Writer's Corner - Welcome to My Room by Kathleen Carbone

It grew late, but I ordered another beer. Lit up another Marlboro Light. The television above the bar was tuned into a Red Sox game, but the sound was mercifully turned off. Bonnie Raitt belted them out from the CD juke. I liked it here, liked it plenty. The thought of returning to the Bed And Breakfast and my fellow Bordenites did not attract me, and I planned to make my overnight stay just that. Overnight.

They were a serious lot, as are most aficionados of anything. They bickered, they snapped, talking over one another as each one obviously knew more than all the rest. Turning and overturning the minutiae of the trial, and the day of the murders as if they could solve the crime themselves, here and now.

I now found the murders and the trial of Lizzie to be the least interesting thing about her, after years of fascination. I had recently come to the conclusion that any one could be driven to murder if they felt trapped or desperate enough. The fascination I now held for Lizzie was purely personal, a fact that made me blush with shame.

I finally returned to Second Street, and stood before the house looking up so that it encompassed my entire vision. I had seen it pictured in books so many times, that it was almost like seeing a celebrity in the flesh now. I was stricken at how small it seemed in comparison to my own imagination. How…sad.

A narrow path led to the side entrance, and I silently traversed it. Knew it and the steps here very well too. I sat down on the third step to this back entry. Here is where she waited that morning for Mrs. Churchill to do come over (“Somebody has killed Father” the explanation for the request had been.) Here Bridget Sullivan had rushed out, down these very steps, throwing a shawl over her shoulders in the intense heat, going for Dr. Bowen.

Had Lizzie herself perhaps come to the porch on a night like this, as I did now? Sat here feeling lonely and desperate and unloved? Looked up at the rising moon, and touched this very railing?

I pulled a Marlboro Light from my jacket and reached for my Zippo. It was clamped to my belt in a clever leather case-a Christmas present to myself. The lighter itself was a collectors edition. A cartoon portrait of the Beatles from “Yellow Submarine” was enameled onto the front of it, along with that title. I loved the thing.

It clicked open with the unmistakable sound of a Zippo, and I inhaled the aroma of the lighter fluid before spinning the flint wheel into a flame.

“Put that OUT!”

Huh? I automatically obeyed the command, shoving the cigarette back into the box in my pocket and closing the Zippo. But who’d made the demand? It had definitely been inside my own head, in my own mind-voice, but it had not originated there. I felt sure of that. “Jesus, I’m losing it” I grumbled aloud.

“Blasphemer too, I’m not surprised. Is there a vice she does not indulge?”
“She’s not slothful” Another more sympathetic opinion from someone else.
“Hmmmph”
“Bah! I’m going to bed” A third, this one a masculine presence. The others had been women.

The Bordens, arguing in my head. I rose from the steps and made my way toward the front of the house. Time to call it a night. At the gate, I lurched drunkenly, and crashed into the side of it. Something somewhere on it snapped. I didn't’t dare look.

“Hhmmmmph! We’ll have to have THAT fixed now. Mr. Borden! We’ll have to fix THAT now!”
“ Dear God in Heaven, whichever place you send me to in the next life, please let there be no women in the house…”
“ Father! You don’t mean that!” Teasing, cajoling him. (Lizzie?)
“ Mmmmmm?” he grumbled.
“ Andrew!” Their voices faded into another spectral chamber, echoing slightly.
“ Andrew, the fence! That inebriated fool has broken the fence!”

I ran into the front door, suddenly very ashamed of myself. My inn-mates were still milling about the lower floor, touching the widow frames, wainscoting and other original woodwork reverently. Though part of me longed for the company of the living, I climbed the steep staircase to my room. Halfway up, I stumbled on one of the carpeted riser and I tripped forward with a crash.

“Good Lord!” (Abby again?) “That drunken fool will have the whole house down around us! Andrew! Andrew, the stairs!”
There followed the ear-tickling sound of a feminine giggle. A younger voice. (Lizzie?)
“Unnatural thing! Who can tell if it’s a man or woman? But I don’t suppose that would bother YOU in the least” (Abby again, addressing Lizzie?)

The silence that followed was so thick with unspoken hostility that I fled upstairs, not daring to look into the guest chamber, where Abby had been killed.

I opened the door to my room, Lizzie’s old room, slowly. To my relief, it was empty but I was now quite regretful of reserving it alone. I went to the small, newly renovated bathroom. There was no shower or tub but I filled the basin with hot water and the room quickly steamed over. After washing, I opened the cabinet above the basin, and found inside little tubes of toothpaste adorned with Lizzie’s face.

“My Gawd!” I said to myself, “Would she ever have imagined her picture on toothpaste?”

I closed the cabinet, and as its mirrored side swung back, I leapt. In the mirror, she stood behind me, her figure and profile unmistakable through the steamed glass. She turned and, peering over my shoulder into the mirror, she examined her teeth. When I turned she was gone. “Miss Lizzie…?”

“We will talk in my room”

I had thrown on a short bathrobe, but now longed to cover myself, prepare myself for…whatever. The only option was to put my jeans and sweatshirt back on, then I wrapped my under things in the damp towel and combed my hair down.

