Mother Lode (20 page)

Jorie’s young mind spun round grasping
fragments of this new information.

”How else do you suppose your mother has
survived this dreary God-forsaken land?”

“I’ll do it, Mummy. I want to go on this
adventure with you.”

“You and I will ride
inside a
Golden Bubble
!”

“Oh, Mummy, yes!”

She smoothed the damp curls lying flat
against his brow. “Just the two of us. Our secret.”

He kissed her. “Our secret.”

“Being alone tonight will be good for you.
So much to think about, you need time to digest it all. So I’ll bid
you good-night.”

She closed the door softly.

With only the tumble of his thoughts for
company, his confused, yet exciting feelings presented him with
much to chew on. He heard the grandfather clock strike mid-night
before he finished. Only then did sweet surrender envelop him and
bring him sleep.

Portage Hill was a mile from Hancock, and
the Radcliff home had no immediate neighbors, except a Finnish
family, the Kukkonens, who had a modest bungalow nearby. Mr.
Kukkonen worked in town as assistant to a blacksmith. People often
dropped their laundry off there, and each evening he brought it
home for his wife to wash and iron. They had two children, but
Jorie was not allowed to play with them.

“Why not?”

“Because they are Finns. You come from
better stock.”

“Stock?”

“Jorie, don’t exasperate me. You are of
Scottish descent. The copper country is made up of a band of
international ruffians, all inferior to the British, but none so
much as the Finns.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s enough.”

Possessing neither skill in sport nor easy
banter in conversation, Jorie had not been popular at school. The
only boy who had befriended him was Frederick.

Jorie admired the mild manner and
intelligence of this solitary youth. Often they talked in the
school yard about nature and the books they liked. There was a
friendly competition between them. During spelldowns Jorie and
Frederick were always the last two left standing. Frederick had
collected stamps from around the world, and brought his collection
to show Jorie.

“I trade stamps with one man in Peru and
another in South Africa. These are my favorites.”

Frederick was impressed with Jorie’s ability
to draw, and asked him to bring more of his work from home.

Jorie spoke of him enthusiastically to his
mother, and one day Catherine suggested he bring the boy home to
meet her

On the day he arrived, Catherine served them
fresh apple pie, and engaged the lad in conversation. He was well
versed in many subjects, and at ease talking with adults.
Catherine, at her most charming, easily disarmed young Frederick,
drawing him out on several subjects. He even told her of his desire
to go to the University downstate.

“It’s grand there, ma’am, with professors in
every subject you can imagine.”

“But that must be a long way off,” she said.
You’re how old? Twelve?”

“Thirteen, ma’am.”

Jorie took Frederick upstairs and showed him
his drawings and read him a few poems. The boy appreciated Jorie’s
work and promised to bring his own sketches over some day. Jorie
couldn’t remember a happier afternoon. He was sure the visit had
gone well.

After dinner that evening, Catherine kept
Jorie at the table. Tumbling over his words of affection for the
lad, Jorie turned to his mother.

“Wasn’t it grand, Mum? You liked him too,
didn’t you? I could tell by the way you laughed and chatted with
him.”

“What I’m going to say will be hard for you,
Darling, and you must be very brave.”

He looked up, concerned. “What is it?”

“I don’t want you to make a friend of
Frederick.”

“But why?”

“He isn’t right for you, Darling.”

“But I like him. And he likes me!”

“You have to trust me on this.”

She saw the tears well in his eyes.

“He’s too old for you.”

“Only two years.”

“You see, Jorie, you and I
can not travel in our
Golden Bubble
if it’s contaminated by outside influences. We
must keep it clean, uncluttered.”

“He’s a very clever chap, with interesting
ideas.”

“They would only confuse you, Jorie.”

“Oh, Mummy, please. He could be my
friend.”

“Isn’t Mummy your friend? Aren’t I enough
for you?”

He swallowed. “The other chaps have friends
at school.”

“And you may too. But not
Frederick. Find a younger lad, who can look up to
you
.”

She gently removed the napkin he was
twisting in his hands.

“I know it isn’t easy, but it would be a
sacrifice, Jorie. You can do that for me, can’t you? I’ve made a
tremendous sacrifice for you.”

He started to ask what it was again, but she
put a finger over his lips.

“You must not ask. All I can tell you is
that I gave up a friend who was far dearer to me than Frederick to
you. I did this so that you and I could stay together. I know the
pain of that kind of sacrifice, and yours will not go
unappreciated.” She kissed his brow.

He thought about all she’d done for him —
the trips up the hill to look at the stars when he knew she was
tired, the times she’d told him stories from the old country and
the love that was lavished on him in so many ways.

“All right, Mummy.”

“Good lad.” She pressed him to her. “I know
this is difficult. But when sacrifice is made for love, it’s
beautiful, remember? Love has its own reward.”

He nodded.

“If you meet it with surrender, rather than
resistance, you will be at peace with it. Do you remember how to
make your mind go to a state of surrender?”

“I think so.”

“It takes practice, Jorie. You must use
diligence and vigilance to keep it there.”

She offered him another piece of pie, but
Jorie had no appetite for food.

Chapter 17

The next year something started happening
between his legs. It was pleasant in the strangest way, and when he
reached down to touch himself, he discovered it was hard. He wasn’t
at all sure it was normal.

For the next few nights he was afraid to go
to his mother. As close as they were he knew she wouldn’t
understand what was happening, and it might worry her. He had
awakened twice with something wet and sticky between his legs on
his long underwear. If only he could ask Frederick about it, but
they were not so close any more. There was no one to tell. He lived
in a confusing state of excitement and fear.

After a week his mother bade him to her bed
again. As soon as he lay beside her, he felt the stiffness. She
pulled him to her and ran her hand through his curls. In a few
moments he sucked in his breath, and pulled away from her.

