Mother Lode (21 page)

“Get down on you knees, Jorie.”

When he protested, Catherine said, “Shall I
call Helena in to witness?”

“No!”

When they were both on their knees, she
closed her eyes.

“Mary, pray for us sinners
now and at our hour of death. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Jesus, and blessed is the fruit of
my
womb, Jorie. We ask that thou
help him in overcoming this temptation of the flesh, so
inappropriate at his tender age. Give him the strength to fight off
these demons of the flesh, and rise victorious above them. In the
name of the Father, the Son and The Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen,” Jorie mumbled.

“Keep praying, Jorie. Go up to bed now.”

He got up slowly, and as
he was leaving the room, she called to him, “Do you remember
the
Golden Bubble
, Jorie?”

With his back to her he nodded.

“Think about what it’s worth to you.”

Catherine knew she was gambling with high
stakes. She had to rely on the power of her previous teachings,
hoping the ground work had been laid carefully and securely enough
for him to make the right choice.

Flashes of her own erotic
feelings danced before her, confronted her with questions:
What was it that made his behavior so abhorrent
to her? Was it the act itself, or Jorie engaged in it?
She pushed the thoughts away. Enough that
instinctively she felt it was wrong, that it violated all her
sensibilities.

For five days Jorie abstained. But on the
sixth night he again sought release, and many nights after
that.

It was not as easy to overcome as his mother
supposed.

The stable was a place of quiet solitude for
Jorie. His chores had taken him there every day to feed and groom
the horses and occasionally to clean out the stalls. Although he
cared nothing for riding, he enjoyed grooming them and felt great
fondness for Falstaff, often talking to him and giving him extra
treats. Jorie rather liked the odors in the stable — the particular
mixture of leather, hay and animal smells. When his work was done
he could make himself a comfortable bed of straw and get lost in
daydreams. He fancied no one knew he used it as his secret lair. At
thirteen he thought he’d reached an unspoken truce with his mother.
She no longer made him undergo the painful inquiries into his
sexual habits. He wasn’t sure if she accepted it, or assumed he no
longer indulged.

On one particular warm September afternoon,
after finished the mucking out and replacing the old straw with
new, he decided to have a lie-down in his favorite corner. Breaking
open a bundle of clean straw, he unraveled himself upon it, relaxed
in the sweetness of the soft sounds coming from the stalls. The
tender breezes and late afternoon sunlight found their way through
the door at the far end of the barn.

Soon his hands were
fumbling with the buttons on his fly, and within moments he was in
an ecstasy which defied obedience to any but the powerful drive
within. She had said,
we are not animals,
we must govern the body,
but here in this
most animal of places he could not help himself, had barely tried
to for some time now. Here, by himself, he was able to relegate the
guilt to some dark recess of his mind— for at least for as long as
the rapture lasted.

Caught in the web of carnal pleasure, he did
not hear her footsteps or even the welcoming whinny of her
horse.

Not until he’d finished did he become aware
of his surroundings. Only then did he open his eyes to see her
towering over him.

Fear exploded in his belly, but it was his
shame that overpowered him.

“Get up!”

He scrambled to his feet, yanking at his
pants.

“No. Drop your britches.”

With mortifying difficulty
he did as he was told, stood there exposed in his mother’s
presence. For a long time she just looked at him, slowly up and
down, while he stood shaking before her.
Had she watched the whole thing? Had she seen his swollen
penis, his hand pumping it up and down?
He
could not bear to think of it.

Finally she declared, “You must be punished.
You know that.”

Would she tell Papa? Would the beatings
return, worse than before?

She moved a few feet away, pushed aside the
straw that covered a large flat stone that had been left in its bed
when the ground had been prepared for the stable.

“Come here, Jorie.”

He started to pull up his pants so he could
navigate the space between himself and the rock.

“No, I told you to leave them down. Get over
here.”

Barely knowing what he was doing, he obeyed,
shuffled toward her.

