Mother Lode (31 page)

He had informed the dean that he would like
to live in a boarding house. He was assigned such a room on Ann
Street, near the campus. Six other students lived and ate in the
same house, and although shy and uncomfortable with his peers, he
found there was one with whom he could relate quite easily.
Lawrence was also from a small town, and quite bright.

Jorie saw a counselor regarding the classes
he’d be taking, and was pleased to find that although most were
required, there were also electives. He had chosen to major in
science, but his favorite class was philosophy.

He wrote to his mother:

We are studying Socrates, who felt an
unexamined life wasn’t worth living, that one should question and
be critical of his society, and of himself. Imagine my surprise at
reading this, as I first heard much the same from you! This gives
me the confidence to continue writing against all I find abhorrent
in Society. Although I know you miss me, it is you I can thank for
instilling in me the quest for knowledge, the ever-deepening desire
to explore what lies beyond the obvious. You would be proud of me,
Mother.

He’d never imagined there were so many ideas
in the world. And he’d never had so much opportunity for
stimulating exchange of thought.

Having felt most of life that he was an
aberration of his species, he was now discovering that he was part
of a subspecies that actually took pleasure in learning. He
remembered the story of the ugly duckling. Although still not
comfortable with his peers, he saw the possibility. Perhaps in the
spring, when they accepted new members, he might join the debating
club.

When her first letter
came, he felt his hands shaking as he opened it. He’d thought
getting away from home and the discipline of study would erase the
attachment he had to his mother. But even at this distance, and as
much as he loved school, he found that her tentacles still ensnared
him. With shame he realized he missed her terribly. The distance
helped him to see how strange their bond had been. Well, he’d
always known it was
unusual
.

He didn’t know what kind of relationships
other boys had with their mothers, but he knew it wasn’t like his;
it just couldn’t be. He’d heard some say they were homesick, and
maybe that meant they missed their mothers, but he doubted if they
missed them in the same way he did. He thought about the training
he’d had in discipline and sacrifice, and wondered if others had
experienced anything like that. He didn’t think so, and sometimes
this made him very angry with her. But he knew she loved him, so it
was difficult to fault her for the intense feelings he had. No,
there must be something wrong with him.

The first letters he received from her were
so sad that when one came, he would brace himself, scan it quickly,
and turn his mind to his studies. But inevitably he would pull it
out before turning in for the evening, read it slowly, taking in
her scent and the breath behind the words.

Pa sent him money each month, and if he was
careful there was some left over, which he used to attend the Men’s
Glee Club and other musical events.

As the holidays neared his mother wrote:

I can hardly wait for you to come home.
There will be wonderful activities for the millennium, which you
will enjoy. There’s to be a sculpture contest on the lake with huge
towers of ice to be carved, one for the old century and one the
new. Points will be given for speed and artistic achievement.
Everyone will be there, watching and cheering on their team. And
there will be a parade on New Year’s Day that is sure to be jolly.
It’s almost the Twentieth Century, Jorie! Can you believe it? I
count the days until your return.

But Jorie asked permission to stay in Ann
Arbor over the holidays. The semester wouldn’t be over until the
end of January. He wrote that he had a paper to prepare for his
philosophy class, due when the holiday ended.

He tried not to think of the real
reason.

Pa wrote that he didn’t have to come home
and was proud that he was leaning into the wheel so hard. Ma
objected, but on the whole took it rather stoically, he thought.
Maybe she’s getting used to it. She went on to tell him of the
wonderful gala they were going to up in Red Jacket.

To assuage my disappointment in your not
coming home, or perhaps for letting you go so far away in the first
place, your father is making an extra effort to be kind to me. We
will take the train up with other members of his men’s club and
their wives. Then there will be a lavish dinner, followed by
dancing to an orchestra. Everyone will be dressed in their finest
and your father gave me money to purchase a new gown and shoes for
the occasion. It won’t replace your absence, dear, but it is
something to look forward to.

