by Brandy Purdy
We had all gone to bed by nine o’clock because of Father’s maddeningly incessant nightly reminders that kerosene and candles cost money, money that should be saved and invested to make more money, not squandered on creature comforts.
I lay in my bed, in stifling hot misery listening to the crickets chirp and a dog barking in the distance. I hated August! Everyone said that this was the hottest summer they could remember. In my thirty-two years I certainly could not recall a hotter one. Even the night brought little relief; though I left my windows open wide in eager invitation, no breeze crept through the mesh of the screen to stir the lace curtains. It was too hot to sleep. And I was too restless, too worried. Already my sheets were damp with sweat; my lightweight summer nightgown stuck to my body and, with the sodden sheets, tangled my limbs. I hated the way my thighs rubbed together whenever I moved. I lifted my arms above my head but instantly put them down again, sickened by the smell emanating from my armpits. Sweat pooled beneath my breasts, irritating the skin, and when I sat up, freed from the daytime prison of my corset, they felt uncomfortably heavy and pendulous. Despite the delight it can give, a bountiful bosom can be a bane at times. I never felt clean in summer, oil seeped from the pores of my face and no matter how often I washed it, it didn’t seem to help. I longed for a proper bathtub, to immerse myself in the blissful chill of cold running water and to lie back and dream that I was a mermaid, a sensual, bare-breasted red-haired siren, trying to beguile a ship full of handsome sailors trapped by the ice of an Arctic expedition. My hair frizzed damply about my face. Though I had braided it tight, already my braid was a fuzzy, bedraggled mess. I felt so restless, I wanted to get up and walk, pace, and move about, but I knew that with the paper-thin walls and the way all the rooms opened into one another I could not do so without disturbing Father and Abby, sleeping, or trying to, on the other side of the locked door blocked, and half-concealed, by my bureau. And I was too distracted to read. I could get up, pour water in the basin, and wet a cloth and wash, I thought, but the water would be warm from the heat and provide little relief; my discomfort would be restored to the full degree within moments, so it was hardly worth the bother.
Impulsively I sat up and yanked my nightgown over my head and flung it aside. I turned around and lay down again with my head at the foot of the bed and propped my legs high against the wall. Feet braced flat against the faded wallpaper, I spread them wide, and felt a wanton thrill as my hand dipped greedily between my thighs. The door leading into my bedroom did not have a lock; Emma’s room was a dead end, she could not gain entrance to it any other way except by passing through mine, but Emma was away . . . and the other two doors posed no threat. The one leading into the master bedroom was locked and blocked by my bureau, and the guest room was empty, and the door was half blocked by my desk, so I was really quite safe. But still . . . If I were caught in such a position. . . the shame, the humiliation. Father might even part with some of his cherished dollars to consult one of those doctors who specialized in madwomen whose symptoms often took the form of unabashed wantonness. I had to put a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle, though it really was no laughing matter.
But the truth was my shocking behavior was born more out of boredom than any real desire; it was just something to do, and I was trying not to think about what was happening inside me. Even though I was not hungry, I had forced myself to eat more of the mutton stew than I had any appetite for. I knew the medicine would be greatly diluted and I wanted to ingest enough to do me some good. But, so far, I felt nothing, no signs or clues to tell me it was working. Sometimes I thought I felt a slight heaviness, a sluggishness, and a bloated feeling in my stomach and a faint ache below, as I normally did each month, but a part of me was afraid I was only imagining it, that it was wishful thinking, because I wanted it so much. Please, God, please, Madame Saint-Genevieve, I prayed as my hand moved rapidly, slick and sweaty between my thighs, bring my courses on NOW!
A moan on the other side of the wall startled me and I started up guiltily and grabbed my nightgown. I sometimes think this style of house is called “cracker box” because the walls are as thin as cheap crackers. In Father and Abby’s room someone moaned again and made a desperate scramble for their slop pail and began to vomit. These sounds were repeated as the room’s other occupant did likewise. Then came the sputtering of watery bowels. This continued throughout the night.
