Mother Lode (11 page)

“Enu what!”

“Enuresis. Shall I spell it for you,
Papa?”

“No! Just get over it. You will not have any
liquids after supper, and make sure to urinate before getting into
bed. And when you’re sleeping if you feel the urge— You have a
chamber pot?”

“Yes.”

“Well, use it.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Thomas started to go, and then turned back
to his son. “Where did you learn that word?”

“Mummy taught it to me. That’s what the
doctor called it.”

Jorie wasn’t at all sure that he could
overcome this shameful habit as easily as his father suggested.
That night he stayed awake as long as he could, fearful he would
miss the “urge.” But eventually he fell asleep, and sometime after
that when he rolled over, he knew he was wet.

In the morning his father asked, “Did you
stay dry last night?”

“No, sir.”

He felt the heat prickling
his face, his throat close. He had to get away from here. His mind
grabbed on to the sums he was learning.
Three plus four is seven, three plus five is eight.
If he went where the numbers were, maybe he could
make this morning disappear.
Three plus
seven is ten.

“Jorie, next time, I’m going to have to
punish you. We can’t have a big boy like you still wetting your
bed. Do you understand?”

Three plus nine is twelve.

“Do you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Sit down now and eat your breakfast.
Sit.”

Jorie sat, but could eat nothing,
concentrated on the squeaking of his chair, as he gently rocked
back and forth, wishing he could fly with Peggythis way up in the
sky. Mummy could be Peggythis and he would be Belly. They would
ride across the sky and back again. And he would kill the
monster.

The next morning Thomas spanked his son.

Catherine reproached Thomas. “Did you have
to do that? He was mortified.”

“Good. Maybe that will make him stop.”

“Thomas, why is this matter so important to
you? You aren’t the one who has to wash his sheets!”

“Sheets! Hanging out on the line every day
telling everyone we have a bed-wetter!”

“Thomas — “

“It’s disgraceful. I’ll not be humiliated
like that!”

“He doesn’t do it to humiliate you.”

“He is old enough to stop if he wanted to.
The boy is defying me.”

She choked with anger and bitterness. “It’s
not fair, Thomas. You’re taking it out on Jorie that Walter’s
gone!”

Thomas slammed his fist down on the table.
“By God, woman, I’ll not have you judging my actions. It is the
boy’s behavior we’re discussing, I’ll thank you to remember!”

With that he strode out of the house.

For the rest of the week Catherine managed
to avert the bedwetting by waking Jorie up in time. But one night
just as Jorie was climbing back into bed, Thomas was at the
doorway.

“Come back to bed, Catherine.”

The boy pulled his covers up wondering if
his mother would get in trouble.

“Don’t go to him,” Thomas admonished his
wife. “You baby him far too much.”

Fearing that her intervention was causing
Thomas to take an even harder stand, the next day Catherine told
Jorie she couldn’t come to his room at night any more.

When he heard her words, Jorie’s throat
closed. He remembered the baby robins he could see last spring
outside his window. Each day he’d watch the mother bring back worms
to feed them. Then one day she didn’t return. For awhile the babies
squawked, but she never came back. The little birds died.

He would just have to stay awake all night.
But how?

He decided to sleep on the floor, so he’d
wake up if he felt the urge. But the wetting continued and the
punishments worsened.

One day Thomas brought out his razor strap.
Jorie recited the multiplication tables to escape the staggering
pain; he rode high in the sky on Peggythis. When it was over, he
lay on his side in the corner.

From his place on the floor Jorie watched a
small moth dance against the window pane, trying to find a way out.
And he could see a spider in the corner of the ceiling drop, spin,
and drop again. Two flies were caught in her web, one still buzzing
and wiggling, frantically trying to make its escape. He felt a
strange kinship with them, but was too exhausted to figure it
out.

When Thomas left for work Catherine tried to
take her child’s mind off his deep humiliation and the painful
punishments by changing the scene.

