Lizzie was calling my name, got me to come back inside.
‘What are you doing today?’ She said it without blinking, looked at me in a strange way.
‘I don’t know until Mrs Borden gives me orders.’
‘There’s a fabric sale. You should go buy yourself a few yards so you can make yourself a new uniform.’ She’d sugared her voice.
‘I’d not be doin’ that. I don’t have the energy.’
‘But it’s only for today. Mrs Borden will be going.’ She rushed along, sounded pained.
‘I’m not well, Miss Lizzie. I’d not . . .’
She eyed me, said, ‘Fine, suit yourself,’ and left me alone, went to her father in the sitting room.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘How are you today, Father?’
‘Remains to be seen. Still somewhat unwell.’ He said it slow. I wondered when he’d tell her about the pigeons.
I went to the dining room, collected the dishes and took them to the scullery, started to wash them. Mrs Borden came in then, was thunder, said, ‘Once you’ve finished you’ll be washing the outside windows.’ The way she said it, like we’d never known each other before.
I rubbed cloth over a bowl, said nothing to her. Mrs Borden stayed, watched, then said, ‘Are you still leaving?’
I rubbed. ‘Yes, Mrs Borden.’ I looked at her, her eyes a-droop, glassy, and she seemed so worn down. I thought of my mammy. ‘Marm, I was hopin’ for me tin.’
She shook her head.
‘Mrs Borden, it’s all me money in there. I cooked and cleaned. I stayed.’
She rubbed her temples. We looked at each other, heard Lizzie and Mr Borden talk and talk, the way they did, and she said, ‘Do those windows properly and we’ll see.’
‘Yes, marm.’ I tried not to be sour, so I told her something true. ‘I still think ’bout our trip ta Boston.’ I smiled.
‘Oh?’ she said. I couldn’t read her.
‘Thank you, Abby.’ Her name slid from the tongue, was easy. I was close to going home.
Mrs Borden took steps away from me, wiped her eye, went to speak but said nothing. Instead, she went up the back stairs, left me with the dishes, left me to hear Lizzie tell Mr Borden, ‘I’m going to feed my pigeons.’
I finished the last dish, came into the kitchen to see Mr Borden stand there, his shoulders rolled forwards. I wiped my wet hands on my apron and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ pushed me out of his way and tripped through the side door.
I went to the basement, got my soap for the windows, heard Lizzie scream. The pigeons.
Outside in the heat, my face like a fire, my stomach churned a terror, made my head bounce, had me on all fours letting myself go, all that vomit into the grass. After, I thought I heard a tapping from the barn, thought it must’ve been pigeons, must’ve been Lizzie, and went to the left side of the house, started cleaning the windows. Along the bottom of the glass were finger smudges and I wondered when they’d got there, when it was that Lizzie decided to grubby my hard work. I tipped the bucket out, headed to the house to refill, thought of telling Mrs Borden what I had found.
With clean water I went back to the windows, noticed half-eaten pears leading from the pear arbour to the side of the house. John and Lizzie had been out there the night before. What strange games had they played? Sweat dripped down thighs and I let myself go again, vomited at my feet.
‘Bridget?’ Mary’s voice behind the fence.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are ya alright?’
‘Never better.’ Oh, I wanted to sleep then. I leaned into the fence.
‘What’s gotten into ya?’
‘Me own cookin’.’ I paused, waited for nausea to pass. ‘Or maybe Mrs Borden’s punishin’ me.’
Mary laughed.
‘I’m meanin’ it. Probably rather see me poisoned than leave.’
‘Lordy. Wait there.’ Mary scuffled behind the fence, limped away, and soon enough she was in front of me, her cherub cheeks rosed, her skirt hiked up so that it showed the bottom of her knickerbockers.
I looked her over. ‘I interrupt somethin’, did I?’
Mary punched me in the shoulder. ‘Shut up. I’ve been cleanin’ floors.’
‘Ya’ll cause the scene, runnin’ round like that.’
‘Bet not as much as you did when Mrs Borden heard yer news.’
‘She’s got me tin.’ My stomach groaned, a little devil.
