I stopped. Ninety-two Second Street: a small green fence, two half-leaved trees on either side of the pebbled path. A lamp. Overgrown grass. The front door had scratched-away dark-yellow paint. Brass numbers 9 and 2 hung loose. A pigeon walked tight lines across the roof. The smell of aged animal flesh and rising damp drifted from underneath the house. I stepped towards the door, felt a tug on my jacket.
‘Mister, what are you doing?’ the boy asked. His face was freckled, was brown, was too concerned.
His voice ate at my ear. I growled.
‘I’m sorry, mister.’ The boy ran.
I walked around the side of the house and into the backyard. The barn was termited wood and broken window—the way Mama’s house had been when I’d tried to return after I punished Papa. Overgrown grass hid a rusted shovel. The Borden sisters had really let the place go. I went to the pear arbour, pulled fruit and ate. Sweet juicy. I threw the pear core to the side, hit the fence, made it pop. As I headed for the basement double doors, there was a black cat crittering around the edges of the house. I bent down to pat fur and the cat hissed. I hissed back. Papa would’ve liked to skin a cat like that.
I pushed against the doors, could see that they were still locked, like they had been all those years ago. But I wanted in that house. I pushed again, was hard-bodied, and like that, the doors gave way, a flooded dam, and I went into the basement, smelled mildew, saw piles of old cutlery stacked in a pile, saw a rat run across the floor, claws sounded like little beads dropping.
I made my way to the kitchen, saw that everything was dust. On the counter tops, more plates and pans were stacked like monuments. I thought of Abby, tasting foul soup, her last meal. She should have treated herself to something better.
I went to the sitting room. It was filled with furniture stacked against walls, a light scent of camphor. At the mantelpiece I ran my finger across the wooden ledge, looked up and saw myself in the mirror. I checked on the tooth, dead fruit hanging, and pulled on it, yanked the tooth free, sucked away saliva and placed it on the mantel.
There was the sofa where Andrew had been. It was brittle, moth-eaten. I lay on it, heard the crunch of wooden slats underneath me as I lowered my weight and rested, the back of my neck scrunched into the armrest. The smell of trapped musk and tobacco. I thought of Andrew, the way his head must have rolled to the side while he was dying. It takes a lot to swing an axe into flesh and bone. The axe would have been heavy in the hand as it was lifted up and down. The wooden handle would have slid between palms, tearing into skin, bringing blood to the surface. Halfway through, the killer’s arms would begin to ache and they would stop for a moment or two. The killer would look down at Andrew’s face, amazed at the way bone could splinter exactly like forest wood. Then they would take a deep breath, work the axe again, that chop and swing, chop and swing. To think Lizzie might’ve had it in her to do it.
I decided to go upstairs, went to Lizzie’s bedroom. The last of the late-afternoon light streamed through the windows, moved across her paint-chipped bookshelves, her stale-wood dressing table. Her bare, single, wooden bed broken against a door. The full-length mirror I’d stood in front of years before was cracked at the bottom, a spider web. Half-ripped wallpaper hung over the right-sided window, yellow and brown at the edges. I looked outside, out onto Fall River. This dirty place.
I laughed, my voice echoed through the house. Nobody called this place home anymore. Certainly not the sisters. I’d have to find them.
The next day, I headed downtown; the clink of bone souvenir in my bag made heads turn. A father told his son, ‘Stay close to me.’ I walked, tried to figure out how I’d find Lizzie.
I went along Main Street for hours, watched people come and go, noticed dogs seemed fatter, noticed there were more buildings, more reasons to spend big and waste time. But there was no sign of Lizzie. I walked on, even visited the surgeon that had fixed my leg but the shopfront was empty. I was headed back to the bowel of town when luck landed my side. On the opposite side of the street Lizzie stood in the sun like a saint. Emma stood next to her, disdain, folded her arms like tinder in front of her chest and said, ‘Lizzie, let’s go.’
‘I’m not done yet.’ Lizzie’s voice slow, aged.
‘I don’t want to keep waiting. People will look,’ Emma said.
‘Good. Why shouldn’t they? We’re Bordens. We’ve done a lot for this city.’
