Mother Lode

  The sheriff had meant to tell Jorie that the preliminary hearing was the day after tomorrow at nine o’clock. But after the poem, he couldn’t say any more.

  Again his eyes traveled to the corner of the wall with the two crosses. ‘J’ and ‘I’. He felt it was the one thing in this horrendous drawing that might offer up some answers. But what did the ‘I’ signify? Was it Isis, Catherine’s middle name?

  Maybe.

  Jorie looked out the window and saw the snow descending again. Some of it landed on the sill, reminding him of home. The snow he’d used to cool his passions, the guilt he’d felt for having them. During the night the clouds blew away, leaving the sky clear for the first time since he’d been in jail. He could see the Pleiades. With the sisters in sight he tried once again to connect with his star line. Bringing all his powers to focus, he was, at last, able to get the line straight. No longer did the veils of illusion, like the chimney smoke swirling out the window, provide a barrier to reality. For the moment they were gone, and nothing was left but the truth. He stopped resisting it.

  He’d taken his mother out in the storm to die.

  Gradually, he remembered with painful clarity the sequence of events that led to the planning and carrying out of his crime. But why had he done it? Even her deceit and trickery didn’t explain it; he could have just left town. Severely edited, this version omitted any motive for his actions, leaving him feeling like the most depraved of souls.

  There was no penance harsh enough to absolve him. No string of beads or repetitive prayers would offer pardon.

  Forgive me. Please forgive me!

  But he knew it was too much to ask.

  He thought of how she’d tried to protect him from his father, made his punishments more bearable by the stories she’d woven, and the salve she’d used to soothe and heal. She’d threatened to leave Papa if he didn’t stop the whippings.

  He took out her picture, looked at her lovely face, and held it to his breast.

  Once after seeing the opera Othello in the new Kerridge Theatre, she had come home and told him the story. “Oh, Jorie, isn’t it just too sad, that a man could love a woman so, and yet there be such misunderstanding that he could kill her, and she be innocent?”

  Pervasive feelings of guilt worsened. The pressure in his head was building up, as these thoughts took up more and more space. He clutched his head. The internal frenzy mounted to such a maniacal pitch that all he could do was knock his head against the wall until the throbbing forced him to lie down, and the demons left him alone for a spell.

  Arthur Johnson came the next day.

  Jorie could only look at the floor. How distressing to have the person who’d always been so kind to him see him in his present state.

  “Good of you to come, Doctor,” he mumbled.

  “How are you doing, Jorie? Are they treating you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. The doctor handed him a jar.

  “What’s this?”

  “A sarsaparilla I thought you might enjoy.”

  Jorie took the drink and smiled shyly at the doctor. “Thank you.” He ran his finger around the rim of the container.

  “I have to be frank with you. I’ve been appointed by the court to determine — your state of mind.”

  “Whether I’m sane or not, you mean.”

  “Yes, precisely.” The doctor looked at him kindly. “So let’s just talk.”

  Doctor Johnson started reminiscing about days gone by, the animated discussions of biology they’d had in his room. He could make anyone feel at ease, and Jorie thawed somewhat.

  “Sometimes I pretended to be sicker than I was, just to get a visit from you.”

  “I suspected as much.” The doctor chuckled.

  As a boy, the doctor told him he could be anything he wanted to be—a scientist, or a writer. “What are your plans now, son? Have you decided on a career yet?”

  “I couldn’t get a career as a street cleaner after what happened.”

  “Let’s talk about that.”

  “It seems like such a long time ago.”

  The doctor checked his notes. “Two weeks and three days.”

  “Seems longer.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “How long have I been in here?”

  “Five days. I’d like to hear the whole story, whatever you remember.”

  Jorie said nothing.

  “Look, keep in mind that I’m not against you, son. And I’m neither judge nor jury. So anything you say that will assist me in my task will be of benefit to you.”

  Jorie nodded.

  “Did you grasp what I said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about you and your mother.”

  The question surprised Jorie. “I love her—loved. I still love her.”

  “Did you ever get angry with her?”

  “Enough to kill her? That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what happened. Remember, I want to hear your story. It won’t go on the record, I promise. My task here is to see if you’re coherent, can comprehend our discussion, so as to aid in your defense. Anything you tell me as your physician is confidential.”

  The doctor waited.

  “You trust me, son, don’t you?”

  Jorie wanted to pour out all his thoughts to the doctor. Maybe with his help Jorie could finally unwind the truth. But could he trust anyone?

