by Marvin Kaye
Bright orange and yellow flames are shooting straight up in the air from this dark, black hole that is the Mercedes and I hear voices outside. Someone must have called an ambulance and the fire department. Fire trucks and flashing colored lights surround us and somebody’s yelling into a bull horn.
I’m worried about my purse. My money. It had fallen into the little fat guy’s lap, but I can’t get to his lap. The sun roof is sizzling, like a steak on a grill. Then I realized it wasn’t the metal of the sun roof, it was my seat belt, hanging at the side by my door. I put my hand up and felt the sun roof. The opening was hot, but not that bad. The interior of the car was beginning to fill up with smoke. I got scared that pretty soon, I wouldn’t be able to see the sun roof opening. I lifted myself up and stretched through the top opening onto the roof.
I didn’t have to strain too hard because someone was on top of the car dressed like a ninja and grabbed my hands and pulled me through the opening. I started laughing. I was laughing as hard as I could. My saviors, my rescuers. Dribble was falling out of my mouth and I was handed down to some other big guy who put me on a white stretcher and belted me in. Tears were falling down the sides of my cheeks, but I knew I wasn’t crying. I was laughing too hard.
I heard a far away voice, “This guy’s dead, Lou.”
I laughed even harder. I wasn’t laughing at that, I just couldn’t seem to stop laughing in general. Like something in my head triggered a laughing gene or something.
I was lifted into the back of the ambulance. This one looked different from the one they put me in when I was delivering my son. It had more stuff. Somebody jammed an IV needle in my arm and told me to hang in there I was going to be all right. It didn’t hurt. I hate needles, but I didn’t even feel this. The drugs were probably making me immune to pain or something.
The ambulance took off and I could feel us going real fast down the freeway, sirens shrieking, just like last time. I closed my eyes. I saw Tim comin’ into emergency and then the two of us in my private room in the hospital. Nurses looking real sad. The dumb intern on duty looking real sad. The intern told me my son had been born dead and why didn’t I have prenatal care. I started crying. And now I could feel myself crying in this ambulance.
“You’re going to be okay, miss. Some scratches. You’re lucky. Were you guys drinkin’?” The ambulance guy asked.
I just kept crying. I was still back at the hospital long ago and I could feel my dead baby in my arms. The nurses said it was important to say ‘goodbye’ to a stillborn. Tim was sitting with me, his arm around my shoulder. We were looking at my son. We were crying. We looked at his scrunched up little face. They’d put a blue cap on his head and wrapped him in a blue blanket with a lighter blue trim like they were keeping him warm. I loved Tim at that moment. We were a family. A real family. I would have brought him up good. I would have worked somewhere and made sure he went to good schools and then he’d get into a good college. I would have turned around. I would have turned my whole life around for him. But he was dead. The nurse came in and took him from my arms. And then it was just Tim and me.
“I can’t do this no more, baby,” Tim said, getting off the bed. “I’m sorry.”
He left and then nobody was there. My first son hadn’t even been Tim’s. I don’t know whose he was. I just put him up for adoption. My mother came to get me in a couple of days. I went to live with her until I got arrested the second time for drunk driving. I spent some time inside and then got the two rehabs which were, as I say, bullshit. I signed the paper, the contract. I wouldn’t drink and drive because a third time they’d throw away the key.
I opened my eyes. Some guy maybe twenty-three, was looking at me.
“You okay?”
“Oh, yeah, I couldn’t be better. You got some water?”
“I’m not supposed to give you anything to drink in case you need surgery,” he says.
I turn away from him. We arrive at the emergency entry fast. They cart me off the back of the truck like I’m cold beer ready to get into a bar vat. No one is there to greet me except an ER nurse. She hooks me up to the monitors and other shit I’ve seen before. Then I have a full panic attack.
* * * *
“Did they get my purse out of there?”
“Everything’s burned up far as I know,” the ambulance guy says. “Cops want to talk to you.”
“No,” I say.
Two uniforms come in with a guy in a tan overcoat with a stupid badge pinned to the pocket.
