Lizzie Borden (31 page)

By opening that door, Enid was also ushering fresh air and sunshine into that place, that dark place of longing, that place Lizzie hoped Beatrice and her book of lessons would fill. Beatrice and her book could never hope to mend a rent of that proportion. But perhaps Enid could.

Lizzie knew that such thinking was dangerous. Her life was already in the hands of too many others—and here she was again, placing her most precious asset of all—her trust—in the hands of a woman she hardly knew, yet she felt as if she knew through and through.

It was hard. It was agonizing. She wanted to leap into Enid’s lap and nurse at her breast. She wanted to run from Enid as well as the rest of them and never hear the name again.

And so she flopped down into the hay, where the heat was filled with dust motes and her skin gleamed slick and she couldn’t keep her hands away from that center part of her that was her only solace in times like this.

Lizzie slowly fingered herself and thought about Enid. At church, Enid had looked like a queen. Her short hair was newly cut, and its thick waves, brushed back from her tanned face made her seem exotic. Lizzie thrilled every time she looked at her. They sat next to each other and held hands, Lizzie’s skin itching to be out of her gloves and touching Enid’s skin.

That she had been such an inconvenience for Enid, what with her stupid headache and all, and to have Enid still care enough about her. . . Only family does that for one another, don’t they?

But family do it whether they want to or not, because they
have
to. They’re
expected
to. But when Emma was in such dire need, did either Andrew or Abby visit her? No.

Life should be clean and simple, Lizzie thought. Everyone should have someone to love them and take care of them. Everyone should have purpose in life, and something to look forward to.

Lizzie had none of that. The only thing she had to look forward to was church next Sunday, and sitting next to Enid. But any moment, Enid might turn the way Kathryn did, and that would be the end of that.

Lizzie threw her skirts down over her knees, stood up and began to walk back and forth. It was at least ten degrees hotter at her head than at her feet. Sweat poured anew.

What if Beatrice should show up this very moment?  She said the end of July or the first of August. This was the first of August. She said she’d write, but what if the letter were lost, or delayed, or. . . What if she just showed up and knocked at the door?  Perfect in peach, cool and collected, rich beyond anyone’s imagination, calm, in control. Lizzie would just waltz out of the barn, bedraggled and soaked through with her own juices. She would shake hands with her and they would sit on the back porch in the shade and eat pears right off the tree.

Lizzie wondered if she wasn’t becoming a bit hysterical.

She looked around and saw
Pathways
on the floor in the corner. She retrieved it, opened it to the first page and began to read aloud, standing in front of the loft window, as if the whole of Fall River were her audience. Halfway through the first paragraph, she paused.

If Beatrice came right now, she thought, I would send my “other self” to greet her. First, I would send my other self to the cellar to bathe, then to the bedroom to change clothes. Then she and Beatrice could have a fine discussion, and whatever was decided between them could be between them. It wouldn’t need to have anything to do with me at all.

Lizzie dropped the book, scattering up a ruffle of dust. Then she sat on the edge of the loft, letting her legs dangle over the edge. A knot caught in her throat. Life is hard sometimes, she thought. Life is really hard.

She allowed one tear to leak out and mix with the sweat on her face, then she swung down the ladder and out of the barn, locking the door securely behind her. Anything to make Emma angry.

In her bedroom, she dared a look at herself in the mirror. What a mess. Hair unkempt and frazzled from the relentless heat and perspiration, Lizzie gathered new clothes and made ready for the bath. As she came down the stairs, a knock came at the door. Fear flooded Lizzie. What if it was Beatrice? What if it were? She listened, but she heard no one else home. There was no one else to answer the door.

Heart pounding, she walked to the door and said, “Who is it?”

“Sarah Whitehead,” was the answer. Lizzie breathed a sigh. She unlocked the front door and let Sarah in. Weird little Sarah. Lizzie never got over the fact that Abby’s half-sister should have the same name as Lizzie and Emma’s mother. It was not right, somehow.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Lizzie.” Sarah had put on a dress for the occasion. Lizzie was impressed. “Is Abby here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you check, please? It’s ever so important.”

“All right. Wait here.” But Sarah followed her into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. Lizzie went through the kitchen and called to Abby up the back stairs. She answered, and in a moment, her hulk came jostling down the stairs.

“Sarah is waiting for you in the sitting room,” Lizzie said, then went down cellar to bathe.

The cellar was nice and cool, and if it hadn’t smelled so bloody rotten, Lizzie could easily see spending her August days amid the cool. She opened the faucet and let cold water into the bucket. She poured several bucketsful into the bathing tub, fetched a mildewed towel from the nail, and stripped off her clothes. She stepped into the tub and poured a bucket of cold water over her head. It was shockingly cold, but it felt wonderful.

She sat down, as well as she could fit, inside the wash tub, and washed herself and her hair with the rough lye soap that Emma made every autumn when Andrew brought home lard from the farm. Then, with a clear bucket, she rinsed herself, feeling her hair fan out over her skin. Then she sat, playing with the soap bubbles, her knees up to her chest, the cold settling in deep. Soon, she was shivering.

Oh, wasn’t it a luxury to be cold. But why had it to be either hot or cold? Couldn’t cool do? Couldn’t there be a cool, pleasant place in all of Fall River this August? Lizzie shivered and thought how odd it would be to ask Abby to send down her cape. Her seal cape. Her fancy seal cape, made from “seals from the Prussian Sea.”

Andrew had given her that cape, in a rare, odd moment. It was expensive, of that there was no doubt, and Andrew was not prone to moments of extravagance. Lizzie doubted that there was a Prussian Sea, or that the fur in her cape came from seals, but if that’s what it took to sell the cape to Andrew, then she would allow him that bit of romanticism. But it was the finest cape in all of Fall River, Lizzie was certain, and she wished she had it now.

