Mother Lode (33 page)

He turned away from her. “It’s so
boring.”

“You could have gone to college across the
lake, but oh, no, that wasn’t good enough for you.” She began
humming a little tune.

“I went with the
News
because I thought I
could do some
writing.
”

“You will, in time.”

“I can’t keep my mind on placing those
little pieces of lead all night, and when I drift, I make
mistakes.”

“You have to keep your attention on it,
Jorie. You’ll never get ahead making gaffes for the whole county to
see when they read the paper.”

“You talk as if I was going to be there
forever. It’s just temporary, you know, until I go back to Ann
Arbor.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked up
surprised with big, sad eyes.

“The worst of it,” he said, “is I can’t
change a single word, no matter how badly written it is! It’s full
of overly sentimental editorializing, bad grammar—”

“You better not be showing that attitude at
work. Remember your age, and show some respect for your elders.”
She held up a slice of apple mixed with cinnamon and sugar. “Here.”
She popped it in his mouth.

“Can you imagine a sentence like this: ‘We
are informed that Joe Abbot fell down the shaft to a depth of forty
feet resulting in a fractured femur of both limbs, also the tibia
and fibula of the left limb directly above the ankle and otherwise
he was not injured and is now under the best of surgical
assistance.’”

Catherine shook her head.

“Or this: ‘Mr. Pollack departed this life
after a disabilitating, long and lingering illness, in which his
devoted wife stood sentry at his bedside during the whole of these
long and tortuous months, ever watching over him, anticipating his
every need.’”

Catherine laughed. “When you are the
obituary reporter, I’m sure the notices will ring with—”

“Brevity. I’m going for a walk.”

She sighed. “Another walk. Is there a rabbit
or fox hole in the whole county you don’t know by now?”

His work schedule required that he sleep
during the day. On Thursday when he came down stairs at five
o’clock his mother was excited.

“What is it?”

“Jorie, I have it! Let’s pretend we’re going
to a salon tonight, like they have in Paris. Un salon français.
We’ll dress just as though we were in a fine hall. You will read
some verse to me, I will play the piano for you, then you will
play—”

“Oh, Ma.” She led him into the dining room.
He saw the table, with its fancy cloth, china and candles.

“Remember when you were little, and I taught
you how we had to reinvent life in order to survive it? We can do
that now, too.” She looked up, awaiting his answer. “I want you to
be happy here!”

How could he explain that playing dress-up
with her would not do the job.

“We’ll take turns being the performer and
the audience. And a very appreciative listener you’ll find in me,
Jorie.”

"Sounds silly to me.”

“It will be very amusing. We’ll call it the
Thursday Night Musicale, and we can have it every week. Something
to look forward to. It will help us get through this dreadful
winter.”

He saw her hopeful shining eyes. She looked
so excited, was trying so hard to raise his spirits.

“Well, if it will please you.”

“I’ve prepared a special meal. Kind of an
appreciation dinner, shall we say? Venison with gooseberry sauce,
lemon pie with — “

“Ma, you don’t have to do all this.”

“Oh, but I want to. We both need a lift.
Here, Jorie, open the wine, will you? We’ll let it set while we get
dressed.”

Eliza came running up to him in her party
dress. “I get to come to the music.”

“I’ve allowed her to join us for the
recital. Then she’ll go to bed and we’ll dine later.”

He wished Eliza could stay the whole
evening. Having her there would make it seem more like a family
affair.

Soon his mother descended in a shimmering
blue taffeta. Before he could see it, he could hear the rustle of
the material. At the bottom of the stairs she did a little twirl to
show off her gown. All innocence and expectation, like a school
girl waiting to be taken to her first dance.

He tried to dismiss the potpourri of
feelings that overcame him — pity, desire, and a growing
resentment. “I haven’t seen that dress before.”

“Your father bought it for me to wear to the
gala. He said I looked girlish in it.”

