See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  The mutton warmed, filled the kitchen, and then I ladled the broth, felt the meat plop as it landed in the bowl, splash up on my cheek. How I itched, how my underthings stuck to my stomach, to my underarms, the insides of my legs. It was like being wrapped in wool, made to sit in front of an alcohol fire. I blew breath onto my palms, tried to cool myself, pretend I was on the way to Cobh, to the sea. Blow, blow, blow.

  I heard John say, ‘What have my nieces been up to?’

  I put his bowl on a serving tray, I put the teapot on the serving tray.

  ‘Lizzie is downtown. Emma is in Fairhaven.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be. I was in Fairhaven yesterday!’

  ‘On business?’

  ‘I’m always on business.’ He laughed. ‘I had things to take care of. Had I known Emma was there, I would’ve popped in to say hello.’

  ‘She’s been away for two weeks.’

  ‘Must be lacklustre around here with her gone.’

  ‘It’s unusual.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would be, used to having both of them around you all day.’

  ‘Not many days go by without seeing one or the other.’ Mrs Borden’s tongue clicked.

  ‘You’re lucky in many ways.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘To have them at home. To have people to talk to.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It can become rather lonely for men like me, I’m afraid. Living alone.’

  I picked up the serving tray, took it into the dining room.

  ‘Sounds like your meal,’ Mrs Borden said.

  ‘Splendid.’

  I stood back from the table as they walked in, and Mrs Borden pulled a chair for John, was red-faced, hands a little shaky.

  ‘I’ll be in later ta collect dishes,’ I said.

  John sat at the table, bent forwards over the bowl and breathed in deep. ‘This will hit the spot.’

  Mrs Borden took a quick look at me, like she didn’t want me to leave. ‘Perhaps, Bridget, you may like to wait around, pour Mr Morse some tea?’ Mrs Borden used her sweet voice, the one that pulled me in.

  John slurped his broth. We watched him.

  ‘As ya like, Mrs Borden.’ I stood with my back against the wall, waited to be useful, waited for it to be over.

  ‘Tell me, Abby: how’s Andrew’s business going? He serving on any more boards? Acquiring any more property?’

  Mrs Borden shook her head. ‘That may be a question you ask him.’

  John slurped. ‘Quite right, Abby. You’ll have to excuse me.’

  ‘That’s alright.’ A polite smile.

  ‘But he is doing well? He’s in health?’ He rammed the spoon in his mouth, hit his teeth.

  ‘You know Andrew, he shan’t be slowing down anytime soon.’

  John gave the table two quick knocks with the spoon. ‘Good old man!’

  Mrs Borden smiled. ‘Care for tea, John?’

  John raised his eyes towards me, looked me up, looked me down. ‘Splendid.’ Him looking at me like I wasn’t a real person, Mrs Borden saying nothing about it. I’d the mind to take his spoon, poke his eyes.

  I went to the table, poured tea, my arm right close to his arm. ‘Sugar, Mr Morse?’

  ‘Two scoops.’

  I spooned them in. His breath on my hand, on my arm through sleeves. I caught Mrs Borden watching me. ‘Thank you, Bridget,’ she said. I went back to the wall.

  They sat in silence.

  In the scullery, I washed their dishes, my fingers wrinkled as I got to thinking about getting my money tin from Mrs Borden. There was no polite way of getting it. Depending on where Mrs Borden hid the thing, I’d have to break locks throughout the house, break open her secret places until I found it.

  Since the daylight robbery last year, she’d taken to hiding valuables in the basement in a safe, in little wooden boxes in the scullery, in locked dressing table drawers. I once found a bottle of Calcarea carbonica in an old soap box under a sack of flour. For her, everything out of sight, out of mind.

  A hot breath on my neck. My neck shuddered like someone was pulling on my skin.

  I spun around. John stood, arms by his side, leaned toward me, eyes big.

  ‘You left my napkin behind.’ His voice the sound of a stone road, he held up the dirty cloth, jiggled it in front of me.

  ‘Thank ya, Mr Morse.’ I went to reach for it and John pulled it away. I didn’t want to have to go after it.

