See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  ‘Why’d ya call me anyway?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Can ya help me swing the rug up?’

  ‘Why she havin’ you do that?’

  ‘Surprise of the year, Mary! We’re havin’ guests Saturday.’

  Mary mocked a shock. ‘Someone’s willin’ to visit the house long enough? Alright, hold on.’ Mary disappeared, walked along the fence line then joined me in the Bordens’ backyard. We each took an end and swung the rug, had to swing it again when we missed the line. Crumbs of dirt, of food, rained on our foreheads and eyes.

  ‘Enjoy beatin’ this one.’ Mary handed me the wicker slapper and I took a swing, the thud of wicker like beating an old cow. My mouth filled with dust, all that Borden living. I spat it out.

  ‘Well that’s not very ladylike.’ Mary waggled a finger.

  ‘Good. I’ve been practisin’.’ I hit the rug. There was sun on my back, on my neck. I hit the rug. Then, all serious, Mary said, ‘Bridget, I’ve been seein’ Mrs Borden in the backyard.’

  I stopped hitting, spat it out. ‘What’d ya say?’

  ‘She’s been comin’ out in the mornin’s, sometimes at dusk.’

  ‘What she do? She see ya?’

  ‘I’m not thinkin’ so. I saw her this mornin’ too. She punches herself in the stomach,’ Mary said, quiet. Somewhere in the distance I heard a door open then close.

  Mrs Borden had done this before. I’d heard Lizzie reading out Mrs Borden’s diary to Emma. How they laughed. Mrs Borden talked about how she was getting her women’s blood again even though she hadn’t bled for years, said her insides felt bruised, like it might fall out of her. ‘Listen to this!’ Lizzie had said, put on her best slow-pug voice. ‘I wake up sweating. Andrew won’t come near me.’ Emma and Lizzie laughed. I felt for her.

  Mrs Borden went on and on about these horrible thoughts and feelings she had, that sometimes she wanted Mr Borden to die, that the more she had the thoughts, the more she bled, like she was being punished. So she started punching herself in the stomach, tried to stop her terrible thoughts. The girls just laughed.

  But now Mrs Borden was being violent to herself again. I knew the things that followed. How she’d wake at night with red between her legs, an ache battering inside her. She’d quietly get out of bed, hold her nightie tight as a tourniquet and hobble down the back stairs to the basement and wash. She would never leave her nightie and sheets for me to deal with. Not like Lizzie has, not like Emma has. Mrs Borden wouldn’t want me to know her like that.

  ‘What do ya think she’s doin’ the punchin’ for?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know anymore.’ A horse and cart went by, tripping hooves on stone, a bridle jingle-jangle. ‘Maybe it’s good I’m leavin’ when I am.’

  ‘Since when? Ya said that last time and had nothin’ to leave with.’

  ‘I’ve been savin’ all me money ta go. I’ll tell Mrs Borden soon.’

  ‘She won’t let ya.’

  ‘I don’t care. All their fightin’ and nonsense. Somethin’s gonna happen. It’ll drive me crazy.’

  ‘She’ll never let ya go.’

  ‘I’ll make her let me go.’ A pigeon cooed in the barn. ‘Well, I best be beatin’ this, earn me keep.’

  Mary touched me on the shoulder and rubbed circles. ‘God love ya, Bridget.’

  I beat the rug, took mouthfuls of dust.

  When I went inside, Mrs Borden was in the sitting room, her eyes stony. ‘You took your time cleaning that rug.’

  ‘Mrs Borden?’

  ‘You’ve a lot of chores to get through.’

  I couldn’t read her and so I went to the basement and got my cleaning things. She had me dusting photos, dusting shelves, dusting frames, piano, porcelain. The way she sat on the sofa, in Mr Borden’s space, her hands resting over her knees, like she was the master of the estate whistling commands. Mrs Borden was hardening up. Oh, but she could when it was only her and me in the house. Lizzie must’ve upset her.

  ‘I heard you out there with the Kelly girl.’ She spat it out all dirty.

  I felt red, like I would burn and disappear. What had she heard me say? She pulled herself from the sofa, held on to the mahogany side table for support. Then she was right up close to me, her breath my breath.

