The Secrets of Lizzie Borden (18 page)

I had to get out. I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe in that house! I felt the walls closing in on me. I needed air; I needed to think, to clear my head. Hazy red stars danced maddeningly before my eyes and I felt so hot I thought surely I was going to die if I didn't get out. As I rushed through the kitchen I shoved my shameful bundle into the fire. Let it burn! Devil take the damning evidence against me straight to Hell! I didn't want to see it, touch it, or think about it! I just wanted it to disappear! Abby could tell Father whatever she liked, but at least now he couldn't see the evidence with his own eyes. I ran outside, gasping frantically for air, gulping it in hungrily by the mouthful, but I couldn't stand the open space of the backyard either. Suddenly I felt so exposed and vulnerable, like a woman about to face a firing squad.

I darted desperately into the barn, seeking some sort of haven there, though I knew it would be hotter than an oven inside, and dreadfully dusty, and I hated it now for all the memories it held of David. As I slumped light-headed against the wall, willing myself not to faint, to stay alert and think—
Think, Lizzie, think! Find a way to save yourself!
—a silver gilt glimmer caught the corner of my eye.

The hatchet!
It was practically new. It had been used only once as far as I knew, when Father had killed my pigeons. I took it up. I felt its weight in my hands. In a peculiar, perplexing way I can't truly explain, it was almost
comforting
. It gave the illusion of power back to me; it made me feel that
I
was in
control
of my own destiny, that it was my own sense of powerlessness that was truly the illusion. The power was in
my
hands,
not
theirs; no one else had mastery over me unless I was meek and allowed it!

The funny pattern in the wood grain of the hickory handle almost coaxed a smile and a chuckle from me. Bridget and I thought it resembled the late President Lincoln's profile, and she had called it “the Great Emancipator” in jest because in the right, or wrong, hands, given the circumstances, it could set souls free. It occurred to me then that it could, like Lincoln freeing the slaves, also set
me
free.

Save me; save me; set me free!
I prayed to it, like a silver gilt idol, with
all
my might, and a little voice in the back of my head began to sing, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”—repeating over and over again the verse that went: “As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free”—
free
as I
ached,
body and soul, to be, to live by my
own
will and whims, not wholly at the mercy of Father's, or some other man's, sufferance!

Gripping the handle tight, holding on for dear life, I walked slowly back to the house, with the hatchet's glistening blade hidden in the folds of my skirt. When I glanced down and saw it nestled against the part that was stained with paint it occurred to me then that the reddish-brown color looked just like dried blood.

I went upstairs to my room. I laid the hatchet down reverently upon my bed. I stood and stared at it with heavy, drowsy suddenly very sleepy eyes, swaying like a woman mesmerized. As the sunlight pouring in through the open window played over the silver gilt like sunshine reflecting upon a river, I thought of water and baptism, of being cleansed of my sins, renewed, reborn. I began to take off my clothes. I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up, and if God was truly merciful, I thought, that was what would happen. He would gather me to His bosom instead of foisting me into David Anthony's arms.

Through the thin wall I heard Abby singing in the guest room. David's visit had interrupted her before she had finished tidying it up for Uncle John. That was Abby's way; I knew she was trying to distract herself and put all the unpleasantness out of her mind until Father came home.

I tossed my paint-stained housedress onto the bed—sky-blue diamonds merging with navy, like ripples of water, light and dark, in sunlight and in shadows. I pulled my chemise up over my head and peeled off my petticoat and stepped out of my slippers and drawers. I scowled in annoyance at the single pinprick-sized spot of blood on the back of my petticoat; it was the kind of stain the women of Fall River discreetly referred to as a flea bite. I think I meant to change the heavy, blood-sodden towel for a fresh one. I even pulled the pail out from under my bed. I heard . . . saw? . . . the slosh of bloody water and the soiled napkins swirling inside the pail. It sounded as far off as the sea, the vast blue waters that had once carried me away to another continent, another life, another world, and given me one sweet, sweet taste of freedom.

My head felt unbearably heavy. I thought my neck would surely break beneath its weight, like a pile of bricks balanced upon a toothpick. My sight was shrouded by a rolling red mist and exploding stars, bright bursts of light popping against the red, making me fear that one of them would extinguish my sight forever and leave me stone-black blind. I wanted to lie down, I felt so sleepy and faint, heavy and light-headed all at the same time, but my feet were already moving with a mind and determination of their own and the hatchet was in my hands, hell-bent on securing my freedom. Now was not the time to waver or succumb to weakness like some swooning heroine in a romance novel waiting for the hero to save her. There was no “hero born of woman” to “crush the serpent with his heel” (the little voice in my head was
still
singing random snatches of “The Battle Hymn”: only it wasn't one voice anymore. It was a whole chorus all singing different verses and snippets at the same discordant time so I could hardly think, only intuitively understand what they were telling me I
had
to do). There was only me . . . that song, and the hatchet, “the Great Emancipator.” “His truth is marching on. . . .”

Wearing only the bright red-flowered pink calico belt that held the cumbersome towel in place between my raw, red thighs, with the silver gilt of the hatchet's head cold as ice against my hot, sweaty breasts, I approached the guest room door. I laid the hatchet down on my desk while I lifted and shifted the end that partially blocked the door just enough for me to open it. I vaguely remember my nipples puckering as I paused on the threshold and stared down at my feet as though I had never seen them before. I wiggled my toes, sweaty and pink, against the faded flowers of the ancient carpet.

I hefted the hatchet in my hand and shivered as it grazed my breasts. I closed my eyes and let myself dream I was the truehearted heroine whose hope sprang evergreen being caressed by her long-lost love, one of over a hundred souls presumed perished on an ill-fated Arctic expedition. I felt so weak, and then, as I stood upon the threshold of the guest room, I tingled with a surge of sudden strength, like a jolt of electricity, that made my spine snap erect.

