I arrived at Papa’s house at dawn. More than thirteen years since my last visit. I slipped in through the back door, sniffed my way through the rooms until I was in a girl’s bedroom. Small musical boxes on a dressing table, a pile of clothes next to the bed. I watched her sleep, went in close. ‘Guess who?’ I whispered. The girl was lost to light snoring. I touched her hair, liked the way it felt against my palm, and as I leaned closer, I could see my sisters in the patterns of her skin. ‘It’s your brother.’
There was a creak-crack from somewhere in the house. I hunted it down. In another room, two sleeping bodies. I walked in, watched Papa sleep. His face was leather, deep-lined. There was something about him, something soft. Something I’d never seen before. I caught soap scent on his skin and I wondered, had he always smelled like this and I’d forgotten? Papa horse-kicked his legs underneath the sheets, like I’d seen him do so many times before, and Angela sleep-hitched her arm across his body, rubbed him to stillness and dreams. They slept peaceful and I did not care for that. He should’ve been like this for us. What those years might have been like. I’d still be at home with my mama, with sisters, with some love. So I readied my hands, placed a palm over his mouth. He opened his eyes. There’s a strange feeling when you look into the past. It’s like dreaming. Papa watched me, his breath on my skin. He dug his teeth into my hand. He looked like he might cry. I pressed hard and Papa’s hand covered mine, pulled it away, and after he took a breath he said, ‘You came back.’
I nodded. A bit of me wanted to crawl against his chest, get warm.
‘I never forget, Papa.’
He stared at me. ‘It ain’t time.’ He elbowed his way up to sitting, grunted as he pushed into me, old man anger. I pushed him down, made the bed rattle. Angela rolled over beside him, her face scrunched in sleep.
Papa tried to paw me, made me boil inside. I cracked my knuckles. I wouldn’t give in. I was here to finish things. I put my hand back on his mouth, took a look at Angela before staring Papa down.
One thing I’d never understood from all my years of helping people was why they were never completely satisfied with the ending of things. Was it because they never got to have a final conversation? Was it because nothing would ever get them to feel right about the past? There I was with Papa, and so I asked him, ‘Do I still disappoint you?’
He tried to say something but I shook my head, pushed my hand harder onto his mouth. I looked into his eyes, watched them dart around, felt his lips tremble under my palm. His frightened eyes. For a moment I thought of letting go. Papa tried to push against me, but I was stronger and I finished the job, felt him become still under my palm. When I stepped away from him, I heard movement from down the hallway, a bed squeak. I ran out of the room, bolted from the house into the morning. I ran and I ran. But it was odd. I didn’t feel relief, didn’t feel different this time. Something was missing.
I wondered if it had been the same for Lizzie when Andrew died. I’d kept track of her, kept newspaper articles in a little oil-coated rucksack on my back, kept the axe, kept the piece of skull, kept thinking I’d get back to her and John when time allowed. I collected the first article a week after I’d left Fall River. Accused of murder. What a devil daughter, to kill her father and mother. I thought about her in the house that day, her coming and going, her strange little ways, her anger. Maybe she had been the one, surprised us all, had been the one who took my money, took my fun.
I stole newspapers from shops, collected Lizzie for almost a year while she was awaiting trial, and then I put her away, only took her out when the mood struck. That whole time I was collecting. I wanted to see if there were any clues as to who did the crime, wanted to keep tabs on John, wanted to know what happened to all that family money. I looked at the illustration of Lizzie dressed in black in a courtroom, a headline reading: LIZZIE BORDEN PLEADS NOT GUILTY TO MURDER.
That made me laugh, the pleading. She had city doubt stacked against her. Two days after Andrew and Abby were killed, whispers skipped up and down streets. Lizzie did it, she hated her mother, the maid said she heard Lizzie laughing when Mr Borden came home. There’s nothing like neighbourhood finger-pointing.
Not everyone accused Lizzie. Family friend Reverend Buck declared that ‘Fall River couldn’t afford to have a vile creature, a butcher like this one, roaming at large. Lizzie told me that she saw someone loitering inside the family home that fateful night.’ She had remembered. What fun that must’ve been for her. Police checked and rechecked the house, went over the stories that Lizzie had told them. When the police realised how much sedative she had been given, they put her loitering man down to sleep phantoms, and I was in the clear. It was during these re-examinations that police made discoveries, a blood spot on one of Lizzie’s petticoats, Alice Russell letting slip that Lizzie burned a stained apron and dress in the stove the day after the murders, that Emma had encouraged her to do so, that when Alice had begged, ‘Lizzie, please think about what this will look like,’ Emma stoked the flames, made sure the cotton burned quick.
And then, on 11 August 1892, it happened. After the burials and after the inquest began, the police came for Lizzie. She was sitting in the parlour, windows open, the way Andrew and Abby would never allow in the evening. Emma was by her side when they came in. She wouldn’t let Lizzie go willingly. Some say they held hands, others said Emma wouldn’t let them begin the arrest until the windows were closed. The charges were given, arrest was made. ‘Lizzie, you did this thing.’ Lizzie tremored, Lizzie almost cried, Lizzie bent like a reed. If I were there I would’ve told her that she wouldn’t have been in this situation if she’d just showed emotion, gave them what they wanted to see. But I knew, you can’t play along and strategise at the same time. She should’ve disappeared like I did.
They took Lizzie to the police station, made it official, and readied her to be taken to Taunton jail. Emma sat with her while transport was arranged. An officer told the Boston Herald, ‘The sister held Lizzie like a babe. I guess that’s what women do. I don’t know, I’ve never been around when one’s got arrested.’ It made me think that he didn’t know women at all.
I never liked reading the parts that came next, reminded me too much that I never got my payment. Inflated by their father’s $300,000 inheritance, Emma told Lizzie not to worry. ‘I’ll save you. However much it takes, I’ll save you.’ There was an illustration of the sisters holding each other before they took Lizzie away, put her on the train to Taunton.