Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“And what have you said to him?”

“I told him he couldn’t.”

“You’re lying again!

“I swear it’s what I said!”

“Then why does he keep coming here?”

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot? Or will not?”

“I told him not to, I swear I did.”

“Then why was he here again last night? He was here, wasn’t he? You heard him, didn’t you?”

“I heard him, yes.”

“Then why did you lie to me earlier?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t want you to think...”

“Think what?”

“That I was listening for him.”

“You were, weren’t you?”

“No, I swear it! But he made such a frightful racket...”

“Yes, and what was he clamoring for, Maggie? A bit of Irish pussy?”

“Miss Lizzie, please, I must wash the windows, please, oh, please ,” she said, and turned away suddenly and walked swiftly through the kitchen. Lizzie followed her at once, running after her, catching her at the screen door as Maggie was unfastening the hook. She caught her by the wrist. The hook fell loose from her hand.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Borden will...”

“Never mind Mrs. Borden!”

Still holding her by the wrist, she pulled her back into the kitchen, and then into the sitting room, words spilling from her mouth as she dragged her through the rooms, “Mrs. Borden, is it? Afraid of Mrs. Borden then? And what will Mrs. Borden say when I tell her our sweet Irish virgin, pure as the driven snow, oh yes, oh my, has been hanging on the fencepost like a cat in heat,” aware of the uncurtained windows, aware of the neighbors, but refusing to let go of her wrist, “idling with strange men when she should be doing the work she’s paid for, what will Mrs. Borden say to that?”

Her heart was beating fiercely. In the front entry, as they approached the stairwell, Maggie tried to pull away. She gripped her wrist more tightly (“You’re hurting me,” Maggie whispered) and pulled her toward the stairs, the words still pouring forth in a torrent, helpless to stop the words, wanting to tell her of what she’d almost done yesterday, but instead spewing threats she knew she could not possibly enforce, “Would you like to lose this job, Miss, join the town’s Chinamen perhaps, wash the laundry of the millworkers, have the toughs and brawlers pawing you like the slut you are,” bitter accusation, “or have they already done so, have you peddled pussy on a stick like a common tart,” solemn reprimand, “for shame, for shame, Miss, confess yourself to God for the harlot you’ve become,” the door to the spare room closed, just as her stepmother had left it, “Mrs. Borden indeed, we shall fill her ears with more than dirty windows, shan’t we? Young men loitering about for a glimpse of our fair Maggie’s limbs, or have you already shown him more? Has he lingered there at your maiden well, Miss Puss, get in there!” she said, and hurled her through the open door into her bedroom, snapping her out like a whip so that she staggered into the room, almost falling. Lizzie closed the door behind them.

“If you run, I shall come after you,” she said.

“I shan’t run,” Maggie said.

“Undress,” she said.

“Miss Lizzie...”

“Take off your clothes, do as I say!”

“Miss Lizzie, please. Your mother will be back.”

“She’s only just left.”

“I saw her go at a little past nine.”

“Then look at the clock, Miss Puss. What time do you read on it?”

“Twenty after.”

“Has she had time to do her marketing and return?”

“What if your father...?”

“He’s never back till ten, ten-thirty.”

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes darted. To the closed door. To the shuttered windows. There was fear on her face. And something else. Something Lizzie knew well.

“We have time,” Lizzie said, and smiled.

They undressed swiftly, aware that this suspended moment was a stolen one, a theft repetitive of all the others over the past five months and more, burglars both, their bodies glistening with sweat, virtually naked to each other now, though Maggie still wore her underdrawers open at the crotch and Lizzie wore like a chastity belt the paraphernalia of her monthly visitation. “I have fleas,” she whispered, and Maggie murmured, “Aye,” the Irish lilt of it, “You must not touch me there,” and Maggie murmured “Aye” again and spread her legs to her, and pulled her down to her and over her, and their lips met.

It was always, and oddly, Alison who moaned beneath her whenever she was with Maggie, Alison whose hands touched her breasts (though the insistent fingers now were surely Maggie’s), Alison for whom her nipples stiffened, Alison for whom she throbbed below. She could not distinguish now between the flow of her passion and the interminable seeping of her menstrual blood; they were liquidly mingled, as essentially female as she knew herself to be. And, as when she’d lain with Alison in a past so long ago it seemed never to have happened, her passion now was edged with tenderness. Kissing and fondling this woman she did not love, her voice became gentle, and she apologized for the cruel words she’d hurled at her not moments before, explaining needlessly that this was her time of the month, and that she was always impatient during her flowers, inclined to lose her temper, easily irritated, though passionate as well, she added slyly, and perhaps too ferocious in her ardor (her hand tightening on Maggie’s breast to demonstrate, Maggie catching her breath on a small gasp) and so was to be forgiven any outburst, for surely Maggie knew she loved her (the lie sticking in her throat) and would never in her life do anything to harm her.

And then, as if she truly loved her — and here she became confused again — she found herself telling her of what she’d almost done yesterday, wanting to share it with her, wanting in this timeless moment to be able to tell someone else about the fears that besieged her day and night, wishing simultaneously that Alison might be here instead, their heads side by side on the pillow, their limbs entangled, their hands searching, Alison with her knowledge and her wisdom, Alison who would offer her the love and guidance she needed.

“I went to buy poison,” she said, and watched Maggie’s face. “Prussic acid.”

Maggie caught her breath. “Was it you, then, who poisoned the milk?”

“The milk wasn’t poisoned,” Lizzie said.

“Mrs. Borden...”

“No, it wasn’t poisoned. Dr. Bowen said it wasn’t.”

“Then what...?”

“I wanted it for myself,” Lizzie said. “To kill myself.”

Maggie stared at her.

“Because of you and your beau,” she said, lying again, or at least thinking she was lying, no longer certain where the truth actually lay.

“I have no beau,” Maggie said.

“For the heartache you and your beau have caused me,” Lizzie said, and again wondered if this were the truth. Where was the truth in this house? “Do you want me to kill myself?” she whispered.

“No, Miss Lizzie.”

“Then you must promise you shall never see him again.”

“I promise,” Maggie said.

“On your mother’s eyes.”

“Yes,” Maggie said.

“Swear,” Lizzie said.

“Yes,” Maggie said, in a rush, “on my mother’s eyes, I swear I shall never see him again.”

Lizzie smiled. “Why are you trembling?” she asked.

“I’m not trembling.”

“To your toes,” Lizzie said. “Tell me why.”

“You know why.”

“Tell me. Say it.”

“I want you,” Maggie whispered.