Mother Lode (18 page)

She would wake from dreadful dreams where
she knew he was dead! Nothing would do but for her to pad down the
hall and peek in his room to make sure he was still breathing.

He is of my flesh, my blood. How can I leave
him?

“I can’t go with Chester. I must give him
up.”

Dry leaves scuttled across the wooden
sidewalk as Catherine left the church, and a cold wind from the
north thoroughly chilled her before she reached home.

I will be finished before
the first snows.
It was time.

She would see Chester tomorrow and tell him.
It would take a sheer act of will to hold her resolve.

That evening it seemed
that her prayers at last felt genuine. Catherine prayed with a
fervor unknown to her before. She asked for forgiveness.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie
eleison.

She prayed for help in keeping her
resolution, and that the sacrifice she was about to make would give
her strength.

And please, God, replace the pleasures of
the body with a spiritual passion.

A kind of peace descended
on her. Whether it was simply because she’d finally made a
decision, or because her prayers had been answered, she didn’t
know. But she welcomed it as a balm.
Dona
nobis pacem.

The next afternoon she rode to the knoll,
tied Falstaff near the watering trough and watched Chester washing
up by his trough. Bare-chested, his blond hair glistening with
droplets of water, Catherine had never found him more desirable.
She waited as he toweled himself dry and approached her,
grinning.

“Come inside.”

He put his arm on her shoulder and guided
her in with his easy authority.

“I’d like some tea.”

They sat quietly, sipping the hot drink.

When she was ready she said, “I’ve made a
decision.”

He waited for her to continue.

“I can’t go with you, Chester.” She tried
not to look at him. She felt tears straining to overflow their
banks.

“I know.”

“You
know?
”

“You could never leave your son, little
mother,” he said gently.

“But, I was
thinking
of it.” She
buried her face in her hands.

“I am truly sorry that you cannot join
me.”

He took her hands in his, and Catherine felt
the tears she’d been holding back slide down her cheek. “This is
the last time I will see you, Chester.”

He rose and pulled her to her feet. “Then we
must have a magnificent parting.”

“No.” She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.
“It is over,” she said softly.

He did not argue.

He held her long and tenderly, but it was
she who pulled away and without looking back, took her leave.

Giving Falstaff free rein to carry her
homeward, Catherine raced away from the man who had returned to her
the joys of youth and love.

She would not return to the dull life she’d
known before she met him; she had found something else. It was
still strange and new, but she was determined to mine its
mysteries.

She would fashion her new beliefs for
Jorie’s benefit, too.

“I have made a sacrifice. A great
sacrifice,” she called to the wind. “I intend to reap its
rewards!”

Chapter 15

A yearning and terrible longing engulfed her
each time she thought of Chester. She must, she would put him out
of her mind.

But it was time to focus on her young son,
and bring him into the new teachings.

She told Thomas where she was going to
church and that she’d like to take Jorie.

“Just don’t imagine you can have him
baptized there.”

She led him into St. Joseph’s and taught him
how to dip his fingers in the holy water, and make the sign of the
cross.

When they left, she asked Jorie how he felt
during the service.

“I liked the smell and the candles. But I
didn’t understand what the priest was saying.”

“We will study together, and you will learn
the Latin.”

Rigorous study—yes, that would help her to
forget!

She began telling Jorie stories about the
saints, and the sacrifices they made.

As they were sitting in the parlor one day,
Helena came in to add more wood to the fire.

“Never mind. You needn’t bother now.”

When she had left, Jorie said, “Why didn’t
you let her tend the fire?”

“It’s a sacrifice, Jorie.
We needn’t
always
be as warm as we like. Do you understand what sacrifice
is?”

“You mean punishment?”

“No. Sacrifice is voluntary. Sometimes it
takes great discipline.”

She told him how Thomas More had worn a hair
shirt under his royal robes until the day before he was
executed.

“Wouldn’t that be very itchy?”

“That’s why he did it. Sometimes monks
whipped themselves and each other. In some parts of the world they
still do.”

His little mind was full of questions. “Why
would they do that?”

“It’s penance, Jorie. It’s to cleanse
oneself of sin. Others take it further and are able to reach a
state of peace, or even ecstasy by doing this.”

“What is ecstasy?”

“In this case, a tremendous joy at feeling
you are closer to God.”

She waited while he chewed over this.

“Are there other kinds of ecstasy?”

“Yes.” She felt a stab in her heart, as the
familiar yearning came over her.

“Do you make sacrifices?” he asked.

“I made one very big one for you.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t tell you. But I can let you know
about some little ones. Today I will not have lunch. And if I feel
rumblings of hunger, it will remind me that I was able to make a
holy act of sacrifice.”

“I want to do that too. I want to go without
my lunch!”

“Are you certain? That means nothing to eat
until supper.”

“Yes, Mummy, I’m certain.”

“Then it will be our secret. It wouldn’t
truly be a sacrifice if we bragged about it.”

The next day she told him she was not having
desserts for a week.

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Then
I won’t either.”

“Good boy.”

One day when he asked to go out and play in
the snow, she inquired if he wouldn’t rather make a sacrifice.

“What would it be?”

“To stay in your room.”

“It’s cold up there.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do I have to?”

“No. Sacrifices are voluntary.”

He looked out the window and saw the snow
falling softly. “Then I’d rather play in the snow.”

“Very well.”

But he could see the disappointment on her
face. He went outdoors, and slid down the hill a few times, but
found no pleasure in it.

The next day he told her he wanted to make a
sacrifice. The smile she gave him made anything she’d ask of him
worthwhile.