  We stood for the longest time. Just us. The creases around his mouth, a piece of mutton resting in his beard. Wrinkles pinched around his eyes. Slowly his hand, the napkin, came at me, winter-twig fingers ready to snap. I kept at the dishes, swirled the cloth in the water as quiet as I could. John jiggled the napkin and dropped it at my feet.

  ‘There somethin’ else ya needed, Mr Morse?’

  ‘Not at all.’ John smiled at me, walked from the scullery, through the kitchen and into the rest of the house. My legs were stiff, started to shake a little. I looked at the napkin, the stewy outline of his mouth.

  I went to the stove, put the napkin inside, and watched the flames blacken linen, raise smoke.

  Mrs Borden sent John with me when I went upstairs to prepare the guestroom. His boots clomped, hand sliding over the polished-wood banister.

  ‘Thank you, Bridget,’ he said coming into the room.

  ‘That’s alright, Mr Morse.’

  John put his hands on his hips. He went to the dressing table, wiped his finger across it. ‘No dust.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You certainly do your job well, don’t you?’ John admired himself in the vanity mirror, picked up the wooden-handled horsehair brush on the dresser, ran it through his hair. I didn’t care to answer him. He put the brush down, came towards me by the window, stared out onto the street.

  ‘Look at them down there. Everyone so busy.’

  I glanced down, saw men storm the footpath, their summer coats flocking behind them. John wheezed beside me. It was enough for me to forget my mind, want to jump out the window and get outside. I saw Dr Bowen across the road in the front of his house, talking to a woman. She opened her mouth lion-wide and Dr Bowen put his fingers inside, took a look.

  ‘I wonder if anyone can see us?’ John asked.

  ‘They could if they stopped ta look up.’ Oh, how I wished they would, see what was going on in the house.

  He was quiet for a time. Then he said, ‘Tell me, Bridget: are there any spare keys to the house?’

  I turned to him. ‘No, Mr Morse. I’ve my set, the Bordens theirs.’

  He rubbed his short beard, tapped his chin. ‘I see. I wonder if perhaps you might let me borrow yours while I’m here.’ He cupped his hand like a beggar. The corners of his mouth turned up.

  I placed my hand in my apron pocket, felt my key. ‘I’m not able ta do that, Mr Morse.’

  He stood closer to me, wheezed, ‘Not even for a few hours?’

  ‘Mr Borden likes everythin’ locked, even when we’re home. I need me key.’ He was so close, made everything hotter.

  ‘What Andrew doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’ His teeth rested on top of his bottom lip.

  My ears burned. ‘Mr Morse, yer standin’ too close ta me.’ I said it before I could think about the trouble I might get.

  John pulled away. ‘I see. My mistake.’

  ‘There’s always someone here ta let ya in.’

  ‘That’s handy to know.’ His body pulled tight and he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

  ‘I’ll be goin’ now.’

  John stood aside, off I went, and he followed, told Mrs Borden, ‘I’ll be back this evening.’

  Mrs Borden’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Very well, John. I’m sure Andrew will be pleased to see you.’

  I gave John his jacket from the cupboard, pushed the front door open nice and wide. There was fresh horse manure on the street, sweet hay mixed with boggy dirt and rotting fruit; a waft of the Quequechan River stretching across the city. I hated summer in Fall R
iver, the death smells it brought. John said, ‘What a glorious afternoon,’ and headed along Second Street, right out of sight. I shut the door, locked it good. Then it was just me and Mrs Borden.

  She had sat back down on the sofa, her hands on knees. ‘Bridget.’ She said the T sharp, a needle point.

  I steadied myself, went to her. ‘Yes, marm?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten our little problem.’

  ‘No, marm.’

  ‘You’ve made me quite unhappy.’ She looped her tongue around her lips.

  ‘Yes, marm.’

  A few strands of hair fell onto her shoulder. ‘And you’ve been keeping things from me.’

  ‘Not really, Mrs Borden.’ I made her red-faced, she rubbed her knees.

  ‘Get out of my sight!’ It came out rough, like it had ripped her throat. I dared not look at her.

  Oh, but it was hot up in the attic, like anger had fired itself all the way up to the ceiling and hung like a curtain. I lay on my bed, rolled over and looked at my family, heard their voices in my ear, the sweet singing of ‘Blow the Candles Out’, their sweet goodbyes before I took to the ship. I hummed along. I hummed along, my throat tight and homesick, my cheeks wet. I hummed along, kept my family close. I thought of Mammy’s baking, smell of yeast rising from my mind out into my room, sending me close to a warm sleep.

