By Rosemarie DiCristo
The people here have always thought me peculiar.
Me and my family. A tyrannical, penny-pinching father. A harsh stepmother. And, of course, cold, forbidding spinster sisters.
It’s the rumors about me that make me laugh the hardest. To the people of this fair city, I’m also a kleptomaniac who’s stolen from her own family.
Lies, all of it. Or, well, half-truths. Father can be miserable. His wife? Well, the less said about her, the better. Emma’s no one’s favorite. And me? Darn right, I’m peculiar, but is that all they think I am? Ha, small-town minds with small ideas.
They had no idea about my power—a power potent enough to change the course of history.
And it was about time I used it.
* * *
It was a little after 11 a.m. that sweltering August day—August 4, to be precise—when Bridget, our maid, screamed out, “Come quickly, Miss Lizzie! Your father has been murdered.”
I’d been dozing in my bedroom but ran downstairs as fast as I could and discovered what was left of my father lying on the living room sofa, brutally hacked apart, blood everywhere.
I nearly fainted, I nearly vomited. It was all I could do to keep from screaming in terror. “Who… Who could have…”
“I did it.” Emma, splattered with blood, entered the room. “And that’s not all I’ve done.” She led us to the second floor, where our stepmother lay, her body as mutilated as Father’s.
It was dreadful, unbelievable, unreal….
“I had to do it, Lizzie,” Emma insisted, a wild gleam in her eye. “I couldn’t stand it one more day.”
True, our father and stepmother could be overbearing, but…? “So, you slaughtered them with that ax?” My voice was shrill.
“Hatchet,” she said, as if we were talking about my mistaking her brown paisley dress for my blue corduroy one.
“But why, for Heaven’s sake? Why?”
“It’s the mutton. I couldn’t stand one more meal of that mutton.”
“The mutton?” I repeated.
“Oh, don’t act the simpleton! Mutton at every meal? Nothing but mutton? What kind of deranged father would insist on such a thing? Well, I put a stop to that.”
There was hysteria in my sister’s voice, but it sounded more like the type of fury you’d show when arguing with a pigheaded parent, not like the kind that comes after butchering them.
“Mutton.” It was so mind-numbingly bizarre, I had to repeat it again. “Simply because of the mutton? Not because of father’s harsh ways. Not because that woman stood to inherit all that was rightfully ours. You killed them because of the mutton stew?”
“Rancid mutton stew,” Emma corrected. “Which we’ve been eating for days and days.”
“And days,” Bridget added, but she clamped her lips shut and flushed when I shot her a glare.
“Remember your place,” I said icily.
“Yes, Miss Lizzie.”
Emma made a pleading gesture with her hands. “Lizzie, admit you’re glad I’ve done this. For years, Father and that woman have been—”
“Don’t do anything.” I couldn’t listen to another word. “Don’t tell anyone. Just stay here, the two of you, while I fix this.”
“Fix it, Miss Lizzie?” Bridget exclaimed. “How can you possibly—?”
“Quiet. Just do as I say.” And, leaving them there among the blood and horror, I rushed outside and into the barn loft, where the soft cooing of the pigeons brought a measure of stillness to my ragged heart.
History has recorded the deeds of the witches of Salem, but it hasn’t, nor ever will, remember the witches of New Bedford, fifteen miles from here. They’re too discreet.
I opened a hidden panel in the loft’s wall, revealing the two jars I’d gotten from the New Bedford witches for emergencies such as this. Indeed, I’ve used them once before. Anointing the ancient wooden walls with serums and herbs, and murmuring incantations, I activated a portal that whisked me to another time. In this case, back just four days. But it was enough, particularly because the spells brought me to the very place I’d just left: the barn loft with its pigeons.
“Forgive me,” I whispered to them, “but after all, you are utility birds, bred for eating, not as pets.” And with that, it was a simple matter to twist off their heads and bring the birds to the kitchen.
My voice was bright and lively. “No, I’ll cook today, Bridget, as well as every day this week.”
“With this heat we’ve been having, Miss Lizzie,” she replied, “I’m only too glad.”
I prepared a feast. Not only did I make a meal of the squab, I also made fresh swordfish and pork steaks, cakes and cookies, and johnnycakes, too. No mutton. Never again would we eat mutton.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Lizzie-Girl,” Father said, cheeks rosy-red and intact.
Our stepmother took a bite. “It’s actually quite good.”
“I’m glad you approve, because we’ll eat this way from now on,” I assured them.
Father and our stepmother applauded, but it was Emma who was the most delighted. “I’ll remember this meal forever!” she cried with the overwrought passion she brings to nearly every situation.
“Yes, we all will.” My eyes twinkled as I added, “But history won’t. Not the meal, nor us, either.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “But why would history…?”
I shook my head but couldn’t stop the grin that I knew no one but I would understand. “Never mind. It’s fixed. All is well.”
Until the next time Emma had one of her bouts of lunacy.
But I was able to fix that, too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
great twist on the old tale!
What a different world it would be if we could change horrible events so easily. Great, thought-provoking story!
Following dinner, Lizzie invested her life savings on a short position in mutton futures, made millions.
Nice take on the old story! Great job!
What a choice for an alternate history tale!
And well-done!