Miss Lizzie (9 page)

“I did indeed. Got it right here.” Head bent, he rummaged through his bag. “Somewhere. Ah.” He took out a small amber-colored glass bottle, opened it, tapped four small white tablets from it onto his palm. “Here you are, my girl.” He handed them to me. “Two of these right away, and there's two more for tonight, if you've got a problem sleeping.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Chamomile tea,” he said. “And lots of bed rest, eh? Be good as new in the morning. Right as rain.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Miss Lizzie. “Please be good enough to send me the bill.”

“The wife makes up the bills,” he said. “Should get quite a kick out of this one, eh? I mean, well, considering.…” Neither Miss Lizzie nor Mr. Slocum said anything. Blinking, Dr. Bowen cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” With a small grunt of effort he stood from the sofa. “Have to be going. No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Mr. Slocum said to Miss Lizzie, “Shall I show the doctor out?”

“Thank you, Mr. Slocum,” she said, nodding.

As the two men left the parlor, she approached the sofa. “How are you feeling, Amanda?”

“Tired,” I said.

“Would you like to lie down?”

“I think so, yes. If it would be all right?”

“Of course it would. You'll use the spare room, upstairs. Ah, Mr. Slocum. Let me just help Amanda get settled, and then you and I can talk.”

Mr. Slocum nodded, then said to me, “The doctor's right, Amanda. You'll feel better after you get some rest.”

His teeth, I noticed, were perfectly uniform; and, even in the dim light of the parlor, they actually sparkled.

Upstairs, Miss Lizzie refused to let me help her make the bed. She insisted that I sit down on the small wooden chair set against the wall while she fussed with the sheets, drawing the lower so taut it could have served as a trampoline. Finished, she stroked them smooth. “There. You get into bed now, dear, and I'll fetch you your tea.”

I wanted to ask her about her earlier experience with Chief Da Silva in Fall River, but I felt it would be an imposition, an intrusion. Instead I asked, “Do you think my father will be coming soon?”

She reached out and stroked my hair. “I'm sure he will, dear. When I spoke to my lawyer in Boston and asked him to send along someone here in town, I told him to call your father's office and let him know what had happened. I'm sure he's on his way right now. I'll send him up to see you as soon as he arrives. Now into bed with you.”

She bustled off, shutting the door behind her.

After putting Dr. Bowen's pills on the nightstand, I undressed slowly, crawled into bed, and pulled the sheet over me. It smelled of mothballs.

Whether through shock or through mere exhaustion, my mind was finally beginning to wink out. Tucked now in a protective cocoon, I felt extremely weak and infinitely tired.

Within perhaps fifteen minutes, Miss Lizzie returned carrying a tray that held a glass of water and a cup steaming with chamomile tea. She set it on the nightstand and sat down beside me on the mattress.

“These are the tablets that Dr. Bowen gave you?” she asked, picking them up.

“Yes,” I said. “Do I really have to take them?”

She smiled. “Yes, dear, you do. They'll help you sleep. Two of them, he said. Here. And here's your water. Very good. Thank you, Amanda.”

I said, “How old do you think Mr. Slocum is?”

“Mr. Slocum? I don't know, dear. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Why do you ask?”

I shrugged beneath the sheet. “I don't know. Just curious, I guess. He seems awfully clever, doesn't he?”

She smiled. “Awfully. Now you get some sleep. I promise that as soon as your father gets here, I'll send him up.”

“Thank you, Miss Lizzie.”

She stroked my hair again. “And don't you worry, Amanda. I promise, I'll take care of everything.”

“You've been really kind, Miss Lizzie.”

“Hush,” she said. “Sleep now. I'll check in on you later.”

She stood and turned, walked to the door and opened it. She turned back to me and smiled. “In ten years, when you're twenty-three, he'll be only thirty-seven.”

I blushed. Was I so ridiculously obvious?

“Sleep well, dear.” She smiled and slipped through the door and pulled it shut.

Ten years
, I thought.

In only a few minutes I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted until the morning of the following day.

SIX

I AWOKE IN the unfamiliar bed to the smell of camphor, a closed-in, claustrophobic smell. The air was hot and still, as dense as broth, and my cotton chemise clung to my damp skin like a mustard plaster.

A blade of sunlight lanced between the lace curtains behind me, sliced aslant across the room, glinted off the glass-covered walnut cabinet on the opposite wall. On the far side of the dusty glass stood rows of stiff porcelain figurines: shepherds and shepherdesses, rotund grinning burghers and their rotund grinning wives, all their tiny glazed eyes staring idiotically into mine.

To my right was a dressing table with a clouded mirror set in an ornate but chipped oval of dark wood. To my left was a squat oak writing desk, its worn surface bare, its cubbyholes empty. And there, before it, slumped in the straight-backed chair against the wall, his white-shirted arms folded across his chest, his tie loosened at his neck, his head bowed, one lock of brown hair hanging limply down his forehead, sat Father.

“Daddy?” I said. “Daddy?”

His head snapped up and he looked at me. “Amanda,” he said. He stood up so slowly, with such difficulty, that he seemed to be aching with the effort. His shoulders stooped, he crossed the floor and sat beside me on the mattress. His cheeks were sunken, his blue eyes rimmed with red. “How are you, baby?” he said, and his hand moved forward to touch my head.

