‘Burn yer throat this lot would,’ Mammy’s brother Frank would say, but he’d keep on drinking it down, drinking till it no longer burned.
I dusted spines, I dusted shelves, dusted over Lizzie’s bedhead, right over to her dressing table. Lizzie fancied herself, her little collection of flower-painted porcelain vases, her bottles of jasmine and civet perfume smelled like unwashed bodies. I noticed her jewellery box was unlocked. I shouldn’t have. Inside it, her crosses, wooden and silver, different sizes of her love of the Lord. There was a sapphire ring, the large stone encased by tiny gold claws, a tiger with prey. I’d never seen her wear it. It must’ve been new. I picked it up. Underneath the stone was a small price tag. Forty dollars. A ring Mr Borden would never let her buy. I put the ring back in the box, shut the lid. Lizzie had been bad again. Just like she had been the year before when she told Mr Borden, ‘Oh, Father! Someone came into the house and raided your belongings.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard him. I think I scared him away before he had a chance to take anything else.’
We were in the sitting room when Mr Borden asked me what I knew, as if I had done the deed myself. ‘Nothin’, sir. I was down the basement washin’ laundry.’ Emma knew nothing either.
His finger back and forth between me and Emma, like choosing teams. ‘How is it no one heard a man break in except Lizzie? Are you all lost to the world?’
‘Father, the house was locked. I didn’t suspect a thing out of order,’ Emma told him, out of breath, out of depth.
Mr Borden made the three of us walk through the house with him like naughty children. He’d point to windows, ask me to rattle them, see if any came loose. None did.
‘Father,’ Lizzie said, ‘is it really necessary we do this?’
Mr Borden didn’t answer.
After an hour of searching the house, we were in Mr and Mrs Borden’s bedroom. We stood by the window as Mr Borden looked through drawers. Emma scratched her elbow. Lizzie watched her father.
‘He took tram tickets.’ Lizzie stepped towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Emma breathed deep, her throat making accordion sounds. The air in the room got thick.
Mr Borden pulled his arm away. ‘Seems an odd thing to take.’
‘Maybe he thought they could be cashed in.’ Lizzie shrugged.
Mr Borden looked at his daughter. They looked at each other. Lizzie’s face flushed pink, eyes widened. He made a fist, unmade a fist.
‘Father.’ Emma was loud. He turned to her. ‘Lizzie needs rest. It must’ve been frightening to hear that commotion and not be able to call out. Let’s stop searching.’
Mr Borden took a good look at the open drawers around him. ‘Looks like a few dimes and a necklace have been taken too.’
‘Father, if I can think of anything else I might’ve heard I’ll tell you and you can tell the police.’ Lizzie sweetened up.
Emma stretched her hand to Lizzie. It was taken. The sisters left the room, went down the back stairs, clumped along like toddlers. I went to leave.
‘Stop,’ Mr Borden said. He stood by his bed, rocked back and forth then got himself still. ‘Have you ever given your key to anyone?’ His voice was small.
‘No, sir. I keep it on me always.’
Mr Borden grunted. ‘You can go now.’
I nodded and left.
A few days later I was doing laundry in the basement when I found a tram card stuck to the inside of Lizzie’s skirt. I checked the other pocket. Another card. Lizzie had a lot to learn about hiding secrets. I tore the cards, clumped them together in the tub of warm soapy water, watched them turn grey.
FOUR
BENJAMIN
3 August 1892
I MET JOHN in Fairhaven after a night of blood-letting fighting, of losing my last dollar, of ripping my leg on barbed wire. I met John the way I do most—by chance, by accident, the crossing of paths. It was dawn and I was water-full. I was with my gristle and chops in hand, urinating up an alleyway wall when an older, tree-height man quickly turned into the alleyway, came trudging towards me, vomited gravy-thick onto my boots. He held himself together then gave a gentleman’s laugh. ‘That was rather unexpected.’
‘Damn sure was.’
He wiped his mouth, looked me over, said, ‘I too quite like urinating in open spaces from time to time. It’s freeing, don’t you agree?’
I didn’t care to be interrupted. ‘I just do what I need to do.’
He nodded his head, said, ‘I like a man who doesn’t overthink things. There’s value in that.’
Something my papa might’ve said. ‘Sounds like you’re calling me stupid, old man.’
He waved his hand. ‘On the contrary.’ He shifted eyes down to cobblestone, grimaced and said, ‘My apologies about your boots. Drank some milk that was too far gone, I’m afraid.’ He rubbed his hand over his dark suit, reminded me of a banker.
‘Didn’t your mama ever teach you to sniff before you drink?’ I was about to pull my trousers up when a voice boomed, ‘Hey, you! Stop what you’re doing.’
I quick-turned, saw a pimple-faced, slightly hunched officer at the alleyway entrance. I ignored him.
The officer came closer, scraped his boots. I ground my teeth, felt one loosen. I was tucking myself in when the officer started up like a master, said, ‘You dirty cur.’
I faced him. ‘Tsk-tsk. Name-calling isn’t a way to get someone to cooperate.’
The officer closed in on me, dug his finger into my chest. ‘I speak however I want.’ Then he took a look at the older man, raised his eyebrows. ‘Got ourselves a father–son act, do we?’ The officer chuckled, pointed to the man’s groin. ‘Get your codge out, did you?’ The man reddened.
This officer was one for humiliation. I didn’t care for his tone.
‘It’s not like that,’ the older man said. ‘It’s hardly what you think.’
‘Public urination is an offence, did you know that? Give me your name,’ the officer said.
‘John.’
‘You don’t strike me as the filthy kind, John. Not like this one here.’ The officer came in close, sniffed us up like a dog.
‘Get away from me,’ I said. All low.
‘You don’t have a say in the matter. I make the rules around here.’ The officer pulled his baton from his belt, tapped it against the brick wall, then tapped it against John’s leg. John buckled like old kindling.
‘Get away from me,’ I warned.
The officer, closer again. ‘You dirty, dirty cur.’
I’d had enough. I slapped the officer across the face, my iron palm, and the officer’s head twisted. A warm-up. I knuckled up, punched the officer until I heard a crack, made him fountain blood, made him double over, drop his baton. John grabbed it, thunked it into his palm, and for a moment I thought he would use it against me.
‘I wouldn’t,’ I told John.
‘Neither would I.’ He handed me the baton. The officer was hands and knees between us, a tabletop of blue cotton and wool. I lifted the baton, struck it hard against his body. The officer cried out. I lifted him, got his blood all over my hands and said, ‘That’s for hitting an elderly man.’