Lizzie Borden (23 page)

Andrew walked through the door, and stopped, looking queerly at Emma.

“Emma.”

“Father.”

“Were you speaking?”

“No. Well, no. I was wondering about Lizzie. Hasn’t she been coming in awfully late these past few nights?”

“Don’t know, Emma. I know she’s gone most every evening, but I hear there are committee meetings over at Kathryn Peters’. I don’t know what time she comes in.”

“Is today a special day of some kind, Father?” Emma could not help herself.

“No, no, why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re all dandied up, is all. Looks like you’ll be stepping out.”

Fury flashed into Andrew’s eyes. “Hush yourself, girl. Don’t be letting your mother hear you talk like that. Shame on you. No. Be off with you. Do some laundry today.” And he made little sweeping motions at her with his hands, and then went up the back stairs to his bedroom.

Confirmed. Andrew had a lover. Emma let him brush her off like that because she had a mindful of things other than Andrew.

Lizzie was the item to be dealt with this day.

Emma walked back through the dining room, head held high, pretending not to notice the scowl that crossed that Bridget’s face. We must certainly look for a new maid, she thought. Abby, she noticed, was still eating, although she had slowed down some. The flesh of her jowls jiggled as she chewed.

Emma walked up the front stairs and opened Lizzie’s bedroom door. The curtains were drawn. Emma whipped them wide open.

Lizzie blinked and squinted in the light. “Emma! I’m sleeping.”

“No, Lizzie, we need to have a talk.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

“Emmm-ma,” Lizzie whined.

“Sit up here, girl, and let me have a look at you.” Emma sat in Lizzie’s rocker and leaned over into Lizzie’s face.

“Get away, Emma,” Lizzie pushed at her sister, then sat up in bed and rubbed her face.

“You’re gaining weight again,”

“Shut up, Emma.”

“And you’re all puffy. Are you seeing a man, Lizzie?”

Lizzie’s eyes opened wide, but Emma could see that the element of surprise had served her well. Lizzie was innocent. She was seeing no man. “No, Emma, I’m not seeing a man. Is that what this is about?”

“You’re keeping mighty funny hours for a lady, especially a Borden lady, Lizzie. I need to make sure that you’re not doing something to disgrace the name.” Emma said the words, but in her heart she hoped Lizzie would not be the one to point out the fact that she had just arisen from bed where she had lain in disgrace for the past three weeks.

“I do not disgrace the Borden name, Emma. I study. I work. I go to meetings. I teach Sunday school. I’m busy, Emma, doing the things I always do, plus some. Now can I go back to sleep, please?”

“Absolutely not. It’s time for you to be up. This house has gone to wrack and ruin since I’ve been gone and it’s time somebody put it right again. There’s a houseful of laundry and mending and ironing. Maggie will begin with the windows on the first floor this morning, and there is just a whole spring cleaning that was never quite accomplished. Up, lazy thing. Get up.”

Lizzie groaned and pulled the covers over her head, but Emma knew that she would be up presently.  Emma went into her own room and closed the door. The stress of the morning had been quite a strain on her health. She was not up to her usual energy level yet; it would take a while. She took off her shoes and lay gently on the bed. Just a quick rest, and then she would be up and about, cracking the whip on the lazy waifs who lived in this house. It’s time someone gave a little direction around here.

Lizzie lay in bed on her thirty-second birthday until noon, with nothing to look forward to except a Christian Endeavor Society meeting at seven o’clock. Other people had birthday parties—some quite elaborate, some modest and meaningful—but nobody in the Borden family had ever celebrated the anniversary of Lizzie’s birth.

When she finally went downstairs, dressed in clothes that smelled like yesterday and the day before, she found that Abby had made a cake with fresh goat milk and duck eggs that Andrew had brought back from the farm. No mention was made of a birthday.

The cake must have been meant for her, because as soon as Lizzie admired it, Abby cut it and began to eat a large slice. Lizzie had no appetite for it, so she just watched Abby waddling about in the kitchen, eating the cake and stuffing bits of this and that into her mouth. Lizzie suddenly saw herself in another thirty years.

Thirty-two years old. A spinster lady. What a terrible label! Useless in the eyes of the public, wretched and evil in the eyes of God, having relations with another woman. And there was shame, too, a shame that Kathryn had given her.

But Lizzie tried not to think about that. It burned too brightly, it stung too harshly.

The worst sin in Lizzie’s life was that she was so weak. Not bold, not adventurous, not self-assured. Not slim, not pretty. Not independent. Not all those things she dreamed for, worked so hard for, and which eluded her so completely.

Yes,
Pathways
was right. She had myriad selves, all of them inadequate to the simple task of life.

Lizzie came down the stairs late on her thirty-second birthday because she had not slept well. She hadn’t slept well for months. She’d been restless. She dreamed that her Angry Self paced all night, then she’d wake and be exhausted, as if she had actually
been
pacing all night.

And along with the sleeplessness, Lizzie’s attention was continually drawn away from the barn. Even when she was in her loft, ready to do her exercises, her concentration seemed to have permanently fled. She did them anyway, hoping that somehow she would continue to grow in spite of her lack of concentration. But she got little from them, and couldn’t wait to be finished. As soon as she was, she put her things away and then lay back in the hay and dreamed of owning her own home in town. She dreamed of inviting Kathryn over for the evening. She dreamed of doing as she pleased, when she pleased, with whom she pleased. She dreamed of decorating the house to her own taste, and not to that of dreary old Emma’s taste. She dreamed of wearing peach, even if it were not her best color. She dreamed of posting a letter to Beatrice and inviting her to come stay for as long as she wished. She dreamed of eventually returning to Britain to stay for an extended visit with her Beatrice in her flat.

