See What I Have Done

‘You know they wouldn’t. Some things are better off dead.’ Andrew moved towards her, lifted his hand, the gold ring on his pinkie finger shined. Lizzie hit him.

‘I don’t want you to speak to me anymore.’ A tear stuck in her throat.

‘Lizzie, please be reasonable.’

She pushed past Andrew, held on to the dead bird. I crawled to the window and looked out. Lizzie stood in the middle of the yard, swung the bird back and forth, back and forth. Andrew came beside her, attempted to stroke his daughter’s hair.

‘Don’t touch me.’

He took his hand away. ‘You’ll get over this,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk this afternoon.’

Lizzie turned to him. ‘You think you know everything. God will punish you.’ She dropped the bird to the ground and left him alone in the yard.

Andrew rubbed his hands over his face. The sun cracked over the barn roof, made a crack through my bones. Now was the time to go to him.

He began to walk away from the yard like an echo; slow, defeated. I downed the stairs, opened the barn door. Fresh air kissed my lips, glare made small haloes in my pupils. Andrew went to the side of the house, his lean frame drowning in his dark-grey woollen suit. A pigeon flew above his head. He reached for the bird, missed. He smoothed wrinkle-hands over his forehead. I wanted to rush forwards, ball my hands against his face, make him see sense, but he was gone then, had disappeared inside the house.

I stretched my arms wide, reached for the pear arbour. I pulled on heavy fruit and squeezed, let juice dribble between my fingers. I ate. I pulled another, ate, tossed the pear cores onto the dirt and wiped my mouth along shirtsleeve. I smelled terrible.

I walked to the middle of the yard, stopped at the dead bird, bent down and picked it up; lead feathers. I snapped off a wing, made that bone twig sound, and held it against my face before tucking it into my trouser pocket.

A door opened and someone moaned. Then there were feet. I didn’t want to be seen, and I hastened towards the barn and pressed against the outside wall. Bridget came into the backyard, cloth and bucket in hand. She wiped her arm across her face, stood still. She placed the bucket on the ground, doubled over and vomited into grass. The sound her body made. She vomited again, again, emptied contents, heavy liquid, brown, spoiled. She lowered onto her hands and knees, rested her forehead on the ground. The sun was gold light against her white cap and apron. Birds sounded off.

Bridget vomited once more, pulled herself up, and took off with the bucket to the far side of the house. She moved like tar. When she began cleaning the windows I waited, ran across the backyard. I went to the basement doors, quietly turned the handle. Locked. What was so precious in this house that everything had to be locked? I ran to the near side of the house, to the side door. Unlocked. Bridget had made a mistake. I slipped inside. There was a narrow hardwood staircase, brass clothes hooks along the wall. I went further in, into a kitchen, shutters were half closed, cast the house in shadows, smelled of baking, of old meat, of skin, of people overheating. My stomach begged. I walked over to the stove, large enough to put someone inside, burn them good, and took the lid off a deep, blackened pot; an acidic smell. I scooped my hand and dunked it into the soup. It was warm. I raised my hand to mouth over and over, dribble-dribble down chin, down neck onto shirt and onto the floor. There was the taste of something sweetened, like marzipan. Meat shouldn’t taste like that. I shouldn’t have been so eager. I put the lid back on the pot, saw a plate of johnnycakes on the counter. I picked one up, inhaled, a hint of sugar, and placed the brick-heavy dough to my tongue, licked before biting, swallowing it whole. I brushed crumbs off my shirt, heard footsteps above me. I looked up at the ceiling, noticed sooted cornices. ‘Might be Andrew up there,’ I said.

In the room with a large sofa, a dark-wood clock sat on a mantel. I slid my finger across the wood, slid across to photos of Andrew and Abby, to a photo of Lizzie, to a photo of a woman I could only assume was Emma, her dark hair, stone chiselled nose, high forehead. She looked nothing like her sister, Lizzie with the round-puff cheeks and plum-fat lips, the top of her ears bent like a little sail. Such ordinary-looking women.

My finger slid from the mantel, across the wall, across a bookshelf, and to the window. It was covered with a thick lace curtain, and peeking through the other side of the glass was the top of Bridget’s bonnet. Her head bobbed up, bobbed down and I snuck fingers behind the curtain and pulled them back, watched Bridget on her knees rinse her cloth in a metal bucket.

Someone above the ceiling hammered long strides across floorboards. I went to the sofa, sat down, spread my hands over the smooth horsehair upholstery. The dead animal had a nice gloss. From there I could see straight through to another room with a piano inside, through to the front stairs, to the comings and goings. This house was bigger than anything I had known. I could have my way with Andrew anywhere. I rested my head against the sofa, felt my stomach cramp and boil, hooked my fingers through the rip in my trousers and felt along the surgeon’s line. I thought of Papa. Being in the house made me want to revisit him, tell him all the ways he did wrong, the way Andrew was going to be told. I got up then, went to the dining room, circled the long table, gave its hard wood a knock-knock, tugged at the heavy, floor-length lace tablecloth, tugged on it like I would Mama’s skirt. I missed her. The window shutters were open, a clear day in front of me, a peek view of a next-door neighbour fixing the collar of her blouse. I pressed up against the window, enjoyed the sun on my head, on my eyes. Time to search for Andrew.

I turned around when I heard someone begin to walk down the front stairs. I bent down a little so I could see who it was. I expected Andrew, expected that he would come through to me, let me take him by the shoulders, jostle him some. ‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’ I’d ask him. Andrew would shake his head.

‘You’ve been unkind. You’ve not listened.’ I’d pull him towards me, get right close.

I saw dark trouser legs, a spindle body, heard, ‘You ensure you take care of yourself in this heat, Abby. We wouldn’t want you to get worse.’ John was on the stairs. He came into full view, palmed his hair then smoothed out his shirt.

‘I don’t plan on doing anything but stay inside,’ Abby said.

This would be difficult for me. John made it to the entrance of the house when we made eye contact. ‘You!’ His eyes widened, face dropped, and he shot a look up the stairs.

Abby came in to plain view then, her head down, concentrating on each step, heavy-handed on the banister. I quickly pulled a chair out from the table and curled underneath.

‘What were you saying, John?’ Abby asked.

‘Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve completely lost my train of thought.’

‘That’s happened to me more times than I care to admit.’

Sarah Schmidt's books