The giggles took over her. The thought of it. Sitting naked in the little washtub, knees to her chin, surrounded by that luxurious cape. What a sight! Oh, but she would get soap all over it, and that would never. . . oh. The cape had a smear of lampblack on it, and Lizzie had never taken it in to be cleaned. Well, she would have to do that before the cold weather hit. . . And her spirits lightened again at the thought of cold weather hitting, it seemed so unlikely in the midst of this terrible heat wave.

She splashed more fresh, cold water over herself and watched the goose pimples rise, watched her nipples shrink. She would be cramped when she tried to stand up.

Perhaps I’ll just send one of my other selves out with the cape, she thought, mirth clearly on her mind.

And then the day was unusually bright and she was walking down the street. It was blazing hot, it was so hot that nobody was out in the streets, nobody was in the sun. Shop doors were open, windows were open, women wore their housedresses in public, because they would barely survive with corsets and stays. Lizzie walked jauntily down the street, and she felt a smile on her face, a giggle just on the tip of her tongue. She was wearing the clothes she ruined this morning, and then she noticed that she hadn’t ruined them; the skirt had paint splattered on it from the time she helped repaint the barn. So she hadn’t ruined the clothes after all. . . They were the right ones to wear to the barn. But they were not the right ones to wear to town.

She continued down the street, smiling, with an “I don’t care” attitude, and she turned right into the drug store.

The weasel-faced man she’d seen in there before stood behind the counter. “Good day,” he said.

She nodded at him, looking around at this and that. Then, finally, with much self-control, she walked to the counter and said, “I’d like to buy some. . . prussic acid.”

“Prussic acid! Whatever for?”

Lizzie had to turn away for a moment to keep the smile from breaking out on her face. She touched her fingertips to her mouth until she was sure she could do this without laughing. “I want to clean a sealskin cape,” she said, and she was sure she said it without a hint of mirth.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but the druggist isn’t in, and he would have to be the one to dispense prussic acid.”

“I only need a small amount,” Lizzie said. “It isn’t a very big spot.” She wanted to go on about prussic acid being the only thing that could clean skins from Prussia, but it just became too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as she fled the store.

Outside, in the sun, in the heat, it suddenly didn’t seem so funny any more.

Lizzie splashed in the cold water, and felt her muscles tighten. She wanted this other self—which one was it, anyway?—to disappear, she wanted to be totally back in the cellar, where she could be back in control. She wanted to dry off and get out of the tub.

But the other self had other ideas, as well, and the downtown Lizzie did not turn toward home, but instead, strolled down the street toward Andrew Borden’s bank.

No
, Lizzie in the tub thought.
Not father’s bank
.

But the other Lizzie didn’t go in, just walked past, smiling at everyone, she continued past the mill, taunting, it seemed, the Lizzie in the tub.

And then she saw Emma.

Emma, dressed in black, dressed
shabbily
in black, striding rapidly toward her. Emma, pinched face hatchet-sharp, stray hairs escaping the tight bun, Emma, all knees and elbows, rushing far too fast in this heat, headed straight for her. “Lizzie! Lizzie! I say!” and Town Lizzie stood there and waited, small smile on her lips, as Emma approached.

“Lizzie, get yourself home this minute and put on some decent clothes, where are your gloves? I swear you have suffered a seizure in this heat. Get home right now, and wait for me. I have news. Oh dear me, I have news.” And Emma strode on, down Main Street, and Lizzie watched as she entered into the law office.

The town Lizzie did start down the street toward home, and then disappeared.

And Lizzie shivered with cold and fright from head to foot in the tiny tub down cellar.

With great aching effort, she stood up, and dried her wrinkled skin with the smelly towel. Then she dressed in a simple wrapper and went upstairs.

The sitting room was empty. Sarah Whitehead had gone. She went to her room. Her door and Emma’s door were both unlocked and open, the only time Lizzie had ever seen them so.

Lizzie sat down in her rocker and rocked, sure of bad news as soon as Emma returned. She was sure that bad news marched toward them from several directions. She rocked slowly, and waited.

“Ouch, Emma! Emma, you’re hurting me!”

“Sit down, Abby. Sit down right now and listen to me.” Emma released her grip on Abby’s wrist when she seemed willing to leave the plate of cakes on the kitchen table and come with her into the dining room. They sat across from each other like adversaries.

Emma looked at her stepmother across the table, and she hardly seemed familiar. Abby’s face was puffy and bloated. She looked terrified. Well, she had a few more surprises coming.  “I overheard your conversation with Sarah Whitehead this morning.”

“That was private.”

“Well. . . At any rate, I went to the law offices to look at Father’s will.”

Abby drew in a sharp breath. “You had no right.”

“I did, and so do you. But that’s beside the point, because Father’s will is no longer there.”

Emma sat back and watched with satisfaction, the range of emotions that crossed Abby’s face. . . From puzzlement to disbelief, to amazement, to anger. “But then, where?”

“Good question. That’s what you must find out from him tonight. If Sebastian Whitehead means to do Father some harm, Abby, then we need to know just exactly what is in his will.”

“Emma, I can’t—”

“If you don’t, I will. And believe me, Abby, I
will
get answers from the old man.”

Abby began to cry. “You’re a hateful person.”

“Perhaps,” Emma sneered. “Your cakes are waiting.” Emma left the room quickly. The sight of the pitiful woman made her sick to her stomach.

She went up the stairs and unlocked Lizzie’s door.

Lizzie sat in her rocker, gently rocking.

“Lizzie! You’re home.”

“Yes.”

“And bathed? How could that be?” Emma had seen Lizzie not fifteen minutes before, in the middle of town, and Lizzie always made such an event out of bathing that the whole house knew of it.