Abby was still singing. “From this valley they say you are going/ Do not hasten to bid me adieu/Just remember . . .” She had her back to the door; she was bending over the bed, plumping a pillow she had just put in a fresh white slip and adjusting the coverlet. She never sensed that anything was wrong. The hairs never tingled warningly on the nape of her neck. No guardian angel tapped her shoulder to alert her that Death was sneaking up behind her.

“He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, swift sword. . . .” I raised the hatchet high, I felt its heaviness in my shoulders, and I brought it down
HARD
. It pulled and hurt me too as the blade bit deep with a terrible crunch into the back of her head.
This hurts me just as much as it hurts you
. . . . I wanted to tell Abby, and maybe I did; I just don't know if the whisper was only inside my own aching, pulsing, pounding head.
I wish it didn't have to be like this....
Then I did it again. And again. Again and again and again and again . . .

The popular singsong rope-skipping rhyme that came afterward says I did it forty times, but the coroner counted nineteen blows. But I wasn't counting; I only know I did it several times. After the first blow, or maybe two, she fell facedown, jarring the whole house. I half-feared she would fall crashing through the floor. I almost wish she had; maybe they would have thought her death was just a terrible accident? But she didn't; she just lay there twitching and bleeding on the floor, her blood reviving the faded flowers on the carpet. I'd never seen them look so bright before.

I planted my feet wide, standing firmly astride her, and raised the hatchet high. One blow cut through her switch of false hair and it flew up onto the bed like a wild black bird that raised goose bumps all over me and nearly startled me out of my skin. I felt her blood splash my face, salty and hot. I
tasted
it on my lips.
The blood is the life
—I
tasted
her life as I was taking it away! I never felt such power, or such horror, or such a terrible sadness. I hated myself; I hated Abby; I hated David Anthony; I hated that I had been driven to this murderous madness. But what choice did they give me?
They drove me to it!
It wasn't
my
fault! So I just kept hitting her.
I couldn't stop!
I don't think I wanted to, but in a little part deep in my heart I did, but I couldn't. I just kept hacking away at the back of her head.

Blood and gristle and bone kept flying while the muscles in my arms, shoulders, and back felt like they were fraying, screaming and straining with every blow. My breasts ached and felt painfully heavy as they swung free.
Free!
—the way I had always wanted to be!
Free!
But there was
always
something or someone that wanted to enslave me, to keep me chained and bound like a dog or a slave or a criminal to an owner or some outmoded or unjust social convention! There was a large flap of skin on the back of Abby's scalp that kept opening and closing, like a bloody mouth, mutely crying out for me to
Stop!
Finally I listened; I really did stop.

As suddenly as it began, all the rage and resentment left me. Like a great wave of icy water had just struck me and knocked me off balance, I slumped, shivering mightily, onto the floor. It was the hottest summer in human memory, yet I'd never been so cold in my life. My knees simply buckled and I dropped down onto the floor beside Abby. “And then she saw what she had done . . .” So goes the rhyme. They got that part
exactly
right.

Breathless and quivering, I sat there, naked as a babe in a diaper, in Abby's blood, feeling it soaking through the towel and mingling with my monthly blood. For the second time in my life I was sitting in my mother's blood; only this time it was my
step
mother's blood and
I
had been the one to spill it.
I
had
killed
her.
I
had made the blood
pour
out of her.

“
Mother!
” I whispered, and reached out a tentative hand to touch her shoulder; it was still twitching. My hand was still there when it finally stopped, when the last little bit of life left her, and then I began to cry.

In my mind I saw Abby, her moon-round open and friendly face and sweet, shy smile, her crinoline billowing wide, like a big plum-colored cloud, as she crouched down to shake my hand for the very first time. I remembered mincemeat pies sprinkled with rosewater and love like a dash of fairy dust, a pretty pink dress and the unexpectedly becoming sunny yellow sash she tied around my waist, the painstaking care she had taken to curl my hair into perfect gleaming red ringlets garnished with ribbons, “just like a little French doll.” She beamed with proud delight as she stepped back to admire me; anyone who saw her face then would have truly believed she was my mother—I could
still
hear her! She
had
loved me; she had
liked
me then. In those days she really was my friend! I could have been the daughter, and she could have been the mother, whom we both wanted and needed so badly, but . . . I chose to let Emma step into our dead mother's shoes and take my hand and lead me away from Abby. I thought it was my duty. I was a good little soldier; Emma said so.

Abby . . . She had
never
stopped trying to win back my love, but every time I felt my heart start to soften . . . Emma was right there like an evil black crow cawing in my ear to remind me and stiffen my resolve, like a good little soldier serving Mother's memory like a queen. And then David Anthony had come along and changed love to hate forever; he had made certain that there was no going back, I could never change my mind. Even if I decided to let Abby into my heart again, hers would be closed to me, locked and barred forever because of what I had done in the hayloft with David Anthony. I was not the kind of daughter any respectable God-fearing woman would ever want to call her own. Did those women who walked the streets in their gaudy gowns and painted faces, selling their bodies, even have mothers or had they all disowned their daughters, cast them out of their hearts the way Abby had me? Even being a mere stepmother to one such as me would shame Abby. I was an object of disgust, riddled with sin, more loathsome than any toad, snake, or slug! I suddenly wanted very much to be invisible, so no one could look upon my shame.

But there was another reason I chose to hate Abby, one that no one else ever guessed. When I looked at her I sometimes thought I was looking into a magic mirror that foretold the future—
my
future. I saw too much of myself in her. It frightened me so much that I shrank and ran from her and pushed her away every chance I could even as I secretly despised myself for my cruelty, simply because I didn't want to wake up one morning and discover that I had become her.