Mother Lode

  “Perhaps he was putting you on, Mr. Boyce,” the judge said.

  McKinney called on Mrs. O’Laerty. “It is my understanding that you worked for Mrs. Radcliff for several years.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And what was your relationship to the accused?”

  “I was there the day he was born, I was. I saw the boy grow up. A kindhearted lad, loved his mum ever so dearly. She and him was that close, they were.”

  “Did you ever observe any arguments between them?”

  “No, sir, never. He was a very obedient lad, mind you, always doin’ just what he was told.” She twisted her handkerchief. “And after his pa passed, he stayed home to support her, he was that devoted to her.”

  “Did you ever detect any signs of violence in the accused?”

  “Oh, Lord, no! Himself wouldn’t hurt a single crayture, not never.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Laerty.”

  “Does anyone have anything further to add to their testimony?”

  Earl looked at Doc Johnson, who was shaking his head.

  “Your honor?” It was Buck Boyce.

  “Yes, counselor?”

  “I would like to raise the issue of Radcliff’s sanity. Based on my talk with him, I submit that the accused is insane, and a lunacy commission should be appointed to—”

  “Mr. Radcliff is not on trial for lunacy. Let me remind you that the examining physician found him sane.”

  Earl held his breath.

  “Then, as ruling magistrate in this court—”

  Just as it looked as though they might be home free, something caught the judge’s eye. Earl followed the turn of his head toward the door. Under sheriff Lockheed, approached the bench and whispered something to the judge.

  “Show him in.”

  Chapter 37

  Earl’s heart sank. What could interfere now, delay the outcome of this hearing? He didn’t know how long Jorie would stay silent. He felt droplets of sweat run down his face. If the lawyer Olsen decided to show up — he didn’t want to think about it.

  Lockheed held the door for a man Earl had never seen before. He was clutching a burlap bag to his chest, and Earl thought he looked like he hadn’t bathed or shaved since last year.

  Could this be. . .

  The woodsman stepped forward a few feet, stood with his back to the judge, searching for someone.

  “Approach the bench.”

  The man turned around, stared blankly at the judge.

  “Come here,” McKinney beckoned him. “Please give the court your full name.”

  “Colin Trethaway. Hain’t got no middle name.”

  “State your purpose.”

  “I can’t read, but a neighbor told me you was lookin’ for the man who ‘elped a young fellow in the snow storm we ‘ad a few weeks back, t’ find his ma.” He paused, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m yer man.”

  I knew it!

  Colin Trethaway looked around the room, spotted Jorie. “That’s ‘im!”

  Earl watched Jorie, who was studying the man’s face.

  “We never found her, though. I ‘ad t’ git ‘ome before I froze.” He sniffled some more. “I ‘eard she died.”

  “Jorie Radcliff, do you recognize this man?” the judge asked.

  Jorie squinted, considered the man’s countenance while Earl held his breath.

  “It’s difficult to tell. It was snowing hard that night, I couldn’t catch his features.”

  Earl suppressed a sigh of frustration. For God’s sake, what would this man be doing here if he hadn’t been the one to help him in the storm? This was a sheer stroke of luck, and Jorie was not biting.

  The man walked toward Jorie. “Well, hit’s me, boy, don’t y’ know me?”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Trethaway. Do you have anything else to say before this court?”

  Trethaway reached into his bag. “I brought this.” He took a rusty lantern out of the bag, and held it up for all to see. “Evidence.” He looked as though he’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

  The judge concealed a smile. “Thank you. In your opinion, Mr. Trethaway, the person whom you’ve identified was sincerely trying to find his way back to rescue his mother?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘E was hall upset cuz ‘e’d lost ‘is way. Didna have no lantern, and his ma, she was back in the woods and couldna walk no more. I was ’eaded for ’ome in my wagon, when ‘e come upon me an’ asked fer ‘elp. I wanted t’ git on ’ome, but what’s a God-fearin’ man to do? Don’t the Good Book say, ‘Do hunto hothers as ye would ‘ave—”

  “Yes, thank you. Your testimony has been most helpful. You may leave now.”

  Colin Trethaway held the lantern up again. “Will you be wantin’ this? Reckon I could spare it fer a few days, if you could git it back t’ me. ‘Hit cost me a day’s work t’ come down ‘ere.”

  “No, you can take it with you.”

  Trethaway remained, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  The judge said again, “You are dismissed.”

  The man looked at Jorie for help, then back at the judge. “Well, hain’t there no reward?”

  “For what, Mr. Trethaway?”

