I DUSTED, I DUSTED, thought of old Mrs Borden, of her in my room looking for ways to keep me with her. It must’ve been hard for her to be on hands and knees, look under my bed. The effort it must’ve taken to get back to standing, holding my tin, all her sweat on my sheets. I dusted. Mrs Borden and her sad eyes. Mrs Borden and her tyrant talk. Mrs Borden outside overhearing me. How that must have hurt her. I stopped dusting. Lizzie had a neat pile of whites on her velvet swooning sofa. I picked up the pile. Three long-sleeved white aprons and a bonnet. Perhaps they were meant for me. I tried on an apron, saw myself in the full-length mirror next to Lizzie’s dressing table. I looked a ghost, looked like one of Whitehead’s butcher boys, looked like I was drowning in fabric.
I took it off, refolded the aprons, put them back on the sofa. If chance arrived, I’d ask Mrs Borden about the aprons, see if she knew why Lizzie had them. I looked out Lizzie’s window. The view I had. So much of Fall River in front of me, a patchwork of street, people, house. There was nothing out there for me. I saw the rooftop of Mrs McKenney’s service office down Second Street. What could’ve been had she sent me to another family.
The sun came over the pane and I heard Mrs Borden walk through the house, rattling my tin box as she went. There was a pain in my chest, like someone had punched me there, stopped me breathing. Rattle, rattle, rattle.
I was bent over, trying to breathe the pain away, when someone knocked on the front door. Three big thunder raps, the big bad wolf looking for his piggies. I waited for Mrs Borden to answer the door. The knocks came again. I called out, ‘Mrs Borden? Ya expectin’ company?’
She didn’t answer.
I downed the front stairs, pulled the house key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. I pushed it open, sun hit my face, made my lips part. A man stood there.
‘Hello, Bridget.’
I looked at the man, stood back a little and took him in. Uncle John.
‘Mr Morse.’
He smiled, lips crooked, wrinkled face, worn leather. He wore a black woollen suit, hard to clean, made him smell like paddocked sheep.
‘You going to invite me in?’ A cigared voice.
I thought about swinging the door closed in his face. ‘Of course.’
In he walked, stooped a little as he went through the door. I went to get his bag but there was none.
‘Mr Morse, where’re yer things?’
‘I didn’t bring any. I’m only here to visit a short time.’
‘Mrs Borden is the only one in at the moment.’ I came back inside, locked the door. John stood close to me, the way he does. He took a deep breath, smelled me, the way he does. ‘Care for me ta hang yer jacket, Mr Morse?’ I held my arms out, expected him to lay the jacket across. I did not care for the way he stared at me. Like he was seeing something else.
‘Give me a hand?’ he asked and so I had to. He lowered himself for me and I unhooked his jacket from his bone-thin shoulders, saw clumps of skin knotted in his hair where he’d been scratching the back of his head. A piece fell onto my hand. I shook it off good.
‘Alright, Mr Morse,’ I said. ‘I’ll pop this in the cupboard.’
He straightened. We stood for a moment and I stared at him. I hung his jacket, felt his eyes on my back. I hoped it would be a quick afternoon visit. From the kitchen, the pound of feet walking tired into the sitting room. I pulled myself to attention, saw Mrs Borden wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at John, held her palm across her heart.
‘Goodness. John.’
‘Have I startled you, Abby?’ He said it like a game.
John left me behind in the entrance, went to Mrs Borden, his arm stretched towards her, his fingers little hooks. He shook her hand, as if she was a rag doll.
‘Pleasure to see you, Abby.’
‘And you as well. What brings you here today?’ She could barely speak.
‘Didn’t Lizzie tell you?’
Mrs Borden inched her eyes together, creased her brow. ‘About what?’
‘I wrote a few weeks ago letting her know I’d be in town for business and that I’d come visit.’ His long, bony jaw moved like a grip broiler and toaster as he spoke. Mrs Borden smoothed her hair.
Lizzie didn’t always tell us things. The only letter to arrive of late had been for Emma, inviting her to Fairhaven. The trouble it caused. Lizzie had slammed her bedroom door, had screamed, ‘You’re not leaving me here alone with them.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Emma said.
On and on it went. Then Lizzie cut the arm off one of Emma’s dresses. ‘You can’t leave if you have nothing to wear.’
‘What is wrong with you?’ Emma asked.
‘You know very well I can’t be here alone.’ Lizzie, scissors in hand.
‘You’re reacting like a spoiled monster.’
‘Well, don’t force my hand.’ She snipped, just a little, made cotton threads rain onto the carpet.
It went on for days. I’d go into the basement to get away from their hacking voices, their slamming doors. I found Mr Borden down there once. He leaned against the brick wall, let it hold him up.
‘Hello, Mr Borden.’
‘Bridget.’ He nodded his head, sharp.
‘Hope I’m not disturbin’ ya.’
‘Not at present.’ He closed his eyes, looked like sleep.
The basement was cool, half lit like a cave. I could hear both of us breathing, slow and breathy. We stood that way, then he said, ‘I’m sure you have some work that needs to be done.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I left.
Back upstairs there was peace now. I’d thought the sisters had left but I found them in the parlour, Lizzie resting her head on Emma’s lap, Emma stroking Lizzie’s forehead. The heat that came from their bodies. I wanted to open the windows.
‘Bridget,’ Emma said, ‘could you make us a pot of tea?’
I could see their chests grow big then small together. Lizzie kept quiet, her eyes bay-blue and soft. Someone had won.
Mrs Borden cocked her head, said to John, ‘Lizzie hadn’t mentioned anything.’
John sucked saliva through his teeth, made the hair on the back of my neck bristle. ‘Well, here I am.’ He laughed.
I didn’t care for that.
Mrs Borden gave a half-smile, scratched her temples. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’
‘Overnight. Possibly a day or two.’
She tried to look behind John. ‘But you didn’t bring your luggage?’
‘It’s the funniest thing. I didn’t think to bring any.’
I wished he’d go away.
‘I’m sure you can borrow something from Andrew.’
‘How very hospitable, Abby.’ John sucked saliva through his teeth again and Mrs Borden called my name, like I wasn’t even there.
‘Prepare Mr Morse some tea and give him dinner.’
‘Yes, marm.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf,’ John said.
‘Nonsense, we’ve plenty of food, haven’t we, Bridget?’
‘Yes, marm.’ I went by them in the sitting room, went to the kitchen and put the mutton broth on the heat. I heard Mrs Borden tell John to sit, to be comfortable, and then they said nothing else to each other. Oh, it was quiet. It was so quiet that I could hear Mrs Borden’s tongue click each time she opened her mouth.
The mutton warmed, filled the kitchen, and then I ladled the broth, felt the meat plop as it landed in the bowl, splash up on my cheek. How I itched, how my underthings stuck to my stomach, to my underarms, the insides of my legs. It was like being wrapped in wool, made to sit in front of an alcohol fire. I blew breath onto my palms, tried to cool myself, pretend I was on the way to Cobh, to the sea. Blow, blow, blow.
I heard John say, ‘What have my nieces been up to?’
I put his bowl on a serving tray, I put the teapot on the serving tray.
‘Lizzie is downtown. Emma is in Fairhaven.’
‘Well, I’ll be. I was in Fairhaven yesterday!’