  I would’ve kept it up had it not been for the chocking sound outside. Chock, a flurry wind. Chock, an axe in wood. Chock, a grunting. Chock, chock. A man’s voice: ‘Stay still.’ Chock. Mr Borden. My stomach knotted.

  I got out of bed, went to the window and looked down. In the backyard by the barn stood Mr Borden, his jacket on the grass, white shirtsleeves rolled to elbow. He held an axe in one hand, an upside-down pigeon in the other, its wings wide, stiff from the blood rushing to its head, the shock of what was awaiting. My knees got to trembling and my bladder gave way a little, wet me between my legs.

  Mr Borden put the pigeon on the chopping block and swung the axe quick. Chock, the head fell to the grass and Mr Borden threw the body into a metal drum. He wiped his arm across his forehead before reaching into the aviary and pulling out another.

  Lizzie’s pigeons. He’d finally followed through. Mr Borden cricked his neck and my wrist itched, remembered a tiny claw. I hoped he wouldn’t make me be the one to tell Lizzie about this. But I couldn’t look away. He held a pigeon and the little thing beat its wings against Mr Borden’s left arm, made him drop the bird. The pigeon landed on the grass, was still a moment before flying into the tree above. Mr Borden shielded the sun out of his eyes, shrugged his shoulders. He leaned the axe against the inside of the barn door, threw pigeon heads one by one on top of the bodies in the metal drum. He carried the barrel deep into the barn. I was surprised to see that there weren’t many feathers on the ground; a little here, a little there, enough to make you think that a cat got lucky, was quick to pounce and tore into flesh.

  I fixed my bonnet back onto my head and went downstairs, my heart a-jump as I waited by the side door, waited to find out what Mr Borden would do next. I heard him walk up the path, the soles of his black boots sandpaper on stone. I quick-skipped over to the kitchen counter, made myself busy with a pot of tea, the tea-leaves like small trees falling as they hit the sides of the pot. The clock struck two. The side door opened and he came in.

  ‘Bridget, I need soap.’ Mr Borden’s hands were stained, smears of jam-red blood along his fingers. There was blood on his collar, blood above his eyebrow, blood in the corner of his mouth. It made me lick my lips, my silent way of making him do the same, make him notice that he was covered in animal. He did nothing, as if he couldn’t feel it.

  ‘Yes, Mr Borden.’ I ran down to the basement, got soap, ran back. He leaned against the counter looking at his hands, rubbed his fingers together. There was a strange musk smell. I started shaking. I didn’t want to go near him. I held out the soap. ‘Here ya are, Mr Borden.’ It was like I was holding a brick, the way my wrist wanted to snap. A step forwards, he took the soap from me and I could see sweat bead above his top lip.

  ‘Mr Borden, ya right?’

  He turned the soap over and over in his hands, washed them in the basin, squelch and squish. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Did ya hurt yerself?’ I was a terrible liar.

  ‘No. I was just cleaning the yard.’ So was he.

  ‘Oh.’

  He washed his arms next, soap-blood bubbles dripping.

  ‘Have you seen Mrs Borden?’ he asked.

  ‘Not since earlier, after Mr Morse left.’

  He turned, scrunched his face. ‘Morse?’

  ‘Yes. He’s come ta visit.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Out on business. He’ll be back later.’

  Mr Borden chewed the inside of his mouth, made his cheekbones appear like wolf teeth. ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘’Round midday, sir.’

  ‘How long is that man staying?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. Definitely overnight.’

  That man. Not a way to describe your beloved dead wife’s sibling.

  ‘Did you know he was coming?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody knew ’cept Lizzie.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s out, sir.’

  Mr Borden slammed his fist on the counter. ‘Why is no one around when I need them to be?’ He wiped his face with a tea towel. He wiped his hands along his pants, cricked his neck from side to side. Off he went through the house.

