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.
“It’s been far too long, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“It’s been far too long, yes.”
“But what is it you want?”
“Everything. You.”
“Now? This instant?”
“Yes, now,” Maggie said.
“But what of Mrs. Borden?” Lizzie said, smiling, teasing her now. “Surely her marketing is done by now, isn’t it?”
Maggie turned swiftly to look at the clock.
“There’s time,” she whispered.
“But it’s almost nine-thirty.”
“There’s yet time!” Maggie said urgently.
“And Mr. Borden? Are you not fearful of his return?”
“He’ll be at his bank, his banks. We’ve time yet.”
“Then it shall be now, of course,” Lizzie said, and again smiled.
“Yes, now,” Maggie said.
“Will you not ask for it then?”
“Yes, now, I want it.”
“Then ask your Mistress Puss politely,” Lizzie said.
“Yes, please.”
“Am I not your mistress then?”
“You are, yes, you know you are.”
“Then can you not address me as...?”
“Mistress Puss, yes. Please, Mistress Puss,” she said, and reached out to pull Lizzie to her.
“Lizzie? Is that you?”
Mrs. Borden’s voice.
On the landing outside.
“Lizzie?”
Both women sat immediately upright.
Footsteps approached the door.
The door opened.
Mrs. Borden stood in the hallway, looking into the room, aghast at what she saw. She was still wearing the heavy dress she’d had on when she left the house, but another dress was folded over her arm, the green dress that had earlier been in the clothespress at the top of the stairs. She’s come back to change her clothing, Lizzie thought in an instant. The heat outdoors has driven her home! How long had she been standing outside there on the landing? How much had she heard? And what difference did it make; her eyes now recorded all there was to see, the two naked women, Maggie reaching for her chemise and clutching it to her breasts, Lizzie’s mouth open in surprise.
“Oh,” her stepmother said.
Only that.
She continued staring into the room, knowledge narrowing her eyes. She shook her head as though trying to clear it. Maggie was scrambling off the bed now, hurrying to where she’d earlier hurled her dress to the floor, her stockings lying like twisted black snakes beside it.
“Dress yourselves!” Mrs. Borden said sharply. “The shame! Your father shall know of this!”
Lizzie leaped off the bed.
“No!” she said. “Wait!”
But for what? What was there to say to this dumpy little woman who stood in the hallway like a messenger of God come to strike her dead as surely as the prussic acid would have yesterday? How to explain, what to explain, to this woman who stood there motionless, her mouth set, her eyes blazing with the discovery she had made? The words delayed her stepmother for a moment, but only that, as though their urgency compelled her to reexamine the evidence of her own eyes, her hesitation allowing Lizzie time enough to rush to the door and out into the hallway where Mrs. Borden, shaking her head again, now turned toward the stairway leading below. Lizzie moved swiftly, blocking her path as if trying to keep her from a father already in the house.
“Get out of my way,” Mrs. Borden said.
The women stood there in ludicrous confrontation, Lizzie naked save for her bellyband and the menstrual towel pinned to it, Mrs. Borden sweltering in her heavy dress, the lighter-weight dress still folded over her arm.
“Do you hear me?” she said.
“You mustn’t tell him,” Lizzie said.
“I shall tell him all!” her stepmother said fiercely. “Get out of my way!”
“No,” Lizzie said, and shoved out at her, wanting only to keep her from the steps that led downstairs, fearful she might at once go running into the street to search for her father, babble to him what she had witnessed in the bedroom. Mrs. Borden stumbled back from the force of the push and almost lost her balance, arms coming up, the green dress falling to the floor, her eyes opening wide in astonishment. Lizzie took a step toward her, immediately penitent, her hand outstretched.