  “Well, fer, fer. . .” he blustered some more, then mumbled, “I’ll be jiggered,” and left the room.

  When Trethaway left, Earl wanted to jump up and down. At least that part of Jorie’s story was corroborated. He could breathe a little easier.

  Earl thought he caught a glance from George McKinney that suggested relief. Then the judge released a small chuckle. This seemed to give permission to the others, and a collective release of tension came forth in chortles and titters. From all, that is, but Boyce and Jorie.

  McKinney went on. “As I was saying, before the interruption, as ruling magistrate in this court, finding insufficient reason to proceed toward trial, I will close this case. But not before I admonish those present to proceed with greater diligence in the future before petitioning this court with unsubstantial cases that do not merit the expenditure of taxpayers’ money or the magistrate’s time.”

  The judge paused. “I now declare this case closed.”

  He brought the gavel down swiftly. Mrs. O’Laerty tried to give Jorie an encouraging smile, but he wouldn’t raise his eyes. She turned slowly and left.

  Earl could hear the buzzing in the corridor, as folks who had waited for the outcome of the hearing voiced their reaction. Sounds of disappointment that the case was not going to trial outnumbered those of elation. Public trials were considered real good entertainment.

  The room emptied quickly, as did the corridors. Earl called Lockheed over and told him he was taking some time off, and asked his assistant to take over.

  Jorie and Earl were the only ones left. They sat with their hands in their laps, Jorie looking out the window. The lad didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. It was so quiet, Earl thought, you could hear a person change their mind.

  He said, “You can go now, Jorie. You’re free.”

  Jorie turned slowly toward him. “Free of what?”

  “Free to leave.”

  “Do you know anything about the prisons of the mind, Mr. Foster?”

  Oh, yes, I do!

  He put his hand on the boy’s knee.

  “As I said, you’re free to go anywhere, but I’d like you to stay with Mrs. Foster and me for a few days. We have a spare room.”

  Jorie didn’t seem to be listening. But he didn’t put up any resistance, either, as the sheriff led him downstairs, across the bridge, and over to Hancock.

  By the time Earl got home with Jorie, he felt he’d done a day’s work, and it was only eleven-thirty. He was glad there was no game tonight. He’d have to keep an eye on Jorie.

  He got the boy to eat a little soup, to take a good soak and scrub in the copper tub. Then he showed him to his room.

  “He’s going to sleep,” he told Cora. “At least I think he is.”

  He told his amazed wife how Jorie was fixing to
hang himself that morning. “We have to keep a careful eye on him.”

  “It’s a good job the window in that room sticks,” Cora said. “He couldn’t get it open without making a lot of noise.”

  “There aren’t any exposed pipes on the ceiling, either, thank God.”

  For the next few days he watched over Jorie like a newborn. They played cribbage, talked about the forecast of a long, hard winter, and went on walks in the evening. Daytime attracted too much attention.

  On one of these walks, Earl tried again to get Jorie to talk about his mother’s death. If they could discuss it, maybe he could help Jorie begin to forgive himself.

  “Look, kid, I know why you wanted to take your life, but —”

  “Don’t you understand? I killed my mother! Ask the doctor. I told him all about it.”

  “You told Doctor Johnson? When?”

  “In jail, when he came to see me.”

  Well, if Arthur wasn’t the cagey one! All the time not letting on he knew anything.

  “Yes, I know what you did. And now I know why you did it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  “It’s all in her diary.”

  Jorie was quickening his pace. Earl found it difficult to keep up.

  “I never read it!”

  “I thought you knew what was in it,” the sheriff panted. “Well, I can tell you she—”

  “It’s too late; it doesn’t matter.”

  I thought that’s why you—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more! Please stop!”

  “We have to talk about this, Jorie.”

  “No. We don’t!”

  With that, Jorie broke into a run and left Earl behind.

  Jorie hadn’t read the diary? But the drawing on the cell wall. . . surely he knew about her plans for Eliza. . . Or did he?

  He continued walking, trying to sort it all out. Past the trees, dripping with melting ice, past the sounds of horses in the distance – some trotting, others trudging slowly toward the barn after a day’s work. He gripped his elbow. Where was the snow now, when he needed it?

  As Earl approached his house, he could see a candle flickering in the upstairs window. Well, thank God the boy had returned to the house.

  When he’d first been released from jail, Jorie felt a sort of numbness. Nothing seemed to matter any more. He didn’t even want to read, and every time he started to go for a walk, Mr. Foster wanted to go with him.

