Miss Lizzie Read Free

loved each other; and, without the starched white uniform and the coarse woolen blanket, they were merely two (very) dissimilar individuals who happened to be living under the same roof. Father came from a tradition that believed that nothing but death could terminate a marriage, even a bad one; and so resigned himself to his lot. And she, I think, knew this, and so resigned herself to hers. She retreated into a sullen silence, nibbling her bonbons and lancing her needle in and out that taut circle of fabric, while her bosom, harking (as all flesh must) to the croon of gravity, slowly grew broader and less buoyant.

    If there was no question of discussing the visit to Miss Lizzie with my stepmother, there was equally no question of my not making it: I had told Miss Lizzie that I would; I had given my word. And so, at a quarter to four that day I left our cottage by the back porch, slipped through the hedges at the rear of the yard, turned right, and trod across the warm sand for the distance of a half a block, past the parasols and the scurrying children and the recumbent adults. The breeze had the bite of sand to it, and tugged at my bonnet. Breakers curled and thumped and swooshed against the shore. Three houses down, I followed the path that led through some azaleas back to Water Street, turned right once more, and walked down to the Borden house.
    All of this was unnecessary—my stepmother was taking her usual afternoon nap. But I possessed (and regrettably continue to possess) a fondness for intrigue and mystification.
    I unlatched the gate, latched it behind me, went up the flagstone walk, up the wooden steps to the front door, and rang the bell.

TWO
    â€œPICK A CARD,” said Miss Lizzie, peering at me over her pince-nez. With one hand, she fanned the deck of blue-backed Bicycle playing cards and held it out across the table. I leaned forward, around the teapot, over the plate of scones, and plucked one from the deck.
    â€œLook at it carefully,” she said, shuffling the deck. The cards clicked and whirred between fingers that were, despite their plumpness, remarkably nimble. “Don’t let me see what it is, but you memorize it.”
    It was a seven of clubs. I had played gin rummy with Father and knew the names of the suits.
    â€œWill you be able to remember it?” she asked.
    â€œOf course,” I said, pique putting an edge along my voice.
    Miss Lizzie smiled. “No insult intended, Amanda.” She squared the deck on the table, left it there, sat back, and said, “Right. Put the card back in the deck. Anywhere you like.”
    I slipped the card back into the deck about a third of the way up from the bottom, and then made quite certain, proud of my caution, that all the cards were carefully aligned.
    Miss Lizzie took a sip from her teacup. She said, “Right. What we’re going to do now is make that card move through the deck, and then all the way through the table so it comes out underneath.”
    â€œYou mean,” I said, “that it’s going to go through the wooden table.”
    â€œExactly,” said Miss Lizzie, with a single crisp nod.
    I was too polite to express my disbelief out loud (like most people I was rude and cruel only to those I knew well), but my expression must have revealed it.
    Miss Lizzie smiled. “It takes a good deal of concentration, and you’ll have to help, but I think we can pull it off. Notice, now, that there’s nothing up my sleeves.” She held up her hands, turned them back and forth for me to see that they were indeed empty. I nodded. She placed her left hand under the table and said to me, “All right, you press down on the deck. And concentrate.” She closed her eyes.
    Warily, watching her closely, I pressed my fingertips against the deck.
    After a moment, Miss Lizzie opened her eyes. “Hmmm,” she said. “It’s not working.”
    I laughed.
    She looked at me sternly. “