See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  I walked. The cotton mill’s industrial calls thumped over stone. In the mornings factory steam covered Fall River in a summer fog, thick with a chemical smell that made me cough on my way downtown. Every so often I would pretend Fall River was the French Riviera, an impossible feat without the prospect of an ocean. Downtown was always the same: birds in cages, cawing and singing, hung from house verandas and shopfronts; horses and carts carried human movement; children jumped over kerbsides, boiled sweets pushed hard into swollen cheeks; Mr Potter, the Western Union Telegraph officer, waved to businessmen, trying to hide the extra pinkie finger on his right hand. On the hottest days, the police station would open the outer doors of cell rooms, exposing the screaming and cursing drunkards behind iron bars to the street. Once I watched a prisoner pull down his pants and take his penis in his hand, wave it around before letting warm urine stream down his legs. ‘Hey, love,’ he called to me, ‘Oh, love. How sweet it is.’

  At the end of my walks, I would stand outside the confectioner’s store and stare at the yellow cheesecloth curtains, remember all the times Lizzie and I had spent there. I waited for the doors to open and inhaled sugar. Then I would walk away.

  When Lizzie finally returned home, I welcomed her with kisses. She demanded we swap rooms.

  ‘I think it’s time you let me have it.’ Lizzie chewed each word as it came out, a dragon spitting out carcasses. She’d barely asked me how I was, how I had spent my time.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I told her.

  Lizzie closed in, squeezed my cheeks. ‘I’ll tell Father your big secret,’ she whispered. Samuel. I pulled her hands away, squeezed them in my own, made Lizzie’s blue eyes widen like sky. I wanted to break a bone. Instead, Lizzie got the room and I shamed myself for missing my sister as much as I had.

  ‘Oh, God, Emma!’ Helen shouted, filled the paddock.

  I snapped to attention. Behind me, feet sounded small thunders across hard land. My name again. I twisted around, pulled towards the voice.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s terrible news.’ Helen stood back. There was the loss of gravity as images presented themselves: a burning home, Mother’s grave desecrated, Father striking Lizzie, Bridget abandoning her station. Thoughts of being alone with Abby.

  ‘There’s been a terrible accident.’ Helen, a quake.

  A small fist settled at the bottom of my abdomen. Lizzie. What had happened to baby Lizzie? I wanted our mother.

  Helen handed me a telegram. My legs pulled me towards the house even though I wanted to stand still. Somehow bags were packed. Then I was in a horse and carriage on the way to the train station, the way home. Down the road. Further down the road. My lips dried, throat tight. Further down the road my hands shook. Horses’ hooves: cymbals. Down the road. Down the road. I arrived at the train station.

  I was uncomfortable on the train’s leather seat. My body stammered, muscle memory: ‘Your mother is not well,’ Father had told me when I was only ten. ‘She’ll need you to help her around the house.’ For weeks Father had avoided looking me in the eye. I took his impending grief for disappointment and resentment towards me. I had tried to be the best I could by staying out of his way, by making sure that little Lizzie was bathed, was read to at night. Every now and then I would sit on Mother’s bed and recite the day’s news: marriages, births, important business, district policy. Obituaries were never mentioned. ‘Doesn’t anyone die anymore, Emma?’ Mother laughed. But they did, they had. She would. Lizzie had simply wanted to hold Mother’s hands and stick them in her mouth. I did not understand how her world kept spinning. ‘Lots of wet kisses,’ Lizzie told me, and then she would yell, ‘Mama, wake up! I eat you.’

  On the train back to Fall River I watched a coughing child and fussing mother. Further down the track. Further down the track. A terrible accident. I remembered two months before, the way Lizzie had crawled into my bed at dawn and whispered, ‘I just want to make him suffer . . .’ The way she had laughed. ‘Imagine if he fell down the stairs! What sound do you think he would make?’

  I had thought nothing of it. The train went further down the track. Further still. Further still. The telegram in my lap the entire time:

  Father hurt. Mrs Borden missing. A terrible accident. Come home.