He felt very grateful that his father was
taking up some of the slack.

On Christmas Eve Jorie went caroling with a
group of other students who were staying in town. Like something
out of a picture book, huge gentle snowflakes fell slowly as they
sang their way through the lamp-lit streets. It was almost warm
compared to the Upper Peninsula.

One of the “town boys”, another science
major and his lab partner in zoology, invited him to his home for
Christmas dinner. When Alan’s mother discovered that Jorie could
play the piano, she laughed, “Well, now, you must sing for your
supper!”

Jorie broke out in a sweat when the telegram
came.

“Father dying. Come home.”

It was the last day of the year, the
century. At all the stops along the way, banners flowed from the
little train stations. “Welcome, Twentieth Century!” “Here’s to
Progress!” The excitement in the air was everywhere. People bustled
on to the trains with bundles of food, on their way to nearby
relatives, with whom to share the occasion.

But for Jorie, the lugubrious ride home on
the train seemed interminable. Guilt coursed through him. He should
have gone home for the holidays. He’d have been there, would have
had a chance to see Pa before he took sick. He prayed he wouldn’t
be too late.

Maybe he would not die. Jorie didn’t even
know what was wrong with him, and Ma was prone to exaggerating.
Perhaps it was just Ma’s way to get him home.

His mind went back through the years. Scenes
from the past played on the stage of his mind. How he’d hated and
feared his father when he was small. How little they’d
communicated. Only recently they’d begun to soften toward each
other. It seemed they were just on the point of a breakthrough.

He’d never bothered to wonder what his
father’s dreams and disappointments were. Was he grief stricken
when his first wife died? How must Pa have felt about sending
Walter away? He hadn’t seen his half-brother since he was about
five. If Pa was in the hospital, he supposed he’d be seeing Walter
now.

Thoughts continued to race through his mind
as the hours dragged on. He forced himself to turn his mind back to
school. Damn! He should have brought his books home, and the paper
he was working on. In such a hurry to catch the train, he’d stuffed
only a few clothes in his satchel and run down State Street toward
the depot. He sank back in his seat in frustration. He’d have a lot
of catching up to do when he got back.

By the time he neared Hancock, it was dark.
Candles flickered in windows, and crossing the bridge he could see
lights across the frozen lake. As the cab’s tired horse trudged its
way up the lane, Jorie’s heart went to his throat, fearing he’d be
too late. But even before they reached the house, he could see that
no one was home. He had the cab take him to the hospital.

Strong smells of ether and ammonia greeted
his nostrils as he entered the hospital. Further down the hall, his
mother ran to him, threw her arms about him and began sobbing.

“You’re here at last!”

“What’s wrong with Pa?”

“He’s had a stroke. He’s unconscious.”

“Where is he?”

She motioned toward the room.

He pushed past her and went to his father’s
bed. Pa was making strange gurgling sounds. How old he looked!

Finally, he turned, aware that others were
behind him.

Three men stood near the doorway, none of
them recognizable to Jorie.

One spoke. “Guess you’re Jorie. I’m Tom and
this is William here.”

Jorie looked at the third. “Walter?”

The young man nodded.

This was not the time to
get reacquainted. Jorie turned back to his father,
their
father. What a
strange feeling — these men he didn’t know at all, having the same
father.

When he went back in the hall his mother was
crying.

“You didn’t even say ‘hello’ to your
mama.”

He put his arm around her and walked her
down the hall, away from the others. “Tell me what happened.”

“We were coming back from the gala, on the
train. I’d gone to the Ladies and stopped to talk to a woman I knew
in another car. Someone came to get me. Oh, Jorie, it was awful!
And to think I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“He hasn’t been conscious at all?”

“No.” Jorie could see she was trying hard
not to cry again. “Arthur says it does not bode well. Even if he
were to live . . .”

She stopped, and Jorie held her, feeling her
small frame shake with silent sobs against his chest.

