Lizzie Borden (27 page)

Sarah sat, stunned. She felt as if she had been pinned to her chair with a spear.

“Jesus Christ, that’s right,” Sebastian said, his hands going to his face. “If old man Borden doesn’t die first, then we’ve got. . .nothing. Just this shack.”

“But if it’s in his will. . .”

“Don’t be an ass, Sarah. If Abby’s dead, those daughters of his will convince him that he doesn’t owe her kin anything at all.”

Sarah knew he was right.

“No,” Sebastian said. “Andrew Borden will have to die first.”

Sarah stood up and began doing the dishes. She didn’t like Sebastian’s tone of voice, not at all, not at all. It made her weak in the knees.

Sebastian continued to sit at the table, his big, square hands still on the tabletop. He didn’t move when the children barged through the kitchen door, running and giggling, and he didn’t say anything when they slammed back out again.

Sarah cleaned up the kitchen and went to the living room where she picked up her knitting and prayed that Sebastian would stop all that thinking.

But he didn’t. He was silent all evening, the newspaper opened and forgotten in his lap. And when they went to bed, Sarah cuddled up close and he put his arm around her shoulders, but he continued to stare into the darkness of the ceiling until she fell asleep and dreamed of wolves snatching bites of flesh from her children. She chased the wolves with her butter knife and yelled, “They ain’t had any meat. Let ‘em alone!” But the wolves continued to chase, snapping and howling, and Sebastian was nowhere to be seen.

~~~

The next day dawned stifling hot. Abby’s night clothes were wound around her and stuck in the creases of her flesh so tightly she waited until Andrew was up and dressed and out of the bedroom before she endeavored to untangle herself, flopping about on the bed, awkward and jiggling. The effort left her hot and perspiring.

Most mornings she would arise and go quickly through the house, closing the windows and pulling the shades, hoping to preserve some of the coolth that the night had brought. But this morning it was already too late. The morning sun, rising so early in late July, had stolen what tiny respite the night had offered. The day was hot and she would swelter until her rashes began to bleed.

She smoothed the sheet over her and adjusted her nightcap in case Andrew returned to the bedroom for something, and then relaxed. She should be up and closing the windows anyway, to keep out the heat—would Bridget or one of the girls think to do that? Of course not. But the thought of dressing in those clothes, undoubtedly still damp from yesterday and perpetually too tight, made her cringe. She looked up at the ceiling and prayed that she would get through the heat of the summer. Especially August, when the heat made people rabid, like Sebastian said. Dog days indeed.

Then came a loud pounding on the front door. Abby sat up in bed like a shot, and gathered her bedclothes to her chest. It was so early, who on earth could be—

Before Andrew could possibly pass from the kitchen to the front door, the pounding began again; this time there was yelling, too. Abby hurried out of bed, donned her dressing gown and slippers, drew the cap off her head, ran a brush through her hair and began her way down the back stairs.

She had gotten barely half way when the front door opened and she heard Andrew’s voice, speaking in his normal tone. A man with a terribly thick accent began shouting. Andrew was admirable, she thought, in keeping himself under control when the other man was so irate.

Abby continued down the stairs, went through the kitchen, exchanged glances with Emma, who seemed as surprised and as mystified as she, and then into the sitting room, where she kept her distance, yet could see the little man, Italian she thought, shake his fist at Andrew and turn red in the face.

She couldn’t hear what Andrew was saying to the man, but finally the little man slumped, as if he were defeated in the final battle. He turned and walked down toward the street.

Abby approached Andrew, who kept the door open. “I told you from the very beginning,” Andrew called out after him.

The little man turned and looked at Andrew with hate deeply carved into his face. He spit on the walkway. “Thas what I think of your beginning,” he said. “You rich bastads all alike. You keepa whatcha got and don
ever
let another one in. Choke on it! I hope you choke on it! And die!” He spat again, then trudged down the street.

Andrew closed the door. Abby was aghast to see that his face was red, almost purple.