‘Ya’ve been held ta ransom!’ Mary hobbled closer to me, put her hand on my forehead. ‘Bridget, yer bloody boilin’.’
I gently pushed her hand away. ‘Keep that up and ya could be a detective.’
‘Ya shouldn’t be out here.’
‘I’ve got no say.’
Mary shook her head. We both looked up at the house, at its little chips of green paint falling, at a spat of dried pigeon dropping next to the sitting room window. A spider spindled its legs in a web. Mr Borden never bothered doing anything about the sides of the house.
Then Mary looked at me, said, ‘Reckon ya’ll be well enough to play Irish switch on Sunday?’
‘Not a worry. I’ll beat ya even if I’m still sick.’
She grinned. ‘Well then, I better get back, get to practising after I wash them floors.’ Mary touched my forehead again, her hand cool and soothing, and she turned to leave.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘what am I gonna do if I can’t get me tin?’
She shrugged shoulders. ‘I bet ya’ll think of some way ta go.’
That was my some way. I looked up at the house, could hear wood cracking in the stove, coming up through the chimney. I went back to washing windows. There had to be some way.
Mrs Borden knocked on the sitting room window, was cross-faced, told me to do it properly, like I never cleaned a window before, like I’d never done this job before. I washed, my hands working the glass in smaller circles, and Mrs Borden squinted eyes, scoured mouth. My wrists cramped. She disappeared and I stopped. I didn’t feel like doing anything after that. I sat awhile, heard my stomach hiss like a demon, heard people thundering up and down Second Street. Everything was getting too much. ‘I’m not doin’ anythin’ more,’ I said, and when I went into the house, saw no one about, I noticed someone had been sick near the dining table. Not even the decency to go outside. ‘Bloody typical.’ I went to take a closer look and Lizzie came up behind me. I told her about the mess, that I was worried about Mrs Borden. ‘She’s too old ta be sick on a hot day like today.’
Lizzie patted my shoulders, I didn’t like her touch, and she stood too close, looked red-cheeked, like she’d been running. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, Bridget.’
‘Where’s Mrs Borden?’
She cocked her head to the side, looked at me like I was a little stupid. ‘She’s had a note to see a sick relative.’
I’d not heard anyone deliver a note, not heard her leave. Lizzie kept looking over her shoulder and I wondered if she was expecting John.
‘No, he left a while ago.’ Lizzie chewed her nail, spat it onto the carpet.
I hadn’t heard him leave either. I wasn’t hearing anything properly. I really needed to rest. Lizzie broke her own vow then, offered to help me clean the dining room mess. ‘You finish the windows and I’ll take care of it.’
I hesitated. If it wasn’t cleaned properly Mrs Borden might not give my tin back. But the thought of having to do it myself . . . ‘Alright.’
Lizzie was up and down, made banging noises, made throat noises, little grunts. She darted into the barn and out again and I couldn’t help but feel she was up to no good. I went to check on her. Lizzie was using a broom handle to pile the vomit into a brown slime hill before picking it up with a cloth, throwing it into a pail. Lizzie and her dry-retching. I wanted to laugh at her. Lizzie only cleaned when she wanted something. I walked away.
The morning kept on, got hotter. I washed a window by the basement, damned Mrs Borden to a fiery pit for making me do this, a
nd Lizzie came to me like a saint, said, ‘Why don’t you come inside and rest.’
In we went. We drank water together. She stared at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood.
‘I’m going upstairs now,’ she said.
‘Alright.’
When she left, I stuck my head in the dining room. She’d gone without cleaning the sick from under the table properly. I took my water into the sitting room, sat awhile on the sofa. The house made no sound.
The clock struck ten and sometime after there was a rattling at the front door, someone trying to get in. I stood, waited. There was a knock, another knock, and Mr Borden yelled out, ‘I can’t open the door.’
I ran to him, fumbled my keys—‘Pshaw!’—and opened the lock, saw him all pale and sweating.
‘Mr Borden, ya alright?’
His eyes rolled, like they didn’t mean to. ‘Unfortunately not. I’ve been sick at work, can’t quite stomach the day.’
