Free Miss Lizzie by Walter Satterthwait

Father called out, “Come in.”
    The door swung open and Miss Lizzie entered, holding upright a tidy stack of clothing. “I heard you talking. I don’t mean to interrupt.”
    She was not apologetic, exactly; I should have a hard time imagining Miss Lizzie apologetic in any circumstances. I believe she was uncomfortable dealing with the obvious intimacy between Father and myself. But whatever the reason, she was subdued, almost businesslike.
    Father said, “Not at all, Miss Borden.”
    She turned to me. “And how are you today, Amanda?” In her voice was that crisp, bright, artificial heartiness with which most adults speak to children. Her manner had none of the closeness and warmth of yesterday: it seemed to imply that the two of us were merely acquaintances and not, as I had come to believe, friends. And, as only a thirteen-year-old can be, I was stung.
    â€œI’m all right,” I said, my voice sulky.
    She nodded. “I’ve brought some of your things from next door. If you’d like to bathe, the washroom is just down the hall.”
    â€œThank you.” I kept my voice cool, noncommittal.
    She set the bundle of clothing on the writing desk and turned to Father. “Have you told Amanda yet about the meeting?”
    â€œNot yet,” he said.
    â€œWith the police?” I asked.
    â€œWith the lawyer,” he said. “At noon.” He smiled faintly. “A Council of War before we talk to the police.”
    â€œThe lawyer?” I said. “Mr. Slocum?”
    He nodded. “And a Pinkerton man. Miss Borden feels he may be necessary.” From his tone, I gathered that he did not share this feeling.
    â€œA real private detective?”
    He smiled. “A real private detective.”
    â€œWell,” said Miss Lizzie, “I’ll leave the two of you alone.” She turned to me. “You’re quite welcome to stay as long as you like, Amanda.” She glanced around the room, disapproval tightening her mouth. “The furniture isn’t mine, of course. It’s the sort of sorry odds and ends you find in any summer rental. We could do something about that, if you like. Bring in some nicer things. Those Dresdens”—with a frown at the figurines—“are particularly odious.”
    â€œNo,” I said, “that’s all right, Miss Lizzie. The room is fine.”
    â€œWell, let me know if you reconsider.” Then, as though suddenly remembering something, she said, “Are you hungry, child?”
    I discovered, to my surprise, that I was famished. “A little,” I admitted.
    Her face softened. “Good. I’ll bring something up for you.”
    At once I felt guilty for my earlier coolness. “No, Miss Lizzie, really. You don’t have to go to any trouble.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble at all,” she said. “And you need to maintain your strength.” She turned to Father, gave him her businesslike nod. “Until later, then.”
    As she made to leave I called out, “Miss Lizzie?”
    She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
    â€œThank you,” I said. “For everything.”
    She smiled then and at once became the Miss Lizzie I remembered, bright gray eyes and dimpled cheeks. “You needn’t mention it, child. It’s been my pleasure.” With another nod to Father she turned and left.
    I looked at him. “She’s been wonderful, Father.” The moment I spoke the word I realized that we were no longer Daddy and baby ; Miss Lizzie’s visit had served as a reminder of a world other than ourselves. I felt a small quick stab of regret.
    â€œI know she has,” he said.
    â€œWould it be all right if I stayed with her for a while?”
    â€œWell, Amanda,” he said, and stroked his mustache. “I thought we’d get you a room at the hotel, maybe the one next to mine. At least until all this is over with.