Mother Lode by Carol Anita Sheldon Page B

forays into her
bed at night. His nightmares—always a long and horrible fall down a
dark tunnel—drove him to his mother’s bed.
    One night she knew Thomas had opened the
door, making a visit to claim his nuptial rights. Seeing Jorie, he
turned and left. At breakfast the next morning, watching his scowl
and fearful of repercussions, Catherine anticipated his anger.
    She blurted out, “Jorie crawls in with me at
night when he gets frightened. Such a baby,” she laughed tousling
his hair.
    He felt the heat creep up his neck and cover
his face. Why did she say that? His father was scolding him, but he
didn’t hear, heard only his mother’s shrill laughter, her betrayal
of him. He decided he wouldn’t go to her, no matter how bad the
dreams.
    When they were sitting at the piano for his
lesson later that week, she kissed him on the cheek, told him to
come to her any night he wanted to.
    Unbelieving, he looked at the floor and
whispered, “I thought you didn’t want me to. You told Papa—”
    “Never mind what I told Papa. I had to tell
him something. It doesn’t matter.” she tossed it off. “We
understand each other, you and I.”
     
    “Mummy, I want to learn ‘Barbara
Allen!’”
    Catherine had been teaching him to play
since he was four. He would run to the stool, spin it up to raise
its height. As she caressed the polished rosewood, she explained
that Papa had given it to her on their first anniversary.
    “Did it cost a lot of money?”
    “I daresay it did.”
    They started playing a simple duet Catherine
had made up for them.
    Thomas strode into the room. “When are you
planning to send that child to school?”
    She turned to her son. “Run down the lane
and see if the post has come.”
    When he was gone she said, “He’s so
sensitive, Thomas. And he’s learning to read so well at home, I
thought we could delay his formal schooling a bit longer.”
    “Catherine—”
    “He writes beautifully, wonderful stories —
all on his own. Would you like him to read them to you?”
    “You’re making a mama’s boy out of him. He
should be in school, taking his knocks from the other lads.”
    “You should see him do his numbers, Thomas.
He’s very quick. Way ahead of children his age. I’m sure he could
best them all in any examination. He’d just be bored at
school.”
    “Did you hear me, woman? Put him in school.”
Thomas stormed out of the room.
    Although the principal first placed him in
the beginners’ class, by noon it was apparent that he did not
belong there, and he was moved to the second grade. In most
respects he was well beyond the students of his class, but as he
was seven years old, it was decided that’s where he would stay.
    Jorie didn’t care to play ball with the
other boys at lunchtime. He was rather reserved and couldn’t think
of anything much to say to them either, though he longed for
companionship of his own age. In the first few weeks he made
several attempts to overcome his shyness and get to know the
others, but the boys only laughed at him or ignored him
altogether.
    “Kill a fly and make him cry!” they
teased.
    “They’re just jealous of you, Jorie,”
Catherine tried to comfort. “They see you know so much more than
they. That’s all it is.”
    This did little to console Jorie, but he
began raising his hand less when the teacher asked questions. But
then the teacher expressed disapproval of him too. Only one or two
little girls would play with him, and a dull boy who was no more
popular than he.
     
    With Jorie in school now, Catherine realized
with acute awareness that she had no real friends. She had been
uprooted twice—once from another country, and then from Red Jacket.
Since living in Hancock, she’d seldom attended church, but on a
Saturday in July she went to nearby church jumble sale. Perhaps
she’d meet some young people.
    Fingering the quilts and cast off toys,
Catherine bought Jorie a yo-yo and a hand painted barrel hoop.
Laughter brought her