Lizzie Borden (12 page)

Each exercise was to be done for a full thirty days, so she was still only on the second exercise. Her letters to Beatrice were full of questions: Who wrote this book? Why? Who publishes it? How is it distributed? Can I buy copies? Why is it so mysterious? What will the end result be?

And Beatrice, cool, with her written British accent so clear in Lizzie’s head, told her to mind her lessons and more understanding would eventually come. But cool as she may seem as regards Lizzie’s strict adherence to the rules governing the lessons, she was overwhelmingly pleased that Lizzie was such an ardent student.

The first exercise was nothing more than two paragraphs to be read aloud three times a day for thirty days.

Within each individual resides many others. Your personality is made up of an infinite number of facets, continually turning and twinkling in the ever-present Light of Life. When we take control of our lives, we design the patterns of light. We line up the personality facets to accomplish that which we were born to do.

I now claim that which is divinely mine. I claim absolute control over each fragment of my personality, to be strengthened through purposeful, conscious unity. I now will that the Divine power which motors the Universe now deed me the control over my own destiny. I now claim that I, and no other, am the architect of my future. I now command my rightful, unique place in the order of all material.

So it is, so shall it be.

This was written with Lizzie in mind, she was sure. She’d never read anything like it before. It reminded her that she was responsible for her own emotions, attitudes and future. It mentioned God, and it seemed to suggest a spiritual way of life, both of which Lizzie approved. And when Lizzie read the passage aloud, especially the “I now claim” part, her heart pounded, and it felt to her as if it really
meant
something. She hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking.

The second exercise was even stranger. She was to light two candles, and place one on either side of a mirror. Then she was to sit in the dark and view her face in the mirror for no less than one-half hour. Every day for thirty days.

At first, she could not do it. Her face turned gargoyle within three minutes, and her eyes, always pale, seemed to dissolve and fade away, leaving only empty sockets through which she could see unpleasant things floating about.

It was a week before she could spend fifteen full minutes at the task, and another week before a half hour passed and she could still view herself without nausea.

It could be the setting—the darkness, the mystery surrounding the exercises in the book—it could be the shadows the candlelight threw upon her face, or it could be that she was fresh from the “within each individual resides many others” exercise, but the face that Lizzie saw in the mirror was not her own. It was close, it was very close, but it seemed to be just slightly foreign. It was almost her, but not quite.

Regardless, she started counting her thirty days from the day she first spent thirty minutes. Beatrice complimented Lizzie on her thoroughness. “Cheating on the exercises will not harm you, Lizbeth,” she said, “but it could invalidate some of the work you’re doing. Invest this time in yourself. Do it right and reap the full benefits.” And in the meantime, to fill the other twenty-three and a half hours in every day, Beatrice suggested some books Lizzie could read, most of them on business. “Business is just busy-ness, Lizbeth,” she said. “Life is about getting on with other people. And the more you practice, the better you get at it. But before you can practice successfully, you must have a fine self-image of yourself. The exercises will give you personal power. The books on business will tell you how to act with others. Be sure of yourself. Be bold. Be adventurous.” And then she’d sign off with the inevitable, “Affectionately, Beatrice.”

Lizzie would hug those letters to herself, knowing that the next time she met Beatrice, she would not be a fumbling fool. She would be well practiced, bold, adventurous and self-assured.

Yes. Soon she would be ready to be a fit friend for Beatrice. But would she ever be ready for her father?

Lizzie lay back against the hay and thought about her father. He was becoming increasingly odd. A function of age, surely, Lizzie thought, as he’d always been quite eccentric, but of late, he had become most abusive.

In church two Sundays ago, for example, he told the organist that Lizzie couldn’t carry a tune even if it had two handles. Then he went on to explain that the laundry basket had two handles and she didn’t seem to be able to carry it, either. Lizzie and old Mrs. Watkins listened in horrified silence as he expounded further on Lizzie’s laziness. Lizzie finally turned and walked away.

Andrew caught up with her several paces down the church walk, catching up her arm in his hard fingers.

Lizzie pulled away from him.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me like that. You embarrassed me.”

“
I
embarrassed
you
? Father, how could you say those things to Mrs. Watkins—especially since they weren’t at all true. I can sing, you know I can sing. And your laundry doesn’t go wanting, either.” Lizzie felt herself near tears and that infuriated her.

Her father looked at her with astonishment. “It was said in jest, Lizzie.”

“No it wasn’t, Father,” she said, her breath coming in gulps. “It was said in meanness.” Lizzie stalked away from him, fuming. She was conscious of him walking about two paces behind her, silent, all the way home.

She fumbled about trying to unlock the front door, and when she couldn’t fit the key in the lock because of the tears of rage and hurt that befuddled her, Andrew calmly took her keys, unlocked the front door, turned the knob and pushed it open. As angry as she was— angry too about her failure to control her emotion—when her father came and performed the simple task she seemed unable to do for herself, she felt small and cared for. A surge of unbidden and unwelcome affection warmed her. But she took her keys from him without looking at him, went upstairs to her room, and locked the door behind her.

Emma was in her room, Lizzie could hear her rocking chair, and she hoped that Emma would stay there. She was in no mood to talk about family matters, or the sermon or Sunday school or anything else.

She flopped on her bed, fists clenched, wondering why he did such things—he always treated her poorly in public—and her gaze landed on the book from Beatrice.

She felt an immediate change in attitude. Instantly, the anger and frustration melted and she wondered how she could have handled the situation better. How could she have been more bold, more adventurous, more in control?

She could have laughed at his “jesting,” and made light of it.

