Mother Lode

  If he thought he was being invasive before to read her diary, he felt downright shameless now, almost as though he’d walked right into the bedroom and watched. The things she talked about doing with this Chester fellow sounded like they were right out of a scandalous book the boys in school had passed around: The Illicit Loves of Lacy Loomis. They were embarrassing to read, but sort of excited him too. He couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if he were to attempt that sort of thing with Cora. The thought of turning her over his knee pleasured him immensely. He could just see her plump, round rump turning rosy beneath his hand. Then they’d have a good laugh, and maybe she’d let him take her from behind. . .

  But that was ridiculous; she’d think he’d gone plum loony.

  He set his prurient interests aside and brought his thoughts back to the diary. There was this Catholic business. Something else he hadn’t known about. That’s where the rosary came into the picture. This Father Dumas — he wasn’t like any priest Earl had ever heard of. Perhaps it’s your conscience bothering you, not the actual act. Words to that effect. Well, wouldn’t we all be Catholics if the priests were so easy on us!

  There were other words in the diary that wouldn’t go away. After she gave up her lover, she wrote, I have made a great sacrifice. I intend to reap its rewards!

  What did she mean by that?

  Earl finished the second diary and dropped it off for Jorie before going home. All this talk about the Golden Bubble, whatever that was. Something so private Jorie wasn’t allowed to tell anybody, nor even have friends.

  Her ideas about penance and sacrifice — making it sound so sacred and noble for him to give things up. The way she thought about punishment gave him the creeps.

  Catherine MacGaurin had fallen off her pedestal.

  But so far there was nothing to tie these two diaries to her death. He couldn’t help feeling there must be a third one some place. Catherine had written regularly, and had filled the whole of the second diary two years ago. He doubted she’d have given up this practice just because the book was filled. If there was another diary, it could be important, especially if it were up to date. Perhaps the inciting incident which led to her demise would be in it. There were too many secrets in the shadows yet to be uncovered. So far, the diaries were his best lead.

  He had gone through every drawer in Catherine’s dresser and armoire, searching for false bottoms. He’d rummaged around the desk downstairs, and Jorie’s room as well, looked in the pantry, under rugs, mattresses, and loose floorboards. But an investigation of the Radcliff home turned up no further diaries. Maybe Jorie had burned that too.

  The judge was getting impatient.

  “How long you plan to keep him in the jug without a hearing?”

  “I’m trying to gather information. It takes time, and patience.”

  “Three more days. That’s all I give you, Foster. The hearing will be on Friday.”

  Earl hadn’t been able to sleep well ever since this thing began, and his psoriasis had left ugly red patches on three areas of his body. He had started a fireball rolling that he couldn’t stop. With sleep again eluding him, he rose early and made his own breakfast.

  He’d pretty much exhausted ideas on how to get Jorie to open up. Yesterday he’d thought that maybe if he shared some of his feelings with the boy, some of the mistakes he’d made as a young man, the lad might start to thaw. He even told him about the shivaree he and some chaps had staged on his parents’ wedding night. He knew getting someone to open up when they wanted to clam up wasn’t his strong suit. He’d never been able to get Cora to talk when she didn’t want to. It didn’t work with Jorie either.

  Today he had another plan. Maybe it was a mean trick, or maybe it wouldn’t cause any reaction at all. But he’d packed Jorie’s lunch himself, with a purpose in mind, and started off to work.

  At six o’clock, November skies had not allowed even a sliver of light to break the night. He walked from one gaslight to the next, watching his step in the dark stretches between, feeling the uneven surface of slippery slush beneath his feet. Earl sighed; the good citizens of Hancock had voted against electric streetlights. At least it wasn’t as cold as it had been. He grabbed a handful of snow. Good packing, the kind they liked to make iceballs with when he was a kid. He held it to the back of his hand until it was numb enough to stop the itching.

  He passed the houses, all in a row, occasionally seeing a light inside, hearing a baby cry in another. Did each have its own dark tale carefully closeted within?

  He stood back in shock as he entered the cell. Somehow Jorie had gotten a hold of some coal and drawn a ghastly mural in heavy black. Two walls were covered, and he was still at it. They looked like the workings of a madman.

  His knee-jerk reaction was that the boy was defacing public property, but his second thought was that maybe he’d reveal something through his drawing that he couldn’t otherwise express. Besides, it would be a good excuse to give these filthy cells a fresh coat of paint, once Jorie was out of here.

