Mother Lode (27 page)

She must think of something to bring him
back to her.

Perhaps he’d open up more if she altered the
curriculum. She decided this would be a good time to further his
education in art.

In her closet she found her old art books.
She could feel the flush on her cheeks as an idea came to her. She
tried to sweep it from her mind. When it stubbornly refused to
budge, she accepted it, prepared the groundwork.

She took down the books and decided which
pictures she’d use. She called Jorie downstairs, and told him she
wanted to review some of the art they’d studied.

“Eliza’s crying,” he said.

“Helena will see to her.”

She sat on the sofa, motioning him to sit
beside her. Then she opened to the large book.

She spent little time in the review, as she
didn’t want to lose his attention.

“Now I’m going to show you some work using
modèles nus.”

She let a page fall open to a nude by
Rubens, watched Jorie to catch his reaction. She saw him swallow
twice, move closer to the picture. The she asked, “What are you
thinking?”

What was he supposed to
say?
“I dunno.”

“Well, do you like it?”

He tried to stay on safe ground. “She’s kind
of fat.”

Catherine laughed. Jorie tried to remember
and apply some of the principles he’d learned before, things his
mother would expect to hear. “The artist used pink, white and blue
to create almost translucent skin tones.”

She smiled. “Très bon. Anything else?”

“A boy in our class drew a picture of a
naked girl and the teacher caught him. I thought he’d be punished,
but all Miss O’Dell said—”

He stopped short. He hadn’t wanted to
mention her name in his mother’s presence ever again.

“What did she say?”

“That it was dirty and he was not to draw
girls like that,” he mumbled. Then he pointed to the picture in the
book. “Is this dirty?”

“No. This work is created by one of the
masters. You see the lines of the body and how the artist has
carefully arranged them to form the focal point of his composition.
Notice the contrast between the very whiteness of her skin and the
somber background. Many factors go into creating a work of art,
such as this.”

“Do you mean it’s all right to draw bare
naked people?”

“Under certain circumstances. God created
our bodies and he was the greatest artist of all. We should not be
ashamed of them. Our bodies are beautiful and meant to be
appreciated. But if one uses them in drawing or any other way
simply to titillate the senses, then it is not art. It is something
coarse, lewd.”

“Oh.”

“In what sense do you think the boy at
school was drawing the nude?”

“Lewd, I think.”

The next day Catherine told her son that she
had another book of drawings and paintings she hadn’t shown him
before.

“They’re all nudes,” she confided.

He sucked in his breath. “But they’re not
lewd?”

“No, they’re not. I didn’t think you were
mature enough before to understand the difference, but perhaps you
are now. Would you like to see them?”

He could only nod.

“Wait here.”

Catherine retrieved the secret book,
unwrapping the yellowed newspaper that carefully concealed its
contents. If Arthur Johnson could teach her son anatomy from a
scientific point of view, she could instruct him from an artistic
one.

“Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift from my father. Like all of
my art books, he gave it to me when I was able to properly
appreciate it.”

Still holding it closed, she looked at
Jorie. “You must promise not to laugh, or get silly about this. If
you do, we shall have to put it away. Art is something to be
appreciated and studied seriously like any other subject.”

He nodded.

She opened the book to a page with a buxom
nude. Catherine watched her son’s expression, gauging the effect
the picture had on him.

“What is your response to this
composition?”

His response was in his groin, but he tried
to focus on the meaning of her question.

“Uh, there’s not as much contrast in the
background as the other one.”

“Anything else?”

He was still angry with her for taking him
out of school, but he couldn’t afford to let those feelings deny
him the feast of these wonderful pictures. He tried to remember
what she’d said about lines. “The lines make good curves — in her
body.”

“I think you mean the artist has drawn her
body in such a way that her curves make good lines in the
composition.”

“Aye, that’s it.” In a moment he added, “May
I hold the book?”

She laid it reverently across his lap.

“That darkness in the corner — what’s that
for?” he said to distract her from the real reason for holding the
book.

“You bring up an important point. With art,
light is everything. Where do you think it’s coming from in this
picture?”

“From the window?”

“Very good. Now do you see that with the tub
there, the light can’t go through it? That’s why this corner is
dark.”

“Oh,” he said, starting to turn the page. He
was eager to discover the other treasures this volume offered.

“Not so fast,” she said, holding the page
down. “You can’t discover all there is to know about a work of art
in a couple of minutes. We’ll save the others for another day.”

He was disappointed, for he’d have liked to
devour every tasty morsel in one wonderfully satisfying meal, but
he dared not complain.

“What else do you observe about this
painting?” she was asking.

“He wanted to say, “She has lovely tits,”
but he knew his mother wouldn’t like that, so he said, “Her hair is
dark like the corner of the picture.”

“Excellent! You observe
how they resonate with each other. You remember that from the other
books, don’t you? In a way, these dark areas
speak
to each other.”

He didn’t know what she meant by that, but
he wasn’t interested in her hair that much, anyway.

She continued to admire the work. “And
doesn’t she have comely breasts, Jorie?”

He sucked in his breath knowing he’d turned
red and the bulge in his pants was growing. “Yes,” he muttered.

For days they studied the book of nudes.
Like some extravagant and delicious sweet, she allowed only one at
a time.

“I want you to have a full appreciation of
the female form, and the reverence these artists have shown for it
in their works. The women’s bodies are not all alike, as I’m sure
you have noticed.”

“Some are fat.”

“Rubenesque is a kinder word. Figure is a
matter of fashion just as clothes are.”

“Did artists get real women to pose for them
or did they just imagine them?”

“Real women, if they could afford to. Most
of them were models who did this for a living. Unless they were
friends of the artist.”

