Mother Lode (9 page)

“Don’t go, Mummy.”

“I won’t leave you, Precious.”

“It hurts.”

“Where?”

“All over.” He put his hands on his ribs.
“It hurts to breathe.”

She tried to rearrange him on a pillow, but
it made him cry.

“I’m sorry, Jorie. Whatever made you boys go
in the cellar?”

“Walter wanted to play miners.”

“You shouldn’t have been down there, and you
certainly shouldn’t have been climbing the coal pile.”

“We weren’t climbing on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Walter dumped it on me.”

Catherine and Thomas stayed up that night
talking for hours.

“Walter can’t stay with us. He’ll have to go
away.”

“Go where?”

“He should be given over to the care of the
Good Will Farm.”

“Talk sense, woman.”

“They’ll be kind to him, I know they will.
He can’t live here, Thomas. It’s out of the question.”

“What are you saying? He’s my son as much as
Jorie. I will not send him the Farm.”

“He tried to kill Jorie!”

“That’s not true!”

“You heard Jorie say it yourself. Walter
dumped the wheelbarrow full of coal on him. When he tried to get up
Walter pushed him down—”

“They were just playing.”

“—And Jorie hit his head on the stone. Then
Walter ran to the top of the pile and kicked more coal down on top
of him.”

“That’s sheer speculation.”

“How do you think the coal got all over the
floor?”

“He might have been trying to scare him, but
he wasn’t planning to kill him.”

“You’re blind, Thomas.
When we called to him, did he answer? He remained on top of the
coal pile while his brother was
dying
under it! That’s an admission
of guilt, believe you me.”

Thomas said nothing. Catherine stared at the
wound on her husband’s face. The blood had seeped through the
bandage, and for a brief moment her heart went out to him.

“And it isn’t the first
time. Jorie told me that one night Walter locked him in the
closet.
All night!
The Lord knows what else he’s done. I tell you, Walter is out
to do away with Jorie!”

“He’s my son, Catherine.
He’s lost his ma. Now you want
me
to abandon him.”

“I won’t argue any more. I will not risk a
repeat occurrence. Either Walter goes or I leave with Jorie.”

Catherine held her son that night. Several
times he woke crying, sometimes in pain, and sometimes in
terror.

In the morning, when Thomas had taken no
action, Catherine said, “I am going to see Earl Foster.”

“What are you talking about? This is a
domestic matter. If you’re so sure he did it, I’ll give him a
whipping.”

“A whipping! He tried to murder my son!”

Thomas’ hand flashed across Catherine’s
cheek before he could stop it. It was the first time he’d struck
her. She felt the hot burn spread through her face, but refused to
let Thomas see her pain. As she started for the door, he rushed to
block her exit.

“Sit down, Catherine. Let’s discuss this
reasonably.”

“I’ve done with talking. I will hold firm to
my decision on this matter.”

Thomas sat down at the table, his head in
his hands, while Catherine waited by the door. Finally, he rose,
called Walter and left the house.

It was hours before he returned. The
suffering of her son served to convince her that she’d done the
right thing. Jorie’s breathing was shallow and labored. He
continued to cough up dark matter, and wanted no food.

Finally the door opened.

“It’s done then?” Catherine asked.

He gave a curt nod. “Are you satisfied
now?”

“Did you tell Mrs. Lerner what he did?”

“I didn’t take him to the Farm. He’s with my
sister.”

Catherine started to say something and
changed her mind. Well, what did it matter to her? He was gone, and
Jorie was out of harm’s way. Walter would never pose a danger to
her son again.

Thomas barely spoke to his wife, and the
evenings lay heavily between them, with unspoken resentment. There
was nothing but the ticking of the mantle clock to keep them
company, as he read his newspaper and she did her mending. And all
the time her mind went back to how she’d gotten into this marriage
to begin with.

Chapter 7

Sixteen year old Catherine stayed under the
covers as long as she could, ignoring her mother’s calls.

It stung her anew each
morning as she awoke: Her father was dead. Pneumonia had taken him
quite suddenly several months ago, but she was not yet accustomed
to it. Each morning she experienced the pain anew. It was just last
summer they were in Paris. Remembering the night they played out
the death scene from
Othello
took her breath away. She bit her lip; she must
not think of these things now, for surely tears would overtake her
and her mother would make more derisive remarks.

Finally, forcing herself to leave her warm
covers, she slipped out of bed, punched through the thin layer of
ice in her pitcher, and poured the freezing water into her basin.
Jumping from one foot to the other, she dashed the icy cloth
quickly on her face, around her neck and shoulders, trying to avoid
getting her chemise wet. Grabbing the clothes she’d laid out the
night before, she raced downstairs, to get dressed by the warmth of
the kitchen stove. April afternoons were beginning to warm up, but
the nights and mornings were still freezing.

While Catherine stood eating her porridge
with her backside to the stove, her mother was touting the merits
of a suitor.

“I don’t want to marry Thomas Radcliff! I
don’t want to marry at all!”

“Just ye listen tae me, daughter.”

“Thomas Radcliff is an old
man! He was
father’s
friend.” She slammed the bowl down on the table.

“He’s a well-tae-do widower, Catherine.
You’d never be without.”

“He has grown sons!”

“And a wee laddie, a needin’ a mother.”

“You’d have me a step-mother at sixteen?”
Catherine shouted.

“Watch yer tongue, miss.”

“He must be sixty!”

“Forty-one, and not a day o’er.”

“You’ve already talked to him!”

“He came to me. You coulda do far worse.
Thomas Radcliff is Chief Mining Captain for the Portage Mining
Company.”

“A mole!”