He came in, gave me his hat and coat, and I heard Lizzie laugh, saw her standing on the stairs, halfway up, rocking a bit, side to side. Mr Borden went to sit on the sofa in the sitting room, rubbed his hands over his face.
‘Let me make ya comfortable,’ I said.
‘No, Bridget. I’ll look after Father.’ Lizzie was there behind me, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and rest?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Call out when ya need me.’
I left them talking in the sitting room, Lizzie telling him that Mrs Borden was out, and I went up the back stairs, my head and body aching, went up to my room, shut the door a little, and lay hot on my bed.
Last winter, we had snow and wind, right up against the house all night like a ghost knocking to be let in, like it wanted to bury us. I’d gone down the back stairs, my ankles clicking, and I knocked on Mr and Mrs Borden’s bedroom door until my knuckles purpled. Mr Borden opened the door. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m worried about the snow. It’s soundin’ like a blizzard’s comin’.’
He crossed his arms. ‘The house is secure. It will pass.’
‘Yes, but I’m wonderin’ whether . . .’
‘Bridget, leave us be. The house is secure.’
He shut the door, Mrs Borden calling to him, ‘What’s wrong with Bridget?’ She should’ve come to the door, talked with me. They both should’ve listened to me. I went back to my room, and in the morning I woke to Mrs Borden yelling, ‘The door will not open! Andrew, it’s blocking us in.’
I ran down the stairs, found her at the side door, frantic. ‘Bridget,’ she said, ‘something terrible has happened.’ We looked at the door. I’d tried to tell him. The house wouldn’t let us out.
Later Lizzie opened a shutter. Feet of snow compacted against the window. She pressed her hand against the glass, sweaty print on my clean window, and said, ‘It feels like it’s inside with us.’ The snow wasn’t white but was muck-sleet soot, pebbles and dirt, had little twigs from trees.
‘Close the shutter,’ Mr Borden said.
‘But I want to see how long I can keep my hand on the glass.’ A whine.
He sighed, said, ‘I told you to close the shutter.’ His voice a boom. Lizzie did what she was told.
‘Tea ta warm ya up?’ I asked.
Mr Borden turned to me. ‘Fine. Be sure to check all the windows are shut. I don’t want a drop of heat leaving this house.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I nodded, did what I was told as well. The house was closed up.
The beginning of days together. Lizzie and Emma kept to their side of the house, up in their rooms like mice. They would call for me, say, ‘Bridget, come and take our plates away.’
‘Bridget, bring us tea.’
‘Bridget, is there any cake left?’
They called out and called out, never left their rooms, made me work until I got a stitch. I’d have to fetch their slops pails, fetch their dirty underdrawers, fetch them news of what their parents were up to. Often they would fight among themselves, sister spats, fill the house with yelling and slammed doors, and I’d try to close my ears to them, block them out and get on with the day.
Then, after four days of snow, Lizzie and Emma were forced downstairs with Mr and Mrs Borden when the upstairs radiators gave out. The four of them in that sitting room, with that ticking clock, with their mouths shut tight, with Mr Borden sucking his pipe sliding between his teeth, with me bringing plates of leftover sliced meats, carving with dead cold hands, having the knife slip, my blood rising to skin surface every time, their body heat hitting each other, making them yawn. With that, my nerves were shot.
Lizzie and Emma plaited each other’s hair, Mrs Borden crocheted. They read, and I did what I was asked. One afternoon when we were all in the sitting room, rugged in blankets and the snow still thick, the Bordens fell asleep, their mouths wide, air coming in and out like an ocean tide, smelling of old meat and butter. I sat and bit my nails, thought of dropping my clippings into their mouths to see what would happen. The only thing for sure would be that they’d send me back to the agency, tell them I should never be hired out. I put the clippings in my apron pocket, watched them sleep, wondered what they dreamed. Oh, but I was bored.
