See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  Lizzie filled the doorframe. ‘Why were you in my room?’

  I took a step in, thought she would move. Our shoulders touched. ‘Mrs Borden asked me ta dust. I knew ya’d not like it but she wouldn’t listen.’ I hated being this close.

  ‘She’s impossible.’ Lizzie stood her ground. We shared breath.

  ‘Then yer uncle knocked while I was up ’ere and I forgot all ’bout it.’

  Lizzie brightened. ‘Uncle’s here?’

  ‘Earlier, while ya were out. He said he’ll be back this evenin’.’ The sun moved across the roof, cast a shadow in the room.

  Lizzie shoved me away from her, clapped her hands. ‘Oh, goody.’ She smiled too wide for her own face.

  She let me inside and I got the rags and bucket. I looked at the white aprons on her swooning sofa. She saw me. ‘I’ve got many things to do.’

  ‘Okay.’ I looked at the aprons again, couldn’t help it. What was she going to do with them?

  ‘Tell them I shan’t be down until much later.’

  She pushed on my shoulders, got me out of the room, shut the door.

  Evening. I went about my night-time jobs. Mr Borden sat on the sofa, talked of how his neck and shoulder ached. ‘It’s like a long cramp,’ he told Mrs Borden, rolled his neck from side to side. She sat next to him, put her hands on the sore spot. ‘Does it hurt when I do this?’

  ‘No.’

  She kneaded him, her fingers in the dough of his skin. ‘Does it hurt when I do this?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  She kept kneading and Mr Borden said nothing, closed his eyes and grimaced. I could’ve told him he had wood-chop neck, the pain from felling birds, the pain like my daddy would get from working farms, chopping wood for fires, the pain like my brothers had from blacksmithing. The way you fix that pain is to never begin in the first place. Oh, but the things that are done.

  I kept at setting the dining table, polishing cutlery extra careful till I could see myself in the back of spoons, the pitches of forks. I’d catch the sight of Mr Borden with his hand on Mrs Borden’s knees. It almost hung there, like a mistake, but Mrs Borden didn’t shoo him away and she kept kneading. ‘It might be time for you to see Dr Bowen,’ Mrs Borden said.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ll see him tomorrow morning.’

  They agreed into each other, Mrs Borden murming, murming, Mr Borden clearing his throat and nodding. I was done with everything in the dining room and came out to tell them so.

  ‘Ask Lizzie to join us,’ Mr Borden said.

  I thought of his slapping her, did not want to bring anyone down to that again.

  He cleared his throat. There was something about his eyes, something that made him look like he wasn’t there. It put a chill in my back. I got myself busy then, went to the kitchen and took a pot of mutton broth off the stove, ladled into earthenware bowls. It was when I was about to head upstairs to fetch Lizzie that there was a knock at the front door. My stomach dropped and I prayed that I wouldn’t be asked to answer it. I heard the knock again, and Mrs Borden said, ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll have had a busy afternoon and not care to talk all night,’ Mr Borden said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  I heard Mrs Borden pepper off to the entrance and open the door.

  John’s voice filled the house and after they were done with niceties, the door closed and they came into the sitting room.

  ‘Andrew!’ John stuck out his arm for a handshake.

  Mr Borden was slow to take it, said, ‘John.’

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I trust you’re well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They kept the handshake going.

  ‘Let us get your coat, John,’ Mrs Borden said before asking me to come out from the kitchen.

  Out I came and John smiled at me. I saw his teeth, something caught between them, and he kneeled down to my height, made me take his jacket from his shoulders. They kept speaking while I hung the jacket up and on the way back through the sitting room, from the corner of my eye I thought I saw something outside. I looked towards the window, saw the evening begin to black through the glass, saw all four of us reflected, saw Mr Borden step away from John and wipe his hand along his trousers. I went to press against the window, saw nothing out there and so I stood about, waited to be told what my next move would be.

  ‘I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, John?’ Mrs Borden asked.

  ‘I always do. Although, sadly, I didn’t get around to carrying out all my business.’

  ‘What exactly are you doing in town?’ Mr Borden showed his teeth.

  ‘This and that. You know how it is.’