“Come, Mr. Borden,” she said, taking his arm. “Sit for a moment.”

Andrew shook her off. “My breakfast is cooling,” he said, and walked into the dining room. Emma had not moved. Andrew sat at his normal place, and Abby wandered back and forth a little bit, wanting to ask, but not knowing quite how to approach the subject. She went into the kitchen and brought out a plate of muffins and poured coffee all around.

Lizzie showed up at the door, disheveled from sleep. “Who was that, Father? What was that all about?”

“An Italian man, Lizzie, nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? He showed up at your home before the household is up and proceeds to curse you and wake the entire neighborhood!”

“He was upset. Those people tend toward tempers, you know.”

“What had you done to make him so upset?”

“Lizzie!” Abby stopped cold, jam knife filled and spilling. “Your father has done absolutely nothing to bring on that type of display.”

“That’s right, Lizzie,” Andrew said. “The man signed a lease for a shop space in town. The lease says no liquor sales, and when I went by there, he had a whole wall of wines for sale. So I had his store locked up. He can pick up his wares and peddle them elsewhere. But not in my storefront.”

“He sounded dangerous,” Emma said.

“He’ll cool.”

Then Bridget Sullivan, looking equally as disheveled from interrupted sleep, entered through the kitchen. “Did I hear yelling?” she asked.

“Oh, Maggie,” Lizzie said, took her arm and led her into the kitchen, where Abby heard her explaining the events to the maid.

Abby turned to Andrew. “You are not concerned about this then, Mr. Borden?”

“No,” he said, and cut open another muffin. “Not at all.”

Lizzie rocked slowly in her bedroom, her outward calmness belying her inward anxiety. She was to have dinner at Enid Crawford’s house.

Lizzie rocked slowly in her bedroom, her outward calmness belying her inward anxiety. She was to have dinner at Enid Crawford’s house.

It had been three Sundays since she saw Enid Crawford for the first time in the council meeting. Since then, Lizzie had sought out her company, and they had sat together, holding hands, at church every Sunday. They had walked and talked of insignificant, trivial things after church, and each week Lizzie had fallen more and more deeply in love with her.

Here was a woman who stood solidly outside of convention. She had opinions, and not always popular ones. She dressed plainly, yet with a certain elegance. She lived alone, she held a job, she was the sole support for her sons in college. She had buried a daughter and a husband, was widely read and highly intelligent. She wore her hair short for convenience: it was dark brown, gray at the temples. Her eyes were crystal blue.

Lizzie had never seen such clear blue eyes. Sparkling eyes.  Shiny eyes. Enid boldly went out of the house and worked in her garden of a weekend with no hat, so her face and hands were darkly tanned, freckled and generously sprinkled with tender wrinkles. Her hair was reddened by the sun. She had a real laugh, a teasing, provocative laugh, and she had a wide grin, showing her teeth instead of hiding her mirth behind the shield of a hanky or the palm of her hand.

Lizzie would go home from their walks and talks after church, floating on air, feet barely touching the ground, and she would ensconce herself in the loft and go over every detail of their time together. Enid didn’t sing well, so her voice barely whispered the songs, but Lizzie felt Enid’s emotion at the words of praise and adoration for the Lord.

Once or twice when the children of the congregation performed, Enid clapped with glee, completely forgetting herself and the propriety of clapping in church.

By the time the long week between Sundays came to an end, Lizzie had dreamed of this giant of a woman, larger than life, with attributes mostly associated with deity, and then she would capture her glance again on Sunday, and Lizzie would be floored again at how tiny Enid was.

Lizzie rocked, anxiety gnawing at her empty stomach. It was Wednesday night. She had been invited to Enid’s house for supper. Lizzie tried not to think of the night she had been invited for supper at Kathryn Peters’ house, tried not to think of the burgundy gown Kathryn had worn, tried not to think of that  first intoxicating kiss she had received, and how mystifying, intriguing and exciting it all had been. She tried not to think that she would behave in that way toward Enid. She didn’t want anything of Kathryn Peters to be in their evening; Kathryn was so coarse and callous, and Enid so refreshing and simple. If something magical happened between them, Lizzie wanted it to be spontaneous. Something of
