Mother Lode (24 page)

“Well, if you’re going to be cross with me,
I ought to at least know why!”

“You ruined things between your Father and
me. Is that reason enough?”

So it was that again. “I was trying to
protect you from him!” he shouted.

“I didn’t need protection!” she shouted
back.

“Then what was all that moaning and groaning
about?”

“I’ll hear no more of your impudence!” she
yelled, waving the new laundry fork in his face. For a moment he
thought she was going to strike him with it.

Suddenly she saw what she had in her hand,
dropped it and disappeared behind the laundry, crying.

Jorie had never been able to stand his
mother weeping. Pushing through the wet laundry, he went up behind
her, put his arms around her, dropped them, put them back on her
shoulders. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

She stooped down and picked up the laundry
fork. “It’s beautiful, Jorie. I’m upset. I shouldn’t be taking it
out on you.”

Jorie thought now would be a good time to
give his mother the diary. It might cheer her up.

“I have another present for you, Mum. It
wasn’t finished on Christmas. I’ll just run up and get it.”

She wiped her reddened hands on her apron
and looked at the wrapping. “When did you draw this? It’s lovely.”
She was studying the picture he’d wrapped it in—a drawing of the
house last fall, with the veranda laden with grapes.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

Slowly she took the paper off, carefully
setting it aside.

Jorie watched her reaction. First he heard a
little gasp, and then staring at the diary, he saw her start to
shake. “Mum, what’s the matter?”

She pulled him to her lap like a little boy,
hugging him tightly.

“Oh, my Darling. This is the most precious
gift I’ve ever received, because you thought of it and made it
yourself.”

She freed one hand to caress the book. “It’s
beautiful, and how long you must have worked on it.”

“Why are you crying?”

She buried her head in his shoulder. “I have
not been fair to you. The other night . . . you couldn’t have
known. I’m just a wicked woman to yell at you so. And now you’ve
given me this.”

“It’s all right.” He tried to stand up, but
she was pulling him back.

“I love you, Jorie. You know that, don’t
you?” She tugged at him.

“Yes. And I love you.”

She searched his eyes. “Do you? Do you
truly?”

“You know I do.”

He had to get away. He stood up before she
could stop him, and tried to bring her attention back to the
book.

“Do you like what I wrote on the cover?”

“‘This diary belongs to Catherine Radcliff,
given to her by her son Jorie, December, 1895.’ Oh, my precious! I
shall treasure it always.”

Chapter 19

In the spring Jorie thought his mother
seemed happier, but more distant. He had to deal with a strangeness
in her for which he had no road map. It often seemed, as it did
today, that when he wanted to converse with her he had to bring her
back from a faraway place. Then she would smile sweetly at him as
if he’d been gone for a long while.

As they were finishing lunch he asked, “Ma,
can I take my bicycle down to the shop?”

“Jorie, you’re growing so fast!”

He repeated the question. “The rim is
crooked. I want to see if they can fix it.”

“’May I’,” she corrected him.

“Well, may I?”

“Yes, you may. And pick up two pounds of
starch while you’re in town for your father’s shirts, and some
lemons, if they have any.” She placed a quarter in his hand. “Save
a penny or two to buy yourself an ice-cream.”

He started to dash out the door.

“Wait. I have something very important to
tell you.” She motioned for him to sit beside her at the table.

“What is it?” His foot was jerking
impatiently.

She didn’t answer, brushed some crumbs from
the cloth, and seemed to be puzzling over how to begin.

Finally, she said, “This will change our
lives, Jorie.”

She looked so serious he became frightened.
“Are you going to die?”

Her laughter startled him.

“Heavens, no. At least I don’t think so.
What made you say that?”

“I don’t know.”

Finally she said, “Jorie, you know where
babies come from, don’t you?”

He turned away, so she couldn’t see him
flush in the dim light. Why was she doing this? “I’m thirteen, for
God’s sake, Ma.”

