See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  ‘It better not be too big. The last leg you allowed her to buy went to waste,’ Father said.

  ‘I’m sure it’s perfectly suitable,’ Mrs Borden said.

  Father grunted. ‘I’d prefer people be mindful.’

  The sun knocked along the sitting room window and came in through the small opening between the curtains, bounced onto my fingers, made my knuckles pop and grow. ‘Lizzie,’ Mrs Borden said, ‘since you’re in the mood to stay at home, why don’t you have lunch with us?’

  Father smoothed his hands over his chin, his fingers long skin matches, light up and burn, Father dear. I heard Bridget in the kitchen blowing over the food to cool it slightly. She coughed and the house whip-cracked above us. Father, his eyes over me again.

  ‘Yes, I think I shall have lunch with you,’ I said.

  Father smiled at Mrs Borden. My stomach pulsed, churned.

  We sat around hard wood and were silent as Bridget served. Father asked her about meat prices and I said, ‘Gosh, for once can’t we just live a little? I know we can afford it . . .’

  Father hammered his fist on the table. ‘It’s my money. I ask the questions here, thank you, Lizzie.’

  I placed the mutton in my mouth, dry hot flesh, and swallowed hard. ‘I hate that you act like we’re poor, Father. You’ve a building with your name on it!’

  Mrs Borden crossed knife and fork on the plate and wiped her mouth. ‘Your father works very hard and deserves your respect.’

  ‘I was merely pointing out a fact.’

  Bridget walked into the kitchen and stood without facing us. She rested on one leg and slid her hand back and forth over the kitchen counter.

  A clink of cutlery on china. Father cut through mutton, sawed his teeth forwards over his bottom lip, looked over the dining table. I waited for him to yell at me but everything was silent.

  ‘What’s the matter, Father?’

  He chewed mutton then swallowed. Mrs Borden wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, her lips red from rubbing. For a moment she looked young. For a moment. ‘Everyone enjoying the mutton?’ Mrs Borden asked. A little lump of animal flesh was stuck to the side of my throat. It was heavy, made me sweat. I thought of Emma, thought of my boredom. I thought of Europe, how fancy I had been, I even ate caviar!

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I said. Father cut meat like a lumberjack, whomped a large piece of mutton into his mouth. The house was silent. Father didn’t say another word to me that day. I began thinking things.

  We made Emma brew more tea and she came back, the clock on the mantel ticked ticked, seven o’clock. Uncle came down the stairs, heavy leather, and said, ‘Girls! This isn’t the time to be arguing.’

  ‘Were we loud?’ I asked, so sweet.

  ‘Just a little. But it’s understandable.’ Uncle kissed the top of my head and said, ‘I think it’s time we eat, don’t you?’

  My stomach tightened. ‘Oh, let’s do!’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Emma said.

  Uncle rubbed his fingers over his stomach, here kitty kitty, and patted three times. ‘Pears don’t sustain a man.’ He laughed. Uncle could be very charming. I caught Emma rolling her eyes.

  We sat in the parlour, my hand scratched along the velvet covering of the armchair and right then I was on my Grand Trip in London, a sunbonnet on a mannequin, a store bell ringing, smell of animal hide and molasses from the backroom workshop. I took my gloves off and ran my fingertips over the sunbonnet’s dark-green velvet. The stitching was precise, the brim steadfast. Tiny gold diamantes were sewn into the front of the hat, reminded me of sun dreams. I leaned close, took a deep breath, something slightly spicy and prickly had settled into the fabric, made me warm and tingle. The excitement of new things. I leaned closer, quickly licked the hat, wanted to devour it. I wouldn’t find anything like it in Fall River.

  ‘Lizzie!’ Emma shrieked.

  I snapped my eyes wide. ‘Yes?’ I put my palm to mouth. I licked salt, a hint of wood polish, some taste of me.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’ Emma was annoyed. Was it wrong to give in to impulse? She made me feel like Father did, ashamed of who I was, a perpetual child.

  Cold mutton soup. I smiled. ‘Anything, dear sister.’

  Uncle patted his stomach and Emma pushed her boots underneath her chair and dragged them along the carpet. She left the room.

  ‘Uncle, do you think it will take the police very long to find who did this?’