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, and I reached out and he drew me up to him, arms tight around me, and, for the first time since I had seen the body of my stepmother, grief clotted in my throat and tears came scalding between my eyelids.

“Oh, Daddy,” I sobbed. “
Daddy
.”

He held me, his hand patting me softly on the back. “Baby,” he said. “Baby.”

He held me, and all at once I felt against my face a drop, and then another, of my father's tears. Each trembled there for a moment and then trailed wet and ticklish down my cheek and mingled with my own. I had never seen my father weep before. And then I was sobbing for him, for his loss and for his hurt and even for his gladness at holding me. I held him, and he held me, and together, silently, for a long time we cried.

After a while, when my sobs had subsided to sniffles and deep ragged sighs, he sat away from me and, breathing through his mouth, scraped at his eyes, first his right and then his left, with the fingertips of his right hand. It was a gesture that I found, in its masculine abruptness, as touching as his tears. He reached back into his rear pocket and plucked from it a neatly folded white cotton handkerchief, opened the thing, and handed it to me. I wiped my puffy eyes (I have never been one of those fortunate and possibly mythical women whom tears make more appealing) and then put it to my nose and trumpeted into it. I looked at him and said forlornly, “I must sound like a goose.”

He smiled, blinking away a shimmer. “Like a silly goose.”

I honked into the handkerchief again. “I'm all plugged up,” I said, and frowned.

“Me too.”

I gave him back the handkerchief, and he blew his nose, more discreetly than I, sniffed once, blew again, and then returned it to his pocket.

I said, “Daddy, it was awful.”

He nodded. “I know, baby. I saw her.”

“You
saw
her?” That torn flesh and splintered bone; those awful splatters of blood. “The police made you look?”

“Down at the hospital.” He inhaled deeply. “Someone had to identify her.”

“Oh, Daddy.” I put my hand on his.

He covered it with his other hand. “It's all right now, Amanda. It's over now.”

“That rotten Chief Da Silva. That
rat
.”

Squeezing my hand, he shook his head. “No, Amanda. It's the law. Chief Da Silva was only doing his job.”

“I don't like him.”

“He's a hard man, but I think a fair one.”

“I still don't like him. Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Who could've done that to Audrey?”

He shook his head. “A madman. A maniac. I—”

Someone knocked at the door. Father called out, “Come in.”

The door swung open and Miss Lizzie entered, holding upright a tidy stack of clothing. “I heard you talking. I don't mean to interrupt.”

She was not apologetic, exactly; I should have a hard time imagining Miss Lizzie apologetic in any circumstances. I believe she was uncomfortable dealing with the obvious intimacy between Father and myself. But whatever the reason, she was subdued, almost businesslike.

Father said, “Not at all, Miss Borden.”

She turned to me. “And how are you today, Amanda?” In her voice was that crisp, bright, artificial heartiness with which most adults speak to children. Her manner had none of the closeness and warmth of yesterday: it seemed to imply that the two of us were merely acquaintances and not, as I had come to believe, friends. And, as only a thirteen-year-old can be, I was stung.

“I'm all right,” I said, my voice sulky.

She nodded. “I've brought some of your things from next door. If you'd like to bathe, the washroom is just down the hall.”

“Thank you.” I kept my voice cool, noncommittal.

She set the bundle of clothing on the writing desk and turned to Father. “Have you told Amanda yet about the meeting?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“With the police?” I asked.

“With the lawyer,” he said. “At noon.” He smiled faintly. “A Council of War before we talk to the police.”

“The lawyer?” I said. “Mr. Slocum?”

He nodded. “And a Pinkerton man. Miss Borden feels he may be necessary.” From his tone, I gathered that he did not share this feeling.

“A real private detective?”

He smiled. “A real private detective.”

“Well,” said Miss Lizzie, “I'll leave the two of you alone.” She turned to me. “You're quite welcome to stay as long as you like, Amanda.” She glanced around the room, disapproval tightening her mouth. “The furniture isn't mine, of course. It's the sort of sorry odds and ends you find in any summer rental. We could do something about that, if you like. Bring in some nicer things. Those Dresdens”—with a frown at the figurines—“are particularly odious.”

“No,” I said, “that's all right, Miss Lizzie. The room is fine.”

“Well, let me know if you reconsider.” Then, as though suddenly remembering something, she said, “Are you hungry, child?”

I discovered, to my surprise, that I was famished. “A little,” I admitted.

Her face softened. “Good. I'll bring something up for you.”

At once I felt guilty for my earlier coolness. “No, Miss Lizzie, really. You don't have to go to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all,” she said. “And you need to maintain your strength.” She turned to Father, gave him her businesslike nod. “Until later, then.”

As she made to leave I called out, “Miss Lizzie?”

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

She smiled then and at once became the Miss Lizzie I remembered, bright gray eyes and dimpled cheeks. “You needn't mention it, child. It's been my pleasure.” With another nod to Father she turned and left.

I looked at him. “She's been wonderful, Father.” The moment I spoke the word I realized that we were no longer
Daddy
and
baby
; Miss Lizzie's visit had served as a reminder of a world other than ourselves. I felt a small quick stab of regret.