See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  Shadows played through curtains. There in the bed lay Mrs Borden, Father already gone, her lump of body, barely moving. Emma would’ve said not to go to her but I couldn’t help myself. I walked towards her, the floorboards creaked, and Mrs Borden sounded her heavy in-and-out breath, little tornado, and I got close, my fingers stroked the bedclothes then the wooden bedframe. I kneed the bed, shifted all my weight forwards, leaned over her head. She didn’t even know I was there. The side of her face was wrinkled, was not the face I remembered from my childhood. I leaned closer, touched the creases around her eye, her paper-loose skin, peel her away, peel her back, and my heart slowed and, for a moment, I was calm. What touch can do. Fingers slid through grey hair and I stroked and stroked. Mrs Borden looked restful in that sleep, like she used to, like she always would, I stroked, hair like horses, and I leaned even closer, smelled her skin, old moth wing and saliva, and I kissed her forehead, felt the tip of my front teeth press into skin and bone. Mrs Borden moved underneath me. I pulled back, saw her stare at me.

  ‘What in God’s name . . .’

  ‘I’m feeling funny. I had such strange, awful dreams.’

  Mrs Borden pulled the covers to her chin. ‘What do you want me to do about it? Your father isn’t here.’ A spit.

  I sat on the bed close to her. My heart thumped, made me lick my lips. I told her, ‘I want the bad dreams to stop but Emma isn’t here to help.’

  Mrs Borden let out a little moan, pulled herself onto her elbows and sat up. She stared at me, the longest time, and I looked at her, the way the corners of lips drooped and flattened. Then I looked at the space in the bed next to her, the space where Father had been, it’s probably still warm, and Mrs Borden followed my gaze, shook her head and shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. It made me feel like I was thirteen, like the day Father and Mrs Borden hadn’t wanted me in their bed anymore. ‘You can’t keep coming in here after you have a nightmare, Lizzie.’ Father and his mean words. It took me time to get over it.

  I stared at her, stared right into her centre and waited. It was quiet in the room. And then she pulled the covers down, pulled them across, showed me the space beside her. If only Emma had been there: I wouldn’t have had to crawl into bed beside Mrs Borden, wouldn’t have had to treat her like a mother.

  TEN

  BENJAMIN

  4 August 1892

  THE SUN HIT me like a cannon. The pigeons danced on the roof. Time passed and the barn door opened. There was movement below, a woman trilling like a bird, saying, ‘Morning, sweet ones.’ It was Lizzie. Then she screamed.

  ‘My birds!’

  I lifted onto hands and knees, was a secret crawling to the top of the stairs. I looked down, saw her hands in a deep waste drum. She screamed again, pulled out a dead pigeon, wings tipped and stiff, without a head, like all dead things. She pulled out another and another, let them pile at her feet and yelled, ‘I hate him! I hate him!’ Lizzie held the birds against her chest, made them listen to her heart. The sun cracked across the barn, the breathing of wood. I remembered Papa: moving through the house, bare feet slapping the floor until he stopped at my bedroom. ‘Boy. Boy.’

  ‘Yes, Papa?’

  ‘Open.’

  I opened the door. The smell of musk and burnt tobacco, of old mud. Papa smiled a browned tooth. ‘Get your coat.’

  I got my coat and followed him out. We moved quickly. ‘Where are we going?’ My feet marched like rats.

  ‘You’re going to hold some things down for me.’

  We reached the family chicken coop. ‘You hand them to me while I take to the axe.’

  Papa stormed the chickens. I was holding the birds upside down, their scaly legs rubbing the inside of my wrist like an itch.

  ‘Give,’ Papa said.

  I handed a chicken, watched it writhe, watched its eyes bulge. When the axe fell, the chicken was thrown into the air, blood dropped on my skin, its head oddly animated on the chopping block. I picked up another, tried to hold it steady as it squabbed with fear.

  ‘I can’t hold them. They’re too flighty.’

  I handed a chicken. Then another. A chicken, a chicken.

  When it was all over, I was told, ‘Collect them heads and take them to your mama.’

