Lizzie Borden: Alive and Well in New England

by Mark Amarantes

First published in February/March, 2004, Volume 1, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.

I met Lizzie Borden this last week. She’s alive and well in New England. 

Monday: The Union Train Station in downtown New London, Connecticut. She was sitting inside awaiting a train to nowhere, gazing aimlessly out the station window at the damp overcast sky. Her large steel grey eyes are what caught my attention. They were so large and protruding yet so empty. She looked as if she had lived a thousand lifetimes but was dying in the current one. Her eyes held my gaze almost as if they were magnets. It was like staring at a deformed person, you know that you shouldn’t be doing it but it’s hard to stop. She never blinked in what seemed like hours. Only when her train was announced did she break her private, visual meditation. She turned to get up when her eyes met mine again. She looked right thru me. My eyes were no match for hers. “Now boarding . . . Mystic . . . Providence . . . Fall River . . .”

Tuesday: Route 148—just outside of Starks, Maine. I met Lizzie Borden today on the side of the road. She was out of her car, bent down caring for a small yellow dog that had just been hit by something or someone. I pulled over at my wife’s request. I usually don’t have time to check on road-kill. You could tell that the pup was in its final minutes as it lay in Miss Lizzie’s lap, blood slowly draining from his mouth. I thought that I could make out a faint tire print on the dog’s rear quarter but judging by the solemnness of the moment, I wasn’t taking any guesses. I told Lizzie that there wasn’t really anything that she could do for the little canine. If she did hear me, her determination to carry this poor creature of God’s from here to the other side made my point moot. I stood around not knowing what to do. It was like I was selfishly, impatiently waiting for this dog to die so I could continue on with my vacation. I remember clearly how Lizzie held that dog, never looking up at the gaggle of death-seekers and do-gooders that had gathered at the side of the road. I wondered what category I fell into. She held that dog the whole time. Gently stroking its mangy matted coat. For a brief moment I remember thinking that I wished that I had someone such as her to see me thru to the other side. Just for a brief moment.

Wednesday: I saw Lizzie today in a Wal-mart in Hooksett, New Hampshire. She was stuffing merchandise under her dress. She looked as if she had a whole shopping list under there. I  fol-lowed her around just to see what she was swiping. She first made a stop in the shoe department, aisle 3, Mens and Boys. She grabbed a pair of children’s cowboy boots. They went under her clothing so fast that I’m not sure if she even took them out of the box! Next stop—Hardware. I thought for sure that she was heading towards the axes and small hatchets but at the last minute she darted left into garden tools. Whew . . . that was close! Why anyone would need three boxes of Miracle-Grow in the dead of winter I’ll never know.

Next stop—Toys. I knew she was never going to make it out of the store when she picked up the Ouija board. Never, no way. She placed the game long side up in a place that men hardly ever see. Even married men. My excitement was growing by the second. I wanted so badly to tell someone that the small plump lady with graying auburn hair waddling down aisle 5 with an Ouija stuck out of her skirt . . . was carrying about $356.43 in goods without using her hands!  Her dashing life of crime came to a crashing halt at the security doors. Not because of the scanners picking up unscanned merchandise but because she simply had too much. It all just gave way at the door. So close, yet so far. I’ll never forget the look on her face. It was like she couldn’t believe that the stuff fell out of her dress. Denial—it’s a hard word.

Thursday: I met Lizzie today in a small diner in Wakefield, Rhode Island. I had just ordered my three eggs scrambled, home fries and toast when Pa yelled out from the kitchen, “Order up.” I watched her as she slowly sauntered around the counter unaware of the hungry customers awaiting her every move. She asked Pa where the bacon was for the house omelet. He called out in his gruff, smoky voice that only years of kitchen grease and packs of Pall-Malls could muster up “Still on the pig!” She lazily dropped my plate in front of me as if it were a freebie. I asked the age-old question, “Honey, did your Pa forgot my home fries?” If looks could kill I would have been lying on the floor covered in watery scrambled eggs, burnt toast and imaginary home fries.

She snapped back at me in her most sarcastic, demoralizing Yankee drawl “He’s NOT my Pa. He’s my STEP-Father!!” I was taken aback for the moment. The whole place looked at me as if I had just asked her for something that businessmen ask for in Bangkok. I looked at her as if she were the Medusa revisited. “Sorry,” I said, not knowing what I did wrong. “I heard you call him Pa so I thought he might have been your father.” She looked at me as if I were speaking a new form of Portuguese. “Just because I call him Pa doesn’t mean that he’s my father.” I quickly offered another sorry to a deaf ear. I can still hear the clinging and clanging of silverware and coffee cups as I inhaled my eggs and toast. No home fries.