  ‘Man of secrets, are you?’

  John laughed, Mr Borden stared him down.

  ‘You must be famished, John. Come and have supper,’ Mrs Borden said.

  ‘You spoil me, Abby.’

  Mrs Borden blushed.

  ‘Just like my sister did.’ John smiled at her and she eyed the carpet, shrank into herself.

  ‘Yes, well, come along and let us feed you.’

  She looked at me then, said, ‘Bridget, take care of everything, will you?’

  ‘Yes, marm.’

  They moved into the dining room. I heard a thump against the sitting room window, cupped my hands against the glass and looked out. I half expected to see a ghost. I saw nothing. ‘Pshaw,’ I said. ‘Mind’s playin’ tricks on me.’ Into the dining room I went. Not a one sitting close to the other. John was all elbows on the table.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Mrs Borden asked me.

  ‘I thought I saw somethin’ out the window.’

  ‘What was it?’ Mr Borden asked.

  ‘Nothin’, I don’t think. I couldn’t see much.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’ John smiled, the way he did.

  ‘No, I don’t think I was.’ It came out strong. I know what I see, what I hear.

  Mr Borden cleared his throat, like he was scraping the sides of it with a knife.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I went about serving what they wanted. Mr Borden, mutton broth, bread; John, mutton broth, bread; Mrs Borden, a slice of cake, two butter biscuits. All of them a cup of tea. The slurping, the chewing, digging into my ear. I stood against the wall, waited.

  ‘Business doing well?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Borden said.

  ‘How so?’

  Mr Borden took a mouthful of broth, was red in the face. ‘Don’t be crossing lines, John.’

  ‘Dear Andrew, I wouldn’t dream of it. Simply making conversation.’ John gripped Mr Borden’s forearm. ‘We’re family. I’d never want to upset.’

  Mr Borden pulled away. ‘All the same, my business is my business.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They went about their eating. My underthings clung to my sweating places. I did not care to know any of this. I looked at Mrs Borden, wondered where she had put my money tin. Mrs Borden breathed out and in through her mouth, the way she does when she stands by my side as I cook, when she doesn’t like how I go about adding too many herbs, makes me get that uneasy feeling. Mr Borden dug his spoon into the broth, clanged it against the earthenware bowl, clanged so loud that I thought he’d dig on through to the table, dig a hole big enough to throw John inside. I pushed myself into the wall harder than before, my feet cracking the floorboards. The three of them slowly eyed me, as if I had just told them that I’d laced their meal with poison.

  ‘Don’t you have something better to do? Go fetch Lizzie,’ Mr Borden said.

  ‘I thought she could stay on, help us with our dinner.’ Mrs Borden scratched her temples and Mr Borden made knuckles, rocked them back and forth on the table, and I said, ‘I can wait close by if ya need me.’

  She frowned. I couldn’t tell anger or sadness. I did not care to find out. I was out the room then, almost skipped out, closed the door behind me. I heard them talking a little, closed my ear t
o them, and I went to the parlour, got the idea that perhaps Mrs Borden had hid my money there. I lighted an extra kerosene lamp, coughed away the fumes and began searching. On hands and knees I crawled the room, checked under the low sofa, saw nothing but a taffy wrapper. I fished the wrapper out, rubbed my thumb and finger over the wax paper, held it against my nose. Butter, molasses. The soft comfort. Lizzie had been treating herself again. I put the wrapper in my apron pocket, kept searching. There was nothing under sofas, nothing behind the calico and velvet cushions, nothing inside the upright piano, nothing in this room they kept for appearances. I moved to the cupboard underneath the stairs, opened it, shined the lamp right inside and spread apart the coats. There was no tin and I started to feel a shame for looking, that Mrs Borden had made me act like a gutter thief, had made me feel that wanting to leave was the most traitor act. I spread the coats back to rightful places, took a little feel of the first Mrs Borden’s fur coat that Emma and Lizzie still kept in the cupboard. The brown fur was coarse, reminded me of stray dogs. I shut the cupboard, heard Lizzie’s bedroom door open, heard her feet huffing right down the stairs, all the way down to me at the bottom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She pointed a stubby finger in my direction.