“Tell me what’s troubling you,” she cooed,
pulling him back to her. “Tell me.”

“Nothing.” Why did she have to know?

“You wouldn’t lie to your mummy, would
you?”

He squirmed away from her.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

He wished he hadn’t brought his candle in to
the room; he felt the single flame light up the whole room, distort
his face, magnify his shame. Shadows danced on the ceiling, on the
bed, mocking him.

She pulled him back to her, touched his skin
lightly. He felt her hand slide past his genitals in a quick
brush.

“It’s all right, Jorie. It’s . .
.natural.”

A long silence followed, while he tried to
take this in.

“You mean it’s supposed to get that
way?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘supposed to.’ But it can
happen to boys who are growing up.”

So there was nothing wrong
with him, and she
did
understand. He should have known. Although embarrassed, he
was much relieved.

She turned to him, in that way that was
beginning to make him uncomfortable. “Only twelve years old, and
already you are growing into manhood. My little boy, my darling,
where did the time go? It is too soon, too soon for you to grow
up.”

She hugged him tightly, and then the feeling
got stronger and he didn’t know what to do. Hoping she wouldn’t
notice, he slid one hand downward.

“No, Jorie, you mustn’t play with it.”

She gathered his hands in hers. “That’s wrong, and
God could punish you for that. Just lie here quietly with me.” She
rocked him gently. “You must confess to me each time the hardness
or the wetness comes.”

He started to object, but she was saying,
“If we are to create our fragile bubble together, then you must
keep no secrets from me.”

He had little success with the mental
diversions she had suggested, but learned that if he threw his
covers off and lay there in the frigid room, he would lose that
strange compelling desire that made him want to rub himself. He
thought if he could fall asleep that way, the mess wouldn’t come.
But he couldn’t stand the cold for long, and cursed himself for
being a coward, as he pulled the quilt up. What if his father were
to find out? He trembled to think. Could he trust his mother not to
tell him? It was all so much like the time he’d tried to stop
wetting the bed. Again, his attempts to control his own body seemed
hopeless.

His mother was pleased that he was working
at his problem, but then would grow sad and somewhat detached when
he confessed his failures. She gave him prayers of penance to say,
and told him to ask God for help with this new challenge. She said
nothing of chastisement, but finally, the fear of losing her love
drove him to ask for punishment.

She was delighted that he
wanted atonement; it always brought him back to her. Afterwards
she’d draw him to her, assure him of her love. Often with tears
flowing down her cheeks, she would express appreciation for his
devotion to her and to God
.

But he didn’t feel clean because he knew the
feeling would come back; he knew he wanted it to.

So he renewed his efforts, even bringing in
handfuls of snow from the ledge to place between his legs. The
sense of having let her down was excruciating. And God, too. But it
was Mummy he most wanted to please, and he didn’t know how.

One night the feeling was so strong he
couldn’t resist rubbing himself, and as he continued, the
sensation, rising into crescendo to its peak was so wild and
wonderful that he didn’t try to prevent it. After that he found it
harder and harder to refrain.

He stopped making his confessions. Sometimes
he resisted the urge because he felt guilty, but just as often he
gave in to it. The guilt from not being honest with his mother was
as bad as the guilt for having committed the sin. But the thrill he
felt while he was engaged in the act transported him beyond
anything he’d known. It was the closest he’d come to the feeling of
rapture that she’d said the saints had, which he hadn’t been able
to feel in a religious way at all.

One day she said, “Do I understand by your
silence that your sexual arousal has decreased, or perhaps
disappeared altogether?”

Jorie reddened.

“Since you have come to confess neither your
failure to resist temptation, nor those times when you triumphed
over it, I should assume, I suppose, that you no longer are subject
to such arousal?”

He noted the bite of sarcasm in her voice.
Looking at the floor, he shook his head.

“Look at me! Are you studying the pattern in
the carpet?”

He raised his head, but did not meet her
eyes.

“Well, what have you to say?”

“Both.”

“Both what? Don’t prevaricate with me. Form
a sentence and make yourself understood.”

“There have been times when I gave in to it,
and times when I didn’t.”

“Gave in to what? Be specific.”

“You
know!
”

Why did she torture him so?

She was silent for a few moments.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

Did he have to explain? He wondered if other
boys had to confess this sort of thing to their parents.

“It’s embarrassing. Whether I do it or not,
it’s embarrassing to tell you.”

She took his hand. “Mortification is a very
old tool of purification. It is also a tool to use in deciding your
course of action. If you are discomfited in telling me when you
have relieved yourself, doesn’t that very fact suggest something to
you?”

“But I’m embarrassed either way!”

“We’ve talked about how sacrifice
strengthens your character, its sacred origins and how it is an act
of love.” She paused. “Do you love me, Jorie?”

“Yes.”

He knew what was coming.

Suddenly he was on Peggythis riding high in
the sky, riding right through all the constellations, coming to
rest near the Seven Sisters. But there were only six. He must find
the seventh — the one that was hiding in shame.

“Answer me, Jorie!”

Reluctantly he came back to her.

“I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Where were you?” But she didn’t wait for
his reply. “Jorie, in the name of love for your mother, I am asking
you not to do this. You must resist these animal urges. If you do
not, you are no better than they! God did not give us dominion over
them for naught.”

He was silent.

“It is a weakness of the flesh,” she
continued, “and you do not have to give in to it. You can overpower
it with self-discipline and the help of God.”

She paused. “Do you remember how you learned
to overpower your resistance to punishment? Discipline, Jorie. The
mind has dominion over the body.”

Still he was silent.

“Let us pray together.”

She retrieved her Bible, and read a passage
about abstaining.