“Kneel. Kneel on this stone.”

What was she going to
do?
He knelt on the hard stone, feeling
its uneven points dig into his knees. He thought his mortification
was complete when she made him stand before her with his britches
around his ankles, gazing at him. But then he had not anticipated
this.

“Put your head and chest down until they
touch the ground. . . Yes. Now push your backside up in the air.
Higher. . . Place your arms out at your sides. Reach, as far as you
can.”

He waited, eternally, it seemed, knowing she
was watching him, taking in every crevice of his shame. How could
he ever look at her again? His outstretched hands scratched through
the straw; his nails dug into the packed earth beneath.

“You will wait here, in
just this position, until I decide what to do with you. It may be
some time. I needn’t tell you the distress this causes me. It is
a
violation
,
against God, against
me!
You knew that, and you must atone for
it.”

She left him then. As he remained in this
mode of penance he wept deeply with an anguish he didn’t know his
soul possessed. When the sobs had finally subsided, and his body
ached to collapse on the ground, still he kept his position, not
from fear, but contrition. The imprisoned guilt, broken loose from
its confinement, came flying out with all its condemnation. He had
betrayed the only person in the world who loved him, the only one
he loved. Like the prince in the fairy tale, his disloyalty would
doom him for all eternity. He could not forgive himself; he could
find no peace.

The soft shadows and sunlight of the
afternoon had forsaken him. It was dark now, he was shivering from
the cold that had descended upon the stable, and still she did not
come. Once he awoke suddenly as his exhausted body tumbled to its
side. Righting himself quickly, he took stock of his surroundings.
He could tell by their breathing that even the horses were asleep.
The barn swallows were coming home to roost. Night had fallen.

Focusing on the sounds to keep himself
awake, he listened to the owl’s soft hoot, its mate’s reply. He
caught the scuttle of mice running across the dirt floor; from the
woods he heard the death cry of a small animal defeated by its
captor.

Finally, he noticed a light from a lantern
cast its glow in the darkness.

Was it his mother, or had she sent his
father?

“Get up now,” she said softly.

He felt like an old man trying to rise. His
knees didn’t seem to work as he broke them open. Finally standing
unsteadily, he felt the terrible cramping in his calves, thighs,
back and arms. He was afraid he might collapse as he waited further
instruction. But anything she would do now would be better than
what he’d endured.

“Pull your pants up.”

Clumsily he did so.

“Now go to the house and up to bed.”

“Aren’t you going to punish me?”

“Have you not been punished enough these
past hours?”

“Yes, yes I have,” he said, buttoning his
trousers.

“Then go to bed. We’ll say no more
tonight.”

He was glad she went on ahead of him. She
did not see him fall twice on his way to the house.

“Where was Jorie at suppertime?” Thomas
asked his wife as she came back to the house.

“He was being punished.”

“What did he do to bring on your
displeasure?”

“I found him — abusing himself.”

“You found him what?”

Catherine reddened. “Pleasuring
himself.”

Thomas snorted. “Every boy does that.”

The casual remark flattened her. She sucked
in her breath.

“He had been specifically told not to, that
it was a violation against God!”

“That’s a lot of bollix, Catherine.”

“The Bible—”

“—Would prefer us all to be celibate, but
then how would we produce children to glorify God?”

“Surely, you don’t mean to say—”

“Glad to hear there’s something normal about
him.”

“Thomas—”

What do you imagine other boys, do with
their sexual urges? Have you never thought of that?”

“No, I never have. Oh, Blessed Mary!”

He laughed. “Either that, or find a handy
ewe.”

“Ah! How can you jest so?”

“Not a jest, my dear. Not a jest at
all.”

“Oh, that is horrible! Disgusting!”

Thomas laughed again.

“You can’t mean to say that it’s right for
him to handle himself so — that I should tell him to go ahead!”

“Don’t tell him anything. Boys do what boys
do. Best to turn your back and ignore it.”