  ‘I’ve lost somethin’. Just lookin’ for it in places.’

  ‘Better not let Mrs Borden see. She’ll think you’re stealing.’

  ‘I’m sure she already thinks it.’

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Oh, Bridget. Aren’t you her favourite anymore?’

  ‘It’s nothin’.’

  She came towards me as if she were creeping about. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’re in the dinin’ room. Yer uncle is with ’em.’

  Lizzie looked past me, suckered her lips tight. ‘What are they discussing?’

  ‘I tried not listenin’.’

  ‘Come on, give me something.’ Her dull blue eyes looked right inside me, like she could wrench it out. I didn’t want her to touch me and so I told her, ‘Yer uncle asked ’bout yer father’s business.’

  She clapped her hands. ‘Ha! That ought to start things up.’ Lizzie was bright, seemed to lighten in her body.

  We headed through the sitting room and Lizzie asked me to fetch her a bite to eat. ‘I don’t want broth. Anything but that dirty old mutton you’ve been reheating all week.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Lizzie.’ Nobody should have to eat that dirty old mutton.

  She pulled at herself, straightened her skirt, fixed her collar, ran her tongue over teeth and went into the dining room, made the room break into welcome.

  ‘Darling Lizzie!’ John said.

  ‘Hello, Uncle.’

  A chair was pulled out, legs dragged on the carpet, made me cringe, and I went to the kitchen and set about making Lizzie supper. I could hear them talking, mostly Lizzie, all her daily travels.

  ‘I bumped into Mrs Hinkley today, Father.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘She asked me to read to her.’

  Cutlery clinked.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Lizzie,’ Mrs Borden said.

  ‘Anyway, I told her yes and so I’ll be doing that of an evening.’ Lizzie was hoity.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Hinkley?’ John asked.

  ‘She’s from church. She’s an old lady losing her sight,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Her father made money from the war. A wealthy family,’ Mr Borden said.

  Cutlery clinked.

  ‘I see,’ John said.

  ‘Well, she happens to think I’m good company.’

  ‘Has she heard you read?’ Mr Borden said.

  ‘Father!’

  ‘You’ve been known to stumble on words, be slow.’ Mr Borden sounded like he was enjoying himself, like he’d been storing up days of meanness.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable.’

  I shook my head. Whole bloody family was crazy. I thought of leaving right there and then. But Mrs Borden had my tin. She’d got me good. I cut bread into thick slices, slathered on butter and raspberry jam, had a teaspoon myself. The taste reminded me of Nanna, her standing in our kitchen at home, her singing ‘The Rovin’ Girl’ as she stirred raspberry and sugar in the preserve pot, made jam that got your tongue bursting with happiness. Nanna cooking, Nanna singing, me dancing around the kitchen, bumping into her as I joined in and sang, ‘And there she came up over that hill, her rovin’ heart still beatin’ true. I bless the day I got to say, “My girl came home with the love that once was mine.”’

  Before I went back into the Bordens I had another teaspoon of jam. I deserved it. I put everything on a serving tray, held my breath and made my way to the dining room.

  They were still talking about Lizzie’s new job. ‘Well I for one think it’s wonderful you’re caring for someone in the community,’ John said. ‘Charity begins at home, they say.’

  Mr Borden said, ‘Of course. As long as Lizzie doesn’t become sidetracked.’

  Lizzie gave Mr Borden a mighty fine dirty look. ‘By what?’

  ‘Just remember what does and does not belong to you.’ Mr Borden raised his spoon in the air, Lizzie clasped hands on the table. I put her plate in front of her, poured her tea, poured them all tea. It was thick in there, made it hard to breathe. Lizzie breathed rapid hot. She took a bite of jammed bread, dripped a little on the tablecloth. She was always making me clean more. I went to leave the room when Mrs Borden said, ‘Won’t you stay?’ I tensed, my neck pinched, made my jaw feel like it’d been hit with a hammer.

  ‘What on earth for?’ Mr Borden said, saved me from an evening with them.

  ‘We may need extra things,’ she said.

  ‘It’s alright, Mrs Borden. Ya can fetch me if ya should need me.’

