See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  We kissed. The way our tongues touched, warm. Hands travelled across each other, made me prickle. I was an expert of self, wanted more. ‘Take my blouse off,’ I told him.

  He nodded, he did. Samuel stroked my neck, my shoulder blades, made me feel like the sun had risen inside. He unhooked my corset and I breathed deep and full. The windows rattled. I wanted more from this person.

  I removed my linen undergarments, sat bare-chested, took Samuel’s hand and placed it against my breast, my heart. ‘Get to know me without my father.’

  Samuel undressed, skin brushed against skin. When Samuel kissed then licked my breast, when I stroked the inside of his leg all the way to his groin, felt how warm he was, felt the direction his blood travelled, I heard the opening of a door, pulled away from Samuel, turned.

  Lizzie stood there, her eyes scorn, cheeks deep anger, lips becoming white. She said, ‘You’re not meant to be doing that.’ Lizzie backed away, thundered downstairs.

  ‘You need to go after her,’ Samuel said.

  ‘I know. I know.’

  We dressed in silence. Samuel kissed me and I told him to leave the house through the side door. ‘It might upset her to see you.’

  I found Lizzie sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, kicking her foot into the carpet.

  ‘Lizzie, you should’ve knocked.’ I tried to be gentle.

  Lizzie kicked in time with the clock on the mantel. ‘You’ve sinned, Emma.’

  What was sin, exactly? ‘No, I haven’t. Samuel and I . . .’

  Lizzie kicked faster. ‘I’m going to tell Father you were giving yourself away before you’re allowed to.’

  I pulled tight on her legs. ‘Stop it, Lizzie!’

  We glared. Then Lizzie said, ‘Are you really going to marry him?’

  ‘Yes. And I can’t wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To get out of this house, to get away from you all.’ My voice rising from the pit of my stomach.

  Lizzie’s cheeks ballooned, reddened. ‘You’ll never leave if you don’t get married.’

  I took her wrist and held it tight.

  She tugged, tried to escape my grip. ‘Don’t you think you can go live without me. You’re breaking your promise to Mother. You’re selfish, Emma.’

  It hurt. ‘Don’t you dare say that.’

  Lizzie ripped free. ‘I’m telling Father.’

  I boiled, slapped her across the face. ‘Don’t you even try. It’s not yours to tell.’

  Lizzie cried. ‘I’m telling everyone. Then no one will want to marry you.’

  To be shamed by your sister. I lost control of the situation, lost control of Lizzie. All that freedom was slipping away. Father couldn’t find out. I was afraid of what would happen if he did. I sobbed that night, my body ached. I thought of Samuel, of growing old beside someone, our knotted limbs, the places we could go. Then I thought of family, things that could be lost. It was my experience that life doesn’t let you have both. I had seen it with Mother, her joy of having two daughters bounce around together, her heart full of love and safety, only to have one of her girls die when the universe had decided Mother had had too much of a good thing. Her family destroyed. Best be cautious.

  When I told Samuel it was over, I could barely get the words off my tongue. I listened to him whimper, as if something twisted from his heart, was killing him, and everything in my body felt as if it were being dragged out of me, set alight. We kissed one last time, blood pulsing underneath flesh, and Samuel left me. When I told Father the engagement was off, he said, ‘What happened? I tried to give you a good one.’ He shook his head, a dismissal. The way that made me feel: defective.

  I thought of Lizzie, thought of Samuel. I knew I had made the wrong decision.

  EIGHT

  BENJAMIN

  3 August 1892

  THE TRAIN PULLED into Fall River, smoked the platform with thick steam, made women’s skirts billow, reveal the tops of their boots, their stockings. My leg had stopped bleeding but it was difficult to move, like there was a steel rod under my skin. Passengers stood, stretched and cracked their bodies, gave me their camphor smell. I stood too, pressed my head against the window, felt the burn of the sun into my forehead along the top of my head, made my head lice critter. I gave myself a scratch. I saw John standing underneath a large white platform sign, realised that he had no luggage. His family visit was going to be quick. He nodded at men in top hats as they walked by. I heaved myself down the aisle and stepped off the train, went over to John.

