Mother Lode (19 page)

Her thoughts carried her back to the summer
in Paris with Daddy. In a shop on St. Mark’s Square he’d taken her
into a glassblower’s shop. Here she’d fallen in love with a small
glass globe, its silver lid topped with a ballerina.

“May I have it? Oh, please, Daddy!”

“If that’s what your heart desires, Katie.
We shall keep our balm in it.”

In Paris they stayed in the home of his
friend. During the day they took in the wonderful sights and smells
of the city; in the evenings he took her to the ballet or opera.
One day he bought her a beautiful lace handkerchief. With a look
that both excited and frightened her, he told her he had a very
special purpose in mind for it. Though they spent the rest of the
day in galleries and shops, she barely remembered anything until
they were back in their room.

Tonight we have la maison all to ourselves,
mon cher. We’re going to play ‘Othello.’

She knew the story. Often they had read the
great plays, and sometimes in their walks in the forest they had
improvised scenes. But tonight would be different, he’d said.
Tonight they would play the death scene with costumes and
properties.

After a quiet supper of leftovers he assumed
the role of Othello. When it came time to show her the
handkerchief, claiming it as proof of her infidelity, his anger
rose to such a pitch that while she knew he was acting, Catherine
became frightened. Despite her insistence that she’d done no wrong,
he bid her go to her chamber, get into her nightgown and wait for
him. With her head and heart throbbing, she did as she was told.
She knelt, saying the prayers of Desdemona, then composed herself
in bed, lying against the soft whiteness of the down pillows.

She heard him climbing the stairs, a pause
outside her room, and then the door opening. She was shaking as he
came to her side and asked if she’d made her confession to God.
With tears coursing his cheeks, he held her face in his large hands
and told her how beautiful she was, how innocent she looked.

“But you have betrayed me. You must
die.”

Despite her desperate pleas, he’d covered
her face with a pillow. Panic set in, as Catherine fought to free
herself. She feared her father had gone as mad as Othello.

But in a moment he removed the pillow, and
bent to kiss her forehead.

You were wonderful, dear Catherine. You
played your part exactly right. Now I must resuscitate you, my
lovely Princess.

He put his mouth to hers, and she
responded.

It was an extraordinary summer: her father’s
touching and then withholding, touching and withholding, her
passions rising in a bacchanal of desire. But though she had begged
him to, he would not take her maidenhood. All summer she had known
the bittersweet taste of that longing. There was nothing she
wouldn’t do for Daddy.

Catherine brought herself back to the
present and looked at her son. Sometime, when he was older, she
would make Jorie desire her. There was no power like that of
withheld favors.

For now they would play another kind of
game.

Jorie watched the change in his mother.
First, it was as though a mask descended over her face, tightening
her lips, narrowing her eyes. Then her posture changed—more erect.
By the time she spoke he had already anticipated the change in her
voice.

“Jorie, get your scarf.”

Fetching the dark blue muffler she’d knit
for him he wondered in joyful dread what lay in store. He knew
better than to ask.

They were in the kitchen. “I’m going to
blindfold you. Then you will open your mouth when I tell you to.
You will accept whatever is put into it. Do you understand?”

He was breathless. “Yes.”

She pulled on the ends of the itchy wool
fabric tightly. “You mustn’t be able to see. Do you trust me? Are
you willing to accept whatever I choose for you to ingest?”

“Yes,” he murmured.

“That’s right. You will be given various
substances which you will identify and describe. Now then, stand
still and wait for me.”

He could hear her moving about the kitchen,
fetching the things she meant for him to taste. In this state he
heard creaks in the wooden floor he’d never noticed before. The
smell of wool socks drying near the stove reached his nostrils. He
felt slightly dizzy as he listened to the sounds she made: a dish
being set on the table, a jar being unscrewed.