She sat on his bed and called him to her.
“Let’s pretend you are a very brave knight. You fought the foe for
your queen, and many times you were a hero. But one time there were
too many enemies for you. You were knocked from your horse. Your
foot got caught in the stirrup, and as the horse ran down the hill
you were dragged with it, bumping along the rocky hillside.
Finally, the horse stopped, you got untangled, got back on your
horse—”

“Peggythis.”

“—and returned to the castle. But your
bottom was very sore from all that bouncing on the rocks. It was so
sore the queen had to rub it with a very special salve.”

Jorie looked up.

“On my dresser, Darling, there is a pretty
blue jar. Go get it.”

“The one with the silver ballerina on
top?”

“Yes, Dear. Handle it very carefully. It was
a special present from my father.”

He ran down the hall to her room, that
lovely place that smelled of lavender and lilac.

When he brought the jar to her, she bid him
lie across her lap. He could hear her removing the lid, and then
she was applying the cream to his burning bottom.

“Mummy, it’s so cool. And your hands are so
soft.”

It became a ritual — after each whipping,
Jorie would bring the blue jar. Catherine would rub the cream on
his abused skin and tell him a story.

But the whippings were becoming unbearable.
Jorie decided he’d have to take a firmer hand with himself. Since
none of his other ideas had worked, there was still one more thing
he could do. It frightened him, but it was all that was left.

When she was bathing him, Catherine noticed
Jorie’s penis was bruised and swollen. “Jorie, what is this? What
happened to you?”

He burst out crying and would not talk.

“Did Papa do this to you? Answer me!”

Jorie shook his head.

“Did he?”

“No!” Jorie sobbed.

“What happened? How did you injure
yourself?”

Jorie pulled away. Finally, she got it out
of him that he had wound a piece of yarn around it tightly and tied
it so as not to wet.

When she’d gotten the story from him, such a
fury mounted in her as she’d never known. All the feelings that had
been dammed up of the injustice of Thomas’ punishment rose in a
torrid swell from her spine upward. This would not, could not
continue. That Jorie would feel obliged to resort to such extreme
measures to accommodate his father’s will was outrageous.

She rocked him in her arms, crying, “Oh, my
darling bonnie lad.”

Finally, she pushed him up and took his face
between her hands. “You must promise me that you’ll never do that
to yourself again.”

“But it’s the only way,” he cried.

“Jorie, you could really injure yourself.
Maybe permanently.”

“But I don’t know how else to stop!”

For a moment she said nothing. Then she sat
straight up. “He won’t whip you any more. I promise.”

“How can you make him stop, Mummy?”

“I’ll find a way.”

Although only twenty-four years old,
Catherine knew her feminine charms no longer held leverage over
Thomas. His smoldering resentment over losing Walter and their
continual quarrels regarding Jorie’s discipline had risen to such a
crescendo, the fire of his passion was all but extinguished. Only
occasionally did he require his conjugal rights. She could hardly
threaten to deprive him of what he no longer desired.

No, it would have to be something else.
Something that would strike at his public face.

She knew that Thomas would be entertaining
his poker friends the next evening as he did every Friday night.
George McKinney, Arthur Johnson, Buck Boyce and Earl Foster would
all be there.

After completing the
washing up that evening, she strode purposefully into the dining
room, where he sat at the table studying the assays of last month’s
yield of ore.
She did not wait for him to
look up.

“If you strike that boy one more time, I
will leave you. I will take Jorie and leave your home, Thomas.”

He turned to her, stunned. “You can’t do
that.”

“Of course I can.”

“I would not support you.”

“You forget I have money of my own.”

“And how long do you think that would
last?”

“If necessary I will go to work.”

“Are you trying to undo me, woman? First
Walter, now Jorie!”

“It seems to me you are undoing Jorie.”

“He needs discipline, Catherine!”

“Not like that.”

Thomas took a deep breath. “You cannot take
a man’s children from him. The law would give him back to me.”

The tiniest smile appeared on her face.
“Perhaps. But need I point out, Thomas, that in the meantime there
would be a great scandal? We shall make our departure tomorrow
evening—during your poker game—complete with suitcases.”