“Where’s Eliza?”

“Helena’s watching her.”

At midnight they finally
left the hospital. New Year’s Eve. The blaring dissonance of the
combined whistles from the
Portage,
and other mines and factories reminded everyone
it was the beginning of the new millennium. As the sleigh glided
across the freshly fallen snow sparkling under the full moon, they
heard the revelry in town and across the lake. Driving along Front
Street they could see dozens of bonfires on the frozen lake,
fireworks lighting up the sky, and noisemakers sounding off. There
were even a few cutters racing in the moonlight. Every sound and
sight from lilting laughter to raucous brawling accosted their
senses as they traveled homeward.

So this was the Twentieth Century, the great
event the world had awaited. To Jorie, the revelry was mayhem, a
bizarre background against which to play his own dark themes.

Chapter 24

Three days later, Dr. Johnson came to the
house early in the morning, and Catherine instantly gauged his
purpose.

Funeral arrangements were made with Mr.
Markel, of Markel and Miller Funeral Parlor. Catherine decided
against having the service at the funeral home, nor would Thomas
have wanted it in a church. It would be held in the back parlor.
She was adamant about that.

She wondered if Mr. Markel were as
solicitous with all of his clients. He took a good deal of time
explaining procedure to her and helping her choose the coffin.
Beyond that she felt he spent an inordinate amount of time
comforting her.

“This is probably the most difficult time in
your life, Mrs. Radcliff. I want you to know that I am here for
you, and you can call on me in whatever capacity you find need for
assistance.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, ma’am. For instance, like most widows,
you may find yourself totally unfamiliar with the financial aspects
of life, your husband having seen to all that in the past.”

“Oh, no,” she answered candidly. “There was
a time when I handled our affairs completely.”

“I see. I do not wish to press myself on
you, but then there is the matter of bereavement counseling.
Perhaps you are unaware that funeral directors have much experience
in this area. More, I might say, than most clergy, as this is the
heart of our work.” He patted her hand with his small, flabby one.
“I can be quite effective in this domain.”

“With all your experience.”

“Yes, ma’am. And if you are at a loss for
any other service you are accustomed to receiving from your
husband. . .”

The tinkle of Catherine’s laughter served to
silence the ingratiating Mr. Markel for the moment.

When it was time for the service, Eliza
begged to go, but she was held back in the care of Helena.

“Come upstairs with me, child. I’ll tell you
a good tale. Better ‘n any you’d be hearin’ in there today.”

Friends and business associates of Thomas’
from Red Jacket, as well as Houghton and Hancock attended.

Catherine held Jorie’s arm throughout the
service and part of the reception. But toward the end, after
receiving condolences from the guests she drifted toward Mr.
Markel.

“How good of you to come. I didn’t realize
your duties extended to attending the service.”

“On the contrary, ma’am. I feel it is my
responsibility to stay with my client until the final sendoff.”

Catherine looked at him in amazement.

“Perhaps that’s putting it dramatically, but
I don’t hold with just selling a casket, and that being the long
and short of it.”

“I see.”

“And on occasion, when I am particularly
moved by someone’s loss, I go because, well, my heart bids me.”

“Pretty speech.”

“In this case, I thought, well, you’re such
a young widow. There’s something so very vulnerable about you. If
there were anything we’d overlooked, I just wanted to be in the
background, in case you should need me.”

The house looked different to Jorie,
somehow. There was a new oriental rug in the front room; and the
front door, originally all wood, had had its upper replaced with a
colored leaded glass design. There was a new carriage, and even a
telephone! His father must have been doing very well.

That evening Catherine
told Jorie again what a shock Thomas’ passing was, how they’d had
such a grand time at the ball, how well Thomas looked. Jorie asked
if there were anything he could do for her, and she said she’d like
to hear him play something on the piano. When the first notes
of
Pavane for a Dead Princess
reached her, she stopped him.