Emma stepped away from her sister, stood in the shadow of a shopfront. Two children ran up the footpath, made their way towards Lizzie, and she turned to watch them, gave them a smile. ‘Hello, children,’ she said, her voice a witch. ‘Have you thanked the Lord for this wonderful day?’ The children stopped, shook their heads. One was close to tears.
‘No, Miss Lizbeth.’
‘You should always think of the Lord.’
The children looked for their mother, ran away. Lizzie laughed.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ Emma said.
‘I’m only having fun. Lighten up, Emma.’ She continued to stand in the middle of the footpath, forced passers-by to walk around her, brush up against her like they were dancing. Nobody made eye contact with Lizzie. Emma began to walk away, acknowledged a man as he came towards her, both politely nodded heads, and Lizzie was slow to follow. I quietly slunk behind them.
‘I want to host a dinner party,’ Lizzie said.
‘We had one last week.’ Emma, pained.
‘But I want to gather different people.’ Lizzie said it like a pout.
‘I think it’s ostentatious.’
‘Is that so, Father?’ Lizzie laughed.
Emma quickened her pace, her hips rocked from the effort of it.
‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’ Lizzie tried to close the gap between herself and Emma. I continued behind, kept some distance, waited for my moment.
The sun opened. Birds sounded. Lizzie flat-opened her hand and lifted it towards the sky, clicked her tongue behind teeth, waited for a bird to land. When none came, she tried to slip her arm through Emma’s. Emma pulled further away. We walked through wide streets, houses grew into mansions, the spaces between them plains. Little dogs yapped across lawns, cocked legs against rose bushes and goat’s beard shrubs, dug around yellow and clotted-blood-coloured hollyhocks. We rounded the corner onto French Street and the sisters headed towards a large white house. This is what inheritance brings you—money, life.
‘I’ll take my lunch in the front room today.’ Lizzie was sweetness.
‘Excuse me?’ Emma straightened her back.
‘It’s your turn to do the lunches.’
‘I’m not your house girl.’
Lizzie hooked her arm through her sister’s, leaned her head against shoulder. Lizzie thumbed at Emma’s skirt. ‘Play nice, Emma dear. I’m just the baby . . .’
‘Yes, Emma, she’s just the baby,’ I said, put my thumb in mouth. I didn’t expect to announce myself to them so quickly, but the timing.
Emma was the first to turn, sucked in all the air around her when she saw me. ‘Good grief.’ Her cheeks sank, showed hard cheekbone.
Lizzie looked me over, studied my face.
‘It’s been a long time, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘But I’ve returned, like I told your uncle I would.’
Emma rubbed her hand over her chest, massaged her heart. ‘Lizzie, do you know this man?’
Lizzie tilted her head. ‘I’m not sure,’ she whispered.
I came closer, said, ‘As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee . . .’
Lizzie touched her forehead. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Lizzie, who is this person?’ Emma said.
I came closer, opened my bag of goodies. ‘I thought you might like your items returned. I was going to hand them over to your uncle but things got complicated.’ I smiled at them both. ‘Actually, I’m glad I kept them. Because now I can get what is owed. Directly from you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Lizzie was a puzzle.
‘My payment. John asked me to help you both. I held on to a secret. I realise now that John won’t uphold his end of the deal.’
‘I don’t speak to Uncle much anymore.’ Lizzie said it like she was in a daze.
Emma pulled at Lizzie’s shoulder, tried to get her away from me. ‘I’ll call the police.’
The sun was hot, made skin itch. I reached into my bag, pulled out Abby’s skull piece, placed it on the ground. Lizzie touched her forehead. ‘I found this in the room,’ I said.
Lizzie reached for the skull and Emma covered her mouth, went white. ‘I had a strange dream that night,’ Lizzie whispered.
‘And then I found this.’ I pulled the stained axe head out, placed it next to the skull. I looked up at Emma, said, ‘Did you know she was going to do all this?’
The sisters stared at what lay in front of them. Emma stiffened, a coffin stance, and she watched her sister, took a look at me. Something caught in Emma’s eyes, like she was working things out. ‘Is this real?’ Emma choked.