  ‘I drive you crazy, do I? What would dear old Nanna and Mammy think of you now, hmmm? You’re making a habit of abandoning people, aren’t you?’ Mrs Borden licked her lips. I hated her then, hated that she spoke of poor Nanna as if she knew about her dear heart. Hated that I’d told her anything about me back home. Her breath my breath, a stinking piece of pork caught between teeth. I pulled away from her. Mrs Borden caught me by the wrist, held me, pinched my skin.

  ‘Please, Mrs Borden. Yer hurtin’ me.’

  She gripped tighter, her dry paper-thin hands.

  ‘Why were you telling her you’re leaving the house?’ Her eyes watered. Now she knew.

  ‘I was goin’ ta tell ya.’

  Her face came closer to me and I felt my breath bounce off her skin, warm. ‘It’s time I moved on, marm.’

  ‘How many others have you told?’

  ‘Just Mary.’

  ‘You’ve embarrassed me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean ta.’

  Closer still she came, closer until our noses almost touched. Old woman freckles, blue-purple bruising under her eyes, river red lines on cheeks. ‘I paid you more, kept paying you more. Do you hate me that much? Am I that despicable?’

  ‘No, marm. This place is no good.’ I didn’t recognise my own voice.

  Mrs Borden slapped me hard across the face, the meat cleaver sound, my head snapping to the side, my body going with it, and the room echoed like that banshee’s cave. I tasted blood in my mouth.

  ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to just leave!’ she bellowed, she wailed.

  Outside was the sound of a horse and buggy, the ringing bell of the iceman’s cart, a man and woman walking by, her shoes tripping on bluestone trying to keep up with him. I could hear all those things from inside and I wondered if they could hear her out there. I raised my hand. I wanted to hit her back.

  Mrs Borden scratched her temples, scratched hard. I tucked my hand under my arm. ‘Go upstairs and do your job,’ she said, her voice then a calm creek.

  ‘Marm, let me explain . . .’

  ‘Go upstairs.’

  I got my cleaning rags, got my bucket. Mrs Borden watched me. I walked past her, made my way to the front of the house and my skin brushed against hers, a whoomp sound, like sheets drying. When I reached the stairs, Mrs Borden said, ‘When you finish up there I want you to explain this.’ She paused and I heard a rattle. I stopped. There was my money tin, all my hours and years of living Borden in her hand. Rattle, rattle.

  In Lizzie’s room, I dusted and dusted. I hated Mrs Borden then. I was ready to cry in anger but held myself back, thought to play safe so I could get my money back. I dusted over Lizzie’s trinkets, those ridiculous little things she didn’t even touch. If I had half as much as she did. Over at the bookshelf, I dusted and let myself cry, let myself want Mammy and Daddy, want them to say, ‘We told ya America was no place for a girl like ya,’ want something, someone, to come into the house and make everything end, let me go walking out the front door and never return. My rags went over spines, over A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, over The Woodlanders. When was the last time she even read these? Rags over Frankenstein, over Wuthering Heights, over The Castle of Otranto, and I got to thinking of home, of the times we’d sit around the kitchen table hogging stove warmth as we told stories to one another, hours of ghosts, hours of tales about cold hands crawling out of the darkness onto your face, stories of drowned immigrants sinking to the bottom of the sea before swimming back to shore, coming back to family.

  There would be Daddy and Granddaddy pouring glasses of their homemade whiskey, waiting to be told they had a fine drop.

  ‘Burn yer throat this lot would,’ Mammy’s brother Frank would say, but he�
��d keep on drinking it down, drinking till it no longer burned.

  I dusted spines, I dusted shelves, dusted over Lizzie’s bedhead, right over to her dressing table. Lizzie fancied herself, her little collection of flower-painted porcelain vases, her bottles of jasmine and civet perfume smelled like unwashed bodies. I noticed her jewellery box was unlocked. I shouldn’t have. Inside it, her crosses, wooden and silver, different sizes of her love of the Lord. There was a sapphire ring, the large stone encased by tiny gold claws, a tiger with prey. I’d never seen her wear it. It must’ve been new. I picked it up. Underneath the stone was a small price tag. Forty dollars. A ring Mr Borden would never let her buy. I put the ring back in the box, shut the lid. Lizzie had been bad again. Just like she had been the year before when she told Mr Borden, ‘Oh, Father! Someone came into the house and raided your belongings.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I heard him. I think I scared him away before he had a chance to take anything else.’

