Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“Good morning, father,” she said.

“Good morning, Lizzie,” he said, and went back to his paper. He finished the paragraph he was reading and put the paper down. The Providence Journal. He rose, turned to the mantelpiece, took down the key to his room and, without saying another word, went out into the kitchen. She could hear him at the pantry sink, the water running there. Through the open dining-room door, her stepmother came into view, a feather duster in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, startled. “Good morning, Lizzie.”

“Good morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“Hot.”

“I meant otherwise.”

“A little better.”

“Will you have some breakfast then?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s still coffee on the stove, should you want any.”

“Thank you.”

“It docs seem hotter today, don’t you think? Than yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” her stepmother said, and nodded. “Lizzie, I’m having company on Monday, and I want everything in order. Please leave the door to the spare room shut, will you? When I’ve finished up there?”

“Why would I go into the spare room in any case?”

“Well, if you should. Remember to close the door again, will you?”

“I’ll remember,” she said.

“Do you know what you’d like for dinner?”

“Will you be going out?”

“When the room’s done. I’ll be ordering meat, so if you can tell me what you’d like...”

“I don’t want any meat.”

“What would you like?”

“Nothing. I’m still not feeling well.”

“I thought you said...”

“Yes, but not quite myself yet.”

“There must be something going around. A great many people in town seem to be sick. I suppose Dr. Bowen was right. I suppose it wasn’t poison, after all.”

“I should hardly think so.”

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to poison us, can you?”

“No one I can think of.”

“Still, it might have been the milk. With so many people sick, it could be the milk, you know.” She shook her head, clucked her tongue. “Well, I’ll be going as soon as I’ve done the pillows,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want...?”

“Won’t you change your dress before you go out?”

“Whatever for? What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s so hot today. I only thought it might be too heavy.”

“No, it’s good enough. I’ve left some wrappers in the parlor... would you direct them for me, please? While I’m gone?”

“I will.”

“Well, I’ll see to the guest room then,” she said, and went out.

Lizzie waited. She could hear her father passing through the kitchen again, and then his footfalls on the steps leading up to his bedroom. She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen. Maggie was at the pantry sink, rinsing dishes. She looked somewhat pallid this morning, her pretty face sheened with perspiration, her dark hair braided close to her head, a tall, well-formed woman with a narrow waist, flaring hips and a firm, high bosom. The two top buttons of her dress were unbuttoned. The clock read ten minutes to nine. Above, Lizzie heard her father rummaging about in his bedroom. She set down the slop pail, and put the handkerchiefs on the kitchen table. They had not yet exchanged greetings. She knows, Lizzie thought. She’s avoiding me.

“What will you want for breakfast?” Maggie asked, coming back into the kitchen.

“I don’t know as I want any breakfast,” Lizzie said. “I may just have some coffee and cookies.”

“There’s coffee on the stove. Shall I pour some for you?”

“I’ll get it myself.”

She went to the cupboard and took down a cup and saucer. At the stove she poured the cup full, and then took a molasses cookie from the jar on the counter.

“Did you sleep well last night? ” she asked.

“Not very,” Maggie said.

“A bit noisy, wasn’t it?” Lizzie said, and looked at her.

Maggie turned suddenly, one hand coming up to her mouth, and lurched toward the kitchen entry and the back porch. The screen door slammed shut behind her. Lizzie rose from the table and went to the back door. Peering through the screen, she saw Maggie near the grape arbor, doubled over, vomiting. Alarmed, she was about to go to her when she heard her father coming down the back stairs. She returned to the kitchen, took the handkerchiefs from the table and carried them and her coffee cup into the pantry. Standing at the sink, she alternately sprinkled the handkerchiefs and sipped at her coffee. She could hear her father in the kitchen now. She gathered up the damp handkerchiefs, left the coffee cup on the edge of the sink and went out to him. He was standing near the stove, looking down in distaste at the slop pail Lizzie had left beside it. The key to his bedroom was still in his hand. He was dressed for town, wearing a black vest and trousers, black Congress shoes, his black Prince Albert coat.

“Will you be going to the post office?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“I have a letter to Emma. I wish you’d mail it for me.”

“Where is it?”

“I have it here,” she said, and took the letter from the pocket of her dress.

“I may go, I’m not sure,” he said, but he accepted the letter.

“When will you be leaving?” she asked.

“In a few minutes,” he said. He looked again at the slop pail. “Get rid of this, would you?” he said, and walked out into the sitting room. Lizzie lifted the lid on the cookstove to check the fire. There were coals glowing within. She set her flatirons on the stove top to heat them. In the sitting room she heard the click of the key as her father replaced it on the mantelpiece shelf. She took another cookie from the jar and went out into the dining room, nibbling on it as she stood by the windows. Her father came in again.

“Don’t go getting crumbs all over the floor,” he said. “And see to that slop pail, will you?” He went out into the kitchen. She heard the screen door slamming shut. She watched him as he came into view on the walk. Across the yard she could see Adelaide Churchill in her kitchen, looking up, glancing at her father where he stood. He walked past the dining-room windows then, on his way toward the street. Sighing, she went into the kitchen, picked up the slop pail, and carried it through the kitchen entry to the back stairs. The stairwell was dark; she went down to the cellar slowly and cautiously.

It was somewhat less gloomy downstairs, where light filtered through the ground-level windows. She found her way to the washroom. There was a pail under the sink there. It contained the soiled menstrual towels she had used these past several days. She shook out the slop pail. The towel she’d replaced earlier this morning fell onto the other blood-stained towels in the pail under the sink. She opened the water tap and rinsed out the slop pail. Water tinted faintly red ran down the drain.

The house was utterly still when she came upstairs again.

“Mrs. Borden?” she called.

There was no answer; her stepmother had gone as well. She put the clean slop pail down near the stove, tested her irons, heard a sound outside the screen door and went to it. Maggie was standing there, just outside, holding a brush, setting down a wooden pail of water.

“Maggie,” she said, “can you come inside for a moment? I’d like to talk to you.”

“I have to wash my windows,” Maggie said.

“They can wait. Please come in, won’t you?”

“I have to get started.”

“He was here again last night, wasn’t he?” Lizzie whispered.

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“You know who I mean. He was here pounding on the lumber pile out back...”