  SEVEN

  EMMA

  4 August 1892

  SECOND STREET WAS thick with skin. I slowed out of the horse and carriage, glanced at the swarm of onlookers at the front of the house, their strange-looking faces. My shoulder ached and I combed fingertips over knotted muscle. I was home. A few people in the crowd placed hands across their chests as I walked by and I recognised faces: Mr Porter, the young carriage driver whose son always had a runny nose; Mrs Whittaker, her cabbage cheeks ballooned in talk; little Frances Gilbert, Lizzie’s least-favourite Sunday school pupil, scratching up her wild hair, her squirrel eyes gazing at the house. I tried to make eye contact. Somewhere a voice: ‘I wonder if she knows?’ News travelled fast: what kind of accident exactly?

  I looked at the sky, cloud shadows over my face, noticed a bird centre itself on top of the roof. I blinked and everything became quiet. The house looked so ordinary and I kept thinking over and over ‘Abby missing’. How was it possible a woman Abby’s age could disappear? Had she slipped out at night? Had she forgotten to leave a note, forgotten to tell Father that she would be back and not to worry? Or had she decided to give in to one of her moods and leave for good, walked down to the river, stepped onto a boat and floated downstream until she reached the sea, where she jumped overboard, drank salt water and sank like an anchor?

  The crowd parted as I walked towards them and ten women cried, their cheeks red with gossip. I heard, ‘Lizzie,’ slip from my mouth and step by step my thighs tightened, shoulders cringed, body scared.

  A police officer emerged from the side of the house and said, ‘Miss Borden, please come this way.’

  It was true. There had been an accident. I was taken through the side entrance, hadn’t wanted to think about what was inside the house, but then there I was. I stepped inside, noticed the heat immediately, the drying of my tongue. The door to the sitting room was closed. I heard the words, ‘Time of death,’ strange male voices that beat against my ear. My hands petrified.

  ‘Your sister is in here.’ Fingers pointed to the dining room.

  There: Dr Bowen, Mrs Churchill, Alice Russell. Strange men surrounded Lizzie, had reduced her to the size of a child.

  ‘What has happened?’ My hands, sweat.

  Alice Russell came forwards, ‘Oh, Emma’, and wiped her brow and temple.

  My sister worked her fingers along her skirt, fidgeted in that way that always annoyed me. There were small indentations along Lizzie’s jawline and I could t
ell she had been picking at her skin as if using her nails as tweezers. I knew this: she had tried to stop herself from worry. On Lizzie’s skirt I caught a stain, small and rust-coloured. My skin pulled tight around my ribs, hands sweated. ‘What has happened?’

  In the corner of the room a police officer stuck out his chest, the shape of a wooded birdcage, smoothed a hand over his moustache and watched Lizzie. I coughed and the officer straightened and lengthened his fingers across his stomach. The air, salty thick.

  ‘If you would like to sit down, Miss Borden.’ The officer’s tone was high-pitched, too rehearsed.

  ‘What has happened?’

  Heads hung low.

  ‘Your parents,’ someone said.

  ‘Father,’ Lizzie said, her voice quiet.

  ‘Your father and mother have died.’

  My head began to throb. ‘Why are there so many people here?’

  ‘Emma, it’s a tragedy.’ Dr Bowen was solemn, almost too hard to hear.

  I locked eyes with Lizzie, her face was stone. How strange she looked. Words were unsaid. Lizzie swallowed hard, made the sides of her throat move in and out, a frog’s mouth, said, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come back, Emma,’ and she put her hand out in front of her, fingers stretched, and waited for me to take hold.

  ‘What happened?’

  Breaths were held. I sat next to Lizzie and tied my arms around her shoulders, breathed her in. An odd smell. Side by side our bodies stitched together and I felt like I was drowning in salt and sweat. The heavy drum kick of Lizzie’s heart thumped along fingers and bone. She was too much for me to take. I closed my eyes, wished Lizzie would disappear each time I squeezed her.

  ‘Emma.’

  I opened my eyes. Lizzie stared back, tried to pull away.

  ‘Emma, let me go. You’re making me feel faint.’ She pushed against me.

  I let go of her. ‘What happened?’

  Lizzie whispered, ‘Uncle is here.’

  That man. I scanned the room. ‘Why?’

  ‘He came for a visit last night.’ Lizzie, almost sing-song.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s out running errands. He has to come back soon,’ Lizzie said. She chewed the inside of her cheek.