She could have turned to him calmly and gently and told him and Mrs. Watson both that those things were not true, and asked him to explain himself.

Either one of those things would have been a far superior reaction than stomping off and crying. Either one of those things would have been far more adult. She would have been in control. She could have been self-assured.

The rocking stopped in Emma’s room and Lizzie held her breath. Oh God, don’t let her come in here.

But the key turned in the lock and Emma’s door opened.

“How was church?”

“Fine.” Lizzie hoped if she kept to monosyllabic answers, Emma would take the hint and go away.

“I’m going down for a bite. Can I bring you something?”

“No.”

“I think there’s a piece of pie left.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“Is everything all right, Lizzie?”

“Yes,” she said, but the anger returned in full force. Her fists clenched, and Emma noticed before she could relax them.

“You have a tiff with father again?”

“He insulted me in front of Mrs. Watkins.”

“Mrs. Watkins?”

“The organist at church.”

“Oh, pooh.”

“Yes, I know, it doesn’t mean much in front of the organist, but why does he do that? He always does that. He always does that in front of other people.”

Emma sat on the edge of Lizzie’s bed, the last thing Lizzie wanted. She wanted to puzzle this out in her own way—in Beatrice’s way—in her own time. She wanted to be forgiving instead of complaining, but old habits die hard. She didn’t want Emma to be interfering, confusing her with her twisted ideas of Father’s behavior.

“If I were you,” Emma said, “I would tell him that unless he can behave himself as a gentleman, he can bloody well find himself another escort. And then I would change churches.”

Lizzie was speechless. She just stared at Emma. Emma patted her leg, got up and slipped out the door.

Change churches. Find a new start. A new pastor. A new Sunday school class.

All things new again. All things new. Beginning a new life,
starting down a new Pathway. I now command my unique and rightful place in the order of all things material.
It was a wonderful idea.

Lizzie had immediately changed churches. Last Sunday morning she had turned right when her father turned left and gone to the Central Congregational Church. To her delight, it was populated with people who lived on the Hill, exactly the new type of friends Lizzie was interested in making. And she immediately took a Sunday school class of Oriental children and joined the Christian Endeavor Society.

For the sad person Emma had turned out to be, now and then she had a good idea.

But there was nothing at all good about her ideas in New Bedford.

When Emma came limping home from her January trip, her face darkly veiled, she took to her bed for two weeks. Lizzie brought her meals up, but Emma would hide her face with the covers.

Only when the bruises began to pale and turn yellowish, did Emma, starved for company, allow Lizzie to see her.

She had taken quite a beating. Her lip was split, her eye was blackened, and there was a big bruise high on one cheekbone. She moved about in bed with severe discomfort, so Lizzie knew that the damage was not limited to the face. How could she? How
could
she?

The worst thing, Lizzie knew, was that within another six to eight months, Emma would return to New Bedford for like treatment. It made Lizzie sick to her stomach.

But every time she tried to talk to Emma about it, Emma turned her head. It was something that was not to be discussed.

And in the two weeks that Emma was taken to her bed, neither Andrew nor Abby had come to visit her in her room. Not once.

Not that Emma would have seen them; but not once did either of them make an effort, and Lizzie knew that Emma would have enjoyed refusing them admittance.

So Lizzie had changed churches, and knowing that her father had to explain the change to everyone in Fall River gave her a naughty little glee. It was a welcome respite from the guilt that always resided within her. She could never live up to be the person he needed her to be.

Beatrice never had to live up to unreasonable expectations like that, did she? No. That was one of the most attractive things about Beatrice. She never strived for anyone else’s approval. Lizzie felt boxed in most of the time, scrabbling for the approval of those who would never grant it.

She wanted her father to be proud of her, but clearly she had failed him in every way. He ridiculed her and humiliated her in front of others. He never missed an opportunity to shame her, especially in front of her friends, and those people who counted in the community. But this was nothing new. Andrew had been saying terrible things about her in front of her since she was a little girl.

Lizzie went out of her way to be a good daughter. She tried to keep peace in the family—not an easy task. She took off his boots every day when he came home for a rest. She rubbed his feet. She brought his tea. She read to him every day. She looked presentable and kept a good house.

There were certain things that let her know, in spite of his actions, that he did love her, that he did approve of her. One was the trip he bought for her to go abroad with her church friends. That was an extravagant expense for him. He’d never done anything like that for Emma. Or Abby, for that matter.

Another reason she thought he really did love her was the way he fawned over her during their afternoon “visiting.” He always mentioned something about growing old, and he always needed to extract her promise never to leave him. But that kind of need was different from approval for herself as a woman, as a person, as a contributing member of the family in particular and society in general. No, that he
needed
her, Lizzie had no doubt. But that he
liked
her was another matter entirely.

And then there was the ring. If there was one single thread of proof that Andrew Borden loved his daughter, it was that he wore her high school ring on his pinky finger.

She had never been a scholar, and had not finished high school, but when all her classmates were buying their class rings, Lizzie saved her allowance and purchased hers along with the rest of them. She wore it proudly on the ring finger of her right hand. It was gold, with a yellow stone, and it had her initials on the inside.

Some months after getting the ring, a boy walked Lizzie home from school. That night, Emma told Lizzie that she would do better to be at home where an eye could be kept on things that were important, rather than frittering them away on silly social matters and the kind of schooling that taught people nothing but nonsense. Emma forbade Lizzie to see the boy again and she withdrew her to from school.

Lizzie didn’t put up much of a fight about it—she wasn’t very good at school, and it was true, much of it was nonsense. She was not at all interested in the boy, but she found Emma’s reaction to be quite amusing.