“Isn’t that dirty?”

“Oh, I suppose in provincial Michigan it
would be considered so, but not in Paris. Most of the great artists
of that period lived in one part of that great city where they
could discuss their work over a meal and a bottle of wine. The
models lived nearby, so they could get work. Sometimes the model
was the artist’s lover.”

Jorie swallowed. He couldn’t imagine such a
grand life.

She watched him carefully. “Perhaps someday
you would like the experience of drawing a nude.”

“Yes.” He knew he’d said it, but no voice
came forth.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes.” It seemed he had to exert a great
deal of effort to make the smallest sound, and then only part of
the word was audible.

Three days later he summoned the courage to
ask if she knew anyone who might be willing to pose for him.

“Oh, non, Jorie. Pas dans cette ville
provinciale.”

She let another week pass before venturing,
“Jorie, if it’s truly important to you, perhaps we could work
something out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You mustn’t breathe a word of this to
anyone, whether you like the idea or not. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” He held his breath.

“I’m not sure, but just
perhaps you and I could work together. As your mother I would
certainly not pose for you in the usual manner, standing naked
before you. That wouldn’t be right. But perhaps if we could think
of a way to do it
indirectement .
.
”

“You mean the mirror?”

“No. That would provide me no screen of
privacy at all.”

Jorie looked puzzled. “Then how can we do
it?”

“Well, perhaps we can’t.
Unless you can find a
solution
.”

The next day he said, “I have it—I could
draw your reflection!”

“How would you do that?”

“I’d sit on a chair facing
the window, at an angle, and you could stand
behind
me. I would draw your
reflection in the candlelight. That way I wouldn’t see you. . .
exactly.”

“You’re very clever, Jorie, to think of
that.”

He frowned. “But it would have to be night.
And the curtain would have to be open with light in the room!”

“Yes, you’re right. No, we couldn’t do
that,” she sighed.

Jorie’s thoughts were still spinning.

“But one of your bedroom windows backs up to
the hill, where nobody ever goes, so it would be safe to leave the
curtain open there.”

“Perhaps.”

“Would that work?”

She hesitated. “It’s a very serious thing. I
don’t know if you’re grown-up enough, Jorie. And I’m truly not the
right person. If only there were modeling classes in town, as in
the big cities.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I will consider it a
sacred privilege and a gift from you toward my art education.”

She smiled. “That’s nicely put, but I will
have to give it careful consideration.”

Suddenly Jorie thought of another obstacle.
“Pa! “

“We would have to wait until he’s out some
evening.”

Several days passed. Pa was out very late
one night and not home at all the next. Still she didn’t speak of
it.

But a week later his father’s sister was
suffering with a bout of influenza, and Thomas announced that he
would see her through it. He left with a small valise.

If she doesn’t say something now, she never
will.

All day Jorie waited, employing every
nervous habit he had to keep the suspense at bay.

At supper time she said, “On the matter of
which we spoke earlier –Are you certain you want to proceed?”

“Oh, yes, Mum.”

Again she hesitated.

“You are not to turn around when I’m
undressed. Agreed?”

He was afraid his voice would break if he
spoke; he nodded.

“Wait until the Eliza is asleep tonight,
then come to my room.”

He could hardly contain his excitement. He
knew he had to be very grown-up about this or she would get angry
and send him away. He would wear his baggy pants, which were
actually too big for him, to avoid embarrassment.

When the appointed time finally arrived, he
approached her door, pressing his ear to it to determine if he
could hear any noises from within. Detecting none, he finally
knocked.

She took so long to respond, he was about to
leave. But here she was smiling, beckoning him to come in.

He wanted to run
away.
How crazy! I’ve waited all day for
this!
He stood there, speechless. Already
feeling the flush on his cheeks he knew he couldn’t bear to look at
her even with her clothes on.

Seeming to sense his fears she said, “Well,
come in lad. I won’t bite you.”

He forced himself to enter, hoping she
couldn’t hear his heart beating, his groin throbbing.

He’d forgotten to wear the baggy pants!

“Sit down,” she directed him with an
encouraging smile.

He knew what to expect, so he took the
hardback chair facing the window at an angle, and opened his sketch
book. He could hear her behind him, undressing. Somehow he’d
expected she’d be ready, wearing her dressing gown, but she had
greeted him fully clothed, and now was taking ever so long to get
out of her things. The thought of those mysterious petticoats,
garters and bodices further excited his senses.

He heard something snap and thought it must
be the elastic garter. Then out of the corner of his eye, he could
see she had lifted her leg onto the bed and was slowly rolling down
her stocking. Just knowing aroused him. He stared at the pattern on
the wallpaper and tried to pay her no heed. Finally she stepped
behind him, framing herself in the window.

Jorie drew in his breath. Although he could
see only her reflection — and had to strain to see that in the dim
light — he thought she was a goddess, more beautiful than he’d ever
imagined. Forgetting she was waiting, he stared for some time. How
thrilling it was. He was glad for the privacy this strange
arrangement provided him.

“Begin, Jorie. We’ve only a few
moments.”

He pulled himself together and quickly made
a few strokes on the paper. The lines seemed all wrong and didn’t
do her justice. He tried to erase, but in his nervousness, he’d
been using so much pressure with the pencil that the erasures
caused the paper to smudge. He turned to a fresh sheet and started
again.

“Two more minutes. That’s all I give can
you. I’m very cold, and there’s always the chance that your father
may come home.”

He was more anxious than ever now.

“Finish up. Don’t worry about how good it
is. This is your first time.”

In a few more moments she stepped out of the
frame. He looked up and she was gone. Currents of frustration ran
through his body. It had ended all too quickly.