  The heads had stacked on the ground like kindling. I was afraid to touch them. One of the heads moved, eye blinking and beak gasping. ‘Papa, it’s still alive.’

  ‘It’s all nerves.’

  I slowly picked the heads off the ground and placed them in a bucket. Blood stench. I was covered in it.

  Outside the barn Andrew’s bellow voice called, ‘Lizzie! Lizzie, come here.’ Lizzie turned and I receded from the stairs. Andrew stood at the door, his shadow filling the open space.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Lizzie said.

  Andrew sighed. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t find them before I . . .’

  ‘You killed them!’ Lizzie threw a pigeon at Andrew. The bird hit him in the abdomen, slumped to the ground. A wing snapped.

  Andrew stepped inside the barn, slapped Lizzie across the face. ‘Stop this nonsense.’

  Lizzie sobbed, stamped her feet, wooden toy soldier sound, and said, ‘Why?’

  ‘They are vermin, Lizzie.’

  ‘They’re my pets. I cared for them.’

  ‘They were bringing disease into the house.’

  Lizzie bent down, picked up the bird and held it. ‘Why did you have to be so cruel? You could’ve just let them fly away.’

  ‘You know they wouldn’t. Some things are better off dead.’ Andrew moved towards her, lifted his hand, the gold ring on his pinkie finger shined. Lizzie hit him.

  ‘I don’t want you to speak to me anymore.’ A tear stuck in her throat.

  ‘Lizzie, please be reasonable.’

  She pushed past Andrew, held on to the dead bird. I crawled to the window and looked out. Lizzie stood in the middle of the yard, swung the bird back and forth, back and forth. Andrew came beside her, attempted to stroke his daughter’s hair.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He took his hand away. ‘You’ll get over this,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk this afternoon.’

  Lizzie turned to him. ‘You think you know everything. God will punish you.’ She dropped the bird to the ground and left him alone in the yard.

  Andrew rubbed his hands over his face. The sun cracked over the barn roof, made a crack through my bones. Now was the time to go to him.

  He began to walk away from the yard like an echo; slow, defeated. I downed the stairs, opened the barn door. Fresh air kissed my lips, glare made small haloes in my pupils. Andrew went to the side of the house, his lean frame drowning in his dark-grey woollen suit. A pigeon flew above his head. He reached for the bird, missed. He smoothed wrinkle-hands over his forehead. I wanted to rush forwards, ball my hands against his face, make him see sense, but he was gone then, had disappeared inside the house.

  I stretched my arms wide, reached for the pear arbour. I pulled on heavy fruit and squeezed, let juice dribble between my fingers. I ate. I pulled another, ate, tossed the pear cores onto the dirt and wiped my mouth along shirtsleeve. I smelled terrible.

  I walked to the middle of the yard, stopped at the dead bird, bent down and picked it up; lead feathers. I snapped off a wing, made that bone twig sound, and held it against my face before tucking it into my trouser pocket.

  A door opened and someone moaned. Then there were feet. I didn’t want to be seen, and I hastened towards the barn and pressed against the outside wall. Bridget came into the backyard, cloth and bucket in hand. She wiped her arm across her face, stood still. She placed the bucket on the ground, doubled over and vomited into grass. The sound her body made. She vomited again, again, emptied contents, heavy liquid, brown, spoiled. She lowered onto her hands and knees, rested her forehead on the ground. The sun was gold light against her white cap and apron. Birds sounded off.