At the door to her room ( in my mind it had become her room again) I hesitated. Collecting a deep breath I pushed open the door and entered, pulling it closed behind me. I was afraid to look about me, and when I did I was not alone.

She sat at the small table by the window, prim and upright with a pleasant smile of greeting.

“Good evening.” Her lips moved, but still I seemed to hear her voice in my head. I whispered back.

“Good evening” I looked toward the closet and went to deposit my damp bundle. But first I clamped my Zippo to my belt. I was afraid to approach her.

“Please sit. May I offer you something to drink? Or eat?”

From where? I wondered. “Oh no thank you. I have beer in my back pack” Suddenly I craved another, “Would you mind if I…?” Her upper lip curled for the tick of an instant in distaste, but ever the hostess she quickly replaced her smile. I recalled that she had once been a member of the W.C.T.U.

“Not at all, I’m sure.”

I quickly removed one and twisted it open as quietly as possible. Alcohol in the home of Andrew Borden! I sat opposite her, and observed her as unobtrusively as possible.

She was faint, I could see the far wall right through her, but definitely there. There was color, the shiny deep plum of her silk dress (a bengaline?) a touch of pink face powder about her cheeks, and the famous clear blue of her eyes. They were not cold, or calculating or unnerving as I’d read. In fact she seemed slightly amused as she in turn observed me.

“It’s a lovely night.”
“Yes, quite nice. I love a full moon.”
“Its delightful. Do you find everything to your liking?”
“Here? Yes, its most comfortable. And beautiful.”
“I agree they’ve done very nicely with it.”
“I’m sorry about the fence.”
“Don’t mention it. The proprietors make enough money off of my name to repair it. I’m sure.”
“But I thought I heard Mrs. Borden say…”
“She gets a little confused sometimes. Really, you mustn’t concern yourself with it.”

I could not hold back a question. “Do you greet your guests often in person?”

“No, not often. Not usually even aware of them. Most are rather idiotic I’m afraid, haven’t any manners at all. Did you know that two of them got married here last year? In the very room where Father was killed!”

She seemed as incredulous as I had been when I’d first heard about that wedding. Suddenly I felt obliged to apologize for my generation. “People have strange reactions to you, your…memory today. They react unpredictably.”

“Some even write funny stories about me.”

I blanched. So this was the reason for this visit? Retribution for the writings I’d authored about her and that were published on the Web? Writings in which I thought I did not insult her, but I’d certainly never considered discussing them with her as I wrote them. Explanations gushed forth from me.

“I never meant any disrespect in them, Miss Borden. No disrespect at all, I assure you. I’m sick of the know-it-alls quoting the trial transcripts, and hypothesizing as if they were there when it happened, or that they can solve the fucking thing now.”

She flinched at the word, but I went on.

“Or else they’re totally mannerless idiots, like you said, giggling and posing on the sofa! I wanted to write something completely foreign, alien, to them, something half of them wouldn’t even understand the humor of. Something that excluded them… Miss Borden, I meant no harm to you or the memory of your family.”

She eyed me calmly throughout this diatribe of self-absolution, her eyes slightly slanted. It was impossible to read her expression.

Finally she replied.“You may call me Lizzie.”

I sighed, and wiped at my forehead which was now spattered with perspiration. “Thank you Miss Borden…Lizzie. You’re not offended then?”

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

I thought I detected just a hint of condescending sneer in her tone, but she continued to smile.

“May I call you Kathleen?”
“Yes, by all means. Call me Kathleen.”
“Very good then. So tell me what’s going on in your life these strange days, Kathleen?”

“What?” I answered lamely. Where to begin? I was having a conversation with Lizzie Borden for starters. What did she know about these strange days, as she called them? Was she able to comprehend the things that took place beyond the confines of this house? Or was she relegated only to things that pertained directly to her?

Did she know about World War II, Hitler and the Holocaust? Man on the moon? The Berlin Wall? The Internet? September 11? The scandal of the Catholic Church? I sighed .

When I was not forthcoming with any information, she looked about the room uneasily. Perhaps this was the reason she declined to greet many of her guests this way. It could be a nearly insurmountable obstacle just getting over the fact of her.

I had to try though. I cleared my throat, but still nothing came out. She brightened with a sudden idea though.

“So tell me what new colognes and scents are popular now. Do you have any?”

I was caught off guard by the banality of the inquiry, but I was nonetheless grateful for the distraction. She was clearly much more socially savvy than I.

“Colognes. Yes I have a small bottle of Geoffrey Beane, its my favorite. Shall I get it?”
“Oh please do.” She seemed delighted at the prospect.

I got up shakily and went to my backpack, withdrew the small spray bottle and brought it back to her. Instinctively, I knew not to try to hand her any solid object to hold. Instead, I squirted the cologne into the air near her, and she leaned forward inhaling.

“Oh how lovely! What's it called?”
“Bowling Green.”
“How strange a name. But it’s a lovely scent. So citruses and clean”
“Please keep it.”
She smiled.”Non thank you. I couldn’t really. But I will remember it always, I can do that you know. Remember the scent of colognes very clearly. I will remember this one in association with you.”
“Thank you.”
“What's that?” She indicated the Zippo pouch clamped to my belt.
“Oh that! My Beatles Zippo! Its a cigarette lighter.”
“Dreadful habit Kathleen…”
“I know, I know. But have a look.”