Lizzie turned to her sister and Emma stood back. Lizzie began with, ‘It can’t . . .’
Emma pointed to the objects, was calm. ‘Take all of this away from me.’ For a moment everything was quiet. There was a light breeze. Then Emma’s body began to tremble, a landslide of feeling. A strange noise dribbled from her throat. I would’ve laughed at her had I not wanted my money from the sisters so badly.
Lizzie tried to wrap her arm around Emma’s back. ‘I knew,’ Emma whispered. ‘I knew.’ Emma pushed Lizzie, ran as fast as she could towards the house.
I looked at the skull and axe head. ‘Lizzie,’ I said, ‘I’ve been wondering: are you happier now that your father is dead?’ A part of me wanted her to say no. I didn’t want to be the only one who felt unfulfilled after they’d punished their parent.
Lizzie let out a scream, spat at my feet. ‘You wicked, you evil,’ she stuttered, looked as if everything was draining from her.
‘That’s how you thank me for taking the weapon? I helped save you. I kept it secret for you. I want my money.’
She touched her forehead, stared at me dirty. She reached into her little purse, took out a coin and threw it at my feet. I did not care for that. Lizzie took off rickety towards the house, left me thinking all manner of things. There was some commotion coming from houses, neighbours sticking heads out of flyscreened doors. If I wasn’t careful, I’d have a crowd. I could not let myself be caught, not now when I was so close. It was because of Lizzie and her uncle that I was in this position. I picked up the objects and put them back in my rucksack.
There was only one thing to do. I’d have to punish her, just like Papa, just like I did to make things right. I could taste sweet blood. A bird sounded loud in tree branches, front doors opened, voices flowed from them. My legs were leather as I walked towards Lizzie and Emma’s house, whip-crack, whip-crack, hands thick, made of knuckles. I got to feeling that Lizzie owed me an explanation of exactly what happened that day.
I could tell the house had been freshly painted, white on white, and there was a small, drooping rose garden of pinks and white. The concrete steps leading up to the door were thick, primitive, a good place to crack a skull. A sweetheart seat swung in the wind on the front porch and as it swung, from the corner of my eye, I saw a man walk out from his house, hedge clippers in hand, and I gave him a nod of the head, good neighbour.
‘What are you doing?’ the neighbour called.
I turned my head. He cleared his throat, watched me. I ignored him, figured I could deal with him later if need be, went back down the front steps towards the side of the house. That voice of his called out again. By the side of the house there was a small dip in the ground and above that an open window. I searched around for something to stand on, saw a wicker chair near a pear tree. I lumbered the chair over, sat it under the windowpane and looked into the house. I heard Lizzie and Emma down the hall, their voices broken ceramics.
‘You can’t do this to me,’ Lizzie said.
‘I’ve believed you as long as I could.’
They came closer, Lizzie’s back faced the entrance of the room. She stomped her feet. ‘You promised you’d never leave me.’
‘And you promised me that the past would stay there.’
I licked my lips, pushed against the side of the house and leaned closer through the window. I was helping to destroy them.
‘That wasn’t my fault. That was a madman.’
‘I don’t want you in my life anymore.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ Lizzie’s voice was beginning to thin, to die, like it did when she found her dead pigeons.
‘I’m tired, Lizzie.’
Lizzie’s fingers grabbing, moving across Emma’s hands.
‘I’ve already called Mr Porter. He’ll be here soon to pick me up.’
‘You’re breaking Mother’s promise.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Emma gave a little push, made Lizzie stumble, and she went down the hall, left Lizzie screaming guttural, ‘We’re sisters! We’re sisters!’
Lizzie called after Emma, said, ‘But I love you.’ She shouted one last, ‘Don’t make me be alone, Emma.’
I thought of Mama, that was how things had ended between us too. No more promised love. I ground my teeth.
The neighbour shouted, ‘What are you doing?’ and I turned from the window, saw him standing across from me in his yard and I knew my time was running out. I jumped away from the window, ran back along the side of the house towards the front door. My teeth clenched. I imagined my hand covering Lizzie’s mouth, the weight I’d push into her.
