I stopped. Ninety-two Second Street: a small green fence, two half-leaved trees on either side of the pebbled path. A lamp. Overgrown grass. The front door had scratched-away dark-yellow paint. Brass numbers 9 and 2 hung loose. A pigeon walked tight lines across the roof. The smell of aged animal flesh and rising damp drifted from underneath the house. I stepped towards the door, felt a tug on my jacket.
‘Mister, what are you doing?’ the boy asked. His face was freckled, was brown, was too concerned.
His voice ate at my ear. I growled.
‘I’m sorry, mister.’ The boy ran.
I walked around the side of the house and into the backyard. The barn was termited wood and broken window—the way Mama’s house had been when I’d tried to return after I punished Papa. Overgrown grass hid a rusted shovel. The Borden sisters had really let the place go. I went to the pear arbour, pulled fruit and ate. Sweet juicy. I threw the pear core to the side, hit the fence, made it pop. As I headed for the basement double doors, there was a black cat crittering around the edges of the house. I bent down to pat fur and the cat hissed. I hissed back. Papa would’ve liked to skin a cat like that.
I pushed against the doors, could see that they were still locked, like they had been all those years ago. But I wanted in that house. I pushed again, was hard-bodied, and like that, the doors gave way, a flooded dam, and I went into the basement, smelled mildew, saw piles of old cutlery stacked in a pile, saw a rat run across the floor, claws sounded like little beads dropping.
I made my way to the kitchen, saw that everything was dust. On the counter tops, more plates and pans were stacked like monuments. I thought of Abby, tasting foul soup, her last meal. She should have treated herself to something better.
I went to the sitting room. It was filled with furniture stacked against walls, a light scent of camphor. At the mantelpiece I ran my finger across the wooden ledge, looked up and saw myself in the mirror. I checked on the tooth, dead fruit hanging, and pulled on it, yanked the tooth free, sucked away saliva and placed it on the mantel.
There was the sofa where Andrew had been. It was brittle, moth-eaten. I lay on it, heard the crunch of wooden slats underneath me as I lowered my weight and rested, the back of my neck scrunched into the armrest. The smell of trapped musk and tobacco. I thought of Andrew, the way his head must have rolled to the side while he was dying. It takes a lot to swing an axe into flesh and bone. The axe would have been heavy in the hand as it was lifted up and down. The wooden handle would have slid between palms, tearing into skin, bringing blood to the surface. Halfway through, the killer’s arms would begin to ache and they would stop for a moment or two. The killer would look down at Andrew’s face, amazed at the way bone could splinter exactly like forest wood. Then they would take a deep breath, work the axe again, that chop and swing, chop and swing. To think Lizzie might’ve had it in her to do it.
I decided to go upstairs, went to Lizzie’s bedroom. The last of the late-afternoon light streamed through the windows, moved across her paint-chipped bookshelves, her stale-wood dressing table. Her bare, single, wooden bed broken against a door. The full-length mirror I’d stood in front of years before was cracked at the bottom, a spider web. Half-ripped wallpaper hung over the right-sided window, yellow and brown at the edges. I looked outside, out onto Fall River. This dirty place.
I laughed, my voice echoed through the house. Nobody called this place home anymore. Certainly not the sisters. I’d have to find them.
The next day, I headed downtown; the clink of bone souvenir in my bag made heads turn. A father told his son, ‘Stay close to me.’ I walked, tried to figure out how I’d find Lizzie.
I went along Main Street for hours, watched people come and go, noticed dogs seemed fatter, noticed there were more buildings, more reasons to spend big and waste time. But there was no sign of Lizzie. I walked on, even visited the surgeon that had fixed my leg but the shopfront was empty. I was headed back to the bowel of town when luck landed my side. On the opposite side of the street Lizzie stood in the sun like a saint. Emma stood next to her, disdain, folded her arms like tinder in front of her chest and said, ‘Lizzie, let’s go.’
‘I’m not done yet.’ Lizzie’s voice slow, aged.
‘I don’t want to keep waiting. People will look,’ Emma said.
‘Good. Why shouldn’t they? We’re Bordens. We’ve done a lot for this city.’
Emma stepped away from her sister, stood in the shadow of a shopfront. Two children ran up the footpath, made their way towards Lizzie, and she turned to watch them, gave them a smile. ‘Hello, children,’ she said, her voice a witch. ‘Have you thanked the Lord for this wonderful day?’ The children stopped, shook their heads. One was close to tears.
‘No, Miss Lizbeth.’
‘You should always think of the Lord.’
The children looked for their mother, ran away. Lizzie laughed.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ Emma said.
‘I’m only having fun. Lighten up, Emma.’ She continued to stand in the middle of the footpath, forced passers-by to walk around her, brush up against her like they were dancing. Nobody made eye contact with Lizzie. Emma began to walk away, acknowledged a man as he came towards her, both politely nodded heads, and Lizzie was slow to follow. I quietly slunk behind them.
‘I want to host a dinner party,’ Lizzie said.
‘We had one last week.’ Emma, pained.
‘But I want to gather different people.’ Lizzie said it like a pout.
‘I think it’s ostentatious.’
‘Is that so, Father?’ Lizzie laughed.
Emma quickened her pace, her hips rocked from the effort of it.
‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’ Lizzie tried to close the gap between herself and Emma. I continued behind, kept some distance, waited for my moment.
The sun opened. Birds sounded. Lizzie flat-opened her hand and lifted it towards the sky, clicked her tongue behind teeth, waited for a bird to land. When none came, she tried to slip her arm through Emma’s. Emma pulled further away. We walked through wide streets, houses grew into mansions, the spaces between them plains. Little dogs yapped across lawns, cocked legs against rose bushes and goat’s beard shrubs, dug around yellow and clotted-blood-coloured hollyhocks. We rounded the corner onto French Street and the sisters headed towards a large white house. This is what inheritance brings you—money, life.
‘I’ll take my lunch in the front room today.’ Lizzie was sweetness.
‘Excuse me?’ Emma straightened her back.
‘It’s your turn to do the lunches.’
‘I’m not your house girl.’
Lizzie hooked her arm through her sister’s, leaned her head against shoulder. Lizzie thumbed at Emma’s skirt. ‘Play nice, Emma dear. I’m just the baby . . .’
‘Yes, Emma, she’s just the baby,’ I said, put my thumb in mouth. I didn’t expect to announce myself to them so quickly, but the timing.
Emma was the first to turn, sucked in all the air around her when she saw me. ‘Good grief.’ Her cheeks sank, showed hard cheekbone.
Lizzie looked me over, studied my face.
‘It’s been a long time, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘But I’ve returned, like I told your uncle I would.’