“You needn’t speak to me that way.”

He waited for her to continue.

She patted her belly. “A little brother or
sister is growing here for you.”

His mind went blank. Then he tried to absorb
this information. Was this some kind of new game of hers? He looked
at her closely, trying to read her face.

“Are you jesting?

“Not at all. It’s quite true. What are you
thinking, Jorie?”

He shook his head.

“Well, are you happy about it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m just surprised.”

“Yes, I was sure you would be. You’re the
first I’ve told, except your Pa, of course.”

He thought she looked
disappointed that he expressed no joy in her news. He left her as
soon as he could. He did not go into town, but up into the hills by
the mine. Thoughts tumbled out of his head like the poor-rock he
could see in the distance tumbling from the chute. He knew
everything would change.
Wasn’t she too
old to have a baby? Wasn’t he enough for her? Was she telling him
he’d failed her in some way?

He refused to release the hot tears that
burned within their rims.

She was
happy
about this new
child.

A deep sense of betrayal engulfed him.

As if to add insult to injury, shortly
before school was out in the spring, Catherine told him he had a
job for the summer.

She’s trying to get rid of
me.
“What kind of job?”

“Mr. Foster wants someone to work in his
vegetable garden.”

“The sheriff?”

“Yes. He asked for you.”

“Why?”

“He likes you. You can start going over
there after school to turn the soil, and then to plant. Mrs. Foster
will show you what to do.”

She hadn’t even asked if he wanted to. But
he liked Mr. Foster. Besides, it would help to keep his mind off
the change at home.

He found the sheriff a likeable man, and
easier to talk to than his father. Earl Foster showed him the green
worms that plagued the tomatoes, and told him why he wanted the
whole garden bordered with marigolds.

“The smell keeps the rodents away.”

“Is that true? I’ll have to tell my mother,
for her garden.”

“I doubt your mother would take to learning
from me.”

Jorie looked up puzzled.

“We were school chums. Classmates, anyway.
But she was smarter than me.”

Jorie thought the sheriff had more to say,
but then he turned back to the garden.

On a warm August evening the baby came.
Jorie had been sent to fetch the midwife, and this time she arrived
in time. Unable to bear the sound of his mother’s moans, he went
outside. He sat under the apple tree whittling a stick, wondering
if she’d have any time for him with a baby to care for.

And then it was a girl! He supposed if it
had to be here, he’d rather it was a brother. What would he do with
a sister?

In the weeks that followed it seemed his
mother used him just to fetch things.

“Get the baby’s bath ready.” “Find the clean
rags for her bottom.”

But the most fascinating part was seeing his
mother nurse little Eliza. Those beautiful breasts he’d only
imagined before were now being used like a hog’s teats. He wondered
if he’d been allowed to suck them when he was a baby. He supposed
he had, but he couldn’t remember. It struck him that that privilege
should be reserved for a time when it could be better
appreciated.

Oh, what was he thinking!

Then just when he was ready to leave the
room, suddenly his mother dumped the infant in his lap. “Here, hold
her, Jorie.”

He looked down at this small creature, no
heavier than a small cloud, trying to comprehend that she was his
sister. He didn’t feel anything for her, anything good, that
is.

“Ma, she peed on me!”

Catherine laughed, but Jorie didn’t think it
was funny at all.

“Well, change her.”

“Ma!”

“Here, I’ll show you.”

“Can’t Helena do it?”

“She’s busy.”

He found this an unsavory task, but before
long learned to do it as adeptly as the women.

Except for nursing, he soon discovered that
it was he and Helena in whose care the baby was most often
given.

Chapter 20

In his sophomore year Jorie had a new
teacher. Her name was Caroline O’Dell and it was her first year of
teaching. Jorie liked her right off, but something happened in
October that endeared her to him for life.

Someone had taken money from Miss O’Dell’s
purse the day before. She had not discovered it until she got home
that evening. The next day she said that if the money was returned,
no more would be said about it.