  An ominous chill went through him as he tried to decipher the scribbles. People — he guessed that’s what they were — heads skull shaped, with wide, elongated mouths hung open, screaming. Some lay prone, and in another section, they were climbing all over each other, trying to get to the top of a tower. Looking closer he could see that the tower was made entirely of humans.

  He wasn’t an expert on lunacy, but he knew enough to see that these scenes represented a very troubled soul.

  Jorie threw down a scrap of coal and picked up a bigger chunk.

  Earl cleared his throat. “I see you’ve been hard at work.”

  Jorie didn’t answer.

  “Who gave you the coal?

  “The night turnkey.”

  “What’s your picture about?”

  “I think it speaks for itself.”

  Jorie had read that statement in a book about some artist who would never explain his work; it seemed somehow useful now. He stood back and surveyed the scene himself.

  “Over here,” he said pointing to one corner, “it gets kind of messy.”

  Earl thought the whole thing a mess.

  “Doesn’t looking at this give you nightmares?”

  “No. When I sleep my eyes are closed. The pictures that give me nightmares come from the inside.”

  Jorie threw down the piece of coal and dropped on his cot.

  In the silence Earl studied the wall, trying to decipher its meaning. He saw only someone’s dismal, tormented view of humanity.

  “Have you been reading the diary?”

  “I open the same book, but each time the story’s different. That ever happen to you?”

  “You mean the diary?”

  Jorie sat up. “No, the book in my head! The book of my life.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “That’s it — the story’s different every time. The characters change, I mean they’re the same ones, but they’re different.”

  “How different?”

  “Good, then evil, then good again. It’s a plan to make me go mad.”

  “Whose plan?”

  “The demons.” His voice was rising.

  “What demons, lad?”

  “In here, in my head! They won’t leave me alone!”

  “Maybe they would if you let the whole story come out, Jorie. It’s too hard, holding it all inside. You haven’t enough fingers to plug the dike forever.”

  Jorie buried his head in his hands. Earl waited a few more moments, but nothing more was forthcoming. He opened the lunch pail, spread the food for Jorie on a napkin, and placed it on the cot.

  Jorie took his hands away from his face, glanced at the food. Suddenly the color left his face. He picked up the hard-boiled egg and seized it tightly in both hands. At the same time he started shaking. The shell cracked, then completely shattered in Jorie’s grasp.

  With unexpected force, he thrust the odious object across the room, where it splattered and boun
ced off the wall. With quick rejoinder, he followed the egg, bouncing off the wall himself.

  Earl heard the plaster crack and the lath splinter, as the termites scrambled for new lodgings.

  “I won’t! I won’t eat any goddamn egg! You can’t make me!”

  Jorie picked up a piece of cheese from the napkin.

  “Limburger! You know I hate it! You can’t make me swallow that. I will not!”

  He held the cheese flat in his hand and smeared it over the wall, over his drawing.

  Earl watched with mounting concern, as the boy’s past erupted in a deluge.

  “Take off this blindfold!” He tore at his face. “Take it off!”

  Earl grabbed him by the arm and pushed him down on the cot. “That was a long time ago, Jorie. There’s no blindfold, nothing like that now!”

  “I hate her! I tell you I hate her! She, she—” He was grabbing for breath in large, uneven gulps.

  To have triggered such an outburst, Earl knew he’d probably just witnessed the tip of the iceberg.

  “Did you ever want to kill your mother, Jorie?”

  He was panting. “No! No. Yes!”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Think hard, Jorie. Did you take your ma out there to die?”

  Earl waited, listening to the gradual cessation of the painful sobs. Like a train coming to a halt, each revolution was a little slower, less powerful than the last.

  “What are you hiding, boy? Was there some terrible thing you had to stop her from doing, at all costs?”

  “I don’t know! I would tell you if I did!”

  “Do you want to know?”

  His fists were clenched. “Yes, yes, I have to know!”

  Finally, exhausted, Jorie lay back on his cot. Earl put his blanket over him, and sat beside him, upset that he’d provoked this explosion. But it had served some purpose. Maybe like the egg, Jorie was beginning to crack.

  Earl’s eyes traveled back to the tortured drawing, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps some small detail would give a clue. In one part he saw two lovers floating upwards in the sky, surrounded by a ring of stars and the moon. It was the only happy thing Earl could find in the picture. Maybe it was the girl he’d met at the John Muir lecture. In another he saw what could only be his mother lying prone under snow, with more falling. Although it gave no clue as to whether foul play was involved, it did indicate Jorie had some awareness of what had happened. At least at the moment he’d drawn it.

