Mother Lode (17 page)

Catherine cringed. “I had to let him.” She
waited for some kind of explosion, but he just nodded.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?
Aren’t you even jealous?”

“He’s your husband, Katie.”

“Yes. Well, I can tell you
I could hardly bear it. I feel clean with you, but with him I feel
soiled. Can you understand that, Chester? It’s as if I was being
unfaithful to
you
, to allow him to touch me.”

“You must continue to be his wife.”

“Oh, Chester, I don’t want to!”

“Well, right now, you are mine.”

Soon the all-too-short summer was over.
Jorie was back in school, and the precious warm days of early fall
were upon them. The rainbow of magentas, oranges and yellows that
the maples and birches displayed, with the sky that deep shade of
blue seen only at this time of year dared anyone to stay
indoors.

On one such afternoon they had gone walking
in the woods.

“It must be the light, so low in the
southern sky, that gives everything that special patina, don’t you
agree, Chester?”

He nodded, pre-occupied, she thought.

“And creates longer shadows, even in
mid-afternoon.”

They dismounted, tied the horses, and
continued their journey by foot.

“All my senses have been heightened, since
I’ve been with you,” Catherine said. “Can you feel the crunch of
every twig under your feet? And the smell of wood smoke coming
across the valley?” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I
don’t want it to ever end.”

He stopped, and turned her to face him. “I
have something to tell you, Katie.”

She had dreaded this moment. “No! I don’t
want to hear it! Don’t say it.”

“I must. You knew the day would come.”

“You said there was more to do—”

“But I will be finished before the first
snows. I’ve been summoned back east.”

“Don’t go! Please tell them you won’t.”

He held her to his breast as Catherine gave
vent to her feelings. “I can’t let you go,” she sobbed.

“Then come with me, Katie.”

“Do you mean it?” She studied his face.

“We could make a new life, the two of us,
where no one knows us.”

“Chester, do you think for a moment I could
leave Jorie?”

“Think about it, Catherine. This is not the
place for you. I’m offering you a new life.”

She was silent.

“It is your choice, Catherine.”

For days Catherine was in a tailspin. She
could not imagine leaving Jorie, and she could not imagine letting
Chester go without her. He was right; she didn’t belong in this
God-forsaken country. They could live in Virginia, where it was
warm, where they’d make new friends.

Chester coaxed, “Leave Jorie with his father
and come away with me. He can’t force you to stay.”

“I would not be as far as Chicago before I
would drown in tears at the thought of leaving my Jorie. I would
bring you no joy, being constantly in a state of mourning for my
son.”

Chester nodded.

“Is there no other way?” she implored.

“I could say that I’d come back some day.
But I won’t lie to you, Katie. The truth is I have no love for this
frigid country. The summer is short and the winter long. I want to
go back east, and I would be happy to take you with me.” He
smoothed her hair. “It is you who will have to decide. You have
time; I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

“But if you loved me—”

“Don’t, Katie.”

Sleepless nights continued. One morning she
passed St. Joseph’ s, the Catholic Church in the center of town. A
woman was leaving through the large oaken door, and it occurred to
Catherine that she could go inside, unseen by anyone she knew, and
try to bring order to her thoughts in the stillness of this
refuge.

Quietly, she entered the sanctuary. It took
her a moment to get accustomed to the darkness. Immediately she
became aware of incense. Tiny candles in little rows flickered in
one corner. She saw no one else, walked down the aisle, and slid
into a pew. Her eyes took in the surroundings so unfamiliar to her
— a statue of Mary in white and blue plaster and another of Jesus.
A large crucifix stood behind the altar; she spent a long time
allowing the sights and smells of this dwelling to permeate her
senses.

Catherine hadn’t prayed in years, didn’t
feel comfortable doing it now. But she found that watching the
candles flicker in the quiet, darkened sanctuary brought her a
feeling of peace. She returned, and each time felt some of the
agitation leave her during her stay.

On one of her visits she felt someone slide
in beside her. Without lifting her eyes, she could tell by glancing
at his lap that he was in a priest’s garb.

She waited for him to speak.

“I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “but I
have seen you coming here this week. I am Father Dumas. If you
would like to talk to someone, I am available.”

“Thank you.”

She had not thought to divulge her secret to
a single soul, let alone a Catholic priest.

He waited for her to say more. “I’m not
Catholic,” she added.

“Whatever your faith, you have come here. I
am not suggesting confession. I offer my ear should you wish to
discuss your problem with someone who can keep a secret.”

She hadn’t said she had a
problem.
But I suppose my very presence
here establishes that.

She shook her head.

He placed his hand over hers. “If you should
change your mind, my study is through that archway.”

He rose to leave, and Catherine’s eyes
followed the little man until he disappeared.

She thought about the priest that night and
wondered why she’d been in such a hurry to reject his offer. No,
she wasn’t Catholic, but he knew that. Certainly there was no one
else she could turn to.

The next day she knocked timidly at his
study door. It was opened by a nun.

“Is Father . . .” She couldn’t even remember
his name!

“Father Dumas is not here. Whom shall I say
called?”

Catherine shook her head. “He doesn’t know
my name.”

“I expect him back shortly. If you’d like to
wait in the sanctuary, I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Catherine became lost in the serenity of the
refuge. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting when she felt
the priest’s presence beside her.

“Would you like to come to my study?”

“Could we just stay here?” she ventured.

“Of course.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Wherever your thoughts take you.”

“I have a most dire decision to make.”

She told him about Chester, her marriage,
her son, and the terrible choice she had to make. Sometimes the
tears she’d been holding back rolled down her face.