But I still felt fine and eventually drifted off to sleep. Around six o’clock, however, an urgent loosening in my bowels caused me to start awake. My skin was hot and clammy and my throat was burning as though it were on fire. I barely managed to squat over my slop pail in time before the vile torrent was unleashed. But it was an upset of the stomach, not what I had been hoping for; there was still no sign of that.
At half past nine when I went downstairs, Abby was as white as Death, shivering, despite the sheen of sweat on her brow, sitting at the table in abject misery, complaining that since last night her throat had felt as if she had swallowed a lit match, and such cramps assailed her stomach she felt as if she were being stabbed by a hundred knives. She shivered and complained of clammy skin, then was interrupted by the sudden need to vomit again.
A little while later, though she knew Father would disapprove, she stole across the street to see Dr. Bowen. He was most sympathetic. He blamed her illness on the mutton; he suspected it had gone putrid in the hot weather. After she had vomited again right there in his office he prescribed a dose of castor oil to be washed down with a small glass of port wine, and even escorted her back across the street so he could see for himself how the rest of us fared. I was simply mortified when Father, despite feeling poorly himself, ordered him out and told him in no uncertain terms that his services were not required and, furthermore, not to even think of sending him a bill for a house call he had not requested.
Bridget was sick as well; she complained of nausea, of being sick several times during the night. A few times she had to stop what she was doing about the house and rush out into the backyard and vomit again. Each time she came back, moving slowly, cradling her sides tenderly as if they ached, ashen faced, with a heavy sweat shimmering on her skin. But I . . . beyond the early-morning stomach upset, I didn’t feel ill at all.
The more I brooded over it, the more desperate I became. I couldn’t bear the waiting. Even if I dispatched another dollar right away it would be days before another dose of Madame Saint-Genevieve’s Miracle could reach me. Finally, I could endure no more; I changed out of my housedress and into a deep-blue bengaline suitable for town, put on my hat and gloves, and went out.
I remembered reading something, in a detective story or a book of household hints—I really wasn’t sure which—about Prussic Acid being used to get rid of pests. The name had stuck in my mind because at the time I had just finished reading the most thrilling romance, in which the heroine was carried off on a white horse by a dashing Prussian cavalry officer who was nothing but a trifler and a real cad where women were concerned. He had stolen her peerless, priceless necklace of pearls to settle a debt of honor and then her heart and, by discreetly worded implication, her virtue, but a wedding quickly followed and the final page contained the comforting assurance that they lived happily ever after in the rustic magnificence of an English country estate with their eleven children. I thought perhaps . . . just a small dose . . . and if perchance in the unlikely event that it killed me too despite my carefulness . . . well, that would still be better than living out the rest of my life as David Anthony’s unhappy and maltreated wife and the mother of his equally wretched offspring.
I was obviously desperate and not thinking clearly. Only later would I discover just how dangerous Prussic Acid really was, that a single grain brought instantaneous death—and to think I had been on the verge of slapping that idiot druggist after I imperiously informed him that he was mistaken! My face flames at the memory and I feel an utter fool! If I had been thinking more clearly, I would not have gone at all, or, if
I had, I would have asked for something safer like arsenic instead, where a minuscule dose stood a greater chance of bringing about the desired result—abortion—and entailed a much slighter risk of immediate and agonizing death.
Indeed, time would tell me that I really should not have gone to that drugstore at all; that little foray into the wrong part of town would come back to haunt me. All I can say in my defense is that it was an act of the most desperate impulse. I didn’t really think it out; I just turned my steps toward the south side of town, the one where the shops were of a decidedly inferior class, so none of the shopkeepers would know me and I was unlikely to meet anyone of my milieu, and went into the first drugstore I saw—Smith’s.
The clerk, Eli Bence, was a supercilious little man, and I disliked him at first glance. But I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and haughtily demanded ten cents’ worth of Prussic Acid. I had my excuse at the ready; I wanted it to kill moths infesting my sealskin cape.