  We were in the sitting room when Mr Borden asked me what I knew, as if I had done the deed myself. ‘Nothin’, sir. I was down the basement washin’ laundry.’ Emma knew nothing either.

  His finger back and forth between me and Emma, like choosing teams. ‘How is it no one heard a man break in except Lizzie? Are you all lost to the world?’

  ‘Father, the house was locked. I didn’t suspect a thing out of order,’ Emma told him, out of breath, out of depth.

  Mr Borden made the three of us walk through the house with him like naughty children. He’d point to windows, ask me to rattle them, see if any came loose. None did.

  ‘Father,’ Lizzie said, ‘is it really necessary we do this?’

  Mr Borden didn’t answer.

  After an hour of searching the house, we were in Mr and Mrs Borden’s bedroom. We stood by the window as Mr Borden looked through drawers. Emma scratched her elbow. Lizzie watched her father.

  ‘He took tram tickets.’ Lizzie stepped towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Emma breathed deep, her throat making accordion sounds. The air in the room got thick.

  Mr Borden pulled his arm away. ‘Seems an odd thing to take.’

  ‘Maybe he thought they could be cashed in.’ Lizzie shrugged.

  Mr Borden looked at his daughter. They looked at each other. Lizzie’s face flushed pink, eyes widened. He made a fist, unmade a fist.

  ‘Father.’ Emma was loud. He turned to her. ‘Lizzie needs rest. It must’ve been frightening to hear that commotion and not be able to call out. Let’s stop searching.’

  Mr Borden took a good look at the open drawers around him. ‘Looks like a few dimes and a necklace have been taken too.’

  ‘Father, if I can think of anything else I might’ve heard I’ll tell you and you can tell the police.’ Lizzie sweetened up.

  Emma stretched her hand to Lizzie. It was taken. The sisters left the room, went down the back stairs, clumped along like toddlers. I went to leave.

  ‘Stop,’ Mr Borden said. He stood by his bed, rocked back and forth then got himself still. ‘Have you ever given your key to anyone?’ His voice was small.

  ‘No, sir. I keep it on me always.’

  Mr Borden grunted. ‘You can go now.’

  I nodded and left.

  A few days later I was doing laundry in the basement when I found a tram card stuck to the inside of Lizzie’s skirt. I checked the other pocket. Another card. Lizzie had a lot to learn about hiding secrets. I tore the cards, clumped them together in the tub of warm soapy water, watched them turn grey.

  FOUR

  BENJAMIN

  3 August 1892

  I MET JOHN in Fairhaven after a night of blood-letting fighting, of losing my last dollar, of ripping my leg on barbed wire. I met John the way I do most—by chance, by accident, the crossing of paths. It was dawn and I was water-full. I was with my gristle and chops in hand, urinating up an alleyway wall when an older, tree-height man quickly turned into the alleyway, came trudging towards me, vomited gravy-thick onto my boots. He held himself together then gave a gentleman’s laugh. ‘That was rather unexpected.’

  ‘Damn sure was.’

  He wiped his mouth, looked me over, said, ‘I too quite like urinating in open spaces from time to time. It’s freeing, don’t you agree?’

  I didn’t care to be interrupted. ‘I just do what I need to do.’

  He nodded his head, said, ‘I like a man who doesn’t overthink things. There’s value in that.’

  Something my papa might’ve said. ‘Sounds like you’re calling me stupid, old man.’

  He waved his hand. ‘On the contrary.’ He shifted eyes down to cobblestone, grimaced and said, ‘My apologies about your boots. Drank some milk that was too far gone, I’m afraid.’ He rubbed his hand over his dark suit, reminded me of a banker.

  ‘Didn’t your mama ever teach you to sniff before you drink?’ I was about to pull my trousers up when a voice boomed, ‘Hey, you! Stop what you’re doing.’

  I quick-turned, saw a pimple-faced, slightly hunched officer at the alleyway entrance. I ignored him.

  The officer came closer, scraped his boots. I ground my teeth, felt one loosen. I was tucking myself in when the officer started up like a master, said, ‘You dirty cur.’

