Lizzie Borden (34 page)

Lizzie was so tired of this. She was so blasted sick and tired of Emma and Father and Abby and their stupid little dramas. “No, Emma. Nobody is trying to kill Father.”

“They are, they are, Lizzie, listen, you don’t know what happened yesterday.”

The thought briefly flew through Lizzie’s mind that Emma didn’t even notice that she hadn’t come home all night. Or if she had noticed, it was unimportant compared to her latest news of Andrew’s impending murder.

“Emma. I’m not in the mood.”

That stopped her. “Not in the mood? Our father is about to be slaughtered in broad daylight and you’re not in the mood to hear about it?”

“Okay, okay. Come up to my room and tell me. Where is everybody?”

“Maggie is doing laundry. Abby is out with someone birthing, I think. Father is at work.”

Lizzie walked up the creaky stairs in the tiny cramped house that was already hot and close. The house smelled like the cellar floor, like steamed dirt. After being used to Enid’s gay profusion of books, magazines and other paraphernalia, the singular lack of reading material and personal possessions made the Borden house seem uncommonly austere. And hot. And stuffy. And staid.

Bridget was stripping the bed in the guest room. “Maggie, what are you doing?”

“Mr. Morse is arriving, miss.”

Lizzie’s Uncle John Morse was an infrequent visitor. Her mother’s brother, he and Andrew had begun investing their money together many years ago, and occasionally he would come to visit, and he would stay far too long, talking business and investigating new investment opportunities. Usually his presence meant nothing. But this was Tuesday and Beatrice was due to arrive Wednesday night or Thursday morning. “When is he coming?”

“I’m not sure.” Bridget looked to Emma. Emma shrugged.

So there would not even be a bed in the house for Beatrice. Lizzie’s shoulders slumped. She unlocked her bedroom door, and Emma followed on her heels.

Lizzie untied her shoes and took them off. The air upstairs was even rarer. She pulled the draperies, raised the blinds and opened the window. No relief. She loosened her corset and lay upon the bed, daring Emma to say something. Emma was silent.

When Lizzie was settled, she pointed at the rocking chair. Emma sat down. Why, all of a sudden, was Lizzie in control? “All right, Emma. What happened?”

“They were in the sitting room. I listened from the stairs. Abby wanted to know, once and for all, if Sarah was mentioned in his will. He wanted to know why, and she said because Sebastian was beginning to get kind of pushy.

“‘What kind of pushy?’

“‘I don’t know, Mr. Borden.” Emma imitated Abby’s voice. “Sarah came to see me in tears, yesterday, afraid. I had promised her, you see, and Sebastian is frustrated at his wages and not being able to provide better for her. He’s afraid that I will predecease you, and that you will then forget all about Sarah.’ There was a long pause. ‘It would be much easier, Mr. Borden, if you would just give her that property now. Then they can be enjoying it while it is that they need it. Or you could sell it to them.’

“‘I’ll consider it. The will is in transition. I’m making some changes to it.’

“‘Changes?’

“‘For the better.’

“‘Well, then, that’s fine, whatever you want. Only what shall I say to Sarah?’

“‘Tell her to find herself a husband who can support her and her children in a proper manner and to stop hounding me about what I will or will not do with my assets.’

“‘Sarah was in such a state, Mr. Borden, that she fears for your life.’

“‘My life?’

“‘She said that Sebastian has reached such a point that he has talked of murder.’

“‘In order to inherit what may or may not be written in my will? Preposterous. He’s a madman!’

“‘Nevertheless, I think some sort of a statement ought to be made.’

“‘Tell them that I am rearranging my affairs, and that I may very well remember them. And then again, if they cannot show the proper respect, that I may ignore them. Tell them that, Abby.’

“
Well
, I don’t need to tell you,” Emma went on, “that I wasn’t about to sit there on the stairs and let him get away with those veiled threats about the will. So I walked into the room and demanded that he spell out the changes.”

Lizzie gasped. “You didn’t!”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wouldn’t. He said we’d all find out when he was dead. He said that some people did things for him and some people did things against him and we would have only our consciences to thank when it was all over.

“I told him that wasn’t good enough. I’ve lived here all my life, doing his cooking, his laundry, raising up his second daughter, and I was not about to be cut off without a cent because he took a disliking to me in his dotage.”

Lizzie brought her hands up to her face. She could imagine Emma saying such things, but they embarrassed her just the same. The horror of it all made her smile.

“He made me sit down, he made the cow sit down, as well. ‘This is how it is worked out,’ he said. ‘A couple of people who have granted me special favors over the years will receive a bequest. Abby will be taken care of for the rest of her life. After that, you, Emma, and Lizzie, will inherit everything. Is that clear enough for you?’

“You mean we’ll have to live here with her until she dies?”

“‘Don’t push me, Emma.’

“Just who are these
special people
?’

“‘People who have shown niceties.’

“Your whore?”

Lizzie shrieked and then clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Emma, you didn’t!”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And his face got red, and he said, ‘This interview is over.’ That’s what he’s doing, Lizzie. That whore of his has turned his head so far that he’s going to cut her in on his will.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He would. Just to spite us.”

Lizzie expected that with this kind of drama in the Borden house, that Emma would be pacing, and bruising her lip between knuckles and teeth and frothing at the mouth and then ready to go to New Bedford. But she was doing none of that. “Why are you so calm about this whole thing, Emma?”