  Bridget vomited once more, pulled herself up, and took off with the bucket to the far sid
e of the house. She moved like tar. When she began cleaning the windows I waited, ran across the backyard. I went to the basement doors, quietly turned the handle. Locked. What was so precious in this house that everything had to be locked? I ran to the near side of the house, to the side door. Unlocked. Bridget had made a mistake. I slipped inside. There was a narrow hardwood staircase, brass clothes hooks along the wall. I went further in, into a kitchen, shutters were half closed, cast the house in shadows, smelled of baking, of old meat, of skin, of people overheating. My stomach begged. I walked over to the stove, large enough to put someone inside, burn them good, and took the lid off a deep, blackened pot; an acidic smell. I scooped my hand and dunked it into the soup. It was warm. I raised my hand to mouth over and over, dribble-dribble down chin, down neck onto shirt and onto the floor. There was the taste of something sweetened, like marzipan. Meat shouldn’t taste like that. I shouldn’t have been so eager. I put the lid back on the pot, saw a plate of johnnycakes on the counter. I picked one up, inhaled, a hint of sugar, and placed the brick-heavy dough to my tongue, licked before biting, swallowing it whole. I brushed crumbs off my shirt, heard footsteps above me. I looked up at the ceiling, noticed sooted cornices. ‘Might be Andrew up there,’ I said.

  In the room with a large sofa, a dark-wood clock sat on a mantel. I slid my finger across the wood, slid across to photos of Andrew and Abby, to a photo of Lizzie, to a photo of a woman I could only assume was Emma, her dark hair, stone chiselled nose, high forehead. She looked nothing like her sister, Lizzie with the round-puff cheeks and plum-fat lips, the top of her ears bent like a little sail. Such ordinary-looking women.

  My finger slid from the mantel, across the wall, across a bookshelf, and to the window. It was covered with a thick lace curtain, and peeking through the other side of the glass was the top of Bridget’s bonnet. Her head bobbed up, bobbed down and I snuck fingers behind the curtain and pulled them back, watched Bridget on her knees rinse her cloth in a metal bucket.

  Someone above the ceiling hammered long strides across floorboards. I went to the sofa, sat down, spread my hands over the smooth horsehair upholstery. The dead animal had a nice gloss. From there I could see straight through to another room with a piano inside, through to the front stairs, to the comings and goings. This house was bigger than anything I had known. I could have my way with Andrew anywhere. I rested my head against the sofa, felt my stomach cramp and boil, hooked my fingers through the rip in my trousers and felt along the surgeon’s line. I thought of Papa. Being in the house made me want to revisit him, tell him all the ways he did wrong, the way Andrew was going to be told. I got up then, went to the dining room, circled the long table, gave its hard wood a knock-knock, tugged at the heavy, floor-length lace tablecloth, tugged on it like I would Mama’s skirt. I missed her. The window shutters were open, a clear day in front of me, a peek view of a next-door neighbour fixing the collar of her blouse. I pressed up against the window, enjoyed the sun on my head, on my eyes. Time to search for Andrew.

  I turned around when I heard someone begin to walk down the front stairs. I bent down a little so I could see who it was. I expected Andrew, expected that he would come through to me, let me take him by the shoulders, jostle him some. ‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’ I’d ask him. Andrew would shake his head.

  ‘You’ve been unkind. You’ve not listened.’ I’d pull him towards me, get right close.

  I saw dark trouser legs, a spindle body, heard, ‘You ensure you take care of yourself in this heat, Abby. We wouldn’t want you to get worse.’ John was on the stairs. He came into full view, palmed his hair then smoothed out his shirt.

  ‘I don’t plan on doing anything but stay inside,’ Abby said.

  This would be difficult for me. John made it to the entrance of the house when we made eye contact. ‘You!’ His eyes widened, face dropped, and he shot a look up the stairs.

  Abby came in to plain view then, her head down, concentrating on each step, heavy-handed on the banister. I quickly pulled a chair out from the table and curled underneath.

  ‘What were you saying, John?’ Abby asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve completely lost my train of thought.’

  ‘That’s happened to me more times than I care to admit.’

  John gave a weak chuckle, the kind that made shoulders rise to ears. My stomach cramped, head swooned, eyes watered.

  ‘Now, shall I tell Bridget to make enough dinner to accommodate you today?’

  ‘You know, I think you should. I’ll stay another night. I’d like to spend more time with Lizzie.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I imagine after I tie up a few loose ends downtown that I will be quite exhausted.’

  John had said nothing about staying longer. He’d promised to help me out of Fall River. I didn’t take kindly to liars. We would have to have words.

  Abby opened a cupboard, handed John his jacket.

  ‘What time is Andrew due home?’ he asked.