them
, not something that Lizzie orchestrated, based on something she had learned from Kathryn.

Lizzie rocked in her chair. She knew what she would wear, she knew how she would attend her hair, she knew the route she would take to Enid’s house. . . and the butterflies flew through her stomach and fluttered under her heart.

But there was a dark spot amid Lizzie’s eager anticipation and newfound joy of life. It was a soft spot, a spoiled section of her life, and if she could nick it out with the point of a paring knife like the bruise on a pear, she would. This spot seemed small at the moment, amid the current ocean of happiness, but it embraced every aspect of her life.

All the nasty things in Lizzie’s life had been relegated to this area, this small, smelly cesspool at the back of her mind. Even as she rocked, she knew she should clean it out, bring fresh air and light to it, but later, always later, and that pool had not only begun to smell, it had become poisonous. Dangerous.

Andrew’s will was in there, and Emma’s drinking. Abby’s pressure to make Lizzie her baby swam in there, and so did dozens of school friends who were now married and had lots of  children. Kathryn, dear Kathryn, was there, and each and every one of Lizzie’s failures, shortcomings and broken promises. Dozens of cookies and cakes. And lately, of course, though Lizzie hated to admit it, Beatrice, her book, and her impending visit.

Lizzie’s chest constricted and her breathing came a bit hard whenever she thought of Beatrice’s visit. She wasn’t at all prepared for it, and it was looming on the near horizon. The end of July, Beatrice had said, and it was nearly that. Lizzie didn’t know what she would do when Beatrice arrived. Surely she would find Lizzie unkempt, unprepared, with one or more pimples, probably unbathed and during her monthly, with Emma raging and Abby stuffing herself with food and irate Italians pounding on the door to curse Andrew.

Lizzie had no idea how long Beatrice would stay, or even where she would stay. Would she stay here in the guest room? It seemed the most appropriate for a visiting friend, and yet Lizzie was loath to have anyone see the household in its reality. Beatrice under this roof! There was an inn in town, but could one put a visiting friend up in an inn?

And what on earth would they talk about?

Well, Lizzie could tell her of those weird, weird experiences she had of walking down the street and talking to people while she was still in the barn.

The Barn! Oh what would Beatrice think of the dusty old hayloft as Lizzie’s place to study and practice?

Beatrice’s visit was inconceivable. Lizzie would not be ready for Beatrice to visit her, Beatrice of the peach wardrobe, Beatrice the Perfect. Lizzie would not be ready, not until she was on her own, rich, elegant, and firmly ensconced in her own element.

And the Borden house was definitely not her element. It was no one’s element.

So Lizzie pushed Beatrice and the endless reminders of her failure at life back to the edge of the slime pit and began rocking again, working hard to regain the excitement of dinner at Enid’s.

The last letter she received before Beatrice set sail for America held a saving grace for Lizzie: “You will find at times during your life that your lessons mean nothing. You will want to discount them, or worse, disregard them. Please do not. Please do the lessons as instructed, even when you cannot put your entirety to them. It appears as though your attitude or willingness is less important to their effectiveness than the actual act of performing them.”

Lizzie was fairly frantic without letters arriving from Beatrice on a regular basis, but Beatrice was en route. Lizzie did her lessons, she continued with them daily, but she got nowhere. They were automatic, by rote, and touching each of her selves was a dismal failure. She’d been successful—too successful—in contacting her Angry Self. When she tried to contact her Prideful Self, she had a vision that scared her. It was as if she cracked open the door on a closet that was so stuffed full of junk that were she to open it more than the slightest bit, the whole lot would come crashing down on her head. Lizzie slammed the door shut and thought she ought to try a different self. She knew she’d have to come back to that one, but another time. Another time.