Mother Lode (28 page)

When she was robed, she said he could turn
around.

“Well, let’s see what you have.” She sat on
her bed, indicating he should sit beside her.

“Please, I don’t want to show you. It’s not
like you at all. You’re beautiful, and this is ugly.”

She smiled. You were no doubt nervous, Love.
Don’t be so hard on yourself. Let’s have a look.” She held out her
hand for the paper. Shamefaced he gave it to her. He’d drawn her
torso too large for the paper, not leaving room for her feet.

He held his breath while she studied his
efforts seriously. “You must learn to make a few large, sweeping
strokes quickly that will generally outline the subject. You can
fill them in later. That way, you don’t waste a lot of time on a
drawing that will never fit on the page.”

She turned the paper sideways, and back
again. “In terms of composition it isn’t very interesting, but
that’s not your fault. You see the vertical lines of my body? And
the vertical lines of the window frame? They’re parallel, and that
doesn’t make for a very appealing composition. Perhaps next time I
could give you a pose that wouldn’t parallel the `frame.’”

He barely understood what she was talking
about. He only knew she’d taken his efforts seriously, and her
comments had been kind.

She rose, and he knew he was being
dismissed.

“One more thing, Jorie. You are not, ever,
to discuss these drawings or show them to anyone. People would
misunderstand us completely.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“These rendezvous will be
part of our
Golden
Bubble
, a space where you and I alone may
tread.”

She enfolded him in her arms then. Sucking
in the sweet scent of her perfume, he wished that all the clocks in
the world would stand still.

As soon as he was under the covers, his hand
found his throbbing penis. He lay awake that night reliving what
had transpired. How grateful he was that she hadn’t made fun of his
paltry efforts, had refrained from commenting on the poor likeness.
How understanding she’d been. And there would be more times like
tonight.

No doubt you were
nervous.
That was putting it
gently!

He couldn’t wait to have another go at this
new project. But he dared not broach the subject himself for fear
his mother would think him too eager, would suspect his motives. In
the nights, he saw her over and over in his mind — the lovely curve
of her bottom as it disappeared into the shadows. He would try to
capture that the next time. But maybe she’d changed her mind; maybe
there wouldn’t be a next time. Two days passed.

Finally, she came to him.

“Would you like to have another art lesson
tonight?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

“Well then, suppose you come to my room
tonight at nine o’clock.”

“Yes.” He tried to sound more grown up than
he felt.

The hours passed slowly. He took out the
pencils, and practiced from memory what he had seen before. How to
get the shoulder — he couldn’t remember that part at all. He would
have to pay more attention tonight. If he did poorly again he
feared she’d be disappointed, declare him an unworthy student. And
where was the source of light? He’d have to put that in the
picture. What little illumination there was came from her left, he
remembered, from the candle on her table.

Still, his mind wandered from the serious
task before him to the unadorned figure of his mother. What if she
were to turn, come through the glass? Escape the dark branches that
tapped at the window, reminding him of the barrier of separation.
Fanciful scenes played in his mind, while his body ached for
release. But he would not give in to it, not yet.

When the hour finally arrived, he gathered
his drawing materials and walked toward her room. His knock was so
soft he was sure she hadn’t heard it, and knocked again.

“I heard you the first time. You mustn’t be
so impatient.”

As she undressed slowly behind him he tried
to will himself to dispel his sexual feelings, tried to force his
thoughts to turn to other matters — anything. The soapy dishwater
came to mind, but then he saw it sliding down her back. He was
pouring it over her and they were both laughing. He thought about
the stars, but she was sitting beside him on the hill, cradling his
head in her lap. His body was not the least obedient. Again he
could feel the throbbing. At least this time, he’d remembered to
wear the baggy pants.

He heard the rustling of her petticoat and
his attention was brought to the nearness of her. He would like to
take a closer look at those secret garments.

”Are we ready?” The question came so close
to his ear, he jerked to attention, felt her warm breath stirring
the little hairs on the back of his neck.

He could only nod.

As he raised his head, she was turning
around behind him, and he thought he’d burst. She had her back to
him, the reflection of her beautiful round bottom cheeks three feet
in front of him! And the real ones were right behind him! At the
same time the most delicious fragrance greeted his nostrils. He
wanted to go to her, be swallowed by her, or at least lie down and
comfort himself.

“I promised you a new pose,” she was saying.
Her arms were raised high above her head, and a hip thrown to one
side. He stared at the marvel before him. His eyes followed the
superb curve down her arms, turning inward toward her body as far
as her waist, then out again where her hip thrust out, and finally
back to center at her feet.

“Think of it as
Woman Stretching Upon Rising.
That will give you some context. Now get started. I can’t
maintain this pose for long, so you will have to work
quickly.”

He tried to see her as an artist would.

“Draw my arms first; I can’t hold them up
much longer.”

Forcing himself to put pencil to paper, he
did as she told him.

“At least you won’t have to work with all
parallel lines this time.”

He could hear the first drops of rain on the
window. She lowered her arms.

“Please don’t leave,” he implored.

She was still holding her position. “A few
more minutes, but you won’t be able to see in the rain.”

“Yes, I will.”

He was squinting, hurrying to get more of
her on paper. Already the picture in the glass was a wavy blur, her
features distorted. Again he’d drawn her too low on the page. He’d
forgotten what she’d said about that. He sighed in frustration.

So bent on fixing his mistakes, he did not
see her leave the frame. When he looked at the window, like an
apparition, she had disappeared.

“I’m not finished!” he wailed, whirling to
face her before he thought. Too late he jerked his head back to
center.

“Thrusting her robe in front of her she
rasped, “You have broken our agreement. Leave me!”