His mouth fell open. Catherine left the room
before he could find words to answer.

The next morning Thomas turned to her. “I
have given thought to your remarks. Under one condition I will
agree to your request.”

For an anguishing moment time seemed to
freeze.

“Someone has to discipline the lad,” he
continued. “If you believe you are up to the task, then I leave it
to you. If you are unwilling, unable, or fail in your duty, the
responsibility will revert to me.”

Catherine could hardly believe what she’d
heard.

“All right,” she answered. “I’ll undertake
his discipline.”

“Do not misunderstand me. You are soft with
the boy. I wager it will be only a short time before the task will
fall to me again. I expect an accounting, Catherine, of his
infractions and how you have dealt with them. Do you
understand?”

“If you think I’m going to beat the boy as
you have, you are mistaken. He is a tender lad, and I have never
found it necessary to resort to such measures.”

“Choose your own methods, but make sure they
are effective.” He started to leave. With is hand on the doorknob,
he turned to her.

“I give you three weeks to stop the
bed-wetting.”

With that Thomas stomped out of the house.
Catherine paced the floor. She felt a thrill of victory, at least
for her son, but some doubt as to whether she could meet Thomas’
deadline. As for her relation to her husband, no doubt she would
incur a debt of consequences. She would not think of that now.

To show Thomas her appreciation she made a
peach cobbler for the poker players.

As they were leaving that night, Earl Foster
said, “Mighty tasty pie, Catherine.” He chuckled, “I’d never have
thought of having peach pie with beer—leave it to a lady to conjure
up such a combination!”

Catherine wasn’t sure if he was poking fun
at her, or making a crude attempt at a compliment. How strange that
Thomas’s poker friends were all prominent citizens, all except
Under Sheriff Earl Foster!

Aware of how much comfort she was giving the
boy, Catherine wondered if she were in some way prolonging the
problem with her ministrations of salve, which he clearly
enjoyed.

One day she hit on what she thought might be
a solution.

“Jorie, I think we had best turn things
around. From now on, Mummy is not going to put the cream on your
bottom when you wet the bed. Instead, I’ll apply it when you keep
dry.”

He was confused and disappointed. “When I’m
dry?”

“Yes, as kind of a reward. I think that
might help you stop wetting sooner. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Jorie tried extra hard to keep dry all
night. At first the wet nights still outnumbered the dry, but
within two weeks he was dry more often than not.

On the first morning he experienced success,
he couldn’t wait for Papa to leave, and to bring the jar to
her.

“I am so proud of you, Jorie,” she said
unbuttoning the flap of his long underwear and pulling it down. He
lay across her knees and she pulled him toward her.

“Mummy, can you do it a long time since I
was dry?”

“A little longer.” Catherine hummed ‘Barbara
Allen’ as she caressed his bottom with the soothing balm. The jar
sat on his bedside table. Catching the morning’s light, it created
the most wonderful blue, like the sky must be if you could just go
up high enough.

To Jorie this elixir felt so much better
when his bottom wasn’t hurting, he vowed he’d never wet again. How
gentle was her touch, how sweet her warm breath on his neck, as he
savored every stroke and relaxed into her love. He wiggled his body
tighter against hers and closed his eyes, soaking up the delicious
mixture of lavender cologne, the sensation of his mother’s
comforting touch, and the sonorous sounds of the tune she was
humming.

“You are my queen.”

“And you my knight.”

On the eighteenth day of her reign Catherine
went to Thomas and announced, “Jorie no longer wets his bed.”

If she was expecting surprise or pleasure
from Thomas, she got none.

“It’s about time, “he said, without raising
his head from his paper.

Chapter 9

Catherine could no longer bear her husband’s
snoring — a whole cacophony of sounds, including intermittent
bursts of loud percussion. Her own sleep had been so fitful and
interrupted with his odious nocturnal discords, she thought she
could rest more peacefully alone. When she asked him to take
another room, he put up no resistance.