She longed to share these dreams with Kathryn, but Kathryn again had increasingly become distant, snippy, almost rude.

But Lizzie finally broached the subject anyway.

Kathryn’s response shocked her. “Oh, Lizzie, your father will never allow that.”

“He will,” Lizzie said. “He will, eventually.”

“You’ve lost your mind, girl. He has you firmly under his thumb, and you do exactly what he wills. You will never be free of him, Lizzie, not until he and that silly wife of his are dead.”

“You’re wrong, Kathryn.”

Kathryn turned to Lizzie and fixed her with a fishy stare. “Am I?”

“Listen, Kathryn, you don’t know about my relationship with—”

“It’s late.”

That was Kathryn’s dismissal. Lizzie was to dress and go home so Kathryn could have a nightcap alone and then go to sleep. The ritual had always irked Lizzie, had always made her feel like an underling, like a servant, brought to this house to satisfy only one certain need, and then to be cast aside until the next time the mistress beckoned. “I think you ought to know something about Father and me before you make such rash statements—”

“You bore me, Lizzie, you and your uppity Borden sentiments. It’s time you went home.”

Lizzie was struck dumb. Slowly, she slid to the edge of the bed and sat up. She began to dress, knowing she should say something,
anything
, but words were quite out of her grasp.

“I shan’t be home for the next two weeks, Lizzie,” Kathryn said casually.

“Oh?” Lizzie choked out. One more word and she would begin to cry.

“Scott and Matthew have invited us to Boston.”

Lizzie’s hopes rose. “Us?”

“Well,” Kathryn said, “Cynthia Miller and I.”

Cynthia Miller!
The tears surged back where they came from, chased by a bolt of anger. “And you’ll be there for two weeks?”

“Perhaps longer. Listen, Lizzie, I believe this little affair between us has run its course, don’t you agree? I feel like traveling a bit, so when we come back from Boston, I might just go abroad for a time. Perhaps I’ll call when I return.”

“Fine,” Lizzie said, the anger giving her a dangerous calm. She finished dressing and left the house without another word.

Now
the shame burned. Now the shame burned so brightly Lizzie felt brazenly illuminated in the soft summer evening.

She felt as if her shame, her sins, her shortcomings were highly visible to everyone in Fall River. Surely the newspapers would be filled with the news in the morning.

She had failed the Borden name, that was a sure thing, and even if there was no public outcry—Kathryn was, after all, most discreet—Lizzie would smolder with shame and the stench of it would be with her soul forever.

She went directly home, her feet somehow carrying her one step at a time toward the goal of her darkened bedroom. She carried herself poorly, hunched over, head down, shoes occasionally scraping the pavement.

She should have seen it coming.
She should have seen it coming!
This was the second time Kathryn had tossed her off to one side. The first time hurt so badly, hurt
so
badly
why did Lizzie imagine that the second time would hurt less?

She unlocked the front door, slipped in, locked it behind her. It was early, there were lamps lit in the sitting room and in the kitchen, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She made her way up the stairs with leaden feet, unlocked the bedroom door and fell upon the bed without even removing her sweater.

She was beyond tears. She wanted to release the awful pain, but there were no tears. There were no wracking sobs, those terrible/wonderful things that washed the world and made it fresh. There was no forgiveness here, not from her emotions, not from her body. There would never be forgiveness.

She thought about
Pathways
in the barn. She was unworthy of it. She was too stupid.

Automatically, she began to whisper the first lesson into her pillow. “Within each individual reside many others.” The words choked her. They were beautiful words. They were filled with hope and loveliness and power. Lizzie had none of those things. She
was
none of those things. Now, not even her other selves could save her.

She thought about taking her own life, but then she knew who would find her; the one person for whom she needed to live: Emma. Instead, she just gripped her balled-up sheets in her hands and squeezed them until the cords stood out on her arms, in her neck, until perspiration beaded up on her forehead and dripped down into her hair.

Eventually, she slept. And paced.

~~~

Lizzie watched Abby wolf down cake until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She slammed out the screen door and made for the barn.

She locked the big door behind her. She breathed deep the friendly smell and climbed quickly to the loft, uncovered
Pathways
and lay back in the familiar hay. This was a place where she could sit and think and not be disturbed by anything.

Except her thoughts. And this day her thoughts were most disturbing.

She went through her first lesson, reading the paragraph aloud. Then she lit the candles and set up the mirror and watched her face change.

And then she called forth her Angry Self.

It surged forward like a tidal wave, enveloping Lizzie, suffocating her. Her anger roared toward Emma, skinny, mean Emma. Emma, who had held her hostage all these years, Emma who held the key to Lizzie’s self-consuming guilt in the palm of her hawk-like hand. Emma, cursed Emma, who always looked down her nose at Lizzie, who always wanted more than Lizzie could give. Blasted Emma who stood in the way of Lizzie’s future, who barred Lizzie from ever having any happiness. Damn Emma! Damn Emma!

The tide flowed and then ebbed, changed directions and the wave washed over the head of Abby. Abby, the damned. Abby, the one who always looked at Lizzie as if Lizzie owed her something. Abby, who always wanted more from Lizzie than Lizzie was able to give. Abby, who wanted Lizzie to be her child, when Lizzie couldn’t
, she couldn’t
, she belonged to a tyrannical older sister and a dead mother and it wasn’t her fault, but Abby just could never forgive her for that. Abby, who held her father’s ear at night and filled him with traitorous ideas about Emma and Lizzie, Abby, who paired Emma with Lizzie and never saw them as two individuals, Abby who resented her husband’s daughters from the moment she came into the family, Abby who never had children of her own, who tortured the household, who ate until she was a monster, whose unhappiness filled the house to overflowing.

When the wave washed back, nothing was left of Abby but pitiful bones and gelatinous mounds of lard.