In despair Jorie left the room, barely able
to contain the stinging tears until he was out of her sight.
Reeling with disbelief, he stumbled down the hall. Standing at his
own window he watched the rain sliding down the windowpane mirror
the tears running down his face. The thunder in the distance seemed
to generate within his own wretched belly. And in the lightning he
saw an angry god hurling thunderbolts.

How could all that had been so precious to
him be dashed in one careless moment?

When sleep finally came, in dreams they were
walking in the wood, but he could only see one side of her; her far
side was in the shadows. It seemed she was being sucked into the
darkness, devoured by it, until only a sliver of her remained
shining in the moonlight. Frightened, he put his arms around her to
assure himself that she was still there, but nothing remained of
her but a tiny silver thread. Then that was gone too.

He awoke in a cold sweat, his pillow soaking
wet.

In the hours that followed, sleep did not
return. Only the wretched feeling that he had betrayed her
trust.

The next day she said nothing, and the
strain between them was palpable. But three days later she said
pleasantly, “Would you like to give it another go tonight?”

He thought he must be dreaming. “Do you mean
it?”

“You must remember the rules.”

“I will. I promise!”

“Be sure you do.”

The thrill of having another opportunity to
capture her likeness was delicious. But even greater was the
ecstasy at having his banishment lifted. He would get it right: He
would behave properly and focus on getting her whole figure on the
paper.

They did the washing up together in silence
and Jorie broke a cup. His mother said nothing. Looking up
nervously, he received her “forgiveness” smile.

She left the kitchen before he was quite
finished, leaving him to wonder if she’d forgotten, or changed her
mind. But no, he didn’t think so. She’d have said, wouldn’t
she?

Still, when the time finally came, and he
approached her door with his tablet and pencils, he felt more
trepidation than before.

The door opened promptly, and with only a
glance toward his mother, he took the six steps to the chair.

With his ears tuned to every sound, he could
hear the unfastening of the buttons. He hoped she could not hear
the pounding of his heart.

Just then the jarring sound of the doorbell
jangled through the house.

Every fiber in Jorie’s
body froze.
Was it Pa? No, he had a key.
Why did anyone have to come now!

“Go answer the door, Jorie.” His mother’s
voice was sharp, husky.

Jorie left the room reluctantly and
descended the stairs slowly. Half way down the grating sound of the
bell again reached his ears. As he opened the door, he was greeted
by the sheriff.

“Hello, lad. Is your mother here?”

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Foster?”

“Hope not. That’s what I came to find out.
Where’s your ma?”

“What do you need her for? She, she’s
upstairs.”

“Well, do you think you could get her for
me, Jorie?”

“I guess so.”

Just then Catherine appeared in her woolen
robe.

“Earl Foster, what brings you here?”

“Well, I know Thomas is away, and I just
came by to see if you and the children were all right. Didn’t see
any lights down here—”

“That’s because I went to bed early with a
headache.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you, Catherine. Just
wanted to make sure—”

“Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

She closed and locked the door, fairly
seething with rage. Under her breath she hissed, “If Earl Foster
isn’t the most incommodious busybody ever! Always showing up at the
wrong time!”

She turned to her son. “Go to your room,
Jorie. It’s over.”

“For good?”

“
Yes.”

Chapter 22

The days were joyless. He longed to be back
in school again with Miss O’Dell, and the other chaps, however
dissimilar they were. When his father returned in three days Jorie
was never so glad to see him.

In May Thomas said, “With all this time on
your hands, how would you like to come work up at the mine for a
spell? Until school starts in the fall.”

“Do you mean it, Pa?”

“You’re pretty good with figures, aren’t
you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you fifteen now?”

“Yes. I mean I will be in the fall.”

“Two more years of school?”

“Two more in high school.” He wanted to say
something about college but Pa was talking about the job.

“The bookkeeper could use some help.”

“What does Ma say about it?”

“Haven’t talked to her yet.”

“Oh.”

“You think she’ll object?”

Jorie nodded. “Probably.”

“Well, I’ll speak to her.”

Maybe he was imagining it, but it seemed his
father was kinder than he used to be. Maybe Pa had noticed that he
was growing up and was somebody you could have a conversation
with.

After dinner Catherine slammed down the
forks she was drying, and addressed her husband. “He will do no
such thing! I promised him years ago he’d never have to work in the
mine!”

“He’ll not be
in
the mine. He’ll be in
the bookkeeper’s office. Be good for him. You don’t want him in
school—”

“You know why!”

“The lad’s got to be doing something. Idle
hands all these months.”

“We’ve been working on his studies.”

“He needs to apply some of those skills in
the real world.”

“The risk of scarlet fever is
everywhere!”

“We don’t have any cases there. That’s
pretty well blown over now.”

“You make it sound like a
spring storm. It’s taken
lives
in this town, Thomas! Sixteen of
them!”

“You can’t isolate him forever.”

“Must
all
your sons work at the mine?”
Catherine tried to compose herself. “Earl Foster could probably use
him again this summer in his garden. That’s much more suitable to
his nature.”

“His nature! For God
sakes, woman, I’m tired of hearing about his nature. He needs to be
around
men
.”

“Thomas!”

“When did you plan to cut the cord,
Catherine? When did you plan to pull him from your teat?”

In the end, Pa won; Jorie would go to work
with his father.

He got up early on his first day and spent
considerable time trying to tame the cowlick in his hair. He’d have
to ask Pa if he should start shaving; tiny hairs were appearing on
his chin. Pa had told him to wear a clean shirt with a tie and his
good brown sweater. When he came downstairs his mother had a hot
breakfast ready for them.

Her lips quivered as she said, “I’m sorry
you have to go. I tried to convince him—”