Mother Lode by Carol Anita Sheldon Page A

them. Do you
understand?”
    “If you think I’m going to beat the boy as
you have, you are mistaken. He is a tender lad, and I have never
found it necessary to resort to such measures.”
    “Choose your own methods, but make sure they
are effective.” He started to leave. With is hand on the doorknob,
he turned to her.
    “I give you three weeks to stop the
bed-wetting.”
    With that Thomas stomped out of the house.
Catherine paced the floor. She felt a thrill of victory, at least
for her son, but some doubt as to whether she could meet Thomas’
deadline. As for her relation to her husband, no doubt she would
incur a debt of consequences. She would not think of that now.
    To show Thomas her appreciation she made a
peach cobbler for the poker players.
    As they were leaving that night, Earl Foster
said, “Mighty tasty pie, Catherine.” He chuckled, “I’d never have
thought of having peach pie with beer—leave it to a lady to conjure
up such a combination!”
    Catherine wasn’t sure if he was poking fun
at her, or making a crude attempt at a compliment. How strange that
Thomas’s poker friends were all prominent citizens, all except
Under Sheriff Earl Foster!
     
    Aware of how much comfort she was giving the
boy, Catherine wondered if she were in some way prolonging the
problem with her ministrations of salve, which he clearly
enjoyed.
    One day she hit on what she thought might be
a solution.
    “Jorie, I think we had best turn things
around. From now on, Mummy is not going to put the cream on your
bottom when you wet the bed. Instead, I’ll apply it when you keep
dry.”
    He was confused and disappointed. “When I’m
dry?”
    “Yes, as kind of a reward. I think that
might help you stop wetting sooner. Wouldn’t you like that?”
    Jorie tried extra hard to keep dry all
night. At first the wet nights still outnumbered the dry, but
within two weeks he was dry more often than not.
    On the first morning he experienced success,
he couldn’t wait for Papa to leave, and to bring the jar to
her.
    “I am so proud of you, Jorie,” she said
unbuttoning the flap of his long underwear and pulling it down. He
lay across her knees and she pulled him toward her.
    “Mummy, can you do it a long time since I
was dry?”
    “A little longer.” Catherine hummed ‘Barbara
Allen’ as she caressed his bottom with the soothing balm. The jar
sat on his bedside table. Catching the morning’s light, it created
the most wonderful blue, like the sky must be if you could just go
up high enough.
    To Jorie this elixir felt so much better
when his bottom wasn’t hurting, he vowed he’d never wet again. How
gentle was her touch, how sweet her warm breath on his neck, as he
savored every stroke and relaxed into her love. He wiggled his body
tighter against hers and closed his eyes, soaking up the delicious
mixture of lavender cologne, the sensation of his mother’s
comforting touch, and the sonorous sounds of the tune she was
humming.
    “You are my queen.”
    “And you my knight.”
    On the eighteenth day of her reign Catherine
went to Thomas and announced, “Jorie no longer wets his bed.”
    If she was expecting surprise or pleasure
from Thomas, she got none.
    “It’s about time, “he said, without raising
his head from his paper.
     

Chapter 9
    Catherine could no longer bear her husband’s
snoring — a whole cacophony of sounds, including intermittent
bursts of loud percussion. Her own sleep had been so fitful and
interrupted with his odious nocturnal discords, she thought she
could rest more peacefully alone. When she asked him to take
another room, he put up no resistance.
    Although she received relief from the noise,
she had not realized how much she had relied on his body heat to
keep her warm. Without him the winter nights seemed unbearably
cold. Often when she awoke in the morning, there was frost on the
window pane, and snow on the inside sill where it had swept in
through the crack.
    She did not resist Jorie’s