Bridget ran out the side of the house, let the door hit her on the backside, a paddle, and she bobbed as she ran onto Second Street, her white house-bonnet a sail in the breeze. Bridget looked over her shoulder towards me, her face dumb with worry, and I shooed her along, my wrist a flick and crunch. She kept going, hip and shouldered an old woman, made her drop her walking cane, made her cry out, ‘What’s the hurry, missy?’ Bridget didn’t respond, how naughty, disappeared from sight, and the woman picked up her cane, made it chink against stone, made a tacky-tacky sound.
I watched people pass by, liked the way their voices filled the air, made everything feel whole, and I felt my lips turn a smile as birds jumped over and under tree branches. For a moment I thought of capturing them, placing them in my pigeon aviary in the barn. How lucky they’d be with me to look after them. I thought of Father, my stomach growled hunger and I went to the pail of water by the well, let my hands sink into the cool sip sip. I brought my hands to mouth and began drinking, lapping with my tongue. It was soft, delicate. Everything slowed down. I saw a dead pigeon lying grey and still in the yard and my stomach murmured. I looked into the sun. I thought of Father, tried to remember the last words I said to him. I took a pear from the arbour, walked back inside.
On the kitchen counter were johnnycakes. I wormed my fingers into their middles until they became small pieces of flour-rocks. I threw a handful of johnnycakes against the wall, listened to them crash in stale waves. Next I went to the stove, pulled the pot of mutton broth close to me and took a deep breath.
There was nothing but my thoughts and Father. I walked towards the sitting room, sank my teeth into the pear, stopped at the door. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. My legs began to shake and drum into the floor and I took a bite of my pear to make them still. Behind the sitting room door was the smell of tobacco pipe.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘Is that you?’
I opened the door wider then wider, sank my teeth into pear. Father was there on the sofa. He hadn’t moved. Pear skin crisped in my mouth and I caught the smell again. ‘You ought to stop with the tobacco, Father. It makes your skin smell old.’
On the floor next to the sofa was Father’s pipe. I hooked the pipe under my teeth, my tongue pressed against the small mouthpiece. I breathed in. Outside I heard Bridget call like a banshee, ‘Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie!’ I placed the pipe back on the floor, my fingers grazing circles of blood, and as I walked out of the room and half closed the door I took a peek at Father.
I opened the side door. Bridget looked a-fire, flame red, and she told me, ‘Dr Bowen’s not home.’
Her response made me want to spit at her. ‘Go find him. Get someone. Get going,’ I said.
Her head jarred backwards. ‘Miss Lizzie, shouldn’t we get Mrs Borden?’ Her voice an echo in a cave, enough with questions.
I cracked my heel into the floorboards, made the house moan then howl. ‘I told you, she’s not here.’
Bridget’s forehead creased. ‘Where is she? We need ta get her right now.’ Annoying, insistent.
‘Don’t tell me what to do, Bridget.’ I heard my voice fold around doors and corners. The house; brittle bone under foot. Everything sounded louder than it should, hurt the ear.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Lizzie.’ Bridget rubbed her hand.
‘Go find someone else. Father really needs help.’
Bridget let out a breath and I watched her run down the street, past a group of young children playing hopscotch. I took another bite of the pear and started to move away from the door.
From across the side fence I heard a woman call my name, felt the drilling of it, ‘Lizzie. Lizzie. Lizzie,’ bore into my ear. I squinted at a figure walking towards me. I pressed my face into the screen door, pieced together the shapes of familiarity. ‘Mrs Churchill?’ I said.
‘Are you alright, dear? I heard Bridget hollering up and down the street and then I saw you standing at the door looking so lost.’ Mrs Churchill came closer to the house, pulled at her red blouse.
On the back step she asked again, ‘Dear, are you alright?’ and my heart beat fast, fast, fast and I told her, ‘Mrs Churchill, do come in. Someone’s killed Father.’
Her eyes and nose scrunched, mouth hollowed into an O. A loud bang sounded from the basement; my neck twitched.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ she said, a small voice. I opened the door, let her in. ‘Lizzie, what’s happened?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I came in and I saw him all cut up. He’s in there.’ I pointed to the sitting room.
Mrs Churchill slowed into the kitchen, rubbed her fat, clean fingers over her red-queen cheeks, rubbed them over her gold cameo necklace, covered her chest with her hands. There in all its shine, her gold and diamond wedding ring, I’d like to keep that. Her chest heaved, soft, child-suckled breasts, I waited for her heart to burst through ribcage onto the kitchen floor.
‘Is he alone?’ She was a mouse.
‘Yes. Very.’
Mrs Churchill took steps towards the sitting room door then stopped, looked at me. ‘Should I go in?’
‘He’s very hurt, Mrs Churchill. But you could go in. If you wanted to.’
She receded, came back by my side. I counted the times I had seen Father’s body since I found it. My stomach growled.
‘Where’s your mother?’ she asked.
I wrenched my head towards the ceiling, I hate that word, then closed my eyes. ‘She’s gone to visit a sick relative.’
‘We really must get her, Lizzie.’ Mrs Churchill tugged at my hand, tried to make me move.
My skin itched. I pulled away from her grip, scratched my palm. ‘I don’t want to bother her right now.’
‘Lizzie, don’t be ridiculous. This is an emergency.’ She scolded me like I was a child.
‘You can see him, if you want.’
She shook her head, baffled. ‘I don’t think I can . . .’
‘I meant, if you saw him, you would see why it isn’t a good idea to fetch Mrs Borden.’
Mrs Churchill placed the back of her hand on my forehead. ‘You feel very hot, Lizzie. You’re not thinking straight.’
‘I’m alright.’ My skin slid from underneath her hand.
Her eyes widened, threatened to outgrow the boundaries of bone, and I leaned towards Mrs Churchill. She flinched. ‘Perhaps we should go outside, Lizzie . . .’
I shook my head, absolute. ‘No. Father shouldn’t be left alone.’
Mrs Churchill and I stood side by side, faced the sitting room door. I could hear her breathe, could hear saliva swish thick over her gums, could smell Castile soap and clove in her hair. The roof cracked, made the sitting room door feather open an inch and my toes wiggled a step then a step until I was a little closer to Father. ‘Mrs Churchill,’ I said, ‘who do you think will wash his body when it comes time?’
She looked at me as if I spoke foreign words. ‘I’m . . . not really sure.’
‘Perhaps my sister could do it.’ I turned to her, watched sadness tiptoe across her brow and gave her a smile, cheer up now, cheer up.
Her lips parted, a sea. ‘Let’s not worry about that.’
‘Oh. Alright.’ I turned to face the sitting room door again.