Mother Lode

  How could he explain that playing dress-up with her would not do the job.

  “We’ll take turns being the performer and the audience. And a very appreciative listener you’ll find in me, Jorie.”

  "Sounds silly to me.”

  “It will be very amusing. We’ll call it the Thursday Night Musicale, and we can have it every week. Something to look forward to. It will help us get through this dreadful winter.”

  He saw her hopeful shining eyes. She looked so excited, was trying so hard to raise his spirits.

  “Well, if it will please you.”

  “I’ve prepared a special meal. Kind of an appreciation dinner, shall we say? Venison with gooseberry sauce, lemon pie with — “

  “Ma, you don’t have to do all this.”

  “Oh, but I want to. We both need a lift. Here, Jorie, open the wine, will you? We’ll let it set while we get dressed.”

  Eliza came running up to him in her party dress. “I get to come to the music.”

  “I’ve allowed her to join us for the recital. Then she’ll go to bed and we’ll dine later.”

  He wished Eliza could stay the whole evening. Having her there would make it seem more like a family affair.

  Soon his mother descended in a shimmering blue taffeta. Before he could see it, he could hear the rustle of the material. At the bottom of the stairs she did a little twirl to show off her gown. All innocence and expectation, like a school girl waiting to be taken to her first dance.

  He tried to dismiss the potpourri of feelings that overcame him — pity, desire, and a growing resentment. “I haven’t seen that dress before.”

  “Your father bought it for me to wear to the gala. He said I looked girlish in it.”

  She held out her arm, and he escorted her into the front parlor. “You go first, Jorie. I’ll be your audience.”

  She lit a lamp which she carried to the piano and took a chair a few feet away from it. She waited expectantly.

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “Surprise me. You decide.”

  He chose a Chopin nocturne. When he had finished, Catherine clapped enthusiastically. Merci! C'était merveilleux!”

  Eliza clapped too.

  “Your turn.”

  He listened to the sonorous tones of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

  During his Bach cantata, she leaned over his shoulder humming the tune. In a moment she put her hands on his back.

  “You’re all tight here, Darling. There should be movement as you play, all across your upper back, just as in your arms.” She danced her fingers between his shoulders.

  He could feel her warm breath erecting the hair on the back of his neck, just as it had as a boy.

  Although there was a chair placed for her, when her mother was playing, Eliza climbed into Jorie’s lap.

  “I want to play like that,” she whispered.

  “Isn’t Mummy teaching you?”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Catherine stopped, ending with a crashing chord. “I must say the audience is very rude tonight.”

  “We’re sorry,” Jorie said.

  “We’re sorry,” Eliza echoed.

  Later, when they were eating alone, Catherine said, “Wouldn’t it be grand if we could have music while we dined?” She laughed softly. “Minstrels de flânerie, jouant des violons.”

  Eliza came down stairs in her nightgown and crawled up on Jorie’s lap.

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “Go back to bed, Eliza,” her mother instructed.

  “Come tell me a story, Jawie. Please.”

  “All right.”

  He started to rise, but Catherine objected. “She has to learn obedience. I told her to go to bed.”

  Jorie looked at the child. “You go on up like Mummy says, and when I’ve finished eating I’ll come up and tell you two stories.”

  Pacified, Eliza left.

  “She can’t just come down and interrupt our meal like that and drag you off.”

  They ate in silence. “I worked so hard to make this a pleasant evening for us, and now it’s all spoiled by that selfish child.”

  Jorie bristled. “I don’t think she was being selfish. She doesn’t feel well.”

  “Then the best place for her is in bed!”

  The evening ended poorly. Nevertheless, each Thursday evening Catherine had a special dinner waiting in the dining room with her best table cloth, candles and china.

  He spent the night at work doing the same thing he’d been doing every day since he took this job — picking up tiny pieces of lead with tweezers, whole words for the most common, and individual letters for the rest. Setting them down carefully in the trays, to make words, sentences, his eyes started burning as they did every night, and by the end of his shift he had a headache.

  He was about to leave in the morning when Mr. Abbot called him into his office.

  “Roger’s sick with influenza. I’d like you to cover that anti-union speaker tonight at the Town Hall. Can’t promise, but if you do a good job, we’ll probably run it tomorrow, and you’ll be paid the free-lance rate.”

  Jorie was exuberant. In the weeks that followed he received two more assignments. As enjoyable as it was, it did not lessen his desire to return to the University.

