Mother Lode (14 page)

“A copy book?”

“Yes, but this one is for a very special
purpose. It is to be your discipline journal, Jorie. In it you are
to record each of your transgressions, and the punishment you
received.”

“
All
of them?”

“Yes. And just as important, you must record
the feelings that come up, such as those of appreciation, love and
surrender.”

“It sounds like homework.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And if you feel
resentful, you will write that down.”

“Will I be punished for that?”

“We will just have to work on removing that
feeling.”

Chapter 12

Portage Mine was not the best place to be in
the spring of eighteen ninety. Many small companies had opened and
closed in the Peninsula. The Portage was at risk to follow suit.
Existing shafts were turning out too high a percentage of
poor-rock. But outcroppings of copper and the presence of calcite
on the eastern parcel caused Thomas to believe that site worth
exploring. The borings he ordered raised his hopes further.

He approached the agent in charge of the
mine. “There are promising veins of pure copper in that
conglomerate, Clark. I think we should set our sights there.”

“I don’t know, Thomas. Sinking new shafts,
stoping out drifts, purchasing engines, boilers—it’s awful
risky.”

“I know, and more track will have to be laid
to carry the rock, but—”

“Beckler thinks the whole idea of a shaft
across the road is folly now. Says we ought to go deeper in some of
our existing shafts.”

“It’s not feasible to go any deeper. The
machinery we’d need, the timbers required—”

Clark Ahlers waved him quiet. “I know, I
know.”

“It could save the Portage, Clark.”

“Or finish it for good.” Clark Ahlers took
out a cigar, fiddled with the clipping and lighting of it for some
time. Finally he said, “Start with an exploratory shaft, then.”

The sixty foot shaft was impressive.

Ahlers said, “Go ahead, but something bright
and shiny had better show up.”

Everyone was excited, and
all hoped the
Number 9
would put new life in the Portage
.

Months were spent sinking the new shaft and
blasting horizontally to create long, narrow drifts that would be
tunneled into larger areas to be stoped out. All through the shaft
and drifts, stulls were erected of huge timbers to support the
walls. A modern shafthouse was erected over the collar of the
opening. When it was ready, more miners and trammers were hired.
Load after load of dynamite was hauled to the new location.

Thomas waited impatiently for reports on the
yield. Sometimes the results were good, but on the whole the shaft
was barren. He kept praying they’d break through to richer
veins.

“Poor-rock— that’s all we have, Radcliff.”
Clark looked very somber. “Your rainbow isn’t leading to a pot of
gold.”

Thomas begged for more time

“One month. If it doesn’t improve, we’ll
have to close it.”

In two months time the shaft was shut down.
In three the entire mine closed. Hundreds of miners and trammers
were let go. Thomas was dismissed.

“The
Number 9
brought us down,” the men
said.

“Thomas Radcliff brought us down.”

In the weeks that followed, Thomas talked
less and less.

One day Catherine said, “Have you heard
anything from—”

“No.”

“Have you thought of . . . There are many
other mines.”

“Do you think anyone would hire me now? Read
the newspapers, Catherine. Don’t you know what the wags are
saying?”

“What do you mean?”

“
`Radcliff Brings The Portage to its Knees
’.”

“Oh, Thomas!” her hand went to her
mouth.

The invitations to parties stopped. Thinking
she had established a real friendship with Ada Whyte, she sent her
a note asking her to come for tea on Friday next. She received a
simple reply: “I regret I am unable to accept your hospitality at
this time.”

A quiet pall settled over the house. Never
had she seen her husband like this. Sitting before the window with
idle hands, he appeared to be crumbling before her eyes.

“Couldn’t you find some other kind of work,
Thomas?”

He didn’t answer.

“Thomas, I’m talking to you!”

His dull eyes turned from her. Realizing he
wasn't likely to come out of it any time soon, Catherine decided
she would have to pick up the baton.

She held stock of her own, having inherited
half of her father's estate after her mother's death. It was not
limited to the Portage Mining Company; in fact most was with the
giant of them all—the Calumet and Hecula. She would sell no more
than necessary. Knowing little about such things she took a parcel
of papers wrapped in black ribbon from an old hat box, and with a
new resolve set off one day to see their attorney, Toby Wilson.

Thomas’s applications for employment either
went unanswered or were turned down. A swift and sure underground
network between the mines ensured no one would take a chance on
this upstart engineer, under whose tutelage the Portage had
foundered. A long and melancholy winter followed.

She had thought that in these difficult
times, at least she and Thomas would have each other. But in
addition to remaining distant from her during the day, he had not
attempted to make love since that awful time when his dreams had
collapsed. She decided it was up to her to restore his manhood.

“Thomas,” she began that night. “I miss you
touching me, this long time.”

When nothing happened, she bent her face to
him and kissed him.

“Please try.”

For a few moments he did. Then, “It’s no
use.” He pushed her away gently. “Not now.”

Catherine lay on her own side of the bed
once more, cold and rejected. But she was not to be so easily
defeated, and noting the ill effects this involuntary abstinence
had on her temperament, she persisted. Two or three times a week
she tried to entice him with schemes she’d had no need of before.
One night she sat naked at her dressing table while brushing her
long auburn hair. She climbed into bed this way, although she was
not in the habit of sleeping unclad except on those rare hot summer
nights.

“Put your nightgown on, woman. You’ll catch
your death of cold.”

“I thought you might keep me warm,” she
said, snuggling up to him. But he ignored her.

Still another time, as he lay on his
stomach, she straddled him and started massaging his shoulders.

Thomas groaned. “Don’t, Catherine.”

