Lizzie Borden (35 page)

“Oh?”

Enid stopped, put a hand on Lizzie’s arm. “I’ve been entertaining men for money,” she said.

Lizzie’s face remained unreadable. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I needed you to know that.”

“Why?”

Enid’s insides squirmed. “Because.”

“What is it, Enid? What are you trying to say?”

“I need money to put the boys through school. Charles Junior is almost finished, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“You mean you still. . .entertain men for money? And you plan to continue to do so?”

Enid thought for a moment. She would like to stop, she really would. But the financial hardships of tuition and all that on her miserly salary. . . And she was so afraid, so
afraid
of being poor, poor and alone…Then again, there was something quite self-satisfying about raising her skirts for men who found her desirable to the tune of a hundred dollars a week. She had always maintained two “boyfriends,” as she referred to them, since Charles died. A Friday boyfriend and a Saturday boyfriend. And now. . . Lizzie. “I don’t know, Lizzie. I don’t feel quite right about it, and yet I’m quite reluctant to give up the money.  And the satisfaction.” This was not going at all like Enid planned.

“Satisfaction?”

“Well, yes. There is satisfaction knowing that men will pay me a weekly allowance for my favors.”

“They pay you a weekly allowance?”

Lizzie was clearly flabbergasted by Enid’s revelations, and Enid couldn’t help but be a little bit proud. “I see two men, Lizzie. And each one gives me an allowance for my boys’ schooling.”

“I can get money, Enid. You don’t have to do that.”

“What is the difference?”

Lizzie’s eyes grew dark. “This would be one friend helping another, Enid. I can get money from my father.”

“No, Lizzie.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know any more.” Enid felt like crying.

“Then why tell me this?”

Enid shrugged, knowing full well that she intended to tell Lizzie more.

“You don’t want me to come over on the days you have your friends over?”

“Oh, Lizzie, no.”

“Then what? Why did you tell me this?”

Enid looked up. Lizzie’s eyes had gone pale. She was agitated, and Enid had only herself to blame. Lizzie had been so joyous, so carefree when they were at the Borden house just moments before, and now. . . now she’d ruined everything.

“Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

Lizzie turned and began walking back home. Enid ran a couple of steps to keep up. She caught at Lizzie’s sleeve. Lizzie was crying. “I loved you,” Lizzie said.

Enid touched Lizzie’s cheek and they hugged, Lizzie clinging to her fiercely. “And I love you. Think about it, please think about it, dear Lizzie. It’s not a big thing.” Lizzie’s hair smelled of the bath oils and their lovemaking the night before. “Just two evenings a week, and my boys. . . Lizzie, you don’t have children, you don’t know. Charles didn’t leave enough money for them, and. . . and I’m putting money away for my old age, too, Lizzie, it’s such a little thing, for a couple of hours a week. I’m not going to be able to do it much longer, you know. I thought I wanted to stop it, I came here to tell you that I would, but I can’t, Lizzie, not until the boys are out of school. . . I really can’t.”

“Well then, you’ve made your choices.” Lizzie sniffed, released Enid and wiped her face on her sleeve.

“I guess I have.” Enid’s felt her heart breaking. There were no words, just a terrible tearing of the soul.

“How much do you get?”

“A hundred dollars a week. Each.”

Lizzie turned, astonished, a little smile at the corners of her mouth. Enid couldn’t help but be a little bit smug. “Two hundred dollars a week! I could own my own house and live on my own in town on one hundred dollars a month!”

They both laughed, but there was no humor in it, and Lizzie went into her house and Enid went on into her office, and neither one of them felt very good about life.

The woman who came to call for Lizzie didn’t look at all like the type of person Lizzie should be friends with, according to Emma’s way of thinking. Her hair was short, and she wore no hat, even in the sun. A face that was burned brown from the sun was as attractive as an old shoe, and showed about as much sense. It was against her better judgment that she fetched Lizzie upon this woman’s command, and by the time Lizzie left with her, Emma was ready for some breakfast.

The mutton roast they’d all eaten the night before was still sitting on the kitchen table. Emma filled a pan with water, and put the meat in it; she’d have soup for them for dinner, if she could bear to make a fire in the stove. Then she poured herself a glass of chilled milk and took a pastry from the shelf. She sat at the kitchen table, listening to the heat. It was almost noon, and the house was creaking with the weight of the oppressive heat. Emma’s thighs were sticky, and strands of her hair hung like noodles from her normally tidy, tight bun. Even the milk tasted odd. But the cake was all right, so she ate it and went back upstairs to think about presenting her idea to Lizzie.

But before Lizzie came home, sickness welled up and out of Emma almost before she had time to aim toward her slops pail. It took her so suddenly and by surprise that she had no time to prepare. Immediately after vomiting, she felt better, but in a moment, perspiration beaded up on her face and she felt as if she might faint.

Quickly, she removed her housedress and lay on her bed in her underdrawers. She felt dizzy.

It’s the milk, she thought. The milk has been poisoned. She was glad she only had a sip or two.  That Sebastian Whitehead. Damn his eyes.

And then she slept.