“As you experience each taste, I want you to
find the words to describe it. Experience each item slowly, with
your tongue, your teeth, your whole mouth. Then the words. But
first the experience. Now I would like you to put your hands behind
your back.”

She didn’t tie them, but somehow he felt
even more helpless.

“I am not asking that
you
enjoy
every
taste. It matters not whether you like the things you taste, only
that you report your preferences along with a full description of
what you’re tasting.”

He heard a loud pop, almost an explosion
that made him jump. Then he realized it was only the wet wood in
the stove – a sound he’d heard a thousand times before.

“You will swallow when I tell you to and not
before. You are to spit nothing out. Is all this clear?”

“Yes,” he murmured.

“Yes,
Ma’am,”
she corrected. “Open your
mouth.”

He did, but nothing was put into it.
Confused, after a few seconds he closed it.

He felt a sharp slap on his face.

“Did I tell you to close your mouth?”

“No. No, Ma’am.”

“Open your mouth.”

He did so, and this time he felt something
cool put inside.

“Now chew it. Slowly.”

He felt its rubbery smoothness. It was only
a piece of hard-boiled egg. He didn’t know what he was expecting,
but suddenly he felt great relief.

“Do not gulp it down, nor chew it with
haste. Be ready to describe the exact textures and tastes.”

He chewed it very slowly, couldn’t talk with
his mouth full, forgot and swallowed it.

Another slap.

He could feel his face redden. “I’m sorry. I
forgot.”

“Describe what you tasted.”

“It was egg.”

“Yes?”

“It was cool and hard — “

“Hard?”

“I mean, well, it’s not soft like
applesauce,” he stammered.

“Think of a more appropriate word than hard.
It is not hard like a stone, is it?”

“No.”

“Then what word does describe its
texture?”

“I don’t know.”

“You disappoint me, Jorie.
The word you want is
firm
. Now, did it all taste the same
to you?”

“No. The white part was smooth and rubbery,
and the yellow part wasn’t.”

“Let’s hope you do better on the next. If
you’re going to be a writer you must learn to describe things not
only accurately, but in fresh and original ways.”

He could hear her
unwrapping paper. Then the familiar unpleasant odor assailed his
nostrils before anything reached his mouth. Limburger cheese. She
knew he hated it! The offensive smell had often caused him to leave
the room. Now she was making him
eat
it.

He opened his mouth obediently, and let it
lie on his tongue, leaving it open to avoid breathing through his
nostrils as much as possible.

“Close your mouth. Breathe
deeply. Now, note the smell
objectively.”

He let his mind leave this
scene, employed his old habit.
Nine times
seven is sixty-three. Nine times four is thirty-six.

“Chew it,
slowly
,” she was saying.
“And do not swallow until I tell you to.”

“
Eight times seven is fifty-six.”

It seemed forever before she said, “Swallow it."

He started retching.

“Stay with it, meet the fear, Jorie, and
overcome it. How will you conquer the big fears in life if you
can’t overcome a simple aversion to cheese?”

He brought himself back. With sheer will
power he kept his stomach from erupting.

He forced himself to swallow, not at all
certain it would stay down.

“I said describe it!”

How could he describe it without putting his
attention on it?

“It tasted . . . awful.” The heat; it was
too warm in here.

“I am not interested in your subjective
opinion.”

“It has a strong odor.”

“Like?”

“Like nothing else. I can’t think of
anything else that smells like it. Except . . .”

“Yes?”

“Vomit.”

“Texture?”

“Something like egg — the white part. A bit
rubbery, but not as firm.”

He started retching again.

“Keep it down, Jorie. Discipline yourself.
Keep it down.”

He took deep breaths through his mouth,
tried to imagine lying under the stars, breathing in the heavenly
scent of the lilies of the valley.

“Your father is right; you need toughening
up. Would you prefer his methods?”

“No,” he gasped. Finally, he was quite sure
he had his stomach under control.