“Och, no. He’s a fine office on the grass,
Missy. The Portage Mining Company is—”

“Where’s that?” Catherine asked
impatiently.

“Near Hancock.”

“How far from here?”

“Aboot twelve miles, above Portage Lake.
It’s purty there, ‘tis. And the mine’s up and coming, believe you
me. “

Catherine groaned. “A Cornishman, no doubt —
another ‘Cousin Jack’. Who ever saw so many immigrants — German,
Irish—”

“Immigrants, is it? And
what do ye think ye are? But no, Mr. Radcliff is
American-born.
And
he’s the first college engineer any mine in these parts ‘as
ever ‘ad. The other companies still be using Cornish miners for
their captains.”

“What do I care aboot that?”

“Well, yer living in ‘Copper Country.’
That’s all you’re ever goin’ tae hear aboot—minin’. It’s the life
and blood of the country.”

“I hate it here! I want to go back to
Scotland. Or Paris.”

“They say Mr. Radcliff—”

“Does he
own
the
mine?”

“No, the owners own it.”

“And who be they?”

“Stockholders, back east, all.”

“Then I don’t want him.”

“Stop yer greetin’ and roarin’. He’s comin’
tae call on ye Sunday next.”

“How could ye? Daddy would never have put me
through such misery!”

“Hush up aboot yer daddy.”

“He’s barely cold in his grave and ye’d have
me married off—”

“I said hush up aboot him!” Barbara
MacGaurin shook her head in disgust. “Yer daddy, always fillin’ ye
with fancy notions of who y’are! Bletherin’ foolishness it was.
It’s exactly cuz he’s gone, it falls tae me tae see ye are ta’en
care of.”

“I’d rather die!”

On the way to school Catherine’s thoughts
returned to Paris. He was there on business and she had persuaded
him to take her along. Early mornings on the ship deck watching the
sunrises while Daddy brushed her long red hair, nights in their
narrow bunks so close she could feel his breath.

He looked at her and then away, seeming to
watch the endless parade of carriages.

Finally, he said, “I came from a
well-positioned family in the old country, and was expected to
marry into my own class.” He paused, took a sip of his drink. “When
I was twenty-four we had a comely servant girl. She offered me her
favors, shall we say, and became pregnant with my child.”

He paused, finished his drink.

“What became of her?”

“She was discharged, of course, and I was
banished from the family—albeit with a sum of money.”

“What did you do?”

That winter he had taken ill, and in two
weeks was dead of pneumonia.

Catherine felt she’d fallen off the edge of
the world. After months of melancholia, she finally roused herself.
She remembered all her father had said about courage, and how he'd
admired her strong spirit.

"You'll be a survivor, Katie. Never let
anything best you."

Then for you, Daddy, I will go forward.

Three weeks after her seventeenth birthday,
the wedding day came.

"Ow!” The heat of the curling iron on the
back of her neck brought Catherine back to the moment. "Mummy,
you're burning me! Will it show?"

"No, yer hollerin’ aboot nothin’," her
mother replied. "Sit ye still, Catherine. I canna curl yer hair
with ye bouncing all aboot. Do you want curly wood shavins stickin’
straight out ‘o yer head on yer weddin’ day?"

They were in the kitchen by the stove, and
Catherine tried to concentrate on giving her mother a hot curling
iron in exchange for a cool one, which she replaced on the stove.
With great care she could do this without moving any part of her
body save her arm.

"Keep turnin’ them, so they'll be hot on all
sides."

Catherine picked up the ivory looking glass
and studied her likeness with objective detachment.

To herself she said, “I am
not beautiful. But I cut a fine figure, and Papa would say I
am
striking.”
She
held the mirror higher, and raised her gaze to meet it. “I believe
my large green eyes are my finest feature.”

In spite of herself Catherine was getting
excited about her wedding and the prospects of living in a lovely
home built just for her with a magnificent view.

Barbara MacGaurin touched a wet finger to
the irons, listening for sizzling sound.

“There, ye see, there’s not a hot one among
them. Ye’ve let them all go cold.”

She snatched the looking glass from her
daughter’s hand. Catherine sighed and resumed her task.

As she did, she looked down at her lovely
silk and linen underthings. They had been conveyed all the way from
Scotland, as such luxuries would be hard to come by in this part of
the world. But they had only brought one wedding gown, and her
sister had worn it first.

The dress was lovely, she acknowledged —
finer than anything she’d seen in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula.
It had delicate lace with rows of ivory ribbon threaded through the
neckline and cuffs of the full sleeves, and little pink rosebuds
made from even finer ribbon sewn onto the ivory. If only it was new
for her!

Catherine sighed. "This is the last time I'm
wearing anything of Margaret's. If I must be wed to a man I don’t
love, at least I’ll be rich.”

“You mustn’t speak o’ marriage like it were
a bag ‘o gold tae dip yer greedy hands in.”

“He said he’d take me to Chicago on one of
the new clipper ships, with a band and everything.”

“Wheesht.”

So on this crisp, windy day in September,
with the autumn sky a rich deep blue, Catherine and her mother
climbed into her brother-in-law’s buggy, and set out for the long
ride to the little wooden church in Hancock. The inside was adorned
with hardy gold and rust chrysanthemums. How exciting it was, this
unfamiliar church all decked out just for her!

After the ceremony there was a supper in the
basement social hall, where venison, roasted all afternoon on
Carter's spit, was the mainstay of the meal, and spicy hot cider
kept the chill at bay. Neighbors brought hot dishes, and there were
cakes and every kind of pie for dessert. A quartet had been engaged
by Thomas for the occasion to play the popular songs of the
day.