  ‘Enjoy your trip?’ A smile so wide it made me want to punch him.

  ‘It was cramped,’ I said.

  ‘Ah well, we’re here now. Let’s move on.’

  Off he strode and I took after him. We got out of the station and onto a wide bluestone street. The loud sounds of horse-car drivers calling, ‘Take you up to Main Street, take you all the way.’ There was a deep silver clang of tram bells, of a baby cry-hollering like a sick animal, mewing for its mother, of shopkeepers sweeping their storefronts, bushy moustaches swallowing their faces. It was too much noise for me. ‘Will we be here long?’

  ‘Have patience.’

  We began walking up the street, my leg thump-dragging behind me and John said, ‘We ought to get that looked at before you do anything.’

  Delays. They were no good. ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s part of the payment, isn’t it?’

  I had no say in the matter. We walked on, were smacked in the face with a stench pumping from factories and cotton mills. John led me through street after street of close housing adjoined to shops, our shoes echoing like small hammers on the sidewalk, and soon we came to a white storefront with a chipped enamel doorframe, peeled black letters V T SUR E N, a mutt-coloured cat curled in the shop window.

  ‘Where are we?’

  John swifted his head along the street, on a lookout, and said, ‘I know a surgeon who can help you. Just keep to yourself.’

  We went inside, a doorbell chime, and John told me to sit on a leather-covered stool by the wall. Antiseptic smells stung, a wet fur smell surrounded me. John disappeared down a hallway and I wondered how he knew this surgeon. My leg started on its bleeding again. Time passed and John returned with a doctor.

  ‘This here’s your patient,’ John said.

  The doctor wore a leather apron, leather waders, pushed his glasses up his nose when he came close to me, coughed into his hand. ‘I see.’ He came at me, bird-dived towards my leg and poked. ‘I can clean this, sew you back up. What do you say?’

  John grinned and the doctor grinned and another cat came lurking from the hallway, wrapped itself around the doctor’s legs. A cat cannot be trusted.

  ‘So be it,’ I said. I’d never been stitched up before, had always let my body do its will.

  ‘Well now. You get fixed and I’ll be waiting around.’ John thwacked my back, hit my ribs hard. The doctor led me down the hall into a bare-bone room. ‘Sit there,’ he said, pointed to a daybed. ‘Remove your trousers.’

  I did that, exposed bruises and scars, my chicken knees. The gash on my leg had opened me up good and I wanted to put my finger inside to see how far down I could go. The doctor went over to a bench, fished around some amber glass jars along the wall. There was a large wooden table in the middle of the room, tiny drops of blood on it, and from somewhere I heard the rattle of a cage. The doctor got a jar, then got his medical kit and brought both over to me. Inside was a large brass syringe, long, sharp objects that looked like thin chisels, a pair of heavy scissors, tweezers. He took out the scissors and the tweezers, lifted the amber jar, said, ‘Right then, I’m going to pour this on you. It’s a type of acid. It’ll sting but it’ll do wonders.’

  I took a quick glance out the door, saw a black cat limp past. The lid came off the bottle and liquid poured onto me. My leg twitched like I had fire ants marching. I gave a howl and somewhere in the back of the building, another howl rose, met mine.

  ‘That
should do it,’ he said. ‘Now for the stitch-up.’ He came at me like a fisherman, a little hook and catgut line, threaded my leg together, pulled through skin tags. My head, thick and hot, made me want to fall into deep sleep. I closed my eyes and later John was shaking me awake. ‘Right now?’

  I wiped spittle from my mouth. ‘It’s over?’

  ‘Easy, wasn’t it?’ The way he eyed me, an owl at night.

  My leg had been bandaged, trousers pulled up and John helped me from the bed, said, ‘Time to move on.’ I looked around for the doctor, looked around for other patients, didn’t see him, didn’t see them. We left the shop, went into the street.

  ‘I think you’ll be much improved,’ John said.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We’ll be parting. I have to see my niece then take care of some business. I’ll meet you back at the station at six o’clock and we’ll make our way to the house.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘But I’m hungry.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I’ve nothing to spare at the moment.’ He gap-toothed a smile. ‘Until then!’ John legged off, left me in the street. I did not care to be left like that. I should’ve gone after him but thought better—get money, get Papa.

