Eugene Hoseyby Eugene Hosey
First published in November/December, 2006, Volume 3, Issue 4, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
Some of us are so obsessed with a fictional solution to the mystery that is also compatible with a factual account that we lose sight of the creative wealth the case offers the imaginative writer. I am not the only one who—with a respect for reasonably known facts—has tried to give Lizzie plausible means and method to commit these murders. Nor am I alone in trying to fabricate a culprit, friendly to Lizzie, who achieved the abomination literally under her nose and escaped at the same time that Lizzie discovered her father’s battered head. I am still unsatisfied.
However, Borden-inspired fiction is hypothetically endless. Within the parameters of known facts, imagine episodes between any two of the principals and the kind of “foreboding” games that could be played. There is always the value of pure entertainment, if nothing else. What about the theory of imagination—by chance or intuition—as an indirect route to the truth? Consider such titles—“Diary of a Maplecroft Maid,” “What Alice Russell Did Not Tell,” or “I Saw Lizzie at 9:30?” Such speculation is for fun, of course. Yet I do wonder if the fact-oriented brain might be exercised in such a way as to become a sharper investigator by plotting detailed “what-ifs” of fictional scenarios. In other words, there may be several reasons to value Borden fiction.
In a 1989 collection entitled, Murder in New England, there are two Lizzie Borden stories. These are “double features” in that both are about peculiar forms of sisterhood. While sisterhood is a word for the relationship between flesh-and-blood sisters, it can also mean the association between women in a common cause; and these two works represent both definitions. “Lizzie in the P.M.” is about the private relations between Emma and Lizzie, told from Emma’s perspective. “The Sisterhood” pertains to the latter definition, takes more liberties with the facts, and is more provocative and bizarre.
“Lizzie in the P.M.”
This includes many well-known issues and facts from the real case, and presumes a working knowledge of the Borden tragedy on the reader’s part. Reading the story is like reading Emma’s diary as begun on the day of Lizzie’s death. Emma learns of it from the newspapers, an indication of the extent of the sisters’ estrangement.
The story’s voice is that of a tired, woeful Emma who has been continually frustrated and haunted by Lizzie. Since the murders, Lizzie has verbally tormented Emma, effectively teasing and provoking her, always knowing just where to stick the metaphorical knife and how to twist it, arousing the guilty feelings of torn loyalties and persistent suspicions. In the twenty-two years after moving away from Lizzie and cutting off communications, Emma realizes that she still cannot escape her sister’s influence. And the final pathetic irony is that Lizzie’s power over her seems to reach beyond the grave when, upon returning from the post office to send a letter concerning Lizzie’s death, Emma falls and breaks her hip and dreams that it was Lizzie who pushed her. Even a dead Lizzie can knock her down and reiterate that she will never give in.
As Emma reflects on her strained relationship with Lizzie, we get the picture of unappreciated sisterly loyalty on the part of one and cryptic aloofness on the part of the other. There is, at best, an uneasy truce between them. Emma regrets the loss of her friendship with Alice Russell, for example; and she believes every decision Lizzie makes is inappropriate. She finds that she can no longer enjoy something as simple as sitting on the porch for having to bear the sound of children chanting “Lizzie Borden Took an Axe.” Also, she would like to know—just like the rest of the world—exactly what Lizzie was doing murder morning. But Lizzie is as closed-mouthed with her sister as she is with the public, the difference being that Emma must feel this cryptic sting most personally.
At its worst, their relationship is a cold war. For Emma, it is as though Lizzie is operating under the conviction that Emma should suffer as much for the aftermath of the murders as Lizzie is destined to suffer. But there is a deeper dimension to this psychological impasse that reveals the stark reality of Emma’s pain—a factor about which Lizzie is all too aware. It amounts to something rather simple: if Emma believes in Lizzie’s innocence, then Emma need not suffer. For example, that Emma feels obligated to remain in mourning and constantly attend church—these are signs that Emma is lying when she says she believes in Lizzie Borden’s innocence, as far as Lizzie is concerned. The sisters dance—or creep—around the problem between them. They are unable to honestly communicate
This sisterhood is fundamentally unfortunate and can be tolerated more easily one way than another, perhaps; but it is a sore that will not heal. Lizzie and Emma are related by flesh and blood in life, but also metaphysically bound in death. The great irony implied is that true freedom from their bitter connection can come only through mutual forgiveness and reconciliation. This is something neither sister is able or willing to do. As irony would have it, Emma ends her narrative with a protest against any metaphysical or karmic tie, in the form of a personal note to her sister: “ . . . In the very course of nature I cannot live much longer. If I die quite soon, though—say within seven days of your death, or ten days, some such noticeable number—remember, I am seventy-seven!—it will be coincidence! I hope you will not try to make any more of it than that.” As if Emma unconsciously knows that Lizzie is part-and-parcel with herself.