I went to the photos on the mantel. There was Emma, there was Lizzie, one year to the next. In Emma’s photos, she always looked in pain, like she’d been told nightmare things. Then there was Lizzie, an opposite. I’d always thought they never quite looked related, instead like one little girl had been plucked from thin air and placed in the bedroom of the other. ‘Here you are,’ someone would’ve said. ‘We’ve found you a sister, someone to keep you company.’ Emma, as if she’d never been happy with the sisterly arrangement.
The blizzard kept on for five more days and we kept on in the house together, all close, all hot, until the weather broke, until the snow melted, and when it did, I was the first to open a window, let in the cold air.
I was thinking of the winter, wondering when Mrs Borden would come home from visiting her relative, wondering how soon I could leave the house, go back to my family, go back to best feelings, when I heard a chock, chock sound come from the bottom of the house.
I thought of Mr Borden and the pigeons. Chock. There was no bird sound. Chock. My heart got to beating fast and I gripped onto my bed, turned to look at my family. Chock, chock. A sound of grunting, like an animal eating. Chock.
Where was that coming from? Chock, chock.
A horse cart rolled down the street. Chock, the air was still, chock, the city bells struck, was much too loud. I gripped onto my bed, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. My bladder felt like bursting. The house went quiet. For a moment I wondered if I was in a dream. I didn’t want to open my door, didn’t want to go downstairs, didn’t want to know what was down there.
Then I heard Lizzie call out, ‘Bridget!’
PART III
FIFTEEN
BENJAMIN
6 May 1905
I NEVER FORGOT Fall River. Roaming town to city, puncturing faces, setting things straight, I never forgot that I had unfinished business. Over a decade and I never forgot. It was only ever a matter of time before I would go there again. On and off I’d think of Andrew and Abby, wonder who had broken them, wonder if I had got to Andrew first, would I have been gentler? Who could say what anyone would do in the heat of the moment? A few months after Fall River, I helped someone else with a problem, leaned in hard, broke a face, broke a neck, a twig, collected payment, then I helped another, and another, kept on helping until I raised enough to help myself, take care of my own problem.
I arrived at Papa’s house at dawn. More than thirteen years since my last visit. I slipped in through the back door, sniffed my way through the rooms until I was in a girl’s bedroom. Small musical boxes on a dressing table, a pile of clothes next to the bed. I watched her sleep, went in close. ‘Guess who?’ I whispered. The girl was lost to light snoring. I touched her hair, liked the way it felt against my palm, and as I leaned
closer, I could see my sisters in the patterns of her skin. ‘It’s your brother.’
There was a creak-crack from somewhere in the house. I hunted it down. In another room, two sleeping bodies. I walked in, watched Papa sleep. His face was leather, deep-lined. There was something about him, something soft. Something I’d never seen before. I caught soap scent on his skin and I wondered, had he always smelled like this and I’d forgotten? Papa horse-kicked his legs underneath the sheets, like I’d seen him do so many times before, and Angela sleep-hitched her arm across his body, rubbed him to stillness and dreams. They slept peaceful and I did not care for that. He should’ve been like this for us. What those years might have been like. I’d still be at home with my mama, with sisters, with some love. So I readied my hands, placed a palm over his mouth. He opened his eyes. There’s a strange feeling when you look into the past. It’s like dreaming. Papa watched me, his breath on my skin. He dug his teeth into my hand. He looked like he might cry. I pressed hard and Papa’s hand covered mine, pulled it away, and after he took a breath he said, ‘You came back.’
I nodded. A bit of me wanted to crawl against his chest, get warm.
‘I never forget, Papa.’
He stared at me. ‘It ain’t time.’ He elbowed his way up to sitting, grunted as he pushed into me, old man anger. I pushed him down, made the bed rattle. Angela rolled over beside him, her face scrunched in sleep.
Papa tried to paw me, made me boil inside. I cracked my knuckles. I wouldn’t give in. I was here to finish things. I put my hand back on his mouth, took a look at Angela before staring Papa down.
One thing I’d never understood from all my years of helping people was why they were never completely satisfied with the ending of things. Was it because they never got to have a final conversation? Was it because nothing would ever get them to feel right about the past? There I was with Papa, and so I asked him, ‘Do I still disappoint you?’
See What I Have Done Page 21
