John gave a weak chuckle, the kind that made shoulders rise to ears. My stomach cramped, head swooned, eyes watered.
‘Now, shall I tell Bridget to make enough dinner to accommodate you today?’
‘You know, I think you should. I’ll stay another night. I’d like to spend more time with Lizzie.’
‘Very well.’
‘I imagine after I tie up a few loose ends downtown that I will be quite exhausted.’
John had said nothing about staying longer. He’d promised to help me out of Fall River. I didn’t take kindly to liars. We would have to have words.
Abby opened a cupboard, handed John his jacket.
‘What time is Andrew due home?’ he asked.
‘He usually pops in for a short time around one o’clock.’
‘Splendid. I’ll be back early afternoon.’
Abby opened the door and he left. She shut the door, turned a key in the lock, sighed. Andrew gone. All this unexpected news. I’d have to hide in the house until he came home. I thought of options: a bedroom upstairs, the basement, the cupboard under the stairs. There were chances I would be caught, that Abby would even find me there under the table. She’d see me and scream, try to claw my face. My knuckles would bulge into fists and I’d smack skin with skin, tear Abby’s mouth wide open, split lip and tongue. I’d keep her quiet about me.
Abby stood in the middle of the sitting room, stared towards the outside. My stomach cramped. She went to the window, pulled the lace aside and tapped on the glass. ‘You’re rushing, Bridget,’ she yelled. ‘I expect you to do this properly.’ She dropped the curtain, walked towards the dining room and stopped. Abby cried, little shaky tears, everything to herself. The ceiling began a crack sound. It had to be Lizzie. My stomach cramped. I’d eaten pear, eaten mutton broth.
The ceiling cracked again and Abby looked up, went to the kitchen, her stomach in rumbles as she neared the counter. She took a johnnycake, held it like a paperweight. She bit, debris falling into the collar of her blouse. Abby brushed herself off, glanced at the floor, down at the mess I had made. ‘Where’s this coming from?’ she said. Crumbs led her to the broth spill at the stove. I heard her stomach. She bent over, stuck her finger in the broth. I noticed her wedding ring tight on her finger. I could suck at a finger like that. How she grunted about.
Abby stood, shook her legs out, shook her worn leather boots and thick ankles. She had a tear at the bottom of her skirt. I thought women like her spent money on themselves.
‘Bridget can’t even keep the floors clean,’ she spat.
The ceiling cracked again and Abby looked up, followed the creaking above into the dining room, right close to the table and her legs quavered. She sniffed the air, said, ‘What on God’s earth is that smell?’ She went back to the kitchen. Sniff, sniff. She went into the sitting room. Sniff, sniff. I was giving myself away.
‘Lizzie,’ Abby called out. ‘Lizzie, come down here.’
A door opened upstairs and Lizzie descended the wooden stairs. She came into the sitting room, stood a distance from Abby, wore a blue dress underneath a long-sleeved white apron. My stomach cramped. Fruit doesn’t do this to you.
‘What?’ Lizzie’s voice a lick.
‘Do you smell that horrid stink?’
Lizzie sucked in the air around her, exhaled. ‘I don’t smell a thing.’
‘It’s more in the kitchen, I think.’
Lizzie entered the kitchen, took a breath. ‘I don’t smell it.’
‘It’s a smell of rotting or urine or . . .’
‘You’re probably smelling yourself.’
‘What a vile thing to say.’ Abby crossed her arm over her heart.
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I have no idea what you want me to say when I don’t smell a thing.’ Lizzie had a snap to her.
For a time Abby said nothing and Lizzie took slow steps towards her, closed the gap. They watched each other. Then Abby said, ‘Why are you wearing an apron?’
Lizzie smoothed her hands over white, smiled. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, Mrs Borden.’ She took a step closer and Abby’s stomach rumbled.
‘You been eating the mutton?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I’ve had some, yes.’ Abby was almost a whisper.
‘Did you manage to leave me any?’
Abby scratched at her temples. ‘I assumed you’d already eaten.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone’s left mess all over the floor.’
‘Sure it wasn’t you?’
I pressed my face hard against the wooden chair leg, smelled thick wood polish.
‘You little pig.’ Abby was a reflex, slapped Lizzie across the cheek and mouth, drew blood.
Lizzie gave a small lip bite, tasted herself. She folded then unfolded her arms, pulled herself close to Abby, leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. Lizzie pressed hard into Abby, pushed her head slightly back. For a moment, Abby took it. Then Lizzie stepped away, wiped her lips on her apron, left behind a bloodstain. The women said nothing.
Lizzie walked away from Abby, went towards the front stairs. Up she went. Abby cried out, made a red-fox vixen scream like something being dragged from her, pressed her hands into her face, shook her head, no, no, no. She straightened herself, dried tears on her sleeve. I heard the buzz of a fly in my ear.
Abby walked to the front stairs, walked until I could hear her overhead. My stomach cramped and I rocked forward, gave a heave, had the mutton soup come out of me and onto the carpet. How it made my eyes water. The fly buzzed, landed in my vomit. I heard Lizzie and Abby speak, heard Abby say, ‘If you’re going to stand there . . .’ I heaved again and Lizzie spoke. The room spun, everything hot, and I held on to myself, and everything turned to dark.
I woke to blinding sun, tasted salt carpet on my tongue. How long had I been out? Outside, two children screamed on the sidewalk past the house, long echo laughs chasing one another. ‘Don’t do that to your brother,’ a woman called. That way of being with a sibling. My lips turned a smile.