Lizzie Borden (20 page)

But there were no sounds. Surely she would be able to hear an intruder’s step, or breath, but there was nothing. Abby squinted her eyes up tight and rolled over onto her side facing her husband. She pulled the covers up over her head. I’ll just let them be, she decided. If they want to rob me, that’s fine, they won’t be the first. If they want to kill me as I lay in my bed, well then that’s fine, too. I just pray they make it quick.

But no hand came to touch her, and she heard the sound of no intruder. She said a little prayer, even though she only half believed, and then her mind wandered again to her husband’s neglect of the fatherly chores in the house and her heart began to pump again, only this time in anger.

I’m too old to live in a house where everybody hates me, she thought. Emma hates me, Lizzie sides with Emma and Andrew has a lover. If he wants to take a lover, that’s fine with me, but why should I have to put up with that
and
those girls as well?

Just then, Abby heard Lizzie’s bedsprings creak, and the sound of the chamber pot scraping across the floor. She waited for the sounds of vomiting, but they didn’t come.

Abby relaxed. Her heart went out to poor Lizzie with those blasted headaches. She had tried everything, but there was nothing to be done for them, nothing but a quiet, dark room and sometimes a cool cloth for the forehead. Poor Lizzie. She suffered so. Since her teens, she’d been plagued with those terrible headaches, headaches that made her vomit all day and half the night.

Abby could be mad at Lizzie, but she could never hate her, not the way she sometimes hated Emma for the foolish way Emma acted. And a grown woman at that! Emma was a fool, a greedy, money-hungry, fool, whose penchant for rages made her highly undesirable as an acquaintance, never mind a stepdaughter!

But Lizzie, sweet Lizzie.

Abby listened as the bedpan was pushed under the bed again. It wasn’t a headache for Lizzie tonight. Thank the gods for that. She’d had quite a group of them lately, maybe four or five in the past two weeks. Every time, Abby had wanted to do something for Lizzie—she used to buy toys with the household money for Lizzie when she was sick. Even when she was a young woman, just beginning this terrible life with headaches, Abby always found a few pennies to spend on a treat for Lizzie.

But now, there was nothing to be done when the headaches struck, nothing but to tiptoe around the house, reminding Emma and Bridget,
always
reminding Bridget, to keep the noise level down so Lizzie could rest. And Abby never brought a toy nor a treat. Abby’s mothering instincts had begun to fade in the shadow of the abuse she’d been receiving from Emma. And Lizzie, by association.

Abby settled back into her bed, the fear of the dark shadows gone, the anger at Andrew gone, the worry over Lizzie having another headache gone. All that was left was that creeping feeling of doom.

It had been intensifying lately, that feeling. That terrible feeling that something was about to happen. The present status could not remain so for very much longer; everyone seemed to be strung just a little bit too tight. And when people are just a little too close, just a little too crowded, well, things begin to happen.

Like jewelry and money disappearing and reappearing in the barn.

A shiver ran through Abby. It was such a violation, that little robbery. It was such a slap in the face by some member of this household. That was a day she almost gave the ultimatum to Andrew: We move or they move. But the tensions had eased some after that, and of course, there had been no repeating offenses, nor had Abby any reason to think there would be. The point, whatever it was, had apparently been made.

The thought of the robbery was inseparable from this feeling of dread that she had, this moving black shadow that was just a little darker than the dark, when nothing was there. The robbery was an omen, she thought, of ominous things to come, and if she were a real wife, and a real mother, she would
insist
that Andrew take her out of this house and save them all from themselves.

But she was not a real wife, and Andrew knew that, and she was not a real mother, and both Emma and Lizzie knew that.

So she would make do, as she always had, spending her time with Sarah and her many troubles, and the occasional birthing that came along in her little circle of acquaintances, and she would hope that when the end came, whatever it may be, that it be swift and sure, silent and without warning.

When Lizzie woke up, Emma was already in trouble. Emma was headed for New Bedford.

The day began as normal, with Emma fighting life so hard it reduced her to stringy tendons and a cruel mouth. Emma fought with her clothes, her bureau drawers, her father, her stepmother, her breakfast, the maid.

Lizzie watched it all, listening, knowing that Emma was about to lose control. She knew the signs; after all these years, Lizzie knew the signs.

So when Emma threw her silverware on the floor, kicked at it until it skittled out of reach, and then ran upstairs—all provoked by something innocuous that their father had said, Lizzie knew that New Bedford was not far away.

And sure enough, Emma appeared in the dining room doorway in less than a half hour, wearing her traveling hat and carrying her valise.

Abby continued with her breakfast, Andrew read the morning paper. Neither one of them seemed to care that Emma was off to further her destruction at the hands of unknowns. Lizzie alone flew to Emma’s side, her heart breaking in the midst of her pain over Kathryn. She felt as if she were drowning in emotional vapors.

But Emma would not be persuaded to stay. “I need some fresh air,” she said, “some fresh scenery. I shan’t be but a couple of weeks, Lizzie,” and she shook off Lizzie’s begging and went out the front door.

Lizzie’s heart died. One of these days, Emma would be unable to crawl back home to lick her wounds. One of these days, Emma would tangle with someone a little too rough, and be unable to crawl back home.

The familiar box of worry closed around Lizzie, and she knew that it would not open until Emma came home. She knew that she was bound now, to be thinking of Emma and praying for Emma day after day after day, leaving little room for study or housework or reading or preparing for Beatrice’s visit or anything else. Where there had been mourning for Kathryn, there now was worry for Emma.

Lizzie watched Emma walk down the street, her back as straight as their father’s, the little black plume on her hat bouncing with each step. Emma always timed it for that nine o’clock train to New Bedford.

