat in frustration. He’d have a lot of catching up to do when he got back.

  By the time he neared Hancock, it was dark. Candles flickered in windows, and crossing the bridge he could see lights across the frozen lake. As the cab’s tired horse trudged its way up the lane, Jorie’s heart went to his throat, fearing he’d be too late. But even before they reached the house, he could see that no one was home. He had the cab take him to the hospital.

  Strong smells of ether and ammonia greeted his nostrils as he entered the hospital. Further down the hall, his mother ran to him, threw her arms about him and began sobbing.

  “You’re here at last!”

  “What’s wrong with Pa?”

  “He’s had a stroke. He’s unconscious.”

  “Where is he?”

  She motioned toward the room.

  He pushed past her and went to his father’s bed. Pa was making strange gurgling sounds. How old he looked!

  Finally, he turned, aware that others were behind him.

  Three men stood near the doorway, none of them recognizable to Jorie.

  One spoke. “Guess you’re Jorie. I’m Tom and this is William here.”

  Jorie looked at the third. “Walter?”

  The young man nodded.

  This was not the time to get reacquainted. Jorie turned back to his father, their father. What a strange feeling — these men he didn’t know at all, having the same father.

  When he went back in the hall his mother was crying.

  “You didn’t even say ‘hello’ to your mama.”

  He put his arm around her and walked her down the hall, away from the others. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We were coming back from the gala, on the train. I’d gone to the Ladies and stopped to talk to a woman I knew in another car. Someone came to get me. Oh, Jorie, it was awful! And to think I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  “He hasn’t been conscious at all?”

  “No.” Jorie could see she was trying hard not to cry again. “Arthur says it does not bode well. Even if he were to live . . .”

  She stopped, and Jorie held her, feeling her small frame shake with silent sobs against his chest.

  “Where’s Eliza?”

  “Helena’s watching her.”

  At midnight they finally left the hospital. New Year’s Eve. The blaring dissonance of the combined whistles from the Portage, and other mines and factories reminded everyone it was the beginning of the new millennium. As the sleigh glided across the freshly fallen snow sparkling under the full moon, they heard the revelry in town and across the lake. Driving along Front Street they could see dozens of bonfires on the frozen lake, fireworks lighting up the sky, and noisemakers sounding off. There were even a few cutters racing in the moonlight. Every sound and sight from lilting laughter to raucous brawling accosted their senses as they traveled homeward.

  So this was the Twentieth Century, the great event the world had awaited. To Jorie, the revelry was mayhem, a bizarre background against which to play his own dark themes.

  Chapter 24

  Three days later, Dr. Johnson came to the house early in the morning, and Catherine instantly gauged his purpose.

  Funeral arrangements were made with Mr. Markel, of Markel and Miller Funeral Parlor. Catherine decided against having the service at the funeral home, nor would Thomas have wanted it in a church. It would be held in the back parlor. She was adamant about that.

  She wondered if Mr. Markel were as solicitous with all of his clients. He took a good deal of time explaining procedure to her and helping her choose the coffin. Beyond that she felt he spent an inordinate amount of time comforting her.

  “This is probably the most difficult time in your life, Mrs. Radcliff. I want you to know that I am here for you, and you can call on me in whatever capacity you find need for assistance.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. For instance, like most widows, you may find yourself totally unfamiliar with the financial aspects of life, your husband having seen to all that in the past.”

  “Oh, no,” she answered candidly. “There was a time when I handled our affairs completely.”

  “I see. I do not wish to press myself on you, but then there is the matter of bereavement counseling. Perhaps you are unaware that funeral directors have much experience in this area. More, I might say, than most clergy, as this is the heart of our work.” He patted her hand with his small, flabby one. “I can be quite effective in this domain.”

  “With all your experience.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And if you are at a loss for any other service you are accustomed to receiving from your husband. . .”

  The tinkle of Catherine’s laughter served to silence the ingratiating Mr. Markel for the moment.

  When it was time for the service, Eliza begged to go, but she was held back in the care of Helena.

  “Come upstairs with me, child. I’ll tell you a good tale. Better ‘n any you’d be hearin’ in there today.”

  Friends and business associates of Thomas’ from Red Jacket, as well as Houghton and Hancock attended.

  Catherine held Jorie’s arm throughout the service and part of the reception. But toward the end, after receiving condolences from the guests she drifted toward Mr. Markel.

  “How good of you to come. I didn’t realize your duties extended to attending the service.”

  “On the contrary, ma’am. I feel it is my responsibility to stay with my client until the final sendoff.”

  Catherine looked at him in amazement.

  “Perhaps that’s putting it dramatically, but I don’t hold with just selling a casket, and that being the long and short of it.”

  “I see.”

  “And on occasion, when I am particularly moved by someone’s loss, I go because, well, my heart bids me.”

  “Pretty speech.”

  “In this case, I thought, well, you’re such a young widow. There’s something so very vulnerable about you. If there were anything we’d overlooked, I just wanted to be in the background, in case you should need me.”

  The house looked different to Jorie, somehow. There was a new oriental rug in the front room; and the front door, originally all wood, had had its upper replaced with a colored leaded glass design. There was a new carriage, and even a telephone! His father must have been doing very well.

  That evening Catherine told Jorie again what a shock Thomas’ passing was, how they’d
had such a grand time at the ball, how well Thomas looked. Jorie asked if there were anything he could do for her, and she said she’d like to hear him play something on the piano. When the first notes of Pavane for a Dead Princess reached her, she stopped him.

  “Oh, heavens, Jorie. Play something gay. Cheer me up.”

  He was taken aback, but he countered with When the Saints Come Marching In. For the first time since he’d been home he saw her smile.

  Finally, she bid him good-night and went to bed. Jorie stayed downstairs reading for awhile, hoping she’d be asleep when he went up. But he’d no sooner gotten into bed when he heard the door open.