  THREE

  BRIDGET

  3 August 1892

  THE FIRST TIME I tried to leave the house, Mrs Borden miracled herself an almighty flu, got her arms and legs shaking, got herself all hot, all sweat, all types of pain. Dr Bowen had to be summoned over and he told her, ‘Bed rest, love and attention is what you need.’ Mr Borden told me to take care of his wife. I’d take food to her, chicken broth and scone dumplings, have it splashing down the bowl, down my fingers, and she’d be propped up on white cotton-covered pillows, her royal blue bonnet tied tight around her sagging jowls, and she’d say, ‘What would I do without you? You’re looking after me just like you would a mother.’ She’d slurp her broth, dribble a little. I’d mop her up. Oh, she wasn’t anywhere close to my mammy, but I felt for her. I’d be there, cloth in hand, dabbing her forehead, telling her stories from home, rubbing cramps out of her feet, her lips curling like a cat, pushing her cheeks into plump. I felt for her. And that’s how she made me stay the first time, made me give her the love and care until I had no choice but to stay.

  The second time I tried to leave, after Emma and Lizzie temporarily split the house in two by locking all the adjoining doors, Mrs Borden raised my wages to three dollars a week and gave me Sundays to myself. ‘Don’t let them put you off,’ she’d said quietly. ‘It happens from time to time. We’ll get over it.’

  I weighed my options. I was the luck of the Irish. I took the money, took everything that came along with it. Mrs Borden said I’d made the right decision. I had no other choice. I could send money home and one day money could take me back home, to moss-green fields and craggy rock, to the place where smells of fresh salmon and bottom-mud water swam through the air, the place where I laughed most, to where Nanna’s ghost was waiting for me, to where my childhood lived in streets and trees and my cramped, thatch-roofed house, to the place where people talked about love like it was part of breathing.

  I listened to the house, heard nothing but a crack in the roof and I stretched my legs out long in my bed, cotton sheets stuck to my skin. How long could I keep serving the Bordens? I thought of my family, all those faces, those suffocating hugs, those voices saying, ‘God love us,’ when things went wrong, and ‘Bridget this, Bridget that,’ those people around me all day and night, loving and bickering, my nanna and granddaddy, mammy and daddy, my brothers and sisters, all in that house, all together. Sometimes it could be too much and not enough.

  I rolled over and lit the kerosene lamp, shined it at my wall. Seven years gone from them. The lonely time. On my wall, the photo taken at my American wake, my nineteen-year-old skinny-fed body, towards Nanna’s little old lady face, her body bones in her chair. We couldn’t afford the photographer but Mammy insisted, said, ‘We’ll pay the price later.’ Two copies were made: one for me and my journey, one for them and Ireland.

  ‘I’ll see ya again,’ I told them. ‘I want ta see ya again.’

  I left the next day.

  Now I was twenty-six. Now I was with the Bordens. It was getting hard to go back. Oh, but I had tried.

  I didn’t want to face another day with Lizzie, not another day with any of them, not another day of God knows what. It was hot in the attic. The walls popped around me, the old wood, and looking at Nanna, at my family, I told them, ‘I’ve a plan to tell Mrs Borden that I’ll be leavin’ soon. I’m gonna come home.’ I smiled. It felt good. I sat up in bed, stretched. Then I was on hands and knees on the floor, my arm under the bed. I pulled out a heavy, round metal spice tin, green paint flaking, and coins rattled inside. I lifted the lid, lifted my St Matthew card, kissed him on the lips, counted my savings. One hundred and four dollars. Almost two years of saving in secret. It was enough for the ship h
ome, to tide me over till I found another job.

  When I had first arrived in Fall River from Pennsylvania, Mrs McKenney, the work agent, told me, ‘I’ll place you with the best families.’ The best families would bring higher wages, four dollars at least. The best families would bring me closer to my own. Mrs McKenney had checked me over, had read my references.