She waited three days and there was no
response. That evening she held the class after school.

“No one may leave this room until my money
is returned, or a confession is made.”

With no other sound to catch the ear, the
ticking of the clock seemed ominously loud. The hands marked off
the passing of time as each student looked to his mates for signs
of culpability.

Finally, an older boy raised his hand.

“I hate to tattle, Miss, but I seen Jorie
Radcliff sneak back in the schoolhouse yesterday when you was
outside with the rest of us.”

A hush fell upon the room as all eyes turned
to Jorie. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“I have asked for a confession, not an
accusation,” Miss O’Dell said.

“I didn’t take it!” Jorie called out. “And I
didn’t sneak back into the school. I was outside the whole time we
were watching the snakes by the creek.”

“Thank you, Jorie.” She turned to the
others. “I am still waiting for a confession.”

None was forthcoming, and finally Miss
O’Dell dismissed the class.

“Jorie, would you stay a moment,
please?”

Now in full humiliation, he reddened as he
felt the accusing glances of the departing students. When they were
alone, Miss O’Dell sat in a student desk next to his.

“Do you know anything about this,
Jorie?”

“No, ma’am.” His feet scraped against the
warped boards of the floor.

“I want you to know that I don’t believe you
took the money. I truly don’t. And you’re not to worry about
it.”

Jorie looked at her with great relief and
gratitude.

“Thank you. Thank you very much, ma’am.”

She shifted her weight, and her serious
countenance segued easily in to a smile. I’ve noticed you like to
draw, Jorie. Have you been interested in art for a long time?”

He took a deep breath now that the crisis
had passed.

“Yes, ma’am, I have.”

“I have a beautiful book at home of animal
pictures. Most of them are from other countries, such as zebras and
anteaters. Would you like to see it? You could try copying these
photographs if you like, to practice.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, please!”

“Then I shall bring it to class
tomorrow.”

When they said good-bye Jorie was ecstatic.
She believed him about the money, and she was bringing him a prized
possession of hers to study.

“You’ll never believe it!” he called to his
mother when he entered the house. My teacher is wonderful! Shall I
tell you what happened?”

He regaled her with the tale.

“She couldn’t help but see you’re an honest
lad.”

“She’s so nice, Mum. I’ve never known a
teacher like her.”

“Let’s hope she’s schooled enough to stay
ahead of you, and advance you in Latin and Geometry.”

“I think she’s very smart.”

“Well, we shall see, shan’t we?”

The next day, true to her word, Miss O’Dell
brought the book for Jorie. Filled with tin-type pictures taken
around the world, Jorie had never seen such detailed likenesses of
the creatures of the jungle. He stayed in at recess to study the
book, and pored over it at lunchtime.

During the next few weeks his skill in
drawing improved dramatically. Miss O’Dell asked if she could mount
two of his drawings, and hang them on the wall. Jorie felt a happy
blush cover his face.

When he told his mother, she replied, “It’s
about time someone noticed your artistic ability. What does she
think of your writing?”

“She said I was the only one in the class
who knew how to use adverbs properly.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, she said I write well.”

“I should think so.”

Catherine added a sprinkling of water to the
pie dough she was making, worked it into the flour.

“Is she pretty?” She worked the dough into a
ball and slapped it on the board.

“Oh, yes, Mum. She’s very pretty, and she’s
only nineteen.”

“How do you know that?” She punched the
dough, flipped it over, punched it again.

“She said so.”

“Why would a teacher tell the class her
age?”

“She didn’t tell the class, just me.”

“And how did that come about?” She shaped
the dough into a perfect circle with her rolling pin.

“Well, I figured it out. One day she told me
she started drawing at my age. And another time she said she’d been
drawing for five years, but still wasn’t as good as me.”

“I see.” She tossed the disk into the
waiting pan. “When do you have these tête-à-têtes?”

“Usually at lunchtime, when the others go
outside.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not always. I’d rather draw.”