  The only thing that really occupied his mind was how he might end his life. At the top of his list were jumping off the towering smokestack that crowned the shafthouse, or capsizing a small boat, not in Portage Lake, but in the icy waters of Lake Superior, where his body would never surface. But there didn’t seem any urgency to do that either. For the moment, it seemed enough to just play with the possibilities.

  Mrs. Foster gave him butcher paper and a new set of colored pencils.

  “Maybe she’s afraid I’ll ruin her walls,” he mused.

  He used the pencils, and discovered to his surprise that he had no inclination to make hard, angry scribbles. He found himself drawing gentle landscapes and pictures of Eliza at the piano and on the front porch swing. How dear she was! How he’d love to see her.

  He closed his eyes tightly and brought her countenance to mind. He must capture her features exactly, before they began fading from memory.

  Scenes with her came before him—telling her stories, holding her in front of him on the toboggan as they slid down the hill, watching her try so hard to make Peggythis go without his help.

  Peggythis! First as through a haze, then in blazing clarity, the last time he saw her came back to him.

  On the day before he planned to leave town, he’d climbed the hill. He couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to her.

  He could see his mother working in the garden, and went quietly into the house, calling softly for his sister. When she didn’t answer, he went upstairs to her room. He found her in bed. At five o’clock.

  “Jawie, you’re back!” She jumped up and down on her bed.

  He asked her to be still so they could have a few minutes alone, and got her to lie down again.

  “What are you doing in bed? Did you just wake from your nap?”

  “No. That was earlier.”

  A feeling of awful dread crept over him.

  He pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Do you have a pillow, Izzy?”

  “I don’t use it now.”

  He looked around the room. “Where’s Pegasus, and your toys?”

  “Put away.”

  “Did Mummy make you give them up?”

  “No. It’s a sacafice. I was very good tonight. I didn’t have any supper.”

  Jorie’s stomach turned over.

  “Mummy loves me now. We have the Golden Bubble, Jawie. Just the two of us.”

  My God, she was at it again!

  “She’s teaching me to speak French. And then we won’t need English at all. Comprenee vous, Jawie?”

  A kind of fire was rising from the base of his spine. “What else does she make you do?”

  “Sometimes I’m not allowed to speak all day long. I must stay in my room.”

  Suddenly her hand shot to her mouth. “I’m not supposed to tell, Jawie! The bubble will break if I do.” She started to cry. “Now I’m going to get in trouble!”

  Jorie held his little sister against his breast and comforted the child. He could feel her little heart beating like that of a small frightened bird.

  When he went downstairs his mother was in the kitchen.

  “You’ve come back.” She missed the fire in his eyes. “I knew you couldn’t stay away. Sit down, and I’ll fix you something.”

  “No, you sit down. I have something to say to you.” He took a deep breath. “You cannot start in on Eliza the way you did with me. It’s wrong!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sacrifice and the Golden Bubble — all of that.”

  “It never did you any harm.”

  “It’s got to stop!”

  “Oh, you hush your mouth. She likes it. Don’t you remember how you loved it? She was made for surrender, Jorie, even more than you. She has the temperament for it.”

  “It’s damaging! You will stop!”

  She laughed. “And how are you going to make me?”

  “I’ll take her away from here!”

  Catherine laughed. “You’d be caught and put in prison. And what could you do for her from there?”

  “I’ll report you, to the authorities!”

  “Who would believe you? It’s you who has a record of violent and unstable behavior.”

  “What you’re doing is evil, Mother! Don’t you understand?”

  “No, Jorie. It’s you who must understand. She’s my child, and I’ll raise her as I choose. It’s every parent’s right—”

  “You must stop! Before I leave—”

  “You’re not going anywhere. I have you for life. Don’t you know that yet?”

  She said it with the smugness of someone who had just played her trump card. Taking a hairpin from her hair, she gathered and twisted the rogue tendrils that lay against her back, pushed them up and fastened them securely with the pin.

  “You cut your teeth on me,” she smiled. “If you won’t remain for me, you’ll stay for Eliza.”

  He studied her small delicate neck. How easy it would be to squeeze the life out of her there on the spot. His hands clenched and unclenched, while she stared at him with that Mona Lisa look, until he turned and strode out with as much determination as he could muster.

  He had to get Eliza away from her.

  He remembered type-setting an article a couple of months ago about a boy in Red Jacket who’d been severely beaten by his parents over a period of time. The teacher had reported it, but the deputy said there was no provision which entitled the law to intervene. He was quoted as saying, “We don’t take children away from their parents.”


  The boy had died.

  What hope was there for getting Eliza away from her mother? He’d have to find a solution.