  He arched a brow. ‘Given the strangeness of it all, I’d say it will be some time before there’s any resolution.’

  I rested my head against the edge of the chair, wondered how long it would take for me to feel comfortable, to feel safe.

  Emma came with food.

  ‘I’m mighty ravenous,’ Uncle said.

  Stale bread, butter, old mutton broth. Rotting fruit. Fresh milk, apple-spiced cake. Uncle cut into the bread, spread butter thick, the way you do when you know there is no one there to stop you. Emma watched him and sipped her tea. I took some cake and broke chunks, let the deliciousness form soft pyramids in my cheeks. Sugar sang.

  ‘Mighty delicious, Emma,’ Uncle said.

  Emma stared at me. ‘You should eat something other than cake, Lizzie. Why don’t you have some mutton broth?’

  ‘I’m not that hungry.’ Cake went in my mouth. ‘You should have some, if you like.’

  We ate more. I ate greedy.

  After a time, Uncle said, ‘You know, when I was out this morning, I would have accused you of blasphemy if you had told me such a beautiful day would end so violently. To think your poor Abby was attacked so soon in the day.’

  I drank milk. Emma dragged her finger around the rim of the teacup, made a horrible cling-warp sound. ‘How do you know for certain that Mrs Borden died so soon after breakfast?’

  ‘I’m assuming.’ Uncle stuffed bread into his mouth. ‘How else would you explain it? I’ll tell you one thing, it was rather surprising to come back to the house and find swarms of people out the front.’

  ‘I’m well aware of how shocking it was,’ Emma said.

  Uncle stopped eating. ‘Of course, dear Emma. I should’ve realised . . .’

  Emma stood. ‘Excuse me. I need to get some fresh air.’

  ‘Don’t go outside,’ I said. ‘The killer might be out there.’

  ‘I’ll just open the side door.’

  She left. Uncle and I ate.

  At the top of the stairs, in the guestroom, the heat of Mrs Borden’s blood came to a simmer. Uncle went into the room, sat on the bed. ‘So strange knowing the horror started in here,’ he said.

  ‘It had to start somewhere.’

  He tapped his knees together. ‘Well, that is true. The police have a few theories.’

  ‘They do?’ I needed to know them.

  ‘All wrong, I’m sure.’ Uncle lifted his palm towards his face. His long fingers were stick insects prancing. He smelled his fingers and said, ‘How on earth did so much dirt get under these things?’ He took out his handkerchief and began twisting the cotton underneath his nails, cleaning away the dirt. I smelled it, smelled the earth.

  We were quiet. I caught sight of blood by the radiator on the other side of the room, blood flies, blood soars, and it made my stomach drop. ‘Are you sure you want to stay in this room?’

  ‘Of course, my dear one. It doesn’t bother me. There’s only a little bit of blood.’ He smiled bright, like Mother had, and it made me feel better again, feel warm inside, like she was in the room with us. My uncle, the gift.

  He patted the bed next to him and I sat. There were flecks of blood at the end of the bed. I covered them with my hand. ‘How long will you stay with us?’

  ‘As long as I can, Lizzie.’ He smiled, showed teeth. Uncle always knew what to say to make everything better. Then he said, ‘Did you notice anyone in the house today?

  ‘I’ve already told the police . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about what you told police. I’m simply curious. Did yo
u notice anyone in the house? A man, for instance?’

  I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. ‘No.’

  He looked at my hands then he looked me up and down. ‘Are you still upset about last night’s conversation with Andrew?’

  I began to boil. ‘I hadn’t given it a second thought.’

  Uncle eyed me. What was he thinking? I could hear an early-evening wind knock against the side of the house, wolfish. Something creeping towards me.

  Uncle glanced over his shoulder at the place where Mrs Borden’s body had been. ‘I wonder if she saw it coming?’ he whispered.

  My forehead ached. I rubbed. ‘Maybe. You would think yes . . .’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He studied me some more, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand like wheat in the sun. Then he said, ‘Did you go into the barn today?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I went in a few times today. Why?’

  A slow smile broke across his face. It made me feel uneasy. ‘Lizzie, would you like to talk?’

  I heard Emma bang her way through the house. How she made my head hurt. I’d talk about anything to make the pain stop. ‘Okay.’

  Uncle stood from the bed, closed the guestroom door and turned to me.