  Something far down in one corner caught his eye. He went to take a closer look. In small, but unmistakably clear formations, surrounded by scribbles and smudged spots, were two figures, each was on a cross. There were tiny initials under each—‘J’ under one, and ‘I’ under the other.

  The ‘J’ could be for Jesus. Then again, it could be for Jorie. But what was the ‘I’?

  Chapter 33

  Jorie could not stop reading the second diary.

  He will come to see punishment as an expression of my love, as its sting will be tempered with soft caresses and my words of love. And he will understand that sacrifice is an expression of his love for me.

  For some of the things he read, scenes came to life as clearly as the day they happened. For others he couldn’t recall anything at all.

  Nights under the stars, teaching Mummy the names of the constellations.

  Nights under the stars, Mummy teaching him the redemptive powers of punishment:

  She’d held him close, rocking him, humming to him. “You must have no secrets from me, Jorie. When you’ve done something wrong or you think might be wrong, write it in your journal, and let Mummy decide if you need penance. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d kissed his forehead.

  “What will leave you if Mummy punishes you?”

  “The guilty feeling “

  “And what will take its place?”

  “The peaceful, clean feeling.”

  What do you have to do for that to happen?”

  “Surrender to the punishment completely.”

  “Are you ready, my Darling?”

  Jesus! She’d made him actually want it, ask for it! It made him cringe with shame, just to remember. And how much better he’d felt afterward—just like she’d said. My God, how twisted it all had been.

  “And what kind of chastisement do you think would be appropriate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find a solution.”

  “Should I make a switch?”

  “Oh, Jorie, a switch again? Does my little lamb have such paucity of imagination? Think of something else, for heaven’s sake.”

  She’d insisted that he not only confess his offenses, but was as particular of his sentence structure as his behavior, often criticizing him for faulty grammar or vague detail.

  “What do you mean by ‘the whack’? Did it feel like a sting or a thud?”

  He’d honed his writing skills working in his discipline journal.

  Overcome by a legion of emotions, Jorie slammed the diary shut and added his bootprint to the others on the wall. No wonder she didn’t want him to have any other friends. He might reveal their secrets, their bloody Golden Bubble. Or they might tell about their lives — their freedom! He had worshipped her, and she was a monster!

  That evening Earl came toward his cell with an extra bounce in his step. “I brought you something to read. And it’s not a diary. They called me from the post office and wanted to know what to do with your mail. I said I’d come and get it. Guess what they had.”

  Earl handed Jorie a package. The return address read Journal of Modern Poetry. Jorie tore open the paper. Inside he found five copies of the fall issue. He picked up one and scanned the Table of Contents. And there it was – The Intruder, by Jordan Radcliff.

  He looked up with the first hint of pleasure Earl had seen on his face in weeks.

  “Looks like you got yourself published, kid.”

  Jorie handed the sheriff a copy.

  “What page?”

  “Seventeen.”

  They both found the poem. Earl said, “Will you read it to me?”

  Jorie stood up. He wasn’t sure why — maybe because in school he’d always had to when it was his turn to recite.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s called The Intruder. It doesn’t rhyme or anything. It’s the new ‘free verse’ style.”

  Earl nodded, waited. Finally, Jorie began.

  Arriving before anything else, and after all these years,

  Still, you loiter on the dark side of my mind,

  Fill its crevices with sadness and pain, rage and guilt.

  I know you only by your sounds, your low grunts and wails

  That drag me from serenity.

  Familiar, unwanted tenant, I'm following your vein—

  Jorie halted. He hadn’t read it in so long, he’d forgotten how revealing, naked it was. He couldn’t finish it. He sat down and closed his eyes. It was so quiet, the sound of water dripping from a pipe was all that reached his ears.

  Suddenly, he heard the sheriff’s voice:

  Familiar, unwanted tenant, I'm following the vein,

  Searching for the mother-lode. I want to take you by surprise,

  Grasp you, make you look at me, talk to me,

  Tell me who you truly are.

  Come out! Come out of hiding! Tell me what you want.

  I demand to see you in the light, where I will look you

  Straight in the eye and have a good laugh,

  Come out and dance with me. I will love you to death!

  And then, I will be free.

  When the sheriff had finished, Jorie’s eyes were still closed, squeezing back the tears.

  Earl came over and embraced him. Jorie finally pulled away. If he didn’t he was afraid he’d bawl like a baby.

  They sat quietly while Jorie looked at the other verses, or pretended to.

  Earl figured he’d learned
more about the clock-works of this kid through his poem than by any conversation they’d had so far. What kind of hell did the boy live in? And for how long? But there was kind of a bright ending to the piece.