“Calm? I don’t know that I’m calm.”

“Calmer than I would expect, under the circumstances.”

“Well, look at you, lying on your bed, fully clothed, lounging as if you had the world at your fingertips.”

“I’m sick of it all, Emma,” Lizzie said. “Don’t you get tired of all this?”

“Tired of it? Lizzie, it is our life.
It is our life!”

It may be your life, Lizzie thought, but it is not mine.

“Besides,” Emma said. “I have a plan.”

Andrew Borden was at his office in the mill when the sickness hit. He felt as if he had been hit in the stomach with a stick. He ran from his office, holding his stomach, and made it to the street before vomiting his breakfast in a gush.

His first thought was of Emma’s cooking; she paid poor attention to that which needed it the most. His next thought, as spasms shuddered through him, was of poison, and that Sebastian Whitehead should be damned to eternal hellfire.

After the initial sickness subsided, Andrew rose from his knees, brushed off his pants and his hands, and made his way toward home. He left everything as it was on his desk, and while that made him vaguely uneasy, it made him more uneasy to think that the worst was yet to come of this sickness, and he did not want to be taken home or to Dr. Bowen’s by way of some stranger’s charity. At least he hadn’t left his will on his desk, for the prying eyes of Fall River. It was with him, with the new instructions, ready to post. He felt the mailing tube in his jacket pocket. He would leave it in the box, if he could.

He made his way unsteadily, feeling increasingly shaky, sweating profusely in the heat. He heaved twice more before arriving, but there was nothing to vomit, and the heaves did not drive him to his knees. He wanted to get into bed. His head ached. His fingers felt tight. His face felt swollen.

He fumbled with his keys at the front door, then finally, through shear will and prayer, he got the door open. Andrew closed and locked it behind him. He went through the sitting room, took the key to his bedroom from the mantle, and went through the kitchen, up the back stairs to his bedroom.

Abby was in bed. Stale vomit reeked from her chamber pot. She barely moved when he got into bed beside her. Even in the heat, even with someone next to his sensitive skin, bed felt wonderful.

He’d never been so sick.

He reached down and pulled his chamber pot into a convenient location and put his head on the pillow.

Faintly, he heard the sounds of Bridget vomiting and coughing up in her little room above theirs.

Blood pounded in his eyes. He felt every heartbeat in every vein.

He closed his eyes and waited to die.

Enid Crawford typed a letter for her employer, but her mind was not on it. At the third typing error, Enid turned from the typewriter and rested her face in her hands. The burning in her stomach was more than she could bear. She was never good with guilt.

She tried to satisfy it by giving it promises. “Lizzie will come over tonight,” she tried, “and I will tell her everything.”

It was not good enough. She didn’t know that Lizzie would be over, and besides, it was not up to Lizzie to see that Enid’s feelings of guilt were assuaged.

Before thinking, she opened her desk drawer, took out her purse, and turned to Mrs. Watkins, the bookkeeper. “I’m not feeling well, Cecelia. I’m going to go out for a walk and I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“In this heat?”

But Enid didn’t answer her. She just went out the door and walked directly to the Borden house and knocked sharply on the door.

She knocked again. And again. Disappointment rose in her. She was all ready to confess her multitude of ugly sins to Lizzie, and now she would have to hold onto them, keep them longer, live with Lizzie’s innocence and her guilt on her mind for another while longer.

Just as she was turning away, she heard locks turn in the front door. And it was opened by a tall, thin, angular, humorless woman.

“Is Lizzie at home?”

“She’s resting.”

“It’s quite important, if you don’t mind.”

“Wait.” And the woman closed the door and locked it, leaving Enid to stand in the heat. In the sun.

In a moment, the locks were snapped back and Lizzie threw the door open. Her face lit up with a delight that made Enid’s heart sore. “Enid! Come in, come in.”

“I’d rather you came out, Lizzie. Could we walk down to the river?”

Lizzie looked at her queerly. “Of course. Give me a moment to get ready. Come in, won’t you?”

Enid stepped into the hall and walked into the sitting room, where she had been just a week before, with Andrew and his fat wife. That had been a terrible time, and this was a terrible time, and she hoped never to set foot inside the Borden house again.

When Lizzie was ready, they went out the front door and turned right, away from town. They walked in silence, emotions raging inside Enid, and suddenly she wondered why she felt so compelled to confess all to Lizzie. What difference did it make? Would it make a difference to Enid? Would it make a difference to Lizzie?  Yes, both would be altered by her confession. Enid felt that a change had come over her life in the past weeks. Lizzie had brought that change, that wonderful refreshing revelation that life went on. Yet, by confessing to Lizzie, it would hurt that very thing that had unlocked Enid’s cage. Could she, in good conscience, do that?
Should
she?

Somehow, with Lizzie by her side, all the bad feelings wanted to fly away. She felt so good with Lizzie, she wanted to just smile, and be rid of all the unpleasantness. There was so
much
unpleasantness in life—couldn’t there be one small refuge from that? And couldn’t that refuge be Lizzie?

“I wanted to see you, Lizzie,” Enid started, “because I feel so good—because you make me feel so good—that I need to confess some of the terrible things I’ve done.”

“To me?”

“Well. . .”

“Why not talk to the pastor?”

“Well, because they affect you.” Enid wanted to bite the end of her tongue off. She hadn’t meant to say that, and she hadn’t meant, necessarily, to confess to Lizzie anything specific.