  ‘They don’t always like us Irish in their homes but we’re the most loyal.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You look like a wonderful domestic. I know a family who could use you well.’ So she sent me along with my bag down Second Street to see Mr Borden. The street was lined with beech and poplar trees, the green blocking the sun, making my skin pimple up. I passed St Mary’s Cathedral, heard a choir hymn the Lord and I quickly Father, Son, Holy-Spirited myself, kept walking, was pushed to the edge of the sidewalk by a bald-headed child, his paw-hands chubbed against my legs. I knew women back home who’d’ve clipped him across the ears. Oh, I thought of it, and laughed at him. Second Street was full of manure, little green wildflowers in the middle of the street. I crossed the road, weaved through the manure field and knocked on a green door. A tower of a man, Mr Borden, his grey hair all neat, a pipe in his hand, answered the door, then let me in. ‘I pay two dollars a week,’ he’d said. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

  I ran my fingers over the coins, sniffed old grease nickel and the tinge of nutmeg on my skin. It stung my nose and I sneezed. I put the lid back on, pushed the tin under my bed. My heart beat loud under my nightie. It was time to meet the day.

  I went down the back stairs, held the lamp high, smelled kerosene like a miner. When I reached Mr and Mrs Borden’s door I put my ear against it, waited for their bed to squeak, waited for Mr Borden to pass gas, for Mrs Borden to roll over in bed. I didn’t have to wait long. Oh, how I knew them.

  Down the stairs, in the kitchen, the clock struck double time to mark the half-hour. Five thirty.

  Outside, the faint wind-chime sound of glass bottles, the milkman dropping off fresh fattened milk. It would be our turn soon. I stood by the side door and waited until he arrived.

  ‘You beat me to it, Bridget.’ He placed his wooden crate on the step, stretched a bit.

  ‘It was too hot, couldn’t sleep.’

  He handed me a bottle, cool to the touch. ‘Old Borden say anything more about going off to the Swansea farm so you can have some peace and quiet?’

  ‘They’ll go nowhere now. Last night I heard Mr Borden sayin’ he’s got some property sales he wants finalisin’. That got Miss Lizzie all boiled up.’

  ‘Nothing new there.’ His mouth had the habit of opening too wide when he spoke, always showing his chipped teeth.

  ‘It’s just ’cause she misses Miss Emma. I don’t reckon she’ll be comin’ home anytime soon.’

  ‘I’d stay away too.’

  ‘It’s not always bad,’ I said. Oh, but it gets bad.

  ‘You girls all say that.’ He bent down to pick up our empty bottles, hips cracked from the strain. Not even Mr Borden’s body did that. He lifted his crate. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  He left. I took the fresh milk inside, unscrewed the lid and took a sneak sip from the bottle. The thick cream, a taste of grass. I set the milk in the icebox in the scullery, went about stacking a fire for the stove. On the kitchen counter was the large pot of mutton broth we’d been eating at luncheon for days. The thought of having to eat it one more time made my stomach flip. I went outside, got some fresh air. I heard a pigeon coo in the barn and I got to thinking that Lizzie would be up soon to check on her beloved birds, gently nursing them against her chest, stroking a wing, a head, letting them feed off seed from her hand. She should’ve long been out of the house and into her own family. Birds are no substitute. Once, she asked me to come into the barn and help keep the pigeons still while she checked for lice. I held the birds against my chest, used my left hand to stop necks from moving. I was afraid I’d strangle them. Their little claws at my wrists, not a thing I was used to, nor what I liked. Lizzie parted feathers, leaned in close, said, ‘Pretty, pretty bird,’ and whistled. The pigeons cooed. I’d never seen her face soften so quick.

  ‘Ever think of gettin’ a dog, Miss Lizzie? It’d be nice ta have one runnin’ about.’

  She preened her pigeon, nipped her fingers together like tweezers, pulled a little critter from its body. ‘And risk them being hit by horse and cart around here? I wouldn’t have it.’ She squished the critter between her fingers, wiped her hand on her skirt. Lizzie spread the pigeon’s wings, all delicate, and said, ‘Look how far you can go!’

  I began preparing breakfast. From the icebox out came the thick-cut pork steak I got from Whitehead’s market two days before. Oh, the meal I was going to make. Spoons of butter, salt and pepper, bread to scoop the juices. A little something nice to start the day. I did things and I did things.

  There was hard, loud walking down the back stairs, like bricks falling on bricks. There was a cough. Mr Borden. He was on the bottom step when he said, ‘Bridget, where is the castor oil?’

  ‘Sir, we don’t have any left.’

  His arms crossed his stomach and he leaned against the doorjamb.

  ‘Would ya like a chair, Mr Borden?’