But Mr. Bence refused to sell me any, saying that in all his years as a pharmacist he had never before heard of Prussic Acid being used for such a purpose. I held my ground and insisted I had purchased it for this purpose many times before. He then had the gall to tell me that sealskins are impervious to moths, which I later found out was actually true. But that doesn’t matter in the least—a gentleman never contradicts a lady, so he really shouldn’t have said it; the fact that he did shows a decided lack of breeding. No wonder he was working in a drugstore on the wrong side of town!
I tried to sway him, smiling and saying surely just a teeny-tiny bit couldn’t possibly do any harm, except to the moths, of course, but that impertinent nincompoop Mr. Bence was adamant: “My good lady, it is something we don’t sell unless by a prescription from a doctor, as it is a very dangerous thing to handle.”
There was no point in arguing with such an ignorant and insolent person, and I left the store in an empty-handed huff. As I was walking down the sidewalk, I felt an ache, a clenching cramp in my nether parts, and . . . Could it be? Yes! It was! The ache grew more insistent, more pronounced, clutching, stabbing, wringing my womb. But this time I didn’t deplore the pain; instead I welcomed it and thanked God for it. My prayers had been answered. My courses had come; if I had just been patient and waited . . . I could have saved all that time and worry, and Father’s dollar, and not had to contend with such a rude, ignorant, uninformed fool as Eli Bence. I hadn’t been pregnant after all! I almost laughed at myself for my foolishness! I was so relieved I wanted to dance a jig and at the same time fall down on my knees right there in the middle of the sidewalk and thank God. Instead, I quickened my steps and hurried home before the telltale red stains began to seep through my skirts. I was so happy I was practically skipping along the sidewalk.
As I neared the house, I saw David Anthony lurking outside the gate, a contented look on his face like a cat that has just swallowed a fat yellow canary and still has the telltale feathers stuck in his whiskers. He had a little brown sack of lemon drops in his hand, a silent reminder of the happy days when we had shared candies and kisses in the barn.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Just biding my time,” he answered with a menacing smile.
“Go away!” I hissed like an angry cat.
He shrugged and tipped his straw boater at me. “I’ll go away, Lizzie, but I’ll be back. You will be mine; it’s only a matter of time. And when I do you’ll welcome me. Think about it. . . .” He forced a lemon drop into my mouth, which I promptly spat out, but he just laughed at me. “You don’t want to be a sour old maid, do you?”
I stood and watched him walk away; then I ran into the house and flew up the stairs to my room.
My former jubilation was gone. I couldn’t calm down. Relentlessly, I paced the floor. My nerves just wouldn’t settle. I felt a tense, taut pounding behind my eyes, and around my skull a tightening, like a vise, as though my skull were shrinking, putting intense pressure on my brain, trying to squeeze it down to the size of a walnut and then crack it. Suddenly I bent double. I felt the wringing pain in my womb and the blood oozing out between my legs. I felt sick and scrambled for my slop pail, but vomited all over the floor before I found it, but I didn’t care. At least now I knew for certain that I wasn’t pregnant, but my lost virtue, and the proof of it in David’s possession, could still condemn me. Now that worry consumed me. But I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it.
I lay flat on the floor sweating profusely through my clothes and gasping like a fish out of water, dying for want of breath. Behind my tightly clenched lids it was like watching a fireworks show—a dizzying explosion of vivid colors, mostly a furious red. Migraines often came hand in hand with my monthly courses, and in the summer heat they were always much worse. The bleeding always played havoc with my emotions, making the slightest upset seem as monumental as the end of the world. I slowly pulled myself up and lay down on my bed and drew up my knees, trying to ease the cramping, and recalled again David Anthony’s ominous words: “I’ll go away, Lizzie, but I’ll be back. You will be mine; it’s only a matter of time.”
His words froze my heart with fear. His dark eyes, black as the Devil’s soul, told me every word was true. He would be back and try to claim me as his own, body and soul; David would damn me.
