The Secrets of Lizzie Borden Page 8
But Lulie didn’t swoon and melt in my arms or cling to me like passionate ivy the way the heroines in romances always did. She shoved me away so hard I fell and barked both my palms against the tree’s ugly, gnarled roots. I will never forget the disgust burning in her blue eyes as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then her hand on the skirt of her riding habit. She glared down at me as though she hated me, and I felt loathsome and small, like something ugly and pathetic she wanted to step on.
“You’re a wicked, evil creature, Lizzie Borden, and I hate you!” she cried. Each word was like a hammer on my heart.
We rode back toward town in silence. I was so afraid Lulie would tell, that I would be ruined and everyone would laugh at me and I would replace that unfortunate boy who ate paste, though at eighteen he was surely old enough to know better, as the butt of all my classmates’ jokes. I couldn’t bear to see the shame and disgust in Father’s, Emma’s, and Abby’s eyes, and to hear their voices speaking of sin, shame and disgrace. I was afraid doctors would come, maybe even priests, and I would be sent away, to a madhouse or one of those quiet, secluded sanitariums in the country, and given some hellish treatment. Possibly they would cut open my head and try to remove the evil thoughts they would say the Devil had planted there like black roses and I would never be allowed in civilized company again for fear that I would be unable to control my unnatural urges and would disgrace myself again. I would be shunned like a leper. People would say I couldn’t be trusted around pretty girls. Maybe I would be locked in the attic the way they did madwomen in novels. I would spend the rest of my life in darkness and shackles, barely kept alive on stale crusts of bread and tepid water.
Terror stole my breath away; I couldn’t breathe! Then everything went black and I felt myself falling. My head struck a stone like the clapper of a bell and for an instant I was excruciatingly aware of the most terrible pain radiating from the back of my head all the way down to the bottom of my spine and a loud ringing in my ears. I awakened lying on my own bed with Father hovering anxiously over me and Emma fighting Abby to assist Dr. Bowen in undressing me until he finally shoved Emma out the door and sent her downstairs to the kitchen to boil some water just to get her out of the way. I was bruised and bleeding in several places and ached all over and kept drifting in and out of consciousness, yet my anguished brain kept keening, Lulie doesn’t love me!
I wanted to die when, between them, Abby and Dr. Bowen wrestled my corset and chemise off, carelessly baring my pudgy pink breasts with nipples like hard tawny-peach buttons before Father’s eyes. No one even thought of asking him to leave the room! I tried, but they dismissed me as delirious. Father helped Abby hold my arms down when I tried to cover myself, wincing and weeping in humiliation and the pain that shot through my torso like lightning bolts when Dr. Bowen’s prodding revealed two, possibly three, broken ribs. When the doctor pulled off my drawers and rolled me over and exposed my bare bottom, jabbed with his index finger, and, in answer to my pain-filled scream, opined that I had fractured my tailbone I knew there was no escaping shame; in one form or another, it would be with me all my life. And I would always be afraid. The only consolation was that at least this was a private disgrace, in my bedroom, surrounded by family, away from the bullies and merciless queens of the schoolyard, and the blue blaze of hate emanating from beautiful Lulie’s eyes.
I never went back to school. For a few weeks the teachers sent my homework, but I didn’t feel like doing it, so after a while they didn’t bother anymore. By the time I had fully recovered there were only two months left till graduation. I was smart enough, I could have caught up, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back. I just couldn’t bear to face Lulie, to see her glance spitefully at me with that blue blaze of hate in her eyes, then lean over, cup her hand to her mouth, and whisper mean-spirited remarks about me into a friend’s ear. Word would rapidly spread and soon they would all be laughing at me, all those uppity girls from up on The Hill. So I dropped out. Father bought me my class ring anyway; he said I deserved it after what I had been through.
A few weeks after she wore a white chiffon dress to the graduation ceremony, Lulie Stillwell put on another white dress and married Johnny Hiram. He was the rich, tall, dark, and handsome boy in the faux medieval mansion next door, perfectly cast to play Prince Charming to Lulie’s Snow White and live happily ever after with her in a house grand as a castle that was a wedding gift from her father furnished floor to ceiling, with Johnny’s father’s money paying for all the beautiful things they would buy on their six-month European honeymoon.