“It will help relax you. Please don’t make
me stop,” she said, continuing her long strokes down his back. And
as she reached his waist, she slid her little body down his legs,
so she could rub his buttocks.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he
muttered as she continued her ministrations.

“Daddy.”

He turned over abruptly, throwing his
rider.

“Explain that!”

“I was very young. He taught me how to
massage his neck, how to find the muscles that were in knots. He’d
sit in the chair, and I’d stand behind him. He said my fingers were
so tiny they felt like the work of little elves.”

“Oh.”

About a mile east of the
Portage
lay the
Keweenaw Mining Company. In March, its agent, Burton Haversay,
attended a conference in Chicago, in which the advantages of using
mining engineers were outlined. Trained in ore extraction and
processing, these men could save their companies needless waste.
Their superior knowledge of the latest equipment, their in-depth
study of geology and the technology needed to safely explore the
deeper regions of the earth’s crust were all laid out in a
convincing manner.

Burton Haversay considered
his mine up-and-coming. He decided what he’d learned about the
advantages of using trained engineers outweighed the unfortunate
circumstances at the
Portage
. When he returned from
Chicago he hired Thomas Radcliff as chief engineer of the Keweenaw
Mining Company.

Thomas arrived home each day, touting the merits of
the company he was working for. It was clear that he enjoyed being
appreciated again, and even began going out in public.

Catherine was grateful for the comfort their new
circumstances provided. But she found it difficult to surrender to
Thomas’ will. Having had a taste of power, of being head of the
household in function if not name, she had discovered this was
natural to her. She chafed when she was expected to defer to her
husband, who had again claimed the throne.

On warm Sundays he would say, “Catherine,
come take a stroll with me this afternoon.” But she preferred to go
to the cemetery to write. It was the closest thing to a park,
possessing lovely trees and shady spots for contemplation. The
subject of these walks came up every week.

“Thomas, I’ve gone with you the last three
Sundays. I wish to have some time to myself today.”

“As long as the weather holds, I believe
your duty is to be seen with me.”

“Must we put on a parade each week?”

"Our friends in town, the Whytes—”

“
Friends
? Ada would have nothing to
do with me when you were out of work.”

“You should be thankful for her amity
now.”

“I don’t care what she thinks!”

“Do you care what I think? I don’t
understand you. Victoria was so reasonable, so . . .”

“Obedient?”

“Yes. Is that such a bad thing? You took
vows, Catherine—”

“I was seventeen! I am twenty-four now. I
have always been willing to listen to reason, when that is what you
proffered, Thomas, but no man will instruct me in my duties, or
tell me what to believe.”

She took Jorie to the cemetery to write.

When she returned home,
Thomas said, “I’ve hired a man to paint the exterior of the house
next week.” A
s she sat at her dressing
table taking the pins from of her long hair and shaking it out,
Thomas said, “Give me the brush.”

Catherine, seated before the mirror, could
see him behind her, could feel the anger. Fear and excitement arose
in her. She handed it to him and he began the old ritual of
brushing her hair. But tonight there was no tenderness in his
touch. His strokes were fast and hard. She offered no resistance,
bit her lip in silence as he yanked at the snarls.

When he finished he said, “Get into
bed.”

This too she did without protest,
discovering that her wanton body answered his mandate against her
will. Familiar responses rose in her legs, flowed into her
groin.

In the morning Catherine mused on how much
easier everything would be if she could be as compliant out of the
bedroom as she was in it. But this state was so contrary to her
feelings the rest of the time, it confused her.

As the weeks went on, matters did not improve. The
strain between them was palpable and the attention little, save for
the animal passions they played out at night in muted moans.
Catherine often thought it was anger, not love, that kindled
Thomas’ fire, and some dark part of herself that enjoyed these
hedonistic scenes with him.

She noticed that whereas at one time her
husband’s authority had come naturally and without question to him,
now it was an ephemeral state, ever requiring shoring up.

“Catherine Dear, don’t scrape your chair
across the floor when you leave the table.”

After a few attempts at false apologies, she
decided she would not succumb to this new demeaning status. She
tried ignoring him, but he only brought it up again.

“Thomas,” she reminded him one evening, “you
never found it necessary to school me in the first years of our
marriage.”

“In that case, my dear, I was remiss in my
duties.”

“My God, you are pompous!” she retorted.

“You would do well to govern your
tongue.”

“I will not!”

“I think you had best retire to your
room.”

“I’ll retire when I choose and not a moment
before!”

“Then I shall disassociate myself from your
society.” He left her alone at the table.

Chapter 13

Restless and discontent, Catherine put her
hand to writing verse again. She sent some of her poems as far away
as New York City and Boston, but she had nothing to show for them
but a box of rejection notices.

Thomas took less and less
interest in the family. When he did talk to her it was all about
his work: No one was hiring the Poles, this shaft was closing, that
one got flooded in the spring run-off, six men were injured in an
explosion last week. But the
Keweenaw
had outproduced the other
mines this year— even the mighty
Calumet-Hecula.

Since his older sons’ interests followed his
own, they shared their father’s life now. Once it was to her that
he would pour out his hopes and fears. It was with her he shared
his dream of discovering the lode that would make the whole copper
country prosperous, and his family in particular. Now he seemed not
to need her; she had become a fixture in his life.

In some ways Catherine realized she wanted
no more from him than he from her, but she wanted to be wanted,
needed by him. She did not fail to see this paradox. Perhaps her
imagination did not serve her so well after all. Why couldn’t she
rein in her desire for love, for physical intimacy? What business
had it hanging around like a ghost to haunt and taunt her when
there was no prospect for fulfillment? She wished she could find
contentment in just raising her child as she supposed other women
did.