Lizzie thought if she had any gumption at all, she’d run and pack herself a bag and follow Emma. Then she could find out where Emma went, and keep an eye on her so that she didn’t get into too much trouble.

Next time, she thought with a pang of guilt. There is too much to do right now. I cannot afford to take two or three weeks baby-sitting Emma while she drinks herself half to death in New Bedford. After Beatrice’s visit, when everything settles back down to normal, then I shall accompany Emma on one of her excursions and see that she takes care.

But Lizzie knew that that day would never come. She had to invent that lie, like thousands before it, to plug up the guilt before it flooded her.

She wandered back to the dining room and sat in her place. Her breakfast was cold, but she ate the soggy biscuits in cold gravy anyway.

“So Emma has gone to New Bedford again, has she?”

Lizzie looked at her father and nodded.

“Don’t know what gets into that girl,” he said. “Seems like she just looks for an excuse to go. Who does she visit there, again?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t come home sick this time. I was afraid she’d put the whole household in their beds the last time.”

Lizzie chewed slowly, wondering how she could hate her father so much for his lack of feeling toward her sister, and so many other things, yet love him so desperately and want to please him so thoroughly. She should tell him the truth about Emma, but that would accomplish nothing. Unfortunately, that would accomplish nothing. She kept on eating. Abby remained silent.

After breakfast, Lizzie went back upstairs to her room, undressed and slipped back into bed. She lay there, feeling slightly ashamed for her laziness, but the load of ironing, and the lessons, and the mending just weren’t her cup of tea today. She fingered the worn lace on the edge of the pillowslips and idly wondered why Abby didn’t have all the pillowslips in the house replaced with fresh ones. Surely there was enough money to sleep on decent linen!

Then she looked toward Emma’s bedroom door. The days were long past when Lizzie used to go into Emma’s bedroom and try on her clothes and get into her things, but for once, Lizzie was mildly curious about Emma’s room. Were there things in there that Emma hid? Was there alcohol? Did Emma drink here at home? Lizzie turned over on her back. No, of course not. If Emma drank at home, we would smell it on her and she would have no need to go to New Bedford.

New Bedford. It was strange to Lizzie that Emma would have secrets from her much the way she had her Kathryn secret to hide from Emma. Emma would have a seizure if she knew the pleasures that Lizzie and Kathryn enjoyed in each other’s arms. But then Emma enjoyed some pleasures of her own, didn’t she? Some pleasures of some sort at the Capitol Hotel in New Bedford.

Pleasures Lizzie
used
to enjoy in Kathryn’s arms. She flopped over onto her stomach and punched her fists up under the pillow. We should have a cat, she thought. It would be nice to have a cat to sleep on the bed, a cat to purr and cuddle with. . . When I have my own home, I will have a cat.

And then the idea that came was so perfect, so logical, it startled her.
Why not now?
I could move into my own house, and it could be near enough that I could keep an eye on Emma. I don’t have to have a house on the Hill, not yet anyway, there are some fine houses here in town, houses of which Father would approve, and he could either give me the money for one or invest in one on his own.

That would be so much different than if Father just gave Emma her inheritance money and told her to get out. Father had been wanting to do that for months now, perhaps years. If I had a house that was large enough for Emma and I, perhaps I could induce her to move in with me.

Lizzie jumped out of bed, her heart pounding in excitement for the first time in weeks. She had an idea, a wonderful idea, and Father was sure to go along.

She dressed carefully, and did her hair up just right, smoothed down her eyebrows, made her bed—she wanted to be adult and serene around him, and didn’t know if she could with her bed unmade—and then she sat for a moment, composing herself and quietly asking the God of all her selves to help her. Then she slowly descended the stairs.

Andrew was at the desk in the sitting room, going over some ledgers.

“Father?”

“Lizzie.”

“Father, may we talk for a moment?”

“Certainly.” Andrew finished jotting a note, then put his pen down and turned in his chair.

Lizzie sat on the edge of the sofa. It would be so much easier if he were sitting next to me, she thought. “Do you remember some time ago—last winter—the last time Emma went to New Bedford, in fact—when you talked about giving Emma her money and having her move out?”

Andrew looked at his shoes. “Yes.”

“Well, I have another idea.”

Andrew’s eyebrows went up.

“Come sit next to me.” She patted the seat. He sat next to her. She took his hand in hers.

“If you gave me the money, I could buy a small house—”

“Never.”

“Wait, you didn’t let me finish.”

Andrew withdrew his hand from hers. “Very well,” he said. “Finish.”

“I can barely speak when you have that attitude, Father.”

“Don’t you be talking about my attitude, Lizzie.”

This was not going right. Lizzie took a deep breath. “Father? Let’s start over again. I have an idea, and I’d like for you to hear it.” She placed her hand over his, but he didn’t move a muscle. Be bold, be adventurous, but most of all, be self-assured, Lizzie, she thought. “I was thinking of another investment property for you. Another little house, here in town. A modest house. I could move in there and encourage Emma to join me. I could be close enough to keep an eye on her in case she decided to stay here, or I could even move back in here, for that matter. But, Father, I believe she would come. That would leave you and Mother here in peace, and I could watch out for Emma during her more trying times. We’d take care of each other.”

Andrew was silent. Lizzie took that as a good sign.

“We could live very cheaply, Father. The house and a small allowance is all we would need. . .” She twisted her high school ring which was still firmly on his little finger. Then she looked up into his face and saw his eyes were red and watery. Why was he crying? What made him cry? She was struck quite speechless, and then tears came to her own eyes.

Whatever it was, they let go of each other’s hands in embarrassment, and both rose at the same time. Lizzie headed for the front stairs while Andrew went toward the rear stairs. Not another word was said.