I neared the front door as it opened. Emma came out with two suitcases, had a fraction of a smile. Lizzie called out, ‘One more chance.’ Emma said nothing, walked down the path to the edge of the street. A yellow Cameron Runabout pulled up and a man got out, took Emma’s bags as she stepped inside the car. The engine revved.
My last chance to make everything right. The front door closed as the car drove away. I heard the neighbour—‘I’ve warned you, now I’m calling the police’—and I took quick, short steps to the front of the house, walked over the word Maplecroft tattooed into concrete. The axe head bounced around in the rucksack. I imagined the sweetness of my fist flowing into Lizzie, the bright red she’d be. After I’d finished with her, I’d ransack her house, take what was mine and run away as fast as I could, run until I found my mama, run until I felt better inside. Inside the house Lizzie sobbed and I knocked on the door and waited for her to answer.
SIXTEEN
EMMA
4 August 1892
JOHN WEAVED IN and out of the house like a spectre, made me look over my shoulder more often than I would have liked. I wanted him to leave, to take the police with him, to take the bodies too. But the idea of being alone in the house with Lizzie was too much. I couldn’t bear the idea of not having someone to talk to other than my sister, to help occupy my mind.
I asked Alice Russell to move temporarily into 92 Second Street.
‘But, Emma, what if the murderer comes back?’ she said, her hair thick from sweat.
I tried to reassure her. ‘We can all sleep in Lizzie’s room. Stay together.’
When we went upstairs to see Lizzie, she had other plans. She sat plump against her pillows, looked both tired and well rested, the strangeness of a face grieving. ‘There’s no need for us to be cooped up in here. Alice should take Father and Mrs Borden’s room.’ Lizzie smiled. ‘And you’ll still be nice and close to me and Emma, help us lift our spirits.’
Alice knocked her knuckles against her chin. ‘I don’t feel comfortable going in their bedroom.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, would they, Emma?’ Lizzie chewed on a nail.
I shook my head. ‘Lizzie, this doesn’t feel right somehow . . .’
‘Nothing about today feels right, Emma. But we do what needs to be done.’ Lizzie mimicked the sound of reason. I wanted to shake her stupid.
Downstairs the clock struck three and my thoughts returned to Fairhaven. I would’ve finished my art class by then.
‘Alice is my friend and I think she should stay in the room. It’s the only decent room left in the house with space for all of Alice’s things,’ Lizzie said.
For a moment I had the feeling to push Lizzie in the ribs, tell her, ‘Alice was my friend first. Without me you’d never have her. I should decide what happens.’ I didn’t want to upset things now, not when there was so much left unanswered. Alice stroked Lizzie’s hair, and I wished Alice to do the same for me. As girls and young women, the three of us used to sit in a semicircle and draw on each other’s backs. ‘Guess what shape I’m drawing now,’ I would say.
‘A square?’ Alice said, missing the finer details.
Lizzie pushed into my fingers. ‘A hexagon.’
‘Yes!’
Lizzie always guessed right, made me want to boast, ‘Look at what I taught her! She’s the smartest one in the room.’
Alice gasped, like lightning had struck. She turned to me and said, ‘I just remembered that I was speaking to your father the day before last.’
My heart surged, expected divine final thoughts. ‘What did he say?’
‘He asked about my mother and father. He wondered if they might like to stop by for dinner one evening.’
‘That’s odd. He didn’t tell me about those plans,’ Lizzie said. ‘He’s barely spoken to them in months.’
‘Maybe that’s why he invited them,’ I said.
Alice snaked fingers over her lips. ‘But I forgot to tell them. I haven’t told them. It completely slipped my mind . . .’
A part of me wanted them to arrive for the dinner, for Father’s goodwill gesture to outlive him.
‘It seems so sad now to remember.’ Alice continued stroking Lizzie’s hair and Lizzie nuzzled into the motion, a mewing cat.
‘It is sad, Alice,’ I said. ‘My father died. You got to speak to him one last time and you forgot all about it.’ I was a pain inside, the kind without a central source.
‘Goodness, I’ve said something wrong. I’m sorry.’ Alice’s face crumpled.
See What I Have Done Page 23