Friday: I met Lizzie today in a flea market in Bellows Falls, Vermont. She was looking over a doo-hickey and I wasn’t sure what it was. It looked like a clothes iron but not the whole iron. Just the bottom iron plate that gets hot, attached to a handle. Could it be an old flat iron? I wasn’t really sure. If it was, she had a real interest in it. She stared at it as if it were a crystal ball. She stared into it. I watched her the whole time. People interest me. Irons interest her. I started to develop an interest in this iron. Could it be a valuable find judging by the amount of interest she showed in it? My moneymaking juices started flowing. I could picture the write-up that I would put on eBay for this interest-inspiring iron that was sure to sell for at least double what I paid for it. I asked her if I could have a look at it if she were done, then as an after-thought, I added, “No rush.” She coldly looked at me and said as steadily as a drill sergeant, “I don’t do anything in a rush.” I thought “OK, she’s about as inviting as an outdoor swimming pool in mid- February, in Toronto, Canada.” Still having an interest in this money-maker, I tried to get on her good side by quoting an old Abraham Lincoln doggerel that was similar to hers. “I may not walk fast but I never walk backwards.” She wasn’t impressed.

After another minute or two of her and the iron mind melding, and at the gentle, yet firm, point of my sweetheart’s bony elbow, I moved on. I still swear today that she wouldn’t put that iron down for the simple reason that I wanted to see it. I also swear that I could have gotten at least $12.00 for it on eBay.

Saturday: I smelled Lizzie Borden today on a bus heading to Foxwoods in Mashantucket, Connecticut. She had on this perfume that draws you in, then holds you tight. Sort of like a black widow spider. I never saw her, as there were about 60 older ladies from a generation that I had once heard of. As I sat on the bus, I kept my eyes closed in fear of making eye contact with one of my fellow female passengers. I just couldn’t stand to hear about the price of today’s medications vs. 1943 or how the “Baby-Boomers” were getting the short end of the stick or how Harold used to court his gal by sitting on her front porch after dinner, waiting for the sunset. It was only when my eyes were shut that my other senses tried to compensate by letting me smell odors that I would normally ignore. Her perfume was not of this country. Hers was not from the Home Shopping Network. Hers was not from some washed up, over-weight ex-movie star who had more husbands than I had teeth. Hers was sweet like the wine you always pass up at the fancy restaurant in fear of not being able to afford it. That kind of perfume was not of this USA.

I think what really struck me was the amount that was wafting my way. It was like the perfect dab or splash or whatever word women use to measure perfume. I know for a fact that my grandmother doesn’t know this word. She only knows pints or quarts when it comes to the proper amount to don. The sweet smell drifting my way was just the right amount. Like passing a rose bush just starting to blossom or a Little-Tree air freshener pulled out of the clear cellophane sleeve -just the right amount. This smell that carried me 30 miles through some of Connecticut’s bumpiest Rt. 2 was expensive as sweet should be. Whoever the wearer of this liquid gold was, she had a fat purse and good taste. I tried to pick her out as we off-loaded at the great Native money-pit some call The Casino but no such luck. At first I looked for who was dressed nicely. I figured that if she had scratch, she had to be dressed to the nines, but that was an exercise in stupidity. Every older woman who steps off a bus at Foxwoods is dressed nicely. Now I cannot say the same for some of the husbands. It must be the deftness of the sex. I soon found myself smelling each woman as she stepped down from the three-staired coach to financial security. I was determined to find this “Mrs. Right.” I never did. The last lady to step off was the motor coach driver who had more tattoos then I did with a cigarette hanging from her lower lip eagerly awaiting a match. I still search for that smell until today. In supermarkets where old ladies congregate. In bingo halls, in churches. I’ve yet to find my fragrant Rose.

Sunday: I talked to Lizzie Borden today at the Oak Grove Cemetery in Fall River, Massachusetts. She was putting flowers on her family’s grave. I asked her if she needed help cleaning the candle wax used to hold pennies and other burnt offerings on the headstones left by invisible unknown “fans.” She seemed like a polite lady, yet lost deep in thought. I asked if the graves were of her immediate family. She just gave me a wink and said that they were, in another lifetime. She then sat me down and told me a story that I’ll never forget. She said that when she was a young girl many years ago, she saw something that she wished that she had never seen. While she couldn’t tell me exactly what it was that burned so strong an image into her mind, she could use me as an example. She said, imagine that I had witnessed a crime that I knew to be wrong, yet said nothing about. Imagine I was later blamed for that crime, but could never reveal the truth in fear of losing a loved one. Imagine going thru the rest of your living days sneered at, mocked at, whispered at, talked at, and knowing that you could say nothing. Now imagine coming to your life’s own twilight and asking yourself, was it all worth it? I wasn’t really sure that she was getting at something but I somehow knew not to talk. While sitting on the edge of the gravestone, I waited to hear the whodunit or name of the guilty or a full confession when the frail, meek, little old lady said to me, “Always remember sonny, the last person that you say good-night to is yourself so never give up your feelings, dreams, or shortcomings for someone else.”

I knew right then and there that to me at least, it really didn’t matter anymore who done it or even why. All that mattered was what I thought of myself, and not worry about others, after.