“Miss Jillrith?”
“Jillian.” I say.
Tan coat reads his notes. He crosses something out on his pad. “Miss Jillian? I’m detective Robert Hoyle. Can you tell us what happened tonight?”
He stands by the bed, holding on to the rail they put up sos I wouldn’t fall out.
“Yeah, I hit a van.” I said.
“Were you ever unconscious?” Tan coat asks.
“If I were unconscious I wouldn’t know, now would I?” I say.
My head’s beginning to beat pretty bad, but I want to get this over with. The nurse comes in and stands on the other side, checks out the drip, twirls it a little, nods at the dicks and leaves.
“Your passenger was Robert Willfield, the city councilman. He was up for re-election next year. You know him?”
“He was a date tonight,” I said. “My boss at the bar where I work fixed us up.”
“He was married with three children, ma’am,” Tan coat says.
“Yeah, so what’s he doing out with me?” I say. But now my lips feel parched again and I feel that salty wet so I know they’re probably bleeding.
“I think she’s had enough for right now, gentlemen,” the nurse says.
Tan coat nods. “When can we interview her?”
“Let me find out.” The nurse leaves again.
I lie there. I’m thinking about my purse, all that money—burned up.
An old guy comes in with another badge. This is my third hit. That’s it for me. I can just see ’em gloating. Judges love to teach you a lesson. I decide then and there to tell them the truth.
“Hey, detective? The councilman pushed my head into his lap. That’s when the car like veered off and hit the van. It was an accident. That’s my story for the news.”
The dick smiles. The nurse comes back.
“There’s a tall, blond, good-looking guy in the waiting area. Tim,” he says. “Says you’ll want to see him. And your mother called.”
Tim’s here? I felt warm and happy all over. All I can think about is now is I’ll get Tim to buy something for my second son on his birthday. The adopted parents would like that. Tim’ll do that much for me.
THE OUTBURSTS OF EVERETT TRUE 3
ANACONDA, MONTANA, by Bruce Kilstein
Anaconda, Montana 1905
From the name, one would never know that it was a boomtown. When Mr. Daly set up the smelter and realized efficient ways to wring the ore from the hills, the town swelled from an ashen three hundred to a glinting nine thousand souls. The name, Copperopolis, seemed to fit the new century like a cog in the mechanism of progress, but when the postmaster found that the name was already taken, he suggested Anaconda. Nobody asked him why, and because they had better things to fret over, nobody suggested an alternative—the name stuck.
Montana was as good a place as any, Bridget supposed—certainly better than the Ireland she had escaped, and as nice as Pennsylvania or Massachusetts. Although constantly moving downhill (she had been sent down from the posh neighborhood where she worked for a prominent lawyer to serve a miserable businessman and his ugly daughters) she had seen enough of the eastern part of America—the hatred of the Catholics (although the Portuguese had it worse than the Irish), the oppression of servants, the gossip, the drudgery, the cruelty of the local politicians and their policemen—she had grown tired of being the dregs in the “Melting Pot,” and had found a husband and moved west. When she thought about it, having a husband was like being a maid for two
households but Mr. Sullivan was nice enough, the money she had was enough to get them set up in Montana (although, how could you put a price on the services she had rendered? The money may have been coined silver but the color was still red.). She supposed she could have bargained a higher severance pay but thought better of the risk; best to take what was offered and just go to a place where you could start over and, so long as you worshiped the Gods of Molten Metal, you could pray in any church you pleased. The bottom of the Pinter Mountains was better than bottom of the hill in Fall River even if the smoke stacks that towered over the town seemed a constant black finger pointing accusation.