He laughed. “Put all the fancy dress on us
you like, Catherine, we are still animals.”

“We are not!”

“We shall see about that, my little
ewe.”

The conversation had aroused Thomas. He
pulled his wife toward him, and said lightly, “Now I’d like a
little ‘ewe’ tonight.”

Despite her long hunger, she was offended at
this treatment. But he marched her up the stairs to her room,
tossed her on her bed, and threw up her skirts.

“Turn over,” he commanded.

“Thomas! Are you mad?”

“I see I have to do it for you.” He flipped
her over, pulling her bloomers down in one swift motion.

“Aw, you’ve still a beautiful white ass, my
dear.”

“Stop it!”

He pushed her higher up on the bed. His
powerful hands grasped her flesh while he ignored her objections.
He squeezed until the protests stopped.

“Wait,” he directed.

He left her for a moment, and she was shamed
to realize she had not the will to even attempt an escape.

Returning with the blue jar, he put an ample
amount of its contents inside her.

“Now if I were truly to take you as a ewe,
there’d be no balm to soften the sting of my arrow as it finds its
mark. But I still treat you as a lady,” he said lightly.

With no further ado, he rammed into her,
ignoring her cry of pain which soon evolved into moans of pleasure,
as he knew it would.

Abruptly he paused. “You see, my dear, you
too are an animal, as I have just proven.”

She pushed against him.

“You do grasp my point.” He laughed at his
pun.

When she moaned he rode to the finish hard
and fast. When he was spent, he rolled off her and lay on the bed
apart.

Catherine was angry with him, angrier still
with herself. Her body had betrayed her. How could she hope to
train Jorie to rule his physical urges if she could not rule her
own?

He pulled her roughly toward him.

“How’s that for lessons? I rest my
case.”

She tried to pull away.

“Aw, Lass, don’t take it all so seriously.
Some day I’ll take you down to the barn and we’ll pretend we’re
young gypsies a-rollicking’ in the hay.”

Lying alone later that night she looked her
own blindness straight in the eye. She had to admit that if she had
thought about other lads giving themselves relief in this way, it
wouldn’t have bothered her. She had to ask why, then, was she so
upset with Jorie?

Ugly glimpses of her
possessiveness came twisting through her mind. Having questioned
her own motives, she could not now find the key to stopping them.
She didn’t want to know more, but still the fact overflowed its
banks, flooded her knowing:
Because he’s
mine.

She shook with the truth, which was too
uncomfortable to countenance, and tried to push it out of her head.
She spent a restless night, and by morning knew what she must
do.

She went to his room, sat on the side of his
bed, her hands in her lap. “Jorie, I have wronged you. In my
ignorance I thought I was doing right to insist you not touch
yourself. But I do not know as much about such things as your
father does. When I told him—”

“You told Papa!”

“He asked me why you were being punished and
I had to tell him.”

Jorie’s heart sank.

“He said, ‘all boys do that.’”

Jorie couldn’t believe his ears. A great
silent sigh of relief flowed from his toes upward through his whole
body.

“I don’t think that makes it right. I’m sure
it’s a sin, but perhaps I shouldn’t have . . .You’d better speak to
Father Dumas about it.” She waited for him to take this in.

Jorie moved his stiff body slightly,
swallowed. He’d gone to bed in misery and shame. Exhausted, he’d
fallen in and out of a fitful sleep. He’d thought he heard noises
coming from his mother’s room, but was too weary to give it his
attention. In the morning, he’d re-experienced all the shame and
pain of the previous night, covered his head with his pillow and
tried to find the sweet balm of slumber. But sleep would not
return. He had struggled to bend his crippled knees, forced himself
to flex them until they would bear his weight when he stood up. But
it was extremely painful to walk, and having no wish to go
anywhere, had returned to bed.

When she’d opened the door, he thought there
would be more talk of punishment. What he was hearing now astounded
him.