Everyone said she was the most beautiful bride Fall River had ever seen in white Duchesse satin, priceless pearls, and yards of heirloom lace, lace and pearl and diamond encrusted cathedral-length train and veil, with an exquisite coronet woven of silk orange blossoms, diamonds, and pearls crowning the midnight glory of her hair. I still have a picture of her in that beautiful dress I cut out of The Fall River Globe; I never did find the courage to go to Gay’s Photography Studio and inquire about purchasing a print. I was afraid they would have to ask Lulie’s permission first and, of course, she would say No.
There were a full dozen bridesmaids, all girls from The Hill, in shimmering shell-pink satin overlaid with chiffon, and broad-brimmed hats laden with roses, ruffles, and ribbons, each with a single strand of delicate blush-pink pearls around her throat and a pink shell cameo framed in gold and pearls at her breast as a gift from the bride. It wasn’t fair! I should have been one of them! Lulie should have kissed me and pinned a cameo on my breast that lovely wedding morning; I deserved it more than any of the girls she had chosen. I loved her more than any of them did, including the groom!
A few weeks later I would happen across Flossie Grew suffering a nosebleed outside Gifford’s Jewelry & Fine Gifts, and when I stopped to assist her I also helped myself to the cameo on the silk-braid-bordered lapel of her fashionable moss-green linen suit. It wasn’t really stealing; I was only taking back what rightfully belonged to me.
For years to come, I would lie back on my bed, Lulie’s wedding picture propped up on the table beside me where I could see Fall River’s most beautiful bride, and hold that precious pink cameo cupped tenderly in my palm, while I touched myself and dreamed of Lulie smiling at me, radiant with love, not burning with contempt—that was the way it should have been! I already knew the ghost of the carefree, bewitching black-haired girl who had straddled me, giggling, rubbing, and tickling, amidst clouds of rose-and-lavender-perfumed powder—like the phantom petals of bridal flowers showering down on us or a wedding veil to cloak our naked lust in the respectable garb of girlish horseplay—would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I sent Lulie a porcelain candy dish with a pattern of blue lovebirds as a wedding gift, but she never acknowledged it. Everyone else got a thank-you note, written on the new Mrs. Hiram’s gilt-bordered and monogrammed cream stationery, but not me. I was so upset I wanted to jab her eyes out with one of the plethora of sterling silver pickle forks she was rumored to have received from her poorer friends and relations. I wanted to hurt her as much as she had hurt me. How dare she ignore me when all I had done was love her? Was that really such a crime?
The years passed. I became an old maid. I lost hope and gave up on love. I convinced myself it was only the stuff of stories or a rare and glorious miracle, a gift from God given only to the most beautiful and undeserving, pretty girls with vivacious personalities that sparkled like champagne and indulgent, selfless fathers who wanted them to be happy and were willing to let them go instead of keeping them chained and bound to be the comfort of their parents’ old age. And then, like a miracle, the answer to my prayers, Bridget Sullivan had come dancing into my life with her twinkling green eyes, musical Irish brogue, and ready smile. Even an ocean apart I could still hear her singing:
Oh, dem golden slippers,
Oh, dem golden slippers
Golden slippers I’se going to wear
Because they loo
k so neat.
Oh, dem golden slippers,
Oh, dem golden slippers,
Golden slippers I’se going to wear
To walk the golden street.
The evening breeze blew me out of my reverie, back to the hedonistic Riviera and out of the past, and I snatched my hands away from the statues, startled to see how far they had strayed down the marble bodies. My face flaming, I glanced guiltily around, hoping no one had seen me standing there between those marble nudes with my head thrown back, and my eyes closed, caressing them as I remembered Lulie. Anyone would think me pathetic or mad, perhaps both. I shivered and wished I had brought my sealskin cape. Not only my chilled flesh but also my modesty craved it—my nipples were standing up, unmistakably, achingly prominent, beneath my satin bodice, begging for a lover’s attention like a dog for a bone.