Bridget was tired. The day’s work at Mr. Winston’s house complete, she went home and set about her own chores before starting dinner. The stove was cold and there would be no time for a coal fire. She went out back for wood. The August sun was still hot in early evening. She was getting no younger. Wiping the sweat from her face, she headed to the small wood pile and considered the sense in changing her style of dress to one of the lighter cotton blouses and trousers the “New Women” were wearing. She could probably afford some new clothes; but, truth be told, she was used to working in a dress and whale bone and just couldn’t see herself in something so loose and stylish. It was strange enough getting used to modern conveniences (which weren’t all that new, but her former employer, although a wealthy man, refused them, preferring to wander in the dark with a kerosene lamp like some tormented ghost). Now you had electric instead of gas light. (She didn’t trust the stuff. Who knew what evil came though wires?) Same for telephones. Who would they call? Pshaw! The operators were always listening in and sharing your news with town busybodies. She would make proper visits to friends in town and write proper correspondence back East.
She did enjoy having a water closet.
Mr. Andrew had running water in Fall River but had it shut off to all outlets except the kitchen sink. Pennies saved. What did it get him? She shuddered when she thought of his black figure, neatly dressed for a day at the bank, bent over that sink brushing the stringy mutton from his teeth after dinner. The sound grated on her memory. The heat, the memory, the bleating of her neighbor’s sheep overcame her with a wave of nausea.
That mutton. Her allowance of four dollars a week for shopping and household expenses had been more than ample, but Mr. Andrew had insisted on bargain cuts of mutton or pork—whatever was on sale that the butcher was desperate to get rid of at four cents a pound before the meat went completely rancid. She remembered cooking in that August heat wave. A generous helping of spice in the stew had masked some of the strange aftertaste but Mr. Andrew insisted that leftovers not go to waste. The ice in the box, which barely kept food at room temperature on good days, had rapidly melted; serving the remainder of the stew at breakfast the next day was ill-advised. Have mercy!
The vomiting that ensued after that cursed meal caused Mr. Andrew, Mrs. Abby and the daughter to hallucinate plots of poison. Missus ran across to fetch Dr. Brown, heaving the last of the meal on the poor man’s lawn. He offered a bromide, assuring her that if it had been cyanide rather than food poisoning, she would not have had time to call on him. He accompanied her back to assist the rest of the household but was barred entry to the house and refused compensation by an irate Andrew.
Bridget paused at the woodpile. How odd that memory could be so instantly triggered. She had fought for years to suppress the recollection of that day. She selected a few logs from the pile and brought them to the stump. She cast an evil eye at the staring sheep over the fence. There were no neighbors about. The women were indoors waiting for the distant whistle that sent the men down the mountain and home from the inferno of the smelter where a cool limeade and kind word awaited. She rolled up her sleeves. The heat rose in a wave shimmering off the ground.
The heat. She had only tasted the mutton and so was less sick than the others. All were behaving badly—there had been arguments for days—heated words between Mrs. Abby and Uncle John, heated words between sister Emma and Mr. Andrew (at least Emma had the good sense to storm out a few days earlier to visit friends on the seacoast, thereby missing the stew) and, she remembered thinking but was too embarrassed to confess to Father Riley (Jesus forgive her) that she had wished it were poison when the dirty windows became a priority and she was made to wash them inside and out in the sweltering August heat. By some miracle she felt better after throwing up in the yard and so dutifully continued to the barn for a pail of water and a large pole to reach the high windows where the fresh air held a bit of breeze and was better than the stagnant interior of the house. She could chat with the neighbor’s maid while she worked.
Those days seemed so long ago. She never spoke of them, not even to her husband. Mr. Sullivan asked few questions, bless him, and as she was not what any would call handsome, and had come with a considerable sum of money, he had not pursued a line of inquiry. Fortunately there was a need for domestic workers in the expanding town, and her employer had not asked for references. She sat on the stump a moment to rest. Memories revolved in her mind, turning her stomach.
The house was blessedly quiet. Emma and Uncle John had stormed off. Mr. Andrew was off to business, Mrs. Abby would be on the second floor changing the linen—she had forbidden Bridget to work on the floor where the family slept since the day money and trolley tickets had gone missing. Given the fact that everyone knew the daughter was a kleptomaniac, maybe they needed a cover story. Bridget didn’t care; at least she still had a job. In some small way she pitied the girl. Having such little access to her father’s money must have been a frustration. Bridget had considered a trip to the fabric store for a sale but after her chores she just wanted to lie down for an hour before having to prepare dinner. She doubted anyone would have much of an appetite anyway.