  Chapter 34

  Earl walked across the bridge toward home. The wind was so strong it almost blew him over. The omnibus passed him, throwing bits of snow and dung in its wake.

  There was something besides his psoriasis that kept itching at him ever since he learned of Catherine’s fate. Earl had based his first suspicions of foul play on Jorie’s history of volatility with his mother. But in that case, it seemed if he was going to murder her, it would have been in an act of rage. And he’d probably regret it later. But it hadn’t happened that way. If it was murder, he had planned it, had waited for the right weather conditions to fit his scheme. And that didn’t fit his picture of Jorie Radcliff at all. There was a missing piece.

  Well, there wasn’t much more time to get a handle on this thing. The hearing was tomorrow.

  Again he thought about Jorie’s tortured picture, and the corner with the two crosses.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him. What was it he called his little sister?

  Izzy, wasn’t it?

  God Almighty! What secrets still lay buried?

  Helena looked frightened when she opened the door to Earl Foster.

  “Is there something wrong, Sheriff?”

  “I’d like to make a thorough check of Jorie’s room, if it’s all right with you.”

  She swallowed. “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

  She led him upstairs to the tiny spare room. Plain and tidy, with little furniture, it wouldn’t take long to find what he was looking for, if it was there.

  Helena, clearly nervous, stood rolling up the hem of her apron as he conducted his search.

  He looked in the armoire, which still held some of Jorie’s clothes, and checked the drawer at the bottom. Then he got on his knees, looked under the bed, and raised the mattress. As he was doing this, Eliza burst into the room.

  “What are you doing, mister?”

  “Oh, looking for something I thought I might find here.”

  “Is it a book? I found a book when my ball rolled under Jawie’s bed.”

  Earl looked at the child, and back to the woman, who had lost all color in her face.

  “I gave it to Henna,” Eliza explained.

  The woman burst into tears.

  “Oh, help me, Jasus, I didn’t mean no harm.”

  Earl got to his feet. “Take it easy, Mrs. O’Laerty.”

  “But sure, and I have’na been meself lately.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “If you’ll jes wait a bit, please.”

  She scurried off,
and returned with something wrapped in a pillow case.

  “I wanted to do the right thing by it. After all, it was Mrs. Radcliff’s.”

  She could only be talking about one thing.

  “I t’ought of bringing it to you earlier, but, well, a diary’s private, isn’t it? Didn’t I know I couldn’t keep it, and did’na want to. But it wasn’t anybody else’s either – Sweet muther of Jasus, I don’t know what Jorie was doin’ with it. And didn’t it just sit there the whole time starin’ at me, darin’ me to do somethin’.”

  She crossed herself, then looked up in sudden consternation. “Begod and bejasus, you don’t think I read it, do you? Truth be known, I can hardly read a’tall.”

  Earl could hardly keep from grabbing it out of her arms .

  “Did I commit a crime, Mr. Foster, not bringing it to you, straight away?”

  “No, Mrs. O’Laerty, you did what you thought was right.”

  A great look of relief came over the woman’s face.

  “How long have you known about this diary, Mrs. O’Laerty?”

  “How long? It was on Monday last, sir, the child brought it to me.”

  “And now, ma’am, will you give it to me?”

  She looked as though she’d forgotten what she was holding. “Oh, yes, sir. To be sure.”

  She thrust it into his waiting arms.

  Chapter 35

  With increasing conviction Jorie felt he’d ended his mother’s life for one reason only: to break her hold on him. But it hadn’t worked. He thought more about her now than he ever had. She just wouldn’t get out of his head.

  For many nights now, with sleep unavailable, he’d searched to find a solution to his unbearable anguish. It didn’t matter what they said in that courtroom, he had become his own judge. The verdict was clear. Only his death would silence the jury of demons that taunted him. You have no right to live! It wasn’t that he wanted to die; he just couldn’t go on living. Sobbing into his mattress, he wept for all the love he’d had for her, and all the hatred too. And he wept that the only solution he could find for himself was to die.

  But at least then, maybe his internal jury would leave him alone. Hopefully, some sweet oblivion. Yes, that was the answer.

  He tried not to think about hell and how he might be eternally damned. Maybe none of that was true, either. Dona nobis pacem.

  With the decision made, the demons seem satisfied, receded to the further recesses of his mind. At last a certain peace enfolded him.

  As he finished reading the third diary, Earl looked up from the last page Catherine had penned, to discover it was already approaching morning. The black of night had thinned to grey. He hadn’t been to bed at all. Today was the hearing!