  Mrs Borden’s face prickled up like a horned melon, her lips tight and pale. She could do nothing but nod yes. Oh, I smiled big at her. I got out of there, left them stewing.

  I went looking for my tin along the small crevices leading up to the attic. It was hot upstairs, sweat beaded under my hair. I took my bonnet off, fanned my face with it. I thought to check Mr and Mrs Borden’s bedroom. I turned the handle, knew it would be locked but did it anyway. Some things need proving, some things need trying. Locked. I came out onto the landing, pressed my head against the window, looked into the thick night. I wanted to be out there, wanted the ringing of crickets in my ear, wanted to be walking, going no place in particular, just me on my own, maybe even me and Mary. We could happen across a friend, two friends, their friends, smelling of hot tobacco, of kitchens and yards. We would take to some of Fall River’s back alleys, to the places where you could gamble some, dance some like we were in Ireland, back at the crossroads on a Sunday after church. We’d talk about that, how we missed it, a fiddler tickling strings, us being out in the fresh air, the kicked-up dirt road in our eyes, on our tongues, shoes cobbling leather against one another, tap, tap, tap, ankle, toe, ankle, toe, the fiddler mustering the winds to whip us up good, us dancing faster, us laughing, us alive. Mary and me in the alleyways of Fall River. She was the best to dance with, the way she’d hook right under your arm, all tight, and make you feel like you could fly. ‘Swing me round again!’ I’d say and Mary would. I could kiss Mary for making me forget about the Bordens from time to time. Often I would, sloppy on her cheeks, just like a sister.

  A thunderclap of doors slamming. Oh, I felt that through the window. I pulled back, put my bonnet back on. Another door echoed and the house shuddered. There’d be no more searching for my tin tonight. Downstairs I found Mr and Mrs Borden in the sitting room, all quiet, him on the sofa, she on the chair near the window.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Mrs Borden asked. She looked me over, tried to find a secret on me.

  ‘I took to me room, marm.’

  She said nothing. What could she? I eased on in, went to the dining room, began to stack the dishes. I got to wondering where John and Lizzie were. Lizzie had left behind more jam, had breadcrumbs on her seat. I brushed them off into my hand, put the crumbs in my p
ocket. Taking dishes to the scullery, I noticed the door to the basement open, watched Lizzie come, a storm. She looked like she’d been crying and she blew by me and walked into the sitting room. ‘I’m going to see Alice Russell,’ she hogged.

  ‘It’s getting on,’ Mr Borden said.

  ‘You’ve not worried about that in the past, Father.’

  I heard her open the cupboard under the stairs, move a hanger, close the cupboard again. Out she went through the front door, made a little earthquake inside.

  ‘You need to talk to her about the way she shuts the door, Andrew.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  I took a wet cloth, poked back into the dining room and began wiping everything down. The Bordens were quiet, the way they had become. I could never get used to the hot and cold rhythm of the house, could never trust it. Mammy and Daddy, always the chattering kind, always talking of feelings, always knowing where things stood. Good or bad. That’s what I was used to. Mr and Mrs Borden were so quiet that I could hear John breathe his way up the basement stairs and it was then that I knew he’d been outside and that Lizzie must’ve been there with him. I did not care to know their conversations. John stood at the dining room door, watched me.

  ‘You’ve missed a spot, Bridget.’ He pointed to Lizzie’s chair leg.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Would hate for you to attract flies. They’re so difficult to get rid of.’

  There were many other things difficult to get rid of.

  From the sitting room Mr Borden said, ‘Would you care to join us, John?’

  He moved in and I checked over the chair leg. The tiniest of jam. I went to wipe it down, stopped myself. If Mrs Borden was going to punish me by taking my tin, I’d leave it be, see what the sweetness would attract. I stopped my head in the door to the sitting room.

  ‘Sorry to be interruptin’, marm, but I’ll do the dishes and be done for the night.’

  ‘Thank you, Bridget.’

  John sat himself across from Mrs Borden, stretched his legs and stroked his short beard. She eyed him, pulled her arm across her stomach. ‘Actually, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m feeling poorly and need to retire.’ She stood.

  ‘What a shame, Abby. I was looking forward to having a last cup of tea with you.’