I unsnapped the pouch and placed the lighter on the table just in front of her. She elevated her head slightly by pushing her chin forward a bit, and lowering her eyes downward onto the object. It was a purely feminine manner of observing something new and unfamiliar.

“How very colorful!” She passed a spectral hand over it, a hand of remarkable grace and beauty."Who are the young gentlemen pictured?”

Now here was a subject I could elaborate on!

“They were a group…a singing quartet in the 1960’s who were incredibly popular!! They called themselves ‘The Beatles” and were probably the most famous group of musicians of the decade. Perhaps of the entire Twentieth Century.”

She seemed dubious.“The Beetles? Like the garden pest?”
“ Well not exactly. They spelled it differently. Its a pun, actually.”
“Do you know any of their compositions?”
Compositions? Oh, she meant their songs, I realized. “Why yes, I think I know them all. They were very prolific, wrote and recorded hundreds of popular songs.”
“Please, would you sing one for me?”

Sing one? I felt myself blush in embarrassment, but she seemed quite at ease with the request. There were no radios and television in her time, I recalled. People probably sang and recited poetry for each other all the time back then. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Despite the fact that I owned countless Beatles recordings, not one song lyric came to my mind as I sat before her. I glanced about the room desperately, and my eyes fell to the lighter on the table. The Beatles' "Yellow Submarine." Okay. I cleared my throat and she leaned forward.

In the town
Where I was born
There lived a man
Who sailed to sea
And he lived
Beneath the waves
In a yellow submarine
We all live in a yellow submarine
Yellow submarine
Yellow submarine
We all live in a yellow submarine
Yellow submarine
Yellow submarine…”

She pursed her lips, and her chin began to quiver. She seemed to be desperately trying to keep herself under control, and I feared that I had awakened some deep disturbance with ny singing. She covered her mouth with her hand, but to no avail. Try as she might to maintain her composure as a hostess, she suddenly burst out laughing. It was a rich contagious sound. I could not help but smile myself, as I continued my song for her.

So we lived
A life of ease
Every one of us
Is all we need
Sky of blue (Sky Of Blue!)
And sea of green (Sea Of Green!)
In our yellow (In Our Yellaeow!)
Submarine (Submarine! Yee-hah!)
We all live in a yellow submarine
Yellow submarine
Yellow submarine…

I tapered off and the curtains near her quivered eerily as she laughed.

“Oh, you can’t be serious! Are you ever?” She looked about her at the curtains which still billowed. Her smile suddenly faded. “I’m afraid I’ve overstepped my boundaries,” she indicated the curtains. “Worn out my welcome…”

Before I could realize the import of her words, her visage began to waver. Then I knew; for some reason the movement of the curtains had been a spectral no-no.

“Wait, please. I know another song, a better one!”

But she began to disappear, smiling as though she might still laugh.

“Don’t go, please. Talk to me!”
“I’m afraid not, this is how it has to be.”
“Why?”
“It's my lot, my atonement.”

Atonement? Had she just unwittingly confessed to the murders to me? Atonement, here? On second thought I considered that we all had things to atone for, every one of us. And sitting here chatting in one’s old room did not exactly seem a proper atonement for an ax murderer. Seemed to me that there should be some fire and brimstone involved. Maybe she was indeed innocent.

“Women like you are a torment to me”

“A torment? How?” I was flooded with sadness at this thought. Did my writings, my many hours of contemplating her, imagining her life, looking at her photographs, wondering about her, did all of this somehow affect her, hurt her from beyond the grave?

“I’m sorry Miss Borden. Very sorry to be a torment to you. I never meant to be. I won’t write anymore of those stories about you”

“Silly thing, that isn’t a bother. With all the tripe that’s been written about me over the years! Its companionship and friendship I desire. Worse than before, don’t you see? One can be forgiven for almost anything they’ve done. Its what we haven’t done that we must atone for. I could never quite grasp that either while I was whiling away my hours alone. Behind locked doors in my mansion”

She smiled a little self deprecatingly. I considered what she told me.

“What about Nance?”
“Nance?!”

She seemed incredulous; somehow I had blundered. One mustn’t bring up past lovers, even to spirits.

“Nance! You fool! I pursued Nance for her …unattainability! I knew it would never last. My God, an actress touring from city to city, a slew of lovers in her wake?! I knew I would never have to account for anything with Nance. I just kept my pocketbook open, and she opened …well her heart, shall we say.”

I was shocked silent, and felt that I should apologize for my stupidity. She seemed to sense this, and relented.

“It's women like you who make me long for a second chance.”

She reached out her lovely white hand again and passed it over my wrist. I felt nothing, but shivered nonetheless.

“See? Nothing, we can never really touch each other. Never.”

She became a shade paler and her voice (still in my head?) faded as well. The last I heard of it was a lilting mockery of the song I’d sung for her.

“Sky of blue
And eyes of green
Has my silly friend Kathleen…”