When the sun had finally broken winter’s
back, the melancholia which had gripped Catherine all winter
released its hold, and again she reveled in the precious days of
spring, with the scent of arbutus filling the hillsides. Then as
spring ripened into summer it became warm enough to venture to her
favorite haven.

“Jorie,” she called. “It’s gorgeous. We can
go to the cemetery to write!”

He came flying downstairs with the little
notebook she’d given him for drawing and writing.

“No. This time you’re to bring your
discipline journal. I fear you’ve fallen behind in recording your
transgressions. This will be a good opportunity for you to catch
up.”

He retraced his steps slowly, returning with
the required notebook.

His mother set such a rapid pace as they
walked across town; it was difficult to keep up with her. He
arrived out of breath and flushed. She put him to writing
forthwith, and refused to converse with him until his task was
complete.

Even as he wrote, he could feel a prickly
heat, for surely when he was finished, in this private sanctum, she
would exact his punishment.

When he showed it to her, she nodded her
approval and bid him fetch a rose from a nearby bush.

Jorie did so, quite certain of the new
correction she had in mind for him. When he returned she told him
to bare his back and lie over her lap. He heard the snap of the
branch as she broke off a piece.

She gave him the rose, freed of its stem. He
closed his eyes, taking in the sweet scent of the floribunda,
anticipating what she must be planning.

She was transported back to her father and
the wild roses in the woods. Daddy found a use for everything.

You know the flowers, Princess. Now you must
meet the thorns.

“Listen carefully, Jorie. Each time you feel
the thorn, you are to pull off a petal from the rose. When all the
petals have been removed your punishment will be complete.”

Gently she stroked his back with the stem,
allowing the thorns to scratch his back. She paused for him to pull
a petal off. Once he caught on to the pattern she’d established,
she applied more pressure.

“Keep breathing, Jorie.”

Daddy drew the thorn across her skin, this
time from the base of her neck all the way down her spine.

When it was over she touched her finger to
the tiny droplets of blood and showed it to him. “Do you know how
much I love you, Precious?”

He watched as she licked the blood from her
finger.

That evening she wrote in her diary:

July 15, 1991

Today as I sat rocking Jorie in the
cemetery, I gave thanks to the heavens that I have this soft piece
of clay, so fine, yes, like porcelain, and very pliable. Will it
hold its shape? But no, I do not wish him to be cast in any final
form. Like clay, I can keep him moist, malleable for years to come.
I am his potter.

As my father did with me I will take him by
the hand and lead him into new pastures.

I have left my mark on him already. He is no
sweetheart or husband to forsake me. This is my son! He is mine and
I will have him for the rest of my life.

Autumn came again all too quickly. Looking
up from her sewing, Catherine gazed at Jorie. He was no longer
doing his homework, but working on a sketch.

“Show me your drawing, Jorie.”

He brought it to her. “It’s just a girl at
school.”

“I have something more appropriate for you
to study if you want to learn portrait art.”

She brought out a book with pictures of the
saints.

“Practice copying these pictures. Then I can
see if you are making a true likeness of the features.”

He wasn’t very interested, but he knew it
could improve his skills.

“These aren’t photographs, are they?”

“No, they’re renderings. That’s how artists
learn— by copying the masters. Meanwhile, of course, they are
developing their own style.”

He worked with these pictures for a few
weeks, and was surprised one day when his mother said, “How would
you like to sketch Mummy?”

“Oh yes! Could I?”

“Perhaps when you get home from school
tomorrow.”

It was unusually warm for fall. Catherine
sat on the swing, taking in the fragrance of the Concord grapes on
the vines behind her. She had taken extra pains to put her hair
right, and apply a little color to her cheeks and lips.

Jorie came running out with his pencils and
drawing paper. He sat on the edge of the whicker chair. “This will
be fun, Mummy. You look beautiful.”

While he sketched, Catherine began to chat.
“Did you know that I studied painting when I was a girl?”

“No.”

My father encouraged me, but my mother
didn’t approve.”

“Why?”

“She said my work was childish, and Father
shouldn’t fill my head with foolish notions.”

Jorie stopped drawing. “That’s sad, Mummy.
Did you stop altogether?”

“Yes. But I saved some of my sketches. And I
have books with beautiful pictures of paintings by famous
artists.”

“May I see them?”

“Some day, yes.”

When they had finished, she broke off a
cluster of the purple fruit.

“One for you,” she said squeezing the grape
from its skin, “and one for me.” In this way they consumed the
whole bunch.

She taught him about perspective and
proportion, shading and light. Together they devoured the books she
brought out of her chest. He learned to look for the focal point
and the source of light by studying Rubens, Raphael and
Michelangelo. They’d play a guessing game where one of them would
open the book at random, cover the artist’s name, and the other
would try to identify the painter and the picture.

Sometimes she made a test of it. If he got
most of the answers right, he could sleep in her bed that
night.

Thomas had been out for
hours. When he returned, as she passed him in the upstairs hall she
caught the unmistakable smell of perfume, Curiosity, more than
anything, made her wonder who it was. And although she’d long
suspected it,
knowing
he was seeing someone else made her feel totally abandoned.
She had lost them all—her father, her lover, and even her husband.
Well, she could hardly call the kettle black.

November’s dreary
landscape with its denuded trees and dark overhanging clouds did
nothing to improve her mood the next day. Catherine looked up from
her sewing, studied the face of her young son.
He’s all I have.

She looked so forlorn, Jorie said, “What
shall we do to cheer you up, Mummy?”

It was Helena’s day off; they were alone.
“We must think of something new. We have to keep inventing life or
it will drown us in banality.” She put aside her sewing. “I don’t
have the temperament for the God-forsaken towns it’s been my
destiny to live in here. I should be in Paris. Or Rome.”