  ‘He usually pops in for a short time around one o’clock.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll be back early afternoon.’

  Abby opened the door and he left. She shut the door, turned a key in the lock, sighed. Andrew gone. All this unexpected news. I’d have to hide in the house until he came home. I thought of options: a bedroom upstairs, the basement, the cupboard under the stairs. There were chances I would be caught, that Abby would even find me there under the table. She’d see me and scream, try to claw my face. My knuckles would bulge into fists and I’d smack skin with skin, tear Abby’s mouth wide open, split lip and tongue. I’d keep her quiet about me.

  Abby stood in the middle of the sitting room, stared towards the outside. My stomach cramped. She went to the window, pulled the lace aside and tapped on the glass. ‘You’re rushing, Bridget,’ she yelled. ‘I expect you to do this properly.’ She dropped the curtain, walked towards the dining room and stopped. Abby cried, little shaky tears, everything to herself. The ceiling began a crack sound. It had to be Lizzie. My stomach cramped. I’d eaten pear, eaten mutton broth.

  The ceiling cracked again and Abby looked up, went to the kitchen, her stomach in rumbles as she neared the counter. She took a johnnycake, held it like a paperweight. She bit, debris falling into the collar of her blouse. Abby brushed herself off, glanced at the floor, down at the mess I had made. ‘Where’s this coming from?’ she said. Crumbs led her to the broth spill at the stove. I heard her stomach. She bent over, stuck her finger in the broth. I noticed her wedding ring tight on her finger. I could suck at a finger like that. How she grunted about.

  Abby stood, shook her legs out, shook her worn leather boots and thick ankles. She had a tear at the bottom of her skirt. I thought women like her spent money on themselves.

  ‘Bridget can’t even keep the floors clean,’ she spat.

  The ceiling cracked again and Abby looked up, followed the creaking above into the dining room, right close to the table and her legs quavered. She sniffed the air, said, ‘What on God’s earth is that smell?’ She went back to the kitchen. Sniff, sniff. She went into the sitting room. Sniff, sniff. I was giving myself away.

  ‘Lizzie,’ Abby called out. ‘Lizzie, come down here.’

  A door opened upstairs and Lizzie descended the wooden stairs. She came into the sitting room, stood a distance from Abby, wore a blue dress underneath a long-sleeved white apron. My stomach cramped. Fruit doesn’t do this to you.

  ‘What?’ Lizzie’s voice a lick.

  ‘Do you smell that horrid stink?’

  Lizzie sucked in the air around her, exhaled. ‘I don’t smell a thing.’

  ‘It’s more in the kitchen, I think.’

  Lizzie entered the kitchen, took a breath. ‘I don’t smell it.’

  ‘It’s a smell of rotting or urine or . . .’

  ‘You’re probably smelling yourself.’

  ‘What a vile thing to say.’ Abby crossed her arm over her heart.

  Lizzie shrugg
ed. ‘I have no idea what you want me to say when I don’t smell a thing.’ Lizzie had a snap to her.

  For a time Abby said nothing and Lizzie took slow steps towards her, closed the gap. They watched each other. Then Abby said, ‘Why are you wearing an apron?’

  Lizzie smoothed her hands over white, smiled. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, Mrs Borden.’ She took a step closer and Abby’s stomach rumbled.

  ‘You been eating the mutton?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘I’ve had some, yes.’ Abby was almost a whisper.

  ‘Did you manage to leave me any?’

  Abby scratched at her temples. ‘I assumed you’d already eaten.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone’s left mess all over the floor.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t you?’

  I pressed my face hard against the wooden chair leg, smelled thick wood polish.

  ‘You little pig.’ Abby was a reflex, slapped Lizzie across the cheek and mouth, drew blood.

  Lizzie gave a small lip bite, tasted herself. She folded then unfolded her arms, pulled herself close to Abby, leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. Lizzie pressed hard into Abby, pushed her head slightly back. For a moment, Abby took it. Then Lizzie stepped away, wiped her lips on her apron, left behind a bloodstain. The women said nothing.