Lizzie Borden (24 page)

And then it struck down Andrew. Andrew. Andrew, who ignored Lizzie beyond endurance, and only paid attention when it suited him to refuse her most heartfelt desires. Andrew, who didn’t care at all for Emma—a man who hated his daughter!—and in so doing, chained his other daughter to her woeful older sister forever. Andrew, who cared not for his current wife, who felt nothing,
nothing
for the dead wife who bore him three children, one stillborn. Andrew, who worked from early until late and squeezed a nickel until it chirped. Andrew, who would never let the Borden girls claim their rightful social place by allowing any fresh air or fresh faces into the still, musty house. Andrew, who would never part with a dollar unless his life depended upon it, who made the girls bathe with a cloth and a bucket in the cellar, whose only toilet was a hole, hidden, dirty, in the cellar, who would never allow decent plumbing or a hookup to the gas line. Andrew, who would probably die of poisoned mutton that had been on the table six days in a row rather than buy enough fresh meat to feed his family. Andrew, damn you, damn you, damn you, Father!

Sweat poured off Lizzie’s face and stray wisps of hair stuck to her. The tidal wave was over, wasn’t it?

No, not quite. The power and fury was gone for the moment, but in its wake floated pieces of corpses.  There was mother, her thin face so like Emma’s, yet with a softness that made her so beautiful. She floated with some of the others, her grave having been disturbed by the storm. I hate you, Mother, Lizzie’s mind screamed. You could have made the difference in my life, but you left. You left me all alone with Emma and Abby and Father, and for that I will never
forgive
you.

Kathryn floated there as well, but Lizzie just gave her dead face a shove with her mental foot and she floated out beyond the horizon. There were classmates in there, a couple of boys, and Lizzie looked at them all with wrath and scorn.

Then the anger began to well again, and it took on more specific forms. She could see herself hitting Emma, smashing her in the face, she could see herself coming up behind Abby and cracking her hard on the head. She could see her father, lying on the sofa so coolly asleep and she could see herself pouncing upon him and ripping his eyes out.

And Lizzie’s hand was up under her skirt and her fingers were rubbing and pulling hard at herself, not soft and tender the way that Kathryn had done, not at all.

She groaned and rolled over on her side.

Then she jumped up, shook out her dress and stood at the edge of the loft. I shall dive off, she thought clearly, and then did it.

Time slowed.

She saw the dust motes in the slanting ray of light that came in through the dirty window. She saw the piles of trash by the door. She saw the empty stalls, she saw where she would land, head first, and break her neck on the newly raked dirt. She smelled that dirt as she approached it, her last thought—

Lizzie gasped and sat up. She was still in the hayloft. Had that been a dream? No, there was no way she could have dreamed that. She inched over to the side of the loft to see if her body was down there, dead on the floor. No. Nothing.

Perspiration trickled down where tears had just been.

My God, she thought, my God.

She wiped the perspiration from her head. She felt the soreness between her legs where she had pounded herself so roughly, and shame brought a flush to her cheeks.

And then another flush of shame rose to her cheeks as she thought of stealing Abby’s jewelry and money. It was the same kind of thing. She could have sworn she was in the barn at the time, and yet the evidence showed. . .

And this sneaking into Abby and Andrew’s bedroom at night. And Emma’s. Lizzie dreamed of pacing back and forth, back and forth, and somehow, the dreams were so real, so accurate. . . In normal dreams, things always happened, there were people who talked, and acted, there were different, strange places, there were triple levels of meanings and innuendos that only meant something for a moment or two upon awakening, but not this, no, not this, this was just endless pacing, back and forth, back and forth, worried pacing, the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

When she awoke, she was exhausted, and even the muscles in her legs were cramped as if she actually had been pacing, but she knew she hadn’t really been, it had been something else.

Something else.

Something else stole Abby’s jewelry. Something else paced at night as Lizzie slept. Something else just dove headfirst off the loft. Something else, something else, something else.

What?

Something in me? Something of me? Me? Another self?

What if I could tame that other thing, make it work for me. What if I could have that “something else” all the time?

Wouldn’t that be tricky?

And wouldn’t Beatrice be impressed?

Andrew Borden found a quiet moment at home when everyone else was busy to sit at his desk in the sitting room and contemplate a major decision. He looked again at the paper in his hands.

If he were to change his will at this time. . . He set the paper back on the desktop, face down, and folded his hands on top of it. If he were to change his will at this time. . . Well, there was no other way but to keep all knowledge of it strictly away from Abby, Emma and Lizzie. If any of them were to find out, there would be hell to pay, and that was no exaggeration.

And yet, there was this burning desire to make some strong move, to do something lasting, something reasonably permanent for the Widow Crawford and her sons.

She was using him, that had been clear from the beginning. He was no fool. But she did save every Friday afternoon for him. She did it for her sons, for her boys, for her family, and, Andrew had begun to believe, she also did it for Andrew. And for herself.

Their Friday afternoons had become something extraordinary. Their trysts had become so special, so looked forward to, that even he was moved by their intensity. Intensity of that nature cannot be had by one person alone. It must be shared. There was intensity of lust, there was intensity of secrecy, there was that naughtiness that accompanied the forbidden.

She made him laugh. She made him laugh with abandon, something that hadn’t happened to him since he was young and first in love with Sarah.

Life had made an old man out of Andrew Borden, and Mrs. Crawford was reversing that. He was young again in her presence, and for that he was eternally grateful. He was grateful to the tune of something substantial in his will.