  He waved me away. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m queasy is all.’ He took a moment before heading out the side door. I rushed after him, heard him heaving in the backyard, long and deep, a cow labouring. I hoped he’d not messed himself. I did not care to clean his suit.

  When he came inside, he eyed the steak. ‘You’ve cut the meat too thick.’ He poked the pork with his finger. Mr Whitehead’s butcher boy had cut it. I thought it a fine cut.

  ‘They said it was a large pig, Mr Borden.’

  He grunted, let me alone, went to the sitting room and I heard him pull a book from the bookshelf, pass wind, old trumpet. The frypan reached its heat and I lumped butter into it, watched the creamy yellow melt and bubble, begin to brown. On went the pork. The sizzle. I set about making johnnycakes and the morning continued like always.

  Later, Mrs Borden came down, just as pale. ‘You right, marm?’

  She shook her head. ‘My stomach is feeling violent.’

  ‘Again? Mr Borden is the same.’

  She rubbed her balloon stomach. ‘I’m beginning to think we’re being poisoned.’ The drama of her, how she sweated, pulled her face tight.

  ‘I’d never, marm.’

  She came close, touched my elbow. ‘I didn’t even think it.’

  ‘Is Miss Lizzie sick too?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’d know as much as me.’

  I flipped the pork steak. Her stomach made all kinds of noise. It wasn’t long before she took herself out the side door like Mr Borden had, and was sick. When she came back, she wiped her arm across her mouth, said, ‘Do we have any castor oil?’

  ‘None, marm.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She scratched at her temples and left the kitchen.

  I went back to cooking and soon breakfast was ready. I set everything on the dining table and cut the pork steak into portions. Mr Borden came in to see, said, ‘Go get Lizzie. I want her eating with us.’

  I nodded. I didn’t like the chances. I went into the scullery, over to the sugar sack. Inside was a little thimble and I filled it with sugar, put it in my apron pocket, went up the front stairs, made them holler under my feet. As I got closer to Lizzie’s bedroom, I heard, ‘As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.’ She’d been saying the prayer for weeks. There was no love in what she said, no rhythm or heart. I’d a mind to tell her sometimes: He is deaf, it doesn’t matter how much you pray, things go unanswered.

  I knocked on the door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Miss Lizzie, yer father says ta come down for breakfast.’

  Her feet across the carpet. She opened the door. Half her hair was plaited and rolled on top of her head, the other half in auburn s
emi-curls dragging below her shoulders, a horse’s mane. ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Pork steak.’

  She chewed the insides of her cheeks, puckered her mouth. ‘Is there anything extra special for me?’

  I shoved my hand into my apron pocket, pulled out the thimble. Lizzie snatched it, licked her pinkie and stuck it in, sucked sugar. ‘Are they waiting?’

  I nodded, she sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll be . . .’

  ‘They’ve been sick this mornin’.’

  ‘Really? How bad?’

  ‘Stomachs are a-talkin’. They’ve already been out the backyard.’

  She smiled at this, stuck her tongue in the thimble. ‘I’ll fix my hair and come.’ She gave the thimble back and closed the door. I was sick of this routine.

  I was standing against the dining room wall, waiting to be of service, when Lizzie came down, sat at the end of the table. ‘Good morning,’ Mrs Borden said. I wondered why she bothered. Lizzie broke a johnnycake in half, stuffed it into her mouth.

  ‘What are your plans today, Father?’

  ‘Work, of course.’

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  ‘And what will you do today?’ Mrs Borden asked her.

  ‘I’ve Sunday school planning.’ Lizzie sweet as the thimble.

  Mrs Borden sipped tea. ‘What will you teach the children this time?’

  Lizzie cocked her head. ‘What would you teach them?’ Her voice was a tart raspberry pulling on cheeks.

  Mrs Borden blushed. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’d probably stick to hymns.’

  Mr Borden chewed slowly, said nothing.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t teach children the moral life by singing, Mrs Borden.’

  Mr Borden placed his knife and fork on the clean tablecloth, made pork butter stains. One more thing I’d have to clean. He cupped his hand over his mouth and belched. ‘And sometimes you can’t teach children the moral life no matter what method you use.’