He offered no hell and damnation judgments,
only gentle promptings when she lost her thoughts. The telling of
her story was made easier by the dimness of the church; sitting
beside him allowed her not to look at him directly.

“Well, now I’ve told you everything.” She
took a deep breath, drawing in the scent from the candle box.

Father Dumas was quiet.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what a terrible
sinner I am?”

“Do you want me to?”

Catherine was silent.

“Did it help to sort out your feelings?
That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Catherine sighed.

“Ask God for help. Prayer brings new
insights to old questions.”

“Then what was the point of telling you
everything?” Immediately she regretted her outburst.

“So you could hear the story, untangle
it.”

Catherine let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m
sorry, I’m so confused.”

“Pray tonight. Perhaps the answer will come
in the form of a dream. If you would like to come back, I’ll be
here tomorrow, Lady.”

Lady! He had called her lady after all she’d
revealed to him!

That evening Catherine prayed, or tried to.
She had been so removed from this experience that it felt
uncomfortable to her. Her dreams were disturbing, and in the
morning she could remember nothing.

The next day she reported to Father
Dumas.

“Can I tell you a story, Lady?”

“My name is Catherine.”

He smiled. “Like the saint.”

“There’s no comparison.”

He brightened. “You are familiar with the
saints?”

“Not at all. But I know they wouldn’t be
called saints if they’d behaved as I have.”

“Do you imagine that all the saints start
out leading impeccable lives?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m sure you know of Mary Magdalene.
Jesus saw her love, the beauty of her soul. He did not condemn
her.”

Catherine glanced sideways
at him. For the first time she realized how young he was, perhaps
younger than she. It seemed absurd to call him Father. “May I
ask
you
a
question?”

“Certainly.”

She hoped he wouldn’t think her too
impertinent. “How is it that some people can make a choice to give
up all pleasures of . . .?”

“The flesh?”

She felt herself color. “It is beyond my
grasp.”

“There is another kind of passion,
Catherine, if I may call you by your Christian name. It is a
spiritual passion.” He chuckled. “And I can tell you, it’s more
reliable than the physical variety.”

“
Spiritual
passion?” To Catherine it
was an oxymoron.

“Yes. Once you give it a taste, the soul has
a hunger and thirst every bit as persistent as the body’s. And the
gratification is greater.”

“How could that be?”

“I can’t describe it adequately; you have to
experience it. A feeling of peace and joy transcends all worldly
concerns. I can only say that many who have tasted both claim to
have reached a state of ecstasy that compares to no physical
pleasure.”

“Ecstasy!” She wondered if the young priest
had achieved this.

“Many of the saints reached such a state.
Laymen, too.”

“How, how did they do this?”

“Some through visions, some through
self-sacrifice. Catherine of Sienna, who is your namesake, ate and
drank almost nothing in her later years. And when she found she
could not keep clean the hairshirt she’d been wearing, she cinched
a metal belt under her clothing very tightly.”

Catherine was incredulous.

“Though it may sound terrible to you,
Catherine of Sienna lived a life of joy!”

She could only shake her head.

“This young woman commanded such respect
that even her confessors fell at her feet as disciples. And she had
the audience of the pope.”

“I can’t even imagine—”

“Wait here. I have something for you.”

Father Dumas hurried back
to his study.
So the saints knew that pain
could lead to joy!
Well, she knew a little
about that herself!

The priest returned carrying a small
book.

“Take this home. I think you will find
inspiration in reading it.”

“
The Lives of the Saints.
”

“Yes. Right now you are so close to your own
dilemma, you cannot see any doorways.” He smiled. “I am not
suggesting you aim for sainthood, only that you pull back, gain
some perspective. Then, perhaps, you will find the answer you
seek.”

The young priest looked so eager to be
helpful Catherine could not refuse him.

“And now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I
have another appointment.”

Catherine felt no desire to leave. In the
dim light of the sanctuary she opened the little volume, noticed
the inscription on the frontispiece. “To Francoise, affectionately,
Carolyn.”

Who was Carolyn?

Catherine looked at the Table of Contents.
She found Catherine of Sienna on page thirty-two.

An hour later she walked home thinking about
this strange Catherine. Perhaps if she gave up the pleasures of the
flesh, she could find another kind of joy through strict religious
practice.

That evening she devoured the little book.
Centuries ago there had been women, like St. Joan and Catherine of
Sienna who commanded men of power. This Catherine had told the pope
what to do! Where did this power emanate? Was it conviction spawned
from a life of devotion and prayer? Were certain individuals
pre-destined to lead, including a few women? Incredible that the
pope should have given her audience, let alone taken advice from
this unlearned young woman!

There was something deliciously secretive
and mysterious about going to St. Joseph’s. No one she knew
attended, and that made it all the more appealing. When she left on
Sunday mornings for mass, Thomas assumed she was going to the
Congregational Church. Catherine found the service, with the
flickering rows of candles, the drone of Latin litany and the
shadows, all very seductive. As the swinging incense pot, wafting
trails of smoke passed her row, she breathed deeply of its pungent
fragrance. Here was a refuge, a true sanctuary.

Although not a fine stone edifice such as
she’d known in Edinburgh, St. Joseph’s had something of the old
world about it that she loved. Here she found a way to escape the
banal mining town that reminded her of a hastily thrown together
theatrical set, with its high store fronts concealing the smallness
behind and within.

For three weeks she struggled with her
decision. Sometimes she would pretend she’d made a decision to
leave Chester and stay with Jorie. During these periods she’d feel
a terrible ache, which didn’t go away no matter what she did it
occupy her mind. Another day she spent hours pretending she was
living with Chester in Virginia, where everything was lovely; but
the pain she felt at leaving her son, imagining his waving good-bye
to her as she left him forever tore her heart apart.