  One evening he wrote for an application and list of available scholarships, to be sent to him in care of The Copper Country Evening News. Even with his ‘sizeable sum’, whatever that was, he’d have to stretch it out over four years. He did not want to be caught short in the fall.

  When the letter arrived he spent an evening poring over the qualifications for each prize. Some struck him as absurd.

  The applicant must be able to prove that he is a direct descendent of Joshua Daniel Abrams of Columbus, Ohio, and be seeking a degree in the field of law.

  Another: The recipient must have spent a minimum of two years in service for the Union in the Civil War, and have in his possession proof of honorable discharge.

  My God, thought Jorie. Eligible applicants would have to be over fifty years old!

  But there were some that appeared to be more available, based on merit alone. Since Jorie had not been able to complete even one semester, he would have to rely on his high school records.

  He decided to go to the school after work to ask Mr. Smyth if he would write a letter. On his way, the idea of asking Miss O’Dell came into his head. Did he dare?

  As he approached her room he began to sweat. Class had been dismissed, and the youngsters, some of whom he recognized, were grabbing their coats and satchels, eager to be done with the school day.

  But it was not Miss O’Dell he saw cleaning the blackboard.

  “Hi, Jorie.” A younger student waved to him.

  “Where’s Miss O’Dell?”

  “She’s not here no more.”

  The boy ran off. Jorie felt his stomach tighten.

  He approached the woman at the blackboard.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but could you tell me why Miss O’Dell is not here?”

  The older woman looked him hard up and down. “Who are you, and what business is it of yours, may I ask?”

  “I’m sorry. I was her student, Jordan Radcliff. I, I came to see her.”

  The older woman raised an eyebrow. “So you’re Jorie. The one who got her in all the trouble.”

  The most awful pain was spreading from his throat down to his belly. They’d let her go, after all.

  Suddenly the woman laughed. “Your Miss O’Dell has gone and got herself married.”

  “Married!” he was stunned.

  “And moved downstate to Grand Rapids, she has. They dug me out from my grave over in Dollar Bay to take her place ‘til they find someone else.” She emitted a hearty laugh.

  He hardly heard anything after ‘married.’ He knew he had to say something. “That’s grand. Thank you, thank you very much,
Miss—”

  “Billy.”

  He left in a happy daze. At least someone’s dreams were coming true. He ran all the way home with a joy he hadn’t felt in months, because he loved Miss O’Dell and she deserved to be happy.

  The next day he was back again. “Excuse me, Miss — “

  “Billy.”

  “Billy. Would it be possible for you to give me her address? I’d like to write her.”

  She regarded him for a moment. Then she said, “She’d like to hear from you. I’m sure she would.” She rummaged through her desk for a piece of paper.

  “Her husband, he’s a fine young man. A salesman for a furniture company. Office and school furniture. Up and coming, he is. Did you notice the new desks?”

  He had not. He looked now.

  Mr. Gillespie — that’s her name now, too — Mr. Gillespie, convinced the board of education they would improve student performance. Doesn’t that beat all? A good salesman, I’d say, wouldn’t you?” She gave him a knowing look.

  Jorie colored. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So that’s how she met him. Him coming in here after school, measuring the room and such. Even measured the students, if you please, to make sure he had the right size desks for them — said that was the first thing a student should have — a desk that fit properly! Anyway, he kept coming back to make sure he got everything right. Leastways, that was his excuse.” Miss Billy chortled mightily.

  “That’s splendid.”

  Jorie didn’t tell his mother anything about the scholarship application. He sent it in with a letter, this time asking that replies be sent to his work address. He received letters at the News from his philosophy professor and Miss O’Dell stating that their recommendations had been sent to the dean. Miss O’Dell told him she was thrilled that he was planning to attend the University. She also confided that she was expecting a baby in a few months, and that if ever he was near Grand Rapids she’d be most pleased if he were to visit them.

  From the University of Michigan’s Scholarship Committee, he received the following letter:

  “May we express our heartfelt sympathy at the passing of your father. As the sole remaining parent of a minor, your mother has written us withdrawing her permission for you to attend the University because you are needed at home. Therefore, any request for financial assistance from the University will have to be deferred until you have reached the age of eighteen. Your application will be held until next year, at which time you should let us know if you are still interested in procuring a scholarship.”

  Jorie groaned. He talked to Phillip at work. Phillip was the closest thing he had to a friend. Ten years his senior, the soft-spoken man had taken notice of Jorie. Often they ate together.