Wednesday, August 3

The long, hot night slowly turned into day. There had been no respite from the dogged heat all night long, and daybreak brought with it the promise of even more heat. Lizzie had lain awake most of the night, drifting in and out of unconsciousness, more than really sleeping. As the rooster crowed, she heard rustlings in the kitchen, which must mean that members of the household were up and about. The house had been furnace hot and eerily still the day before, with everybody sick. It was pleasant, in a way, to walk through the house, grateful that she never drank milk, knowing that no one would speak to her, or even see her. And yet it was eerie, for she could feel all those people sick in their beds. Maggie was in her little loft, the hottest of the hot on the third floor. And Emma. Hot. Sick. And her parents, she could imagine them in bed, hot, sick, sticking to the sheets and barely able to bear their own feverishness, let alone the others’.

There was something terrible about this sickness. It seemed they were all more than sick, sick almost to their death. Poisoned. But that was Sebastian’s plan, wasn’t it?

Or was it Emma’s plan? Emma surely was not as ill as the others. No, Emma would never poison the family. Take after them with an axe, perhaps, but she would never intentionally poison them all.

Well, somebody was up down stairs, and Lizzie felt as though she ought to go see who was there.

Besides, Beatrice was due to arrive this evening or the next morning, and Lizzie felt she ought to bathe and make herself presentable. The household was in disrepair and everyone lay dying around her, but at least Lizzie could be clean.

Lizzie was surprised to find Emma in the kitchen. Emma generally made a great amount of noise when going from her room through Lizzie’s, but this morning Lizzie must have been soundly asleep.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.”

“You’ve made a fire?”

“I felt like a coffee.”

“You’re better, then?”

“Much.”

“What about the others?”

“I’ve not heard.”

“Shouldn’t someone check on them?”

“You mean in case they’re all dead?”

Emma had such compassionate nature. “Well, yes.”

“Go do it, then. I’m busy.”

Lizzie walked up the narrow stairs toward her parents’ room. She hadn’t been up these stairs in years. Twenty years, probably, not since she was a young girl. Well, except for that time with the jewelry and the money. The stairs were the same. They smelled the same. The wood was a little more worn, otherwise it was all the same, the walls unadorned with wall paper, pictures or anything else. Black marks where little hands had trailed along the wall in the dark.

She got to the parents’ door and knocked.

“What is it?” Andrew answered.

“It’s Lizzie,” she said, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

There was some mumbling, but Lizzie couldn’t make it out.

“We’re better. We’ll be down.”

“Good.” She continued up the stairs to Bridget’s room. She knocked.

“Yes?”

“Maggie, are you all right?”

“I think so, miss.”

“Will you be down for breakfast?”

“I think not. Perhaps later.”

“All right, then.” Lizzie went back downstairs, feeling  fortunate indeed that the sickness hadn’t touched her.

“Is everyone alive?”

Emma’s tone touched Lizzie as a bit whimsical, considering. They were all very ill, and Emma had no right to make light of such a thing. It had perhaps been an attempt on their father’s life! “They’ll be down,” was all she said.

“Well, good. I have a thing or two for that father of ours. He will not escape this breakfast table without explaining himself.”

“Emma.”

“Emma nothing. It’s the only way. With all of us present. It’s the only way, Lizzie.” Emma dried her hands on her apron and left the room.

Lizzie selected a pear from the bowl on the table and sliced it into pieces. She took the plate and cup of coffee, out of the fiery hot kitchen, into the dining room and sat down. Emma had brought in the morning paper and Lizzie picked it up and began to read.

In less than a minute, Emma appeared in the doorway, pale, clutching something in her talons.

“Lizzie, I’ve found it.”

“What, Emma?”

“The will. The old man’s will.”

“Where?”

“It was in his suit coat pocket.”

“Emma.” Lizzie wanted to chastise Emma for snooping again, but curiosity got the better of her. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s sick, that’s why.”

“That’s of no matter. This must be it. It’s in a mailing tube, and it’s ready to go to a lawyer in Fairhaven. It
must
be the will!” Emma sat down on the edge of a chair. Lizzie couldn’t remember when she’d ever seen Emma’s eyes so bright. “If we open this now, Lizzie, when he comes down for breakfast, we’ll have accurate information. We can speak to him about his affairs with knowledge, and we can plan our strategy.”

Lizzie couldn’t help but be intrigued. As long as Emma did the actual deed, she was actually innocent. And she was all for seeing what he had up his sleeve. “Well?”

Emma took a butter knife from the table and slit open the package. She unwrapped the paper and opened the end of the tube. It was a will, all right, bound in blue paper. She pulled it out and read the cover letter in a whisper.

Dear Mr. Stockworth:

I’m making a few revisions to my will. I am taking this out of the hands of my present attorney as I wish these changes to remain confidential until my death. Please redraft the document and send to me for my signature. I have enclosed a cheque in the amount of twenty dollars, which I assume will cover all your fees.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Andrew Borden

Emma laid that sheet of paper on the table and looked at the will. “Look! He’s cut Sarah Whitehead out. She was in. She was in, and now he’s taken her out. Good.” She flipped through another page, eyes scanning the lines.