  I faced him. ‘Tsk-tsk. Name-calling isn’t a way to get someone to cooperate.’

  The officer closed in on me, dug his finger into my chest. ‘I speak however I want.’ Then he took a look at the older man, raised his eyebrows. ‘Got ourselves a father–son act, do we?’ The officer chuckled, pointed to the man’s groin. ‘Get your codge out, did you?’ The man reddened.

  This officer was one for humiliation. I didn’t care for his tone.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ the older man said. ‘It’s hardly what you think.’

  ‘Public urination is an offence, did you know that? Give me your name,’ the officer said.

  ‘John.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as the filthy kind, John. Not like this one here.’ The officer came in close, sniffed us up like a dog.

  ‘Get away from me,’ I said. All low.

  ‘You don’t have a say in the matter. I make the rules around here.’ The officer pulled his baton from his belt, tapped it against the brick wall, then tapped it against John’s leg. John buckled like old kindling.

  ‘Get away from me,’ I warned.

  The officer, closer again. ‘You dirty, dirty cur.’

  I’d had enough. I slapped the officer across the face, my iron palm, and the officer’s head twisted. A warm-up. I knuckled up, punched the officer until I heard a crack, made him fountain blood, made him double over, drop his baton. John grabbed it, thunked it into his palm, and for a moment I thought he would use it against me.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I told John.

  ‘Neither would I.’ He handed me the baton. The officer was hands and knees between us, a tabletop of blue cotton and wool. I lifted the baton, struck it hard against his body. The officer cried out. I lifted him, got his blood all over my hands and said, ‘That’s for hitting an elderly man.’

  The officer lay there, spat out a tooth. He would not be getting up. Then John said to me, ‘That was rather unexpected.’

  I looked at him, saw the beginnings of a grin, saw a little gap between his front teeth. He stuck out his hand and I grabbed it, gave a handshake. His skin was elderly-soft, someone who never had to use their hands for work. There was blood on my thumb, on my wrist, and when we finished shaking hands, there was blood on his too. He took out a white cotton handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped himself clean.

  ‘Benjamin,’ I told him.

  ‘I’m so glad to have met you, Benjamin. Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t been around?’ John eyed me, pointed to my barbed-ripped thigh. ‘You seem to have gotten yourself into a spot of bother.’

  I looked down at my frayed trouser leg, at the gash underneath. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘I’m beginning to s
ee. But you’ll need to take care of that.’

  ‘In good time.’

  John wiped his hand again, inspected his fingernails. His stomach gurgled and he belched. ‘Pardon me,’ he said, rubbing his stomach. ‘Seems I’ve still got some issues here.’

  My leg began to ache, remembered the fire-tear of steel as I jumped over a fence, remembered a man’s bloody tooth jammed into my palm after I had smashed him. I must have winced because John asked, ‘You need a rest?’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Why don’t we go somewhere, spot ourselves a rest? Get a drink? I feel I owe you for sticking up for me.’ John, overfriendly, over-insistent.

  I looked down at the officer, still passed out from knocking. Would John rat me out if I didn’t go with him? Some men scare easy, some men are the scare. I knew what I was. I’d gamble about John. ‘Alright,’ I told him. ‘Let’s rest.’

  John smiled. ‘I know a quiet place but we’ll need to walk. Can you manage?’

  ‘I’ve had plenty worse injuries.’

  We left the alleyway, walked deeper into Fairhaven, past the scaffolding around the roofless city hall, past all things gentlemanly, walked to a quiet, dusty corner storefront. ‘No one to bother us here,’ John said. I nodded.

  We went in, smelled the dirt-whiskey fumes, saw men there. Men holding on to half-empty glasses, men holding on to their bollocks, men playing their last chance at card games. Men there like my papa. They paid us no attention. We sat at the bar. I could smell John, could smell that he didn’t belong in places like this. I breathed him in—clean-smelling, just a hint of sweat.

  The barman came over, dragged his weasel legs behind him. ‘Get you anything?’

  I fingered my pocket, had nothing inside, looked at John, who reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fold of notes. ‘Two whiskeys to warm us up.’

  The barman poured, handed them over, left us.

  We sipped, my throat liquid-warm, and I nodded my head. John smiled. ‘What were you doing out this morning anyway, Benjamin?’