Bridget rose reluctantly and yanked the hatchet out of the stump. It made a thick, sucking sound. She turned the stained, rusted blade over in the sun imagining she could see her reflection in the dull metal.
She had finished the windows, had a drink of water, vomited again, felt a bit better, and went to her third-floor attic room to rest. She must have drifted off but awoke to strange sounds and a brief muffled shout that she assumed was the resumption of the argument between stepmother and daughter. She rolled over and tried to ignore the bickering for a few minutes and put the hot pillow over her head. The heat would not permit sleep but she stayed in bed as long as possible. When she heard Mr. Andrew’s voice she realized that she had to begin cooking. She washed her face in the basin and headed downstairs. Voices came from the first floor, and on the second floor landing something made her stop dead—
Bridget placed the log on the chopping stump, lifted the axe, and paused. A sharp pain overcame her. She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to slow a bleeding memory from flowing out for the world to see—she had never told anyone and each week at the confessional she felt as if another shovelful of earth was lifted from her deepening grave. She just couldn’t do it. She knew it was a sin to keep this inside her but what difference would confessing make now?
—A pair of legs protruded from the side of the bed Mrs. Abby had been changing. A red stain splattered the clean white blanket. She froze in terror. Another hurried sound came from below. Afraid to enter the bedroom, she followed the sound down the creaking stairs to the parlor.
Punishment would surely come. She had killed no one but committed a heinous sin of omission in her money-bought silence. The heat of the day would be nothing compared to the fires that awaited her.
Lizzie Borden was finishing caving in the skull of her father when Bridget entered the room. He must have died after the first few whacks but Lizzie continued on for several moments—each stroke of the axe releasing blood which splashed with the music of severed chains. The blood splattered high on the wall and pooled on the floor by the sofa where he had reclined for a nap. Lizzie, sensing Bridget behind her, turned, and with a disturbing lack of emotion, began delivering calculated instru
ctions:
“There’s no time, Maggie.” All Irish maids were called that, Bridget wondered if they even knew her name. “Quickly! Fetch my pink dress and a new pair of hose.” She wiped the slick fluid from the hatchet onto her blue dress and handed the weapon to Bridget.
In shock, distraught, but shamefully feeling no remorse at the death of her cruel master, Bridget took the axe, went through the kitchen, pausing to stash the instrument of murder in an unused section of the stove, and ran upstairs to find Lizzie’s dress.
Lizzie changed her clothes calmly. “You will say nothing, Maggie. You were asleep upstairs when Father was killed and washing windows with witnesses when Mrs. Borden met her end. They will entertain you as a suspect but there will be no evidence. I will be tried for the murder. You will be paid well.
Before Bridget could even formulate a response—the horrible image froze in her mind, the cold horror of Lizzie’s calculated plan—Lizzie was out the door calling for a doctor and the police.
Bridget’s mind flashed back to the awful scene. Waves of heat, of nausea, of guilt—guilt of keeping silent, guilt of accepting money, most of all, guilt that she was happy to see Andrew and Abby Borden dead—came over her, and she moved the log off the block, set down her own left hand in its place, and raised the hatchet.
* * * *
On August 4, 1892, Andrew and Abby Borden were found brutally butchered in their home. The doors to the Borden house were locked from the inside. Lizzie Borden and her maid, Bridget Sullivan, were the only other people at home. Lizzie Borden stood trial for the murders and was quickly acquitted. Forensic analysis established that Lizzie’s stepmother, Abby, had died before Andrew, and so, in the mysterious absence of Andrew Borden’s will, his large estate went to Lizzie. Many officials were handsomely paid from this purse. Lizzie lived comfortably for the remainder of her life in Fall River, Massachusetts, just a few blocks from the murder. Bridget Sullivan, the only possible witness to the crime, died in 1948 in Montana. She never spoke of that horrible day.