She held out her arm, and he escorted her
into the front parlor. “You go first, Jorie. I’ll be your
audience.”

She lit a lamp which she carried to the
piano and took a chair a few feet away from it. She waited
expectantly.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Surprise me. You decide.”

He chose a Chopin nocturne. When he had
finished, Catherine clapped enthusiastically. Merci! C'était
merveilleux!”

Eliza clapped too.

“Your turn.”

He listened to the
sonorous tones of Beethoven’s
Moonlight
Sonata
.

During his Bach cantata, she leaned over his
shoulder humming the tune. In a moment she put her hands on his
back.

“You’re all tight here, Darling. There
should be movement as you play, all across your upper back, just as
in your arms.” She danced her fingers between his shoulders.

He could feel her warm breath erecting the
hair on the back of his neck, just as it had as a boy.

Although there was a chair placed for her,
when her mother was playing, Eliza climbed into Jorie’s lap.

“I want to play like that,” she
whispered.

“Isn’t Mummy teaching you?”

“No, she isn’t.”

“Then I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Catherine stopped, ending with a crashing
chord. “I must say the audience is very rude tonight.”

“We’re sorry,” Jorie said.

“We’re sorry,” Eliza echoed.

Later, when they were eating alone,
Catherine said, “Wouldn’t it be grand if we could have music while
we dined?” She laughed softly. “Minstrels de flânerie, jouant des
violons.”

Eliza came down stairs in her nightgown and
crawled up on Jorie’s lap.

“I don’t feel well.”

“Go back to bed, Eliza,” her mother
instructed.

“Come tell me a story, Jawie. Please.”

“All right.”

He started to rise, but Catherine objected.
“She has to learn obedience. I told her to go to bed.”

Jorie looked at the child.
“You go on up like Mummy says, and when I’ve finished eating I’ll
come up and tell you
two
stories.”

Pacified, Eliza left.

“She can’t just come down and interrupt our
meal like that and drag you off.”

They ate in silence. “I worked so hard to
make this a pleasant evening for us, and now it’s all spoiled by
that selfish child.”

Jorie bristled. “I don’t think she was being
selfish. She doesn’t feel well.”

“Then the best place for her is in bed!”

The evening ended poorly. Nevertheless, each
Thursday evening Catherine had a special dinner waiting in the
dining room with her best table cloth, candles and china.

He spent the night at work doing the same
thing he’d been doing every day since he took this job — picking up
tiny pieces of lead with tweezers, whole words for the most common,
and individual letters for the rest. Setting them down carefully in
the trays, to make words, sentences, his eyes started burning as
they did every night, and by the end of his shift he had a
headache.

He was about to leave in the morning when
Mr. Abbot called him into his office.

“Roger’s sick with influenza. I’d like you
to cover that anti-union speaker tonight at the Town Hall. Can’t
promise, but if you do a good job, we’ll probably run it tomorrow,
and you’ll be paid the free-lance rate.”

Jorie was exuberant. In the weeks that
followed he received two more assignments. As enjoyable as it was,
it did not lessen his desire to return to the University.

One evening he wrote for
an application and list of available scholarships, to be sent to
him in care of
The Copper Country Evening
News
. Even with his ‘sizeable sum’,
whatever that was, he’d have to stretch it out over four years. He
did not want to be caught short in the fall.

When the letter arrived he spent an evening
poring over the qualifications for each prize. Some struck him as
absurd.

The applicant must be able to prove that he
is a direct descendent of Joshua Daniel Abrams of Columbus, Ohio,
and be seeking a degree in the field of law.

Another:
The recipient must have spent a minimum of two
years in service for the Union in the Civil War, and have in his
possession proof of honorable discharge.

My God, thought Jorie. Eligible applicants
would have to be over fifty years old!

But there were some that appeared to be more
available, based on merit alone. Since Jorie had not been able to
complete even one semester, he would have to rely on his high
school records.