  I unfastened my braids, shook my hair loose. I turned to look at the dressing table and saw Mrs Borden’s blood licking the bottoms of the table legs. There were a few strands of her grey hair stuck to the dresser handles and I wondered how long they would be there before someone had to clean the room and make the mess go away. There were bloodied boot prints surrounding the bed, a map of distress and disbelief. Mrs Borden had been taken all over the room, from the window to the radiator to the doorway, where the boot prints hesitated before running down the stairs, screaming that she was dead. Now she was placed face up on the dining table.

  The strangest of days. ‘Uncle, I’m not quite sure what is real.’

  He rubbed my shoulders, like he always did. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll tell you what’s real if need be.’

  ‘What are Emma and I going to do now?’ I asked.

  ‘My advice is to stay together.’

  I looked at Uncle and he brushed the hair off my shoulders. Then he smiled and said, ‘Have I ever told you how much you remind me of your mother?’

  FOURTEEN

  BRIDGET

  4 August 1892

  THE LAST TIME I tried to leave the house, Mrs Borden raised me to four dollars a week and took me to Boston. ‘You know my back isn’t what it used to be. I need her to escort me around,’ she told Mr Borden when he questioned the expense of a second train ticket.

  ‘Fine.’

  We would be taking a day trip to visit her aunt who kept forgetting things, forgetting people. Mrs Borden wanted to make a good impression. The night before we left I washed Mrs Borden’s hair in Castile soap and rosemary, scraped my nails over her scalp, got her under my fingernails. ‘You won’t regret it, Bridget.’ I didn’t stop to ask what she meant.

  And so we were packed onto the train, Mrs Borden in her beige travel coat, me in black, me carrying her red and purple floral carpetbag full of her needs, and she let me sit by the window while she sat right close to my side, and the whistle blew as the train moved forwards, Fall River miled behind us. We got the giddy rush of being away.

  ‘Won’t it be nice, just the two of us?’ she said.

  The way she thought of us. That couldn’t be right. We weren’t family. But she was easy in the face, had a smile, and she took me by the hand, so cold and fleshy, stroked and patted me like Mammy would, and I told her, ‘It’s good ta be outta the house.’

  Boston. I helped her out of the train, took her weight as she stepped the wide gap onto the platform, and we weaved through the thicket of people, weaved through women in white-and-navy-striped cotton and silk dresses, and we came out of the station, walked along the stone-tar sidewalk and waited at the edge for a streetcar.

  ‘I always forget how much bigger it is here,’ Mrs Borden said.

  It was bigger alright, got me thinking that working a house in Boston would get me home quicker.

  We boarded a streetcar, rested against the smooth wooden railings and I asked Mrs Borden, ‘Where we meetin’ yer aunt?’

  She licked her lips, said, ‘We aren’t. We’re having a day of it.’

  Another thing I’d have to keep quiet.

  The streetcar dinged, took corners and downed street after street and I got hit with city air, that mix of chimney wood and mud and coal, perfume and leather soles, of body smells that came when people walked close together, of that big-time excitement, made me giddy, and we downed street after street and then we were out the front of Filene’s department store. Mrs Borden big-bosomed her chest, made herself seem grander. ‘I bet you’ve never come here before.’

  ‘No, marm.’

  She took my arm, pushed me through the wide doors, took me to the dresses, the kind Emma and Lizzie wore to church. She made me change. Dress after dress. Silk and damask cotton too much for my skin. ‘That is wonderful,’ she said, again and again. While she made me her living doll, I spied a little parasol, purple lacing, silver embossed handle, and I fancied myself owning it, fancied myself making Mary say, ‘La-di-da,’ when I showed it to her. But we bought nothing. When Mrs Borden was bored, we left the store, and continued the day outside.

  We linked arms, and Mrs Borden daughtered me along Park Street, past Brewer Fountain, water whaling above us, cool splash on our faces, past the church and its too-white steeple, past the red, white and blue draped flags of the Union Club, rosettes curving into the brick façade. On we went and on we went towards Boston Common. We walked through those spiked cast-iron gates, spikes like in the tales Daddy told me, spikes to stick heads on, warn off your enemies. Mrs Borden took a moment, let me go, stood on her own. She turned to me then, said, ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, marm.’

