Lizzie Borden (32 page)

“What is it, Emma? What is so important?”

“Sarah Whitehead was here this morning, talking to Abby. I happened to overhear their conversation.”

“Just
happened
to?”

Emma ignored the inference. “It seems as if Abby has been  unsuccessful in getting our father to change his will in Sarah’s behalf, and so now Sebastian, that little twit’s husband, has taken it upon himself to do harm to our father so that Abby, as wife, will inherit everything. Then Abby can do as she wishes with her inheritance, even give it all to her sister and leave us right out of it.”

“What are you saying, that Sebastian is going to kill Father?”

“That’s what Sarah said, not me.”

“I can’t believe that, Emma.”

“Well, then listen to this. When I saw you in town, I was headed straight for the law offices. I demanded to see a copy of Father’s will, but he had taken the original out some weeks ago and not brought it back. The will is missing, Lizzie. And if it is not to be found, then for sure Abby will inherit everything.”

“Wait, Emma. This doesn’t make sense. Why would Father’s will be anywhere other than at the law office? Father would just write instructions and have them sent over, they would write a new will and be done with it. Just because they told you they didn’t have it, doesn’t mean that they don’t have it. It’s not your will, after all, and perhaps they have a responsibility to their clients to keep their affairs confidential.” Even as she said this, Lizzie could imagine no little law clerk being a match for Emma when Emma was like this.

“They looked for it, Lizzie. I asked them to make sure his will was in order, and they went into the vault and came back with a note that said that Mr. Borden had removed the original copy of his will sometime in July.”

“Have you looked in his desk?”

“No, I just got home and told Abby to find out from him what is going on, and to find it out today.”

“Don’t you think someone should tell the police that Sebastian is threatening Father’s life?”

“I think that’s up to Abby. She’ll have to tell Father, of course, and that won’t fare well for Sarah being included in his will, either, will it? And if they both decide that the threat is real, well, then, I suppose they will tell the police.” Emma stopped her pacing and looked at Lizzie, sitting so calmly in her rocking chair. Her fingers were idly picking at her skirt. “I just don’t understand you, Lizzie. I don’t understand how you can remain so calm throughout all of this. It’s not right. It’s not quite human.”

“Calm? I guess I am, although I don’t quite feel calm. I feel quite odd, actually, as if none of this is really happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening, all right,” Emma said, “and as soon as Father gets home, even more is going to happen. I assure you.” Emma turned to go into her room, and then said to Lizzie, “If you hear Father coming in the door, be sure to call me.”

Lizzie nodded, and though Emma wasn’t entirely sure she heard, she didn’t feel like repeating herself. She closed the door of her room and stood stiffly, arms crossed, fists clenched. She felt the familiar taste come to her mouth, the taste of hate. She felt the rage build from a burning in her throat to a furnace in her gut. She felt her face redden, and with a will of their own, her knuckles began to rub against her lip, and she began to pace.

Occasionally, a coherent thought or phrase would run through her mind, and be snagged and repeated until the sounds lost all form or meaning. Most of the time, there was no coherence. There was only depth. Vast injustice. Infinite helplessness. Abysmal sorrow. Immense hatred. And sometimes Emma recognized fear. This time she knew exhaustion as well. She was tired of this, tired of it all. She was sick and tired of being sick and tired, and the old man was the cause of it all.

She couldn’t wait for him to come in the door. She would see to it that he would finally,
finally
understand his family obligations and not leave all his money to that Sarah thing, or to his slut.

But then she had told him all that before, hadn’t she? And had it made a difference?

The rage burned hotter. The thought fled through her mind,
I’ve got to get out of here
, but Emma pushed it away. Not yet, not yet.

She didn’t want to go back to the Capitol Hotel, although a little drink would be welcome to help calm her nerves.

Out of the question. It would dull her senses. It would also cast her into the other helplessness, that place where she would stay, submerged, for weeks at a time, surfacing only to crawl home. She could never do that in Fall River. Never.

Fairhaven! The Fairhaven relatives. She had always got on with her mother’s kin in Fairhaven. She could go talk to them, stay with them, stay away from New Bedford, and if they agreed with her reasoning, she could bring them back with her to Fall River to speak with Father. They would never want their mother’s offspring to be destitute in the face of the second wife’s half-sister, or a tart, for God’s sake.

That’s good. That’s good. That’s very good.

She took a long breath. She pulled her knuckles away from her lip. She slowly took control of the madness that she had always allowed. Her upper lip, she noticed, was already beginning to swell. She took herself to the bed and got down on her knees.

“Mother,” she said, “I will take care of Lizzie, as I have always promised you. I won’t let that man fritter away all that you and I have worked for. I promise you that. I promise you that. Even if that Abby woman has to die first.” Emma gasped at that thought. She was astonished that such a thing would come from her lips in a prayer to her mother. She put her forehead on the bed, covered her face with her hands in an attitude of shame, thinking that killing Abby and then killing Andrew was not such a bad idea after all.

Think of the problems it would solve.

Perhaps she should have a talk with Sebastian Whitehead.

When Lizzie heard her father’s key in the front door, she quickly and quietly slipped out of her bedroom and locked it behind her. She didn’t want Emma to know he was home. She tiptoed down the stairs and met him in the entrance to the sitting room.

“Hello, Father.”

“Lizzie.”

“Any mail?”

“Yes, in fact, a letter from your British friend.”

“Oh?” Lizzie took the letter. It was postmarked Washington, D.C. She slipped it into the pocket on her duster.