He decided to go to the school after work to
ask Mr. Smyth if he would write a letter. On his way, the idea of
asking Miss O’Dell came into his head. Did he dare?

As he approached her room he began to sweat.
Class had been dismissed, and the youngsters, some of whom he
recognized, were grabbing their coats and satchels, eager to be
done with the school day.

But it was not Miss O’Dell he saw cleaning
the blackboard.

“Hi, Jorie.” A younger student waved to
him.

“Where’s Miss O’Dell?”

“She’s not here no more.”

The boy ran off. Jorie felt his stomach
tighten.

He approached the woman at the
blackboard.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but could you tell me why
Miss O’Dell is not here?”

The older woman looked him hard up and down.
“Who are you, and what business is it of yours, may I ask?”

“I’m sorry. I was her student, Jordan
Radcliff. I, I came to see her.”

The older woman raised an eyebrow. “So
you’re Jorie. The one who got her in all the trouble.”

The most awful pain was spreading from his
throat down to his belly. They’d let her go, after all.

Suddenly the woman laughed. “Your Miss
O’Dell has gone and got herself married.”

“Married!” he was stunned.

“And moved downstate to Grand Rapids, she
has. They dug me out from my grave over in Dollar Bay to take her
place ‘til they find someone else.” She emitted a hearty laugh.

He hardly heard anything after ‘married.’ He
knew he had to say something. “That’s grand. Thank you, thank you
very much, Miss—”

“Billy.”

He left in a happy daze.
At least
someone’s
dreams were coming true. He ran all the way home with a joy
he hadn’t felt in months, because he loved Miss O’Dell and she
deserved to be happy.

The next day he was back again. “Excuse me,
Miss — “

“Billy.”

“Billy. Would it be possible for you to give
me her address? I’d like to write her.”

She regarded him for a moment. Then she
said, “She’d like to hear from you. I’m sure she would.” She
rummaged through her desk for a piece of paper.

“Her husband, he’s a fine young man. A
salesman for a furniture company. Office and school furniture. Up
and coming, he is. Did you notice the new desks?”

He had not. He looked now.

Mr. Gillespie —
that’s
her
name
now, too — Mr. Gillespie, convinced the board of education they
would improve student performance. Doesn’t that beat all? A good
salesman, I’d say, wouldn’t you?” She gave him a knowing
look.

Jorie colored. “Yes, ma’am.”

“So that’s how she met him. Him coming in
here after school, measuring the room and such. Even measured the
students, if you please, to make sure he had the right size desks
for them — said that was the first thing a student should have — a
desk that fit properly! Anyway, he kept coming back to make sure he
got everything right. Leastways, that was his excuse.” Miss Billy
chortled mightily.

“That’s splendid.”

Jorie didn’t tell his
mother anything about the scholarship application. He sent it in
with a letter, this time asking that replies be sent to his work
address. He received letters at the
News
from his philosophy professor
and Miss O’Dell stating that their recommendations had been sent to
the dean. Miss O’Dell told him she was thrilled that he was
planning to attend the University. She also confided that she was
expecting a baby in a few months, and that if ever he was near
Grand Rapids she’d be most pleased if he were to visit
them.

From the University of Michigan’s
Scholarship Committee, he received the following letter:

“May we express our heartfelt sympathy at
the passing of your father. As the sole remaining parent of a
minor, your mother has written us withdrawing her permission for
you to attend the University because you are needed at home.
Therefore, any request for financial assistance from the University
will have to be deferred until you have reached the age of
eighteen. Your application will be held until next year, at which
time you should let us know if you are still interested in
procuring a scholarship.”

Jorie groaned. He talked to Phillip at work.
Phillip was the closest thing he had to a friend. Ten years his
senior, the soft-spoken man had taken notice of Jorie. Often they
ate together.

The next night Jorie
complained, “If I wait until I’m old enough to apply, and then have
to wait until they act on it, it will probably be the year
after
next before I’d
get it, if ever.”