With every hour that passed the feeling of fear intensified, turning up the flame of pain inside my head and womb. I kept wondering what David would do and when he would do it. How much time did I have? Could I get my wits together enough to outmaneuver him? Was that even possible? I needed to talk to someone, anyone who would be patient, kind, and listen. I needed to unburden myself. In that moment I almost wished I were Catholic so I could go to confession. Who could I turn to? I could not disclose the full extent of my shame; my lost virtue would have to remain my burden alone to carry. I could not trust anyone not to betray me, but I had to get out; I needed the consolation, the balm, of human sympathy. Suddenly I thought of Alice—Alice Russell. Emma and I had known her for years. A kindly but fussy, fidgety bird-boned spinster subsisting in genteel poverty in rented rooms above a bakery.
It was already late to go calling, but I got up off my bed, tidied my hair and clothes, put on my hat, and rushed around the corner to knock on Alice’s door.
When I saw her smiling, expectant face and the welcome shining in her blue eyes behind the glass lenses of her gold-rimmed spectacles, I was so relieved I flung myself into her arms.
I told Alice that I was so afraid that someone would do something, something terrible! I clung to her and confided in an ominous whisper that I had seen, several times, a dark man loitering outside the house and that I slept every night with one eye open for fear that this dark man of mystery would burn the house down over our heads. I told her about the recent illness that had afflicted our household, but I blamed it on the milk, suggesting that perhaps this mysterious man had poisoned it in the dark hours before dawn when the milkman left the cans sitting outside the back door for Bridget to bring in when she awoke. I told Alice how mortified I had been by Father’s treatment of Dr. Bowen when he called round to check on us after Abby’s visit. I think I said something about Father having an enemy, a fearsome, burly red-haired Scotsman, “with arms like Thor, who had spent eternity hammering at his anvil,” I added colorfully. He had come to the house and quarreled loudly with Father because he refused to rent him a store in his pride and joy the A. J. Borden Building, saying he would not let a shop for such a purpose, so surely the Scot must be a man of evil intentions, or, at the very least, a purveyor of immoral goods.
I told Alice “all” about the broad daylight burglary, and the theft of money, jewelry, and streetcar tickets from Abby’s desk in the master bedroom, the eight-penny nail I had found stuck in the cellar door padlock, and that the barn had been broken into and my precious pigeons most cruelly murdered—decapitated; poor creatures! Though, of course, I neglected to disclose the fact that this was done by Father and that their p
lump roasted bodies had come to grace our dinner table afterward, or that Emma and I had been responsible for the crime that had precipitated it. I simply couldn’t tell Alice something like that! What would she think of us if she knew? Nice girls—Borden girls, Fall River girls—didn’t stage burglaries; it simply wasn’t done.
Alice was very kind and consoling. I could not have found a better shoulder to cry on. She held me close and patted my back and suggested I go away for a little while, take “a lovely little holiday,” somewhere by the sea like Buzzards Bay perhaps. Undisturbed rest and a change of scenery would surely do me good, she said, and I might try my hand at some worthwhile handicraft like basket weaving, and it might also be a good idea, she added, to restrict my reading to the Bible and abstain entirely from the more lurid and melodramatic forms of literature, as they tended to stir the imagination like a witches’ brew.
What she really meant but was too kind to say was: You are letting your imagination run away with you, Lizzie. It was clear she did not take me seriously, but I didn’t care. Confession really is good for the soul, I marveled. No wonder the Catholics think so highly of it! Talking to Alice actually had made me feel better, though admittedly it didn’t help resolve the dilemma of David one jot.
“I don’t know but what somebody will do something,” I said, digging in my heels and clinging to Alice as she bid me good night and gently, but firmly, and none too subtly, pushed me out the door. “I am afraid somebody will do something—something terrible.. . . ”
When the door shut behind me I felt as though I had been relieved of a great and terrible burden. I had blurted out my fears into a kind and caring ear; even though I had lied, twisted, and concealed the true source of them somewhat, I still felt better for it. I smiled, and I had to stop myself from skipping as I hurried home. It was nearly nine o’clock.