“There, what I want you to remember, Lad, is
that you overcame a fear, an aversion. You wanted to run, to throw
up. But you didn’t. You disciplined your body. Not unlike sacrifice
and penance. Of that you can be proud.”

When the tasting was over, she removed the
scarf and took him to his room in the cold, unheated upstairs.

“I am teaching you obedience, Jorie. We will
sometimes use games to learn our lessons.”

After that she cuddled him. “I wouldn’t
bother with all this if I didn’t love you so.”

What she said was confusing. He wanted to
think about this some more, but she was talking about something
else.

“Now Mummy wants you to make a sacrifice for
love for her, if you’re willing. Oh, don’t look so frightened. Just
a little sacrifice.”

“What is it?”

“I’d like you to go to bed now, without
supper.”

He was disappointed. He had supposed it
would be something grand, worthy of a knight. “At four
o’clock?”

“Yes. Many saints fasted for a very long
time as a discipline, or as an expression of their passion for our
Lord.”

“Oh.”

“I’m only suggesting you give up one meal,
and go to bed early to reflect on the sacrifice you are making out
of love for your mother. Do you think you can do that? You don’t
have to.”

He felt her warm breath caress his cheek,
her hand stroke his back.

“Only if you want to, Darling. Do you love
me?”

“Yes.”

She squeezed his hand.
“S
acrifice
comes
from the same Latin root as
sacred
. It’s a holy thing if done
with the proper attitude. Pure surrender, bearing no
resentment.”

Again he was confused, but there was
something exciting about it. “I’ll do it.”

She kissed him on the forehead. As she was
leaving the room, she turned back to him. “There’s one more thing.
The next time Limburger cheese is offered at the table, you’re to
eat it, surrender to it completely.”

Thomas finished his pear and cheese, and
looked up at Jorie. The lad had actually eaten the Limburger!

“Did you enjoy it?” his father asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then why’d you eat it?”

“I thought I’d try it.”

“He’s been trained, Thomas. He will do as he
is told. Even eat Limburger,” she boasted lightly.

“Humph.”

Jorie colored. Why did she do this? Just
when he thought they had a secret she spoiled it.

“You see, Thomas, I am not without my ways
of disciplining the boy.”

“How old are you now, lad?”

“Ten, sir.”

Later, alone with Thomas as she was serving
his tea he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but if he’s
getting over all his squeamishness, it must be effective.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He so seldom complimented her on anything
these days, Catherine pressed this morsel of praise to heart.

“I won’t be home for dinner,” Thomas
announced. “It’s Walter’s birthday. I’m taking him and Alice to the
new restaurant on Quincy to celebrate.”

Catherine nodded.

“Being his eighteenth, he’s getting his
sizeable sum to invest. Good training — giving youths money to
invest before they start frittering it away.”

He turned to Jorie. “If you keep your nose
clean, you’ll get a sizeable sum on your eighteenth birthday.”

“Yes, sir. Is that money?”

Thomas laughed. “Yes, and a good deal of it.
Money and stocks.”

Jorie was happy to think his father might
hold him with the same regard as his other sons.

After he left Catherine decided it was a
good time to deepen Jorie’s understanding of sacrifice. Again, she
asked him to forfeit supper and go up to bed. She lay on his bed
with him, holding him against her.

“Sacrifice is one of the
openings to a life within a life. Many accept their circumstances
at face value, and look no further. You are a lad living in a
mining town. Are you willing to let that be
all there is
?”

“No.”

“You are meant for more
than that. You are sensitive and imaginative. I want to help you
find the
golden
tunnels to all kinds of experiences, regardless of your
geographical circumstances. Sacrifice is one such tunnel. Are you
ready to go on the adventure?”

“I think so.”

“There can be great
richness if you are willing to plumb its depths. Your half brothers
are miners of base metal. But we will turn the base metal of our
existence into gold! Not in that underworld, but
within
! For only in
the
inner
world
will you find relief from the outer.”