  The machinations of his mind had never carried him to such distant and deranged states as he’d read in Catherine Radcliff’s diary. He hadn’t known her at all; only thought he had.

  He got up and walked to the privy. Had he actually read it, or was it the perverse stuff of his own dreams?

  He went back to the book, flipped through the pages again, his eyes lighting on certain passages:

  May 4, 1900

  Perhaps I should give up on my own writing altogether, and devote myself to furthering his career. He is so talented, and I can help him a great deal! I cannot bear to dwell on the possibility that next year, he may leave me, perhaps forever. It is to him my heart belongs, for we are two of a kind, and dip our quills in the same well. But it was what followed that turned his stomach. In late summer she was on another tack.

  “August 15, 1900

  If Jorie leaves me, I still have my little Eliza. What a ready disciple she is. Already she asks to make sacrifices and happily submits to my loving discipline!

  “August 29, 1900

  When she is five, I will give her a ritual for the initiate. I will dress her all in white and prepare her for what’s to come, so that she will understand the importance of the vows she is to take. What pleasure I will have creating these vows! Each year new ones will be added. After her initiation she will be allowed no contact with others.”

  “September 3, 1900

  I am teaching Eliza to speak the French language, and following her initiation that will be the only tongue she will be allowed to use. Soon she will forget English. I will school her at home and her education will be entirely under my control. We can hardly wait. But such events must be heralded by periods of agonizing anticipation!

  “September 7, 1900

  Perhaps I will tell people that Eliza is mute. She will not be allowed to speak to anyone except me, and at certain times, only when spoken to. In any case after a time she will not understand what others say. I will rid this house of all books printed in English and purchase many in the French language.

  September 8, 1900

  She will be my little dress-up doll, my lady-in-waiting, my acolyte. Even her thoughts will be under my domain. Perhaps I will invent a new language that only she and I will understand. In this way, she will of necessity turn to me for everything.”

  He scanned the remaining pages, caught fragments: ‘acts of sacrifice,’ ‘an exciting experiment.’ ‘In time she will not be able to distinguish pleasure from pain.’ ‘If our Lord could wear a crown of thorns. . .”

  Earl’s palms were all sweaty. What a diseased mind she’d had. He wondered how she’d come to be that way. To think of your children as globs of clay that you could form into anything you please, however damaging. With Thomas’ death, there was no one to rein in this wildest of mares!

  All the pieces were coming together.

  Now he understood why Jorie had sought to have her committed. When he failed, the lad had seen no other recourse but the one he had taken. This most vile of mothers had to be stopped.

  That the mystery had finally revealed itself to him was cold comfort. He rose and carried the diary to the shed, where he concealed it behind some old harness pieces. It felt heavier than when he’d first held it.

  Earl had never before questioned the meaning of justice. If you broke the law, you paid the consequences. Simple.

  He’d been interested in law enforcement ever since that time in school when his family lost their home and farm to some real estate swindle. It had killed his father, years before he died. Earl spent his graduation day loading their furniture onto the wagon.

  When he’d first suspected Jorie there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that if he were guilty, the boy should be brought to justice, and that was that. Justice and the law — they were one and the same.

  But Catherine had betrayed her son and was set on a course to destroy her daughter! She had tricked Jorie into staying home from college on the grounds they had no money. No wonder he’d pushed her around upstairs! It wasn’t anything like what she’d implied. He felt tremendous anger boil up inside him.

  She involved me in this cover-up scheme!

  Find a way to save him!

  He had to catch McKinney before the hearing. He had to get it postponed, if possible. It was vitally important that he find a way to help Jorie. He’d gotten him into this mess ‘o mackerel; he’d have to get him out.

  Despite his taste for drama, George McKinney was a fair man. But what would he consider fair in this case? Did Earl dare tell the judge about the diary? It would almost prove Jorie’s guilt. George might be sympathetic, but he couldn’t be expected to disregard the law.

  And Earl couldn’t overlook the persuasive power of the prosecuting attorney. He wondered how much investigation Buck had done on this case. Buck Boyce had a history of relying on others to provide the necessary evidence for a conviction. Come to think of it, most of the cases he’d won were pretty cut and dried – lethal fights in barrooms, a runaway horse that trampled a child. All with plenty of witnesses.

  Earl walked to work, again guided by one gaslight to the next. The patches on his elbow and groin were both screaming — at each other, it seemed, blaming the other for this sorry state of affairs.

  As
he entered the courthouse he knew it was too early to find George. He went downstairs, passed the night turnkey sleeping on his chair, grabbed the key off the hook, and continued toward the prisoner’s cell.