  ‘I love the elms,’ she said. ‘I wonder just how tall they grow. Wouldn’t it be amazing to be as tall as them?’ She raised her arms, made her dress pull tight across her chest.

  I looked up into their fat, green canopy, watched the breeze twitch rough leaves, saw a wild rabbit come up to a grey, split-bark trunk, rub itself against it, shed its fur. ‘It would.’

  We spent an hour sitting in long grass, an hour guessing the smells caught in the air.

  ‘That’s roasted coffee.’

  ‘That’s the harbour.’

  ‘That’s fresh horses.’

  ‘That’s a shucked clam.’

  Our stomachs begged for food. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I know somewhere.’ I took her paper-thin hands in mine, pulled her up off the ground. We walked through the Common to School Street, went a little further till we came to Parker House hotel. I knew about this place. ‘Misses Lizzie and Emma eat here,’ I said.

  ‘And now you do.’

  The hotel was all brick and limestone, like a manor house I’d once seen in Dublin when Daddy had to take work on the Liffey. We went in, took a seat in the dining room, listened to the rabble talk of people who knew people. We were brought fresh, crusty bread rolls, dark-yellow salted butter, a bowl of cream-grey clam chowder thickened with oyster crackers, a sprinkle of parsley. I dug my spoon in, slurped like a Borden. I’d never seen Mrs Borden smile so much.

  We left in the afternoon, headed back to the cotton-mill fog of Fall River. Mrs Borden patted my hand all the way and when the train slowed, pulled up at the station, Mrs Borden said, ‘Staying has its benefits, Bridget.’

  She soured me then, made me remember that I wouldn’t be going home anytime soon.

  I woke, a new morning, same as all mornings. The heat itched me awake and I rolled over, felt my head swoon as I moved, my stomach flip. The day ahead would not be good. I turned on the lamp, looked at my family on the wall, told them, ‘I’m askin’ her today ta give it back.’

  I lay in bed. The morning was quiet, like it h
adn’t been in a long time, not anyone walking around, not the sound of a pigeon. ‘Alright, I’ll get up,’ I said, and I unlocked the door, came out onto the landing, noticed how light it was getting outside. I’d overslept. I heeled down the stairs, didn’t stop to listen to Mr and Mrs Borden. I got the mutton broth on the heat—God, it stunk—had to taste it to add more salt and I noticed the wall by the stove shined, had two long streaks of a silvery wetness. I wiped my apron across the wall, smelled the cotton. Butter and fat. I wiped again and the streaks started their dripping. I heard someone come down the back stairs, took a look behind. Mrs Borden. She came towards me, said nothing at first, and I stirred the pot. She stood and watched and finally she said, ‘You’re starting late.’

  ‘Sorry, marm.’

  ‘Don’t let being sorry stop you from working.’

  I went on getting some johnnycakes started. She watched and soon Mr Borden came down the stairs, carried with him his slops pail, and I heard his urine swirl inside it, heard Mrs Borden grind her teeth. The smell was sharp and fungal. The kitchen got hot, got crowded. Mr Borden went outside, emptied the pail. I stirred the pot again and Mrs Borden watched me, scratched her temples.

  ‘Go get Mr Morse,’ she said. She gave me a look, tuttled her hand in my direction, and I did what I was told, did what I had to do to make the day go faster.

  I knocked on his door, heard him clear his throat on the other side, his morning thickness coming up, being spat into the slops pail.

  ‘Mr Morse. It’s breakfast.’

  He rushed to the door, opened it. We were face to face, too close for the morning. ‘Good morning, Bridget.’

  ‘Mornin’.’

  ‘Isn’t it a wonderful morning?’ His breath like old socks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A good night’s sleep always puts a spring in my step.’

  I nodded. ‘Breakfast is ready.’ I left him there, went back to the kitchen and began to serve up the mutton broth and johnnycakes.

  John joined the Bordens in the dining room, and he and Mrs Borden talked about how they’d slept, the dreams they’d had. I took in food, tried not to smell the broth, tried to steady nausea. I left them alone, went and sat on the side door steps, put head between legs, felt like I was on a ship headed home, up and over waves, my head north and south. I listened to morning foot traffic along the street and closed my eyes, counted to ten and zero, zero to ten, again, again, waited for nausea to pass.