  The next night Jorie complained, “If I wait until I’m old enough to apply, and then have to wait until they act on it, it will probably be the year after next before I’d get it, if ever.”

  “Get out of here while you can. I was set on going below and getting work at The Detroit Tribune, but I stayed to support my widowed mother. My older brothers got away, but it looks like I’m stuck for the duration.”

  “Well, scholarship or not, I’m going down there, toward the end of the summer, get a job, and go back to school. Might have to be part-time, but it will be something.”

  “What about your ma?”

  “She said I could go. She’ll be used to being a widow by then.”

  If he believed it, why did his stomach turn over when he said it?

  Now that it was spring, rather than go to bed right after work, Jorie stayed up to fill his senses with this wonderful season that heralded the coming summer. He would sleep in the evening before going to his midnight shift.

  In the warm May afternoon, shadowed snow banks still loomed high, but the hills were finally releasing their keep of water, held frozen so long in winter’s clasp. Jorie stopped to listen to the trickle of little rivulets and the rush of broadening streams. Adding to the harmony was the call of starling and blue jay. He wished it were as easy for him to discharge the frozen, pent up waters of his mind. He leaned against the fence imagining that all that troubled him was melting away, joining the bubbling streams, leaving his head free and clear.

  Finally, returning home, he went round the back, and removed his muddy boots in the shed.

  As he entered the kitchen, instead of being greeted with the hot chocolate she usually had ready for him, his mother was sitting with her head on the table.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She raised her tear-stained face. “We’re done for, Jorie.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve just come from the lawyer’s. Your pa’s stock — it isn’t worth the printer’s ink.”

  She ran her finger back and forth over the words on one of the certificates. “Two of the companies went under.” She tossed it in the air. “They don’t even exist any more.”

  “What!”

  She raised a fistful of wrinkled papers. “You see these bills? All unpaid.”

  Jorie was incredulous. “Why?”

  “There isn’t any money!”

  Eliza came in and crawled silently up on his lap. Her tear-stained face implored Jorie. “Henna’s gone.”

  Jorie looked to his mother.

  “I had to let her go. We can’t afford a housekeeper any more.”

  Eliza buried her head in Jorie’s jacket. “I want Henna back.”

  Jorie added his protest. “She looks after Eliza!”

  “We’ll have to do that now.”

  His head reeled with the new information. He sputtered, “But the new buggy, the oriental carpet, why did he buy them?”

  “None of them paid for!” She turned away from him, her eyes overflowing with tears.

  “How could that have happened?” Jorie struggled to grasp this new information.

  “Your father handled the money. He was known as a man of means. He had good credit, but his investments had been failing—”

  “Did you know this?”

  “I knew some stocks had dropped in value, but I had no idea how bad it was. He kept saying that as long as he left his stock intact, it would bounce back.”

  “But it didn’t?”

  She shook her head. “He put most of his salary into buying more stock, in different companies, hoping to redeem his losses. He was obsessed with the stock market. And buying new things made him feel safe, I believe, as though it weren’t actually happening.” Her lips twitched. “You didn’t know your pa, Jorie.”

  He was silent. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  She wiped the tears. ”Meanwhile, the debts piled up. The creditors were patient, not wanting to converge on a widow, but now they’re demanding their money.” She choked on the words. “And I don’t have it.”

  Jorie tried to take this in. “He never let on to me he was short.” My God! He gave me money for school when he didn’t have it to give!

  He felt his throat swelling up. An old familiar feeling of guilt enveloped him. Maybe all these financial problems caused his stroke, and he had added to the problem by begging to go to the University.

  “The Company isn’t doing anything for you?”

  She shook her head. “Had he lived ‘til retirement, they may have given him a small pension. But death benefits for his widow, no.”

  They were silent while his head reeled with this new information.

  He could hear the robins singing in the trees, and for a moment it was just another spring afternoon. He tried to take himself out of the scene the way he used to, but her words pulled him back.

  “I could sell my grandmother’s china, and some of the furniture, but it wouldn’t be enough.” She implored him with her eyes. “We’ll have to sell the house. That’s the only way.”

  “Sell it! Where would you go?” Some vision of his future was trying to come into focus but he kept pushing it back.

  “I don’t know. Take rooms in town, I sup
pose.”

  “With Eliza? You can’t do that!”

  His mother turned to him. “What else can we do, Jorie?”