  Downtown. I sniffed the air. A draught horse pulled a mill cart. Two dogs nosed each other and ran up an alleyway. People stood on the sidewalk, spoke to one another about the weather, all the silly-chat that bore into you, made you grind teeth.

  At Main Street, a police officer talked to a junk man. As I neared them, the officer made the man remove his bag from his back, empty contents on the side of the road, tin plates crashing. The man’s back hunched as the officer went through his things, inspected the plates before tossing them back on the ground. I closed in on the men, heard the officer say, ‘I don’t believe these were given to you.’

  ‘People are kind. Those church ladies really did give me their old wares.’ His voice brittle.

  ‘You looking to jail?’ the officer said.

  I stopped next to them, stared at the officer, at his insect limbs folded across his chest, at his stupid menace face, and he said to me, ‘Can I help you?’

  I could smell his fists, the way he readied himself to bruise the man. I knuckled myself up, got a feeling inside me that wanted to punish. ‘You’re all the same. Making nothing but trouble,’ I said. I swayed side to side, stone crunch under my boots.

  The officer clicked his tongue. ‘Is that so?’

  Knuckles hardened. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe you should mind your own business.’

  That made me laugh. I filled the street with myself.

  ‘This place is full of crazies,’ the officer said, dug his finger into the man’s chest, pointed hard. ‘Like you.’

  The man said nothing, tried to pick up his belongings, put them back in his dirt-greasy bag.

  ‘Put them down,’ the officer said. It was just like Papa telling us what to do and so I took a swing at him, cracked him in the eye.

  The officer covered his face. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Get your things and go,’ I said to the man. He nodded, kept packing. I cracked the officer again and I took off down the street, heard him blow on his police whistle, make it shriek. I kept going, ran through leg pain, laughed and laughed, felt alive. The whistle shrieked again and voices called out, ‘Stop him! Stop that man.’

  I went down a laneway, went down parallel streets until I was near the train station. My leg throbbed but I kept on, got to the station and went looking for the urinals. Some sweet smell, some stench smell. I got myself in a stall, locked the door and huddled onto a toilet seat, porcelain under boots. I waited there.

  Town bells dinged six. My leg throbbed and I uncurled myself from the toilet seat, stretched out and felt along my thigh. No new blood. I waited outside the station for John. He was late. I didn’t care for this. Time passed. He came lanking along, a whistle on his lips. ‘Ah! Benjamin.’ John patted me on the back. He smelled like he’d been near a woman.

  ‘Are we going to the house now?’

  ‘Let’s hold on for a moment, let me tell you some things.’ He stood too close to me, made me feel his sweat and heat. ‘I was hoping to get a key for you to use tonight but their maid wasn’t forthcoming. You may have to do the job tomorrow.’

  ‘But you need to get me in. I can’t do it right if I don’t know my way around the house.’

  ‘Now, I don’t think I can do that, Benjamin. It’s all about tact.’

  I’ve found some people never properly think through their needs. I’d have to do the thinking for John. I said, ‘You need to let me in if you want this problem solved.’

  John shook his head. ‘You’re going to have to find your own way in.’

  ‘Leave a door unlocked.’

  ‘Andrew likes the house locked tight. Then you have the maid to contend with.’

  An unexpected quantity. Things should not be kept from me. ‘This maid. Will she be a problem?’

  John tapped his lips. ‘Bridget might get in the way, but then she’s a little daft. She may not cotton on that you’re in the house.’

  There was a train whistle.

  ‘Does your niece know I’m coming?’

  ‘The less she knows the better.’

  I should’ve told him that wasn’t necessarily the case but no matter. ‘Have you decided how you’d like me to solve the problem?’

  John creased his crooked lips. ‘I’ll leave that up to you. But I worry that he’ll know who sent you. And that’s going to be a problem for me.’

  ‘What are you asking me to do, John?’

  He clicked his tongue.

