Mrs Borden’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Very well, John. I’m sure Andrew will be pleased to see you.’
I gave John his jacket from the cupboard, pushed the front door open nice and wide. There was fresh horse manure on the street, sweet hay mixed with boggy dirt and rotting fruit; a waft of the Quequechan River stretching across the city. I hated summer in Fall River, the death smells it brought. John said, ‘What a glorious afternoon,’ and headed along Second Street, right out of sight. I shut the door, locked it good. Then it was just me and Mrs Borden.
She had sat back down on the sofa, her hands on knees. ‘Bridget.’ She said the T sharp, a needle point.
I steadied myself, went to her. ‘Yes, marm?’
‘I haven’t forgotten our little problem.’
‘No, marm.’
‘You’ve made me quite unhappy.’ She looped her tongue around her lips.
‘Yes, marm.’
A few strands of hair fell onto her shoulder. ‘And you’ve been keeping things from me.’
‘Not really, Mrs Borden.’ I made her red-faced, she rubbed her knees.
‘Get out of my sight!’ It came out rough, like it had ripped her throat. I dared not look at her.
Oh, but it was hot up in the attic, like anger had fired itself all the way up to the ceiling and hung like a curtain. I lay on my bed, rolled over and looked at my family, heard their voices in my ear, the sweet singing of ‘Blow the Candles Out’, their sweet goodbyes before I took to the ship. I hummed along. I hummed along, my throat tight and homesick, my cheeks wet. I hummed along, kept my family close. I thought of Mammy’s baking, smell of yeast rising from my mind out into my room, sending me close to a warm sleep.
I would’ve kept it up had it not been for the chocking sound outside. Chock, a flurry wind. Chock, an axe in wood. Chock, a grunting. Chock, chock. A man’s voice: ‘Stay still.’ Chock. Mr Borden. My stomach knotted.
I got out of bed, went to the window and looked down. In the backyard by the barn stood Mr Borden, his jacket on the grass, white shirtsleeves rolled to elbow. He held an axe in one hand, an upside-down pigeon in the other, its wings wide, stiff from the blood rushing to its head, the shock of what was awaiting. My knees got to trembling and my bladder gave way a little, wet me between my legs.
Mr Borden put the pigeon on the chopping block and swung the axe quick. Chock, the head fell to the grass and Mr Borden threw the body into a metal drum. He wiped his arm across his forehead before reaching into the aviary and pulling out another.
Lizzie’s pigeons. He’d finally followed through. Mr Borden cricked his neck and my wrist itched, remembered a tiny claw. I hoped he wouldn’t make me be the one to tell Lizzie about this. But I couldn’t look away. He held a pigeon and the little thing beat its wings against Mr Borden’s left arm, made him drop the bird. The pigeon landed on the grass, was still a moment before flying into the tree above. Mr Borden shielded the sun out of his eyes, shrugged his shoulders. He leaned the axe against the inside of the barn door, threw pigeon heads one by one on top of the bodies in the metal drum. He carried the barrel deep into the barn. I was surprised to see that there weren’t many feathers on the ground; a little here, a little there, enough to make you think that a cat got lucky, was quick to pounce and tore into flesh.
I fixed my bonnet back onto my head and went downstairs, my heart a-jump as I waited by the side door, waited to find out what Mr Borden would do next. I heard him walk up the path, the soles of his black boots sandpaper on stone. I quick-skipped over to the kitchen counter, made myself busy with a pot of tea, the tea-leaves like small trees falling as they hit the sides of the pot. The clock struck two. The side door opened and he came in.
‘Bridget, I need soap.’ Mr Borden’s hands were stained, smears of jam-red blood along his fingers. There was blood on his collar, blood above his eyebrow, blood in the corner of his mouth. It made me lick my lips, my silent way of making him do the same, make him notice that he was covered in animal. He did nothing, as if he couldn’t feel it.
‘Yes, Mr Borden.’ I ran down to the basement, got soap, ran back. He leaned against the counter looking at his hands, rubbed his fingers together. There was a strange musk smell. I started shaking. I didn’t want to go near him. I held out the soap. ‘Here ya are, Mr Borden.’ It was like I was holding a brick, the way my wrist wanted to snap. A step forwards, he took the soap from me and I could see sweat bead above his top lip.
‘Mr Borden, ya right?’
He turned the soap over and over in his hands, washed them in the basin, squelch and squish. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Did ya hurt yerself?’ I was a terrible liar.
‘No. I was just cleaning the yard.’ So was he.
‘Oh.’
He washed his arms next, soap-blood bubbles dripping.
‘Have you seen Mrs Borden?’ he asked.
‘Not since earlier, after Mr Morse left.’
He turned, scrunched his face. ‘Morse?’
‘Yes. He’s come ta visit.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Out on business. He’ll be back later.’
Mr Borden chewed the inside of his mouth, made his cheekbones appear like wolf teeth. ‘When did he arrive?’
‘’Round midday, sir.’
‘How long is that man staying?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. Definitely overnight.’
That man. Not a way to describe your beloved dead wife’s sibling.
‘Did you know he was coming?’
‘I don’t think anybody knew ’cept Lizzie.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s out, sir.’
Mr Borden slammed his fist on the counter. ‘Why is no one around when I need them to be?’ He wiped his face with a tea towel. He wiped his hands along his pants, cricked his neck from side to side. Off he went through the house.
SEVEN
EMMA
4 August 1892