He unfolded his hands and took up the paper of instructions to his attorney. There were several problems with this. The first problem was that his attorney was Mrs. Crawford’s employer, and eyebrows would be raised. Andrew couldn’t be sure of confidentiality if he used the same lawyer in Fall River that had drafted his original will. Confidentiality was mandatory. That was a solvable problem, but it was not the only problem.

There was also Abby, Lizzie and Emma. Didn’t the money belong to them?

Not necessarily. If the money belonged to anyone, it belonged to Lizzie, who loved him and cared for him. Abby deserved something for her faithful wifely service through the years, but all he felt for her was the fondness one would have for a loyal servant of thirty years. And Emma! Well, Emma deserved little more than her current four dollars a week, just enough to keep her mean every month for the rest of her life. Emma was a cantankerous sort, and Andrew owed her little.

But what would they say if they found out about the will before he died? Would they make life hell for him? And what on earth would they do to Mrs. Crawford?

What would they do to Mrs. Crawford even if they didn’t find out until after he died? Would they contest it and make a public spectacle of his affair?

Then again, there was no reason to assume that Mrs. Crawford would continue their liaison until Andrew died. It could just be that when the boys graduated, she would put him off with a wave of her dainty hand and that would be the end of it.

He couldn’t bear to think of the end of it. No, he thought, she enjoyed his company too much. She would not do that.

What were his alternatives? He could deed an asset to Mrs. Crawford without her knowing it, and merely put the deed in an envelope addressed to her. Any attorney would post it upon his death.

Another would be to rewrite the will, as he felt so strongly moved to do, and damn the results. Let the women have a catfight over the stupid money; he would have no further use for it.

Another would be to make a generous gift to Mrs. Crawford now, while he was alive and they both could enjoy the moment.

This was a good idea. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, then unlocked the side drawer and drew out a copy of his most recent financial statement. He checked over his real estate holdings to see if there would be a property suitable for her—one on which she could collect rents to help with the college payments of her sons, and then she could sell when they were finished with their educations.

But a rental property is such a bother. She would have to collect the rent from the pikers, and sometimes they were difficult enough for him to deal with, never mind having a woman try to make them pay up.

Mrs. Crawford’s feisty face came up before his memory, and he had no doubt that she could handle a recalcitrant tenant. But perhaps that was not the best way. One more burden—and a tenantless property was indeed a burden, especially at tax time—was not what the fine woman needed. No.

Andrew folded up the new instructions, put them into the envelope with his old will, refiled them and locked the desk drawer. He would go round to the attorney’s office tomorrow and get the original. Mr. Pratt wouldn’t like that very much, but he could send his will and the changes over to another attorney in Fairhaven, where nobody knew Mrs. Crawford, and that might be the best way all around. At least it would give him more time to think on it. And perhaps he could even confide in this new attorney, and receive some good legal advice. For free, of course.

But there was another issue that Andrew would not be able to dodge much longer. Lizzie wanted her own house. She had mentioned it once, and she would mention it again soon.

His first thought was to absolutely forbid it; unmarried women just did not live by themselves, not when they had family. And Lizzie’s idea of “modest” would probably not stay that way, once she began to decorate and furnish this little nest of her own. Andrew could see his investment dollars winging away on the breeze.

But not having Emma underfoot was an idea that merited further consideration. And Abby would enjoy the peace. Abby would be able to be the mistress of this house at last, and Andrew felt as if he owed her that. It would be good for Abby to have the household to herself. She could instruct the maid—perhaps without the girls, there would be no need for a maid!—she could take care of the menus and the meals herself; there would be far less laundry to do, and the house would be free of the godawful tension that reverberated through its rafters.

Yet it is probably the tension that keeps this house standing, Andrew thought.

But on the down side, the girls and their involvement in family affairs that were really none of their business, provided a diversion for Abby, so that she probably noticed not at all about his Fridays. And those Fridays were so precious to him. . . If she were housemistress, surely she would ask after his whereabouts of a Friday evening, and he would have to lie to her. That would not be good.

A decision must be made on this issue, he thought. Lizzie will be wanting an answer.

Friday nights were so precious. . .

The only answer he could give her now would be no. He needed Lizzie around. He needed Emma. So until something happened to change his priorities, for now they would continue to live under his roof. Emma would have to go visit her friends from time to time, and Lizzie would just have to wait.

He sighed. Telling Lizzie this would not be easy.

He saw her moving about in the kitchen. Might as well get it over with.

He stood from his hardbacked chair at the desk and slowly straightened up. His seventy-four years were just beginning to catch up to him. Sometimes it made him very cranky, and sometimes it just made him sad. He took a couple of faltering steps, then walked into the kitchen.

“Lizzie?” There was no answer. “Lizzie?” He opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch, automatically reaching for the pipe in his pocket. He leaned against the post and lit the pipe. “Lizzie, are you there?” Still no answer. He stepped down off the porch and looked around the house. There was no one there. He sat on the steps. It was going to be a hot summer, he thought, yes indeed, it was going to be a hot summer.

Just then, the barn door opened and Lizzie stepped out.

“Did you call me, Father?”

“Come sit with me a spell, Lizzie.”

Lizzie walked toward him, but stopped and examined a branch of the pear tree. “I’ve never seen so many baby pears, have you?”

Andrew regarded the tree. “Never,” he said. “We’ll have a fine harvest in a couple of months.”