  I had thought of so many ways for Andrew. I would come in through the side door, catch him in the middle of tying his shoelaces. I’d glove his hands in mine, take a shoelace and tie it around his wrists, slap him a few times around the ears. ‘Listen good,’ I’d tell him, and he would. Then I could take a carving knife, swing it around, scare him until he lost his bowels. I could take a worn and wooden baseball bat, break legs. I could punch him good, I could call him names, I could make him weep for God, I could treat him like my papa. That’s when the real problem-solving would begin.

  ‘I’ll make it discreet,’ I said.

  John looked me up and down, a study. ‘Good. Because at the end of it all, I just want my nieces to be happy. I’d hate for them to be frightened in their own home.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t let me down.’

  I stared at him. ‘Don’t let me down, John.’

  John looked away from me a moment then rubbed his hands together. ‘Splendid. Shall we get going? I’d like to show you the house now.’

  I let him get a few feet in front of me before I followed. We made our way along Main Street past houses with large lawns, towards houses that were short of space, short of privacy. Every now and then I looked for the junk man, looked for the officer, but saw neither.

  John whistled as he walked. I was already sick of his tune. We walked to streets that counted down to the beginning of Fall River: Fifth, Fourth, Third. We got to Second Street and John stopped, said over his shoulder, ‘This is us.’ The street was lined with full-green trees camouflaging windows and doors, was littered with men and women taking early-evening strolls, a horse-drawn cart carrying empty wooden boxes, dirt-grey moths fighting lamplight.

  ‘See that dark-green two-storey? That’s the one.’

  I hadn’t anticipated the place to have layers. I was used to flat-dwelling, nothing but bare façades and a few rooms. There was no light coming from the front windows like the other homes, nothing to suggest there was life inside.

  ‘Go to the backyard,’ John rushed.

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘At some stage I’ll come to you.’

  For the first time since our meeting, he seemed nervous. I couldn’t have that around me. I nodded, even smiled at him, to put him at ease.

  He crossed the street, made
his way to the house and knocked on the door. An elderly tub of a woman wearing a blue bonnet opened the door, filled the frame with her hips and stomach and John took her hands, kissed them. He was loud when he said, ‘Good evening, dear Abby.’ The wife. She looked away from him, like he was wearing a vulgar mask, and John burst in, shut the door.

  I counted to three, crossed the road, jumped over a small white fence, made sure no one was passing by and got close to the house. I smelled a flood of kerosene snake out from the door gap. I put a hand on the door. The wood was warm and at the top of the door were brass numbers: 92. I turned the handle. Locked. I ran to the side, slid my way to a window. The sun dropped. Through the window I could see inside, could see the top of a black-shine sofa and, above that, a painting of a horse in a field, the muscular beast kicking its legs behind, all its anger. I saw John reach out to shake a tall man’s hands: the way they eyed each other, the way the tall man grinned and bared teeth. I knew that was Andrew. I sized him up best I could, took stock of his balding head, the liver spots on top, his cranky arms and thin frame. My papa had been shorter, sturdy-shouldered, weak in mind. And I could take on Papa. Andrew wouldn’t be a problem.

  John and Andrew shook hands, shook hands, shook hands, let go. In between them came the maid. ‘Bridget,’ I said. The thick dark hair of her, her broad shoulders, her hard-knock chin. Maids always came near the things they shouldn’t. Bridget looked right at the window. I bobbed down, hit my elbows against the side of the house. I moused into a ball on the ground, tried to disappear into darkening night. Ants crawled up my arm, bit me good, and the grass underneath me was summered, dry and upright, prickled. I waited and waited, then looked through the window again. The room was empty, as if what I saw before was ghosts.

  I went to the backyard. Along the fence was a full-bloom pear arbour, the sickly-sweet smell of half-eaten fruit thrown to the ground. I thought of the worms underneath churning earth, climbing over each other until their soft jelly bodies rolled into one. I pulled a pear and ate, juices on fingers and chin. There was a sharp twinge towards the back of my mouth and I reached my index finger inside, felt another loose tooth. I took hold, pulled and twisted, threw the tooth under the pear arbour.