The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.1968, Blaðsíða 53

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
51
At twelve, having been caught once
too often, he was obliged to report to
an official twice each week. Nothing
deterred and unashamed, the warnings
of the court and the pleas of his mother
fell upon deaf ears. He was in disgrace
at school, where his attendance was
most irregular; and he was known to
boast that he had never done a tap
of work in his life. This despite 'the
fact he was quite liberal in his spend-
ing of what his mother earned, and re-
markably adept in his manner of
getting his hands on it as soon as earn-
ed.
To say that his mother was blind
to his large and numerous faults
would ibe to place too heavy a task on
the credulity of the reader; would, in
fact, be an overstatement. She saw
much and felt more. But because he
was Her Boy and because she loved
him she tried valiantly to shift the
blame, now to the gang with which
he associated, which, indeed, he led;
now to her own shortcomings in the
manner of upbringing. So, as she wept
in her pillow, she hoped and she pray-
ed—and she forgave. It mattered not
however low he fell, with what un-
concern and even scorn he treated her,
she was ever at his beck to serve him
and to minister to his every want. His
thanks were abiding scorn and a
mounting hate; for this remains a law
of life, that we hate most ardently
those whom we injure most grievously
and most unjustly.
A brute in body as in mind he was
unacquainted with the ills to which
most of human flesh is heir. With the
typical arrogance of the brute he had
nothing but scorn for ;the weak. In-
stead of ministering to his mother
when illness overcame her, he abused
her, with implications of threat. With
his own immediate physical comforts
satisfied, he merely ignored her, which
was as near to kindness as he could
come. In her turn she apologized for
the inconvenience her temporary in-
capacity brought him, and in his
magnanimity he accepted it, in a spirit
of condescension. When able to be
about again she resumed her rounds
of service; and that was all.
When the law laid its hand upon
his shoulder after a hectic chase he
merely shrugged it, half turning to
the officer while a leer puckered one
cheek. He was foiled; nothing more.
There had been a weak link in the
chain of his plans. His remorse went
no further than to acknowledge in-
expertness. But his record and his
reputation told against him and his
sentence was the maximum—four years
at hard labor. To one of his age the
years are long, even with freedom; to
the incarcerated they are well-nigh
interminable. But they also pass sure-
ly, and there is an end to the longest.
So while the mother wept and prayed
for her erring boy, she also languished
in her prison house of separation. She
was denied the mother’s joy of min-
istry, but she cherished the image. He
was still Her Boy—her erring boy,
long since forgiven. Her dream was the
joy she anticipated in again having
him with her, the divine privilege of
again serving him. He was, by turns,
the helpless infant (the dearest image),
the chubby boy, the sturdy youth. To-
wards the end of the term there was
little of reality left in her image; she
had chiselled perfection on a pedestal,
almost deified—Her Boy.
He emerged with the pallor of con-
finement on his cheeks and the devil
in his heart. He remembered his mo-
ther and her little shack; there was
where he would go to eat and sleep
and browse and be his own boss.
There, also, he would perfect his plans;
for if the police and other authorities