“There are a couple of cookies left, Father. Would you like some cold milk?”

Andrew looked at his her over his glasses. He smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Lizzie helped him to sit down, took off his boots and then went to the kitchen to fix him a plate.

Abby stood in the kitchen.

“Not now, Abby. Let me have a few moments with him first, please.”

Abby turned without saying a word, and made her way up the back stairs to her bedroom. Andrew would be joining her up there for his afternoon nap, most likely, unless he slept on the sofa in the sitting room. Regardless, there would be no confrontation until Lizzie said so.

She took the plate of cookies and glass of milk in to him, where he was reading his mail. “Anything interesting?”

“No.” He set them aside and took a cookie. “Will we read today?”

“Of course, Father,” Lizzie said. “What would you like to read?”

“Anything, Lizzie, you choose.”

“All right.” Lizzie got up and fetched the book they had been reading together. It was almost finished. She sat back down next to him, made him comfortable with a pillow and then opened the book.

Emotion clogged her voice, though, and she had to pause for a long moment. Andrew drank his milk and went for another cookie, so the interruption was not necessarily noticed. She was overcome with love for this strange, strange man. The thought that Sebastian Whitehead might want to murder him for his money made her. . . made her. . . not mad, just sad. Terribly, terribly sad. He was just a man after all.

She got control of herself and began to read.

Within minutes, Lizzie recognized the even breathing of her father sleeping. She picked some cookie crumbs from his vest front, touched her gold high school ring on his little finger, closed the book and set it on her lap. She watched him sleep for a long time. All the harshness of his face was gone. But the lines seemed to deepen, as if his worries intensified in his dreams.

Lizzie carefully reached into the pocket of her wrapper and pulled out the letter from Beatrice.

My Dearest Lisbeth:

What an exciting country America is! I’m accomplishing much amid my wide-eyed wonder at the newness of it all. I can’t wait to sit with you and tell you of all my adventures. By current reckoning, I should be in Fall River the evening of August 3, or the morning of the 4th.

Sending kisses.

Affectionately, Beatrice

Wednesday night!

Lizzie’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t ready for Beatrice. She needed to be something else before Beatrice could arrive with her tales of independence and excitement. Lizzie sat, outwardly calm, the paper in her hands not even trembling, while her heart raced and pressure built up behind her eyes. There was a peculiar taste in her mouth—

And just then, Lizzie realized the signs. If she didn’t get up and do something, some other self would pop out and embarrass her or complicate things. Careful not to waken Andrew, she rose from the sofa, pocketed the letter, and went upstairs.

She knocked on Emma’s door.

Emma turned the key as if she’d been standing right next to the door when Lizzie knocked.

“Father is downstairs,” Lizzie said. “He’s sleeping. Let him rest before you attack him with your accusations.”

“
Attack
him, why—”

“Yes, attack him, Emma. You know exactly what I mean.”

“There’s no call for you—”

Lizzie shut Emma’s door in her face. Emma slammed her fist onto the other side, but did not open the door. Lizzie slipped off her wrapper and donned a light cotton town dress. She let her hair down, brushed it a half dozen strokes and twisted it back up again, fastening it loosely with a couple of pins. Then she fixed her stockings, stepped into shoes, locked her bedroom door and tiptoed down the stairs.

God, the heat
.

It had been hot in the house, especially upstairs, but outside, where there was no shade. . . Lizzie felt her dress wilt and dampen instantly. She walked slowly and carefully toward town, hoping that Enid was home from work.

Lizzie didn’t know exactly what she wanted from Enid, or why it was so important to get to Enid’s house. A terrible feeling of dread, of impending doom, surrounded her. For the moment, she knew that Enid’s company would provide some relief for her soul, and her cool house would provide some relief from the heat.

Anger at the father she so dearly loved squeezed tears out of her eyes. Anger at her sister, who had been so much a mother to her, yet who was so clearly crazy, squeezed more tears. Anger at her real mother for leaving her while such a youngster, anger at Abby for never really bucking Emma and taking over the motherhood role. . . Lizzie walked the route without ever really seeing where she was going.

And then she was there. The little house, set back amid the trees. She suddenly felt shy.

She wiped the tears and the perspiration away together, and walked up to the front door. She knocked twice.

Enid opened the door. “Lizzie! Come in.”

The house was as much a mess as usual. Lizzie loved it. And it was cool.

“How about a glass of coffee? It’s cold.”

Lizzie nodded, her voice failing her. Suddenly, she began to tremble. She picked up a stack of magazines and put them on the floor, then sat down and put a hand over her face. She didn’t feel like crying, exactly, she just felt worn out. Fragile. For the first time in her life, Lizzie felt capable of breaking.

“Lizzie, dear, what is it?” Enid put a cool hand to Lizzie’s forehead.

“Every time I come over here—” the tears showed up. Lizzie tried to overcome them, but the sobs won.

“Shhh. Shh. That doesn’t matter. That makes me feel good. That makes me feel like you like me. And that you trust me. And that’s true. That’s right. That’s good. You can come over here and cry to me any time you want.” Enid slid down the arm of the sofa and squeezed in next to Lizzie. She cradled her head and rocked her back and forth.

It felt so strange to be held like that; it felt so good. As the sobs waned, Lizzie felt an overwhelming surge of affection for this woman. She hiccupped a few times, then drank the cool, sweetened coffee. Enid got her a damp cloth and Lizzie wiped her face and hands. And suddenly, she could smile again, eyes shyly downcast.