Suddenly a shoulder brushed brusquely against my own and a tall young man in evening clothes walked past me. He stopped at the railing and took something from his pocket. It was a pistol! As he raised it and pressed the barrel to his temple I ran and caught hold of his arm. I was too naïve to realize that this was a common ploy certain men used to prey upon gullible women, to extract funds and favors from them. I honestly thought I was saving a human life.
He had lost all his money at the roulette wheel, he said; he had nothing left to live for. I was startled to suddenly find him in my arms, weeping on my shoulder, and to feel his warm, salty tears dripping down between my breasts. And then he kissed me, bruising hard and urgently upon my mouth at the same time as his hands found my breasts and began squeezing and kneading them. It was nothing like the books I had read had led me to believe it would be, and not at all like the tender, treasured kiss from my architect. It was at once brutal and exciting and for the life of me I couldn’t make up my mind whether to order him to stop or sigh breathlessly and whisper, Darling, never stop!
Suddenly my back was against a cold white wall, and his lips, hot and hungry, were on mine, and his questing tongue was endeavoring to part them as his hands gathered up my skirts and roved beneath where no one except me had ever dared touch before. His passion frightened me even as it stirred and thrilled me, but Fear was the victor, and I pushed him from me and fled.
My heart was beating like a voodoo drum. My stays were so tight, I felt certain I would faint. But I didn’t. The panic passed, but not so quickly the pangs of passion. As soon as I was safe back inside the casino, I castigated myself for being such a coward. I wanted to turn and go back, to give in, surrender and melt beneath those hot lips and ardent hands. But it was too late. By the time I had tiptoed tremulously to the threshold leading out onto the terrace and peeped out he was already gone. And so was my purse, but I didn’t notice that until after we were safely back at the hotel. I told Anna that in all the excitement I must have laid it down somewhere and it was likely long gone by now. Fortunately, Anna, giddy from the golden wine, was feeling generous and gave me $100 she had won at roulette and told me to dry my eyes and not worry a moment more about it.
The next night, our last before leaving, we were back at the casino despite my protests that once was enough. I submitted to the coiffeur’s finicky attentions one more time and was painted and laced back into the breathless, bone-crushing embrace of the corset and too-tight peacock satin gown. Though Carrie and Anna sniffed derisively about appearing in public two nights in a row in the same gown, I would not wear my peach taffeta, the only other ball gown I owned; I would not have another man’s hand touch where my beloved’s had rested against my waist when we waltzed. I would not let the slick men lounging like lizards around the casino sully my sweet and tender memories, or my dress, with their selfish, self-interested caresses.
I boldly ventured out onto the terrace again, both hoping and dreading that I would meet that young man and he would take me in his arms again and this time not let me go until he was ready to. I shouldn’t have, yet I felt drawn, pulled as if I were one half of two magnets facing each other. I wanted to be held and touched again. I wanted to be stirred. There was an indescribable ache within me that I wanted to appease, even though it scared me, because this was my body alone being assailed by these aching yearnings; it had nothing at all to do with my head or my heart.
Then there he was—locked in a smoldering embrace with a brassy-haired buxom beauty in gold brocade blazing from the diadem on her head to the hem of her gown with a fortune in diamonds. A pistol lay forgotten at their feet. A diamond bracelet that must have slipped from her wrist dangled from his pocket. Startled by my abrupt intrusion, they broke apart. She at least had the good breeding to blush, but he gave me a scornful look, a lifted eyebrow accompanied by a smirk that seemed to say you had your chance as he bent to retrieve his weapon. He put it in his pocket, then took his companion’s arm and led her back inside the casino. From the doorway I watched her give him money to place a bet. I turned my back then and wandered, alone, back onto the terrace, burning with a fever that I alone couldn’t quench.