“The Sisterhood”
This has less in common with “Lizzie in the P.M.” than its title would appear to imply. The sisterhood rendered in this work is a mystery that gradually unfolds in the story. Emma is given only a perfunctory treatment. The main characters are Lizzie, a strange lady from Scotland who decides to counsel Lizzie, and a waitress in a railroad diner who observes and narrates. Abby and Andrew are present but in a form altered from their historical facts. They are engaged, not yet married; while the adult sisters, Emma and Lizzie, speculate negatively about the union. Lizzie is particularly against Abby and worried about the money.
Both the Scottish lady and the “sister” who awaits her help in Liverpool are based on two other Victorian-era murderesses, Madeline Smith and Florence Maybrick. These women killed with arsenic. One received a verdict of “Not Proven”—a judgment possible in the Scottish justice system. The other served 15 years in prison. For readers familiar with these cases, there are various clues about the identities of these women throughout the text. At the same time, their “true-crime” identities are deliberately not clarified. The writer toes a delicate line between figures of actual murder cases and fictional characters, playing an interesting clever game. In effect, the author is writing for more than one audience simultaneously. This technique reflects the very concept of the secretive nature of the “sisterhood of murder” that is embodied in the story.
The story is an inventive expression of clever imagination and wicked humor. One of its most outstanding features is that it works as uncanny fiction, reminiscent of a Shirley Jackson tale. It does not even need Lizzie Borden in order to be understood and appreciated. A sort of punch line at the end does automatically append it to the Lizzie Borden category, but the quietly sinister interplay among the eavesdropping waitress and Lizzie and her new friend who share a “common cause” is what makes this a compelling narrative.
Both stories are entertaining tales written by talented writers. “Sisterhood” as a subtopic of Lizzie Borden is a predictable one, as Lizzie’s relationship with her sister is the one relationship we know she had before and after the murders; and it appears, in fact, to have been a mysterious and problematical one. As all Borden readers know, Emma stood by Lizzie during the trial and lived with her for a while afterwards. They finally went their separate ways, but what went on between them at Maplecroft?
“Lizzie Borden in the P.M.” is a first person, internal narrative by Emma, who meditates on her whole life with Lizzie during a short period of time—the interval between Lizzie’s death and her own. Emma reveals herself as an extension of Lizzie, defined by Lizzie, motivated by Lizzie, hearing the voice only of Lizzie. Emma can lament everything about Lizzie, but it would seem doubtful that she is able to comprehend her own tragedy as an individual. Even on her deathbed, it is the thought of what Lizzie might make of her end that disturbs her. Their sisterhood has been a biological incident, an irrevocable fact of nature. And beyond that—a monstrous psychological ball and chain, or a set of shackles.
Unlike the former story, “The Sisterhood” does not dig deeply into its characters. It is about this macabre group of women who call themselves sisters, how one of its veteran representatives identifies Lizzie as a natural-born member, and the point of view of the waitress who is also an accomplished member. In the context of the Borden murders, this is a prequel. The story reveals, with a measure of suspense, an unexpected tale highlighted with some shocking dialog and morbid wit. The tale stands and casts shadows on its own without any “Lizzie props.” This makes it remarkable in the Lizzie literature, even for an imaginative work. This is due to the front-and-center theme, which is the basis for what transpires in the diner. The Lizzie Borden character could be any woman who, according to her advisor, should develop her muscles, choose a weapon, and even get naked for the deed. It is really the observant, narrating waitress who holds the story together. “The Sisterhood” is strong short fiction by a writer (unknown to this one) whose other efforts should be worth a look.
Works Cited:
Murder in New England, Castle Books, Secaucus, NJ, 1989. [Edited by Eleanor Sullivan & Chris Dorbandt]. Contains “Lizzie Borden in the P.M.,” by Robert Henson, 1980; “The Sisterhood,” by Gwendoline Butler, 1968.