It was a loss, and yet it wasn’t. His ardent mouth and roving hands had finesse, yes, he knew exactly what to do because he had done it so many times before, but there was no magic, no true feeling or connection of the soul; it was nothing at all like that day at Glastonbury under the thorn tree. He did not touch my heart, only my body. I was lonely and couldn’t be with the one I loved, and that—my wretched longing loneliness—I think had more to do with these sudden wanton spasms of lust than anything else. I wanted love, I just never knew how much until I left Fall River, and I must find a way to quench, or kill, these improper passions before I did something to disgrace myself, something unforgivable, with no hope of redemption.
Suddenly there was a rumble of thunder and a zigzag of silver lightning lit up the darkened sky. I nearly jumped out of my skin, then laughed at my own foolishness. The rain started to fall, at first a stray plop and then a steady drip-drip; then the sky ripped open like a piece of cheap midnight-blue calico filled with a million silvery needles. This rain was hard and violent, stabbing into my skin until I thought it would surely bruise me. But I didn’t care. I threw back my head and opened my arms to it, flinging them wide, not caring that my corset pinched and my breasts jutted and strained alarmingly against my bodice, like a glass of milk about to overflow. I wantonly, brazenly opened myself to it and let it soak me to the skin and lick the paint from my face. I wanted to be washed clean, to feel fresh and new. I abandoned myself to the rain as if it were my lover, surrendered, and let it cool, wash away, and drown my fevered passion.
As a cold wind blew the rain sideways the strand of blue-green glass beads twined like a sleeping snake in my hair broke and, blown by the wind, went skittering and clattering all over the terrace. The fan of peacock plumes fell from my hair as it came tumbling down and I laughed as I watched it fly away like a tropical bird fleeing a hurricane.
My gown was ruined; it, like my hair, hung down straight, heavy with the weight of water, plastered to my body like a second skin. The skirt slapped and wrapped itself around my limbs so that I staggered like one intoxicated and nearly fell more than once as I made my way back into the bright lights of the casino, dragging my long, sopping-wet train along behind me like a mermaid with a crippled tail. I knew my companions would be horrified at the sight and sad, soggy state of me, but it was worth it, and the price of the Paris gown. I had needed this rain in a way that I could never hope to explain.
But I paid another price for “my foolishness,” “my wanton frolic in the rain.” I came down with a dreadful cold that I had great difficulty shaking off despite the plethora of pills and potions Miss Mowbry forced down my throat. But sunny Italy was a balm, a godsend, like a tonic for the soul to me. I sat in the sun, despite the risk of freckles, and let it bake the illness out of me.
The signora at the pensione where we stayed in Naples was a great, round, motherly woman and she instantly conceived a great liking for me. She plied me with food—plates heaped high with pasta cover
ed with hearty, robust sauces, which I, at her encouragement, devoured with gusto. I fell in love with the food—the pastas swimming in rich sauces, breads, cakes, and, most of all, Capezzoli di Venere, the exquisite bonbons called “Nipples of Venus.” Roman chestnuts enrobed in white chocolate and brandied sugar with a daub of dark chocolate sitting atop the dome just like a woman’s nipple, they tasted simply divine, and I could never get enough of them. I felt so daring and decadent when I cast off my shoes and stockings and all the manifold layers of my increasingly tight, stifling, binding, and confining clothes and lay back on the chaise longue in my room, naked as God made me, and languorously suckled and licked those divine candies. Sometimes I rose and went to stand rebelliously naked, sweaty and pink, with my hair all a-frizz, and my face and fingertips all stained with chocolate, before the looking glass and called myself a “greedy pig” before I threw a shawl over my reflection in disgust, then went right back to my chaise and chocolates, already knowing that as soon as they were gone I would throw on a robe and send the signora’s boy out for more.
I was getting fat; there was no pretending otherwise. I cared and yet I didn’t. Eating brought me a kind of comfort, and I began to eat more and more, to try to fill up the emptiness inside me. Even when I was no longer hungry I kept on eating, hoping I would eventually be full, even though I knew in my heart that it was not food I was craving. No mere food, no matter how enticing and delicious, could slake the hunger in my soul, but I kept on hoping, and eating.
The signora smilingly helped me let out the seams of all my dresses. She kissed away my tears when she took the measure of my waist and assured me that real men liked a woman with meat on her bones who knew how to appreciate good food.