In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “Of course,” I said, and cut the thread with my teeth. I did not like this at all. The specialist might not think of poison, but then again, he might. I had not given Mads anything since Oscar arrived, and I was glad for it now, even if I felt that both of them deserved a generous sprinkle on their clams.

  Not enough to kill—just to do a little harm.

  Oscar made to leave, but then he paused by the door. His gaze when he looked at me was cold and hostile. “Don’t think you can fool me, Bella. I don’t think you care for my brother at all.”

  “Really?” This made me curious rather than annoyed. I always took great care to be seen as a loving wife to my husband when his brother was about. “What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t think he hasn’t told me how you always complain about his income, the state of the house, and even the size of his life insurance. Nothing is ever good enough for you!”

  “Those are private matters.” The anger quickly flared up in me and licked my insides with swift tongues. I would get Mads for this when Oscar was gone. I would have him retching and aching.

  “Had he fallen ill and died, I don’t think you would have shed a tear.” Oscar’s fat bottom lip quivered.

  “I don’t want Mads dead,” I lied.

  “I don’t think you would grieve him for long, though, if he did. You don’t think twice about accusing him or even throwing a fist—”

  “Does he say that?” I tried to sound amused, though it was hard to sound merry when angry. “He must be more tired than I thought. Maybe he truly ought to see a specialist.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “Of course I do.” I slipped a new thread through the needle’s eye. My hands did not quiver one bit, and I felt proud. I was getting apt at this, putting on a deception.

  “I saw bruising just this morning, right here at his temple.” Oscar pointed with his finger at a throbbing vein. “He said you threw a book—”

  “He hit his head on the bedside table when rolling over to fetch his Bible.”

  Oscar’s face had become quite red. “Why would he lie about that?”

  I found a little frock in the pile of clothes and set to mending a tear. “To gain your sympathies, I suppose. Maybe he finds me cruel to complain about the lack of money—”

  “It’s hardly a woman’s concern.”

  “To feed our child is.”

  “I don’t see why you keep foster children at all! It does nothing to improve the poor man’s health to fill his house with strangers’ offspring—”

  “We only have the one now,” I reminded him. “It’s been a longing in me always to have children to care for, and soon they might not be strangers.” I gently placed a hand on my belly and gave him a tiny smile.

  The red color increased. “Do you—does he—?”

  “No, he doesn’t know yet. I wanted to be sure.”

  “And now you are?” He looked as if I had just told him I was about to sprout another leg.

  “Yes, I am.” I made another few stitches. “So you see, not everything is wrong between us.”

  He went quiet then, lost for words. “Well then,” he said at last, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Who could ever hate a woman carrying a longed-for child?

  * * *

  —

  Though I had only told Oscar I was pregnant to appease him, the thought would not leave me alone. I kept touching my belly, though I knew there was nothing inside, and I dreamed of it at night, a belly swelling with a daughter of mine. Sometimes the dreams turned darker, and it was the grave I saw: the hole in the ground, next to a root, and the wet thing I slipped inside. The earth on top, so smooth under my hands, concealing the dread underneath.

  As if it never happened.

  When I woke up, sweat-drenched and breathless, I would be angry again and think of Anders and the damage that he did to me that night by the lake.

  I clutched the pewter button around my neck for courage in those nights. James could always give me that. He was the only one besides myself I trusted, and even if the fever of our first years had mellowed some, he could still make me feel just as weak at the knees as I had been on that first day in the park.

  It was a rare treasure to have a friend like that.

  In those nights of dissatisfaction, I often imagined myself in his stead: What would I have done to better my situation if I had been James Lee?

  Sometimes, if sleep evaded me, I would go downstairs and pour the brandy. I would light a lamp to finish my letters or pore over the newspapers. The first often brought to mind another dissatisfaction: though our letters were many, Peter Gunness never expressed any interest in me besides friendship. His wife was very ill but never seemed to die—much like Mads, I noted. Mr. Gunness dreamed of a farm where he could raise his own pigs and sell the best sausage on the market. I enjoyed dreaming with him. I could understand ambition, though my own had sadly turned to nothing but a useless husband with an empty wallet, borrowed children, and a pantry brimming with old food. Jennie was a blessing, yes, but she was already growing up, and though I did my best not to think of it, I could not completely forget that she was not truly mine. Her father sometimes spoke to Mads about it, how he meant to bring her home one day. My youth was waning—the years ran by. Was this all I would ever become, or could I still do something to save my bold vision: strike out on my own again and have that life I had so vividly imagined on the ship to America?

  I read about clever schemes in the newspapers all the time: how they were done—and how they failed. I thought of H. H. Holmes and his magnificent enterprise that had so heavily relied on insurance fraud, and thought that maybe I could do the same. Only better. More clever. In a way that made sure I was never found out.

  I thought about the sick man up in his bed, and then I thought of the house I sat in—both could certainly go—but there had to be a better way: a way that would not harm me at all.

  I figured I should go into retail. I could build a business, burn it to the ground, and walk away unscathed. If I was a mother of a small child when it happened, nothing could be better. I saw it all so clearly: how I would clutch the child to my chest as I went to speak with the insurance man with tears dripping from my eyes: It all just went up in a blaze! Oh, I don’t know what to do! How am I to feed my child?

  If I was lucky, there might be even be enough in a scheme like that to buy me a better house. A house without tarnish and emptiness inside. Enough that I did not need Mads’s pay anymore.

  I still wanted the same things as I had when I arrived in this country: the happy home, money, and toddlers playing at my feet. My own children, not some other woman’s, or as close to that as I could come—and why should I be denied such a simple thing?

  People are so foolish; they beg to be deceived.

  I chuckled a little when I realized how this plan of mine was good news for Mads.

  I could not have my children as a widow.

  * * *

  —

  My daughter Caroline was delivered in January. She was a tiny, mewling thing wrapped in a piece of bloodstained cotton. The night was dark and chilly, the sky spangled with stars.

  “I swear she’s of fine Norwegian breeding.” James was at the back door. He had buttoned his coat all the way up.

  “Not so fine, I think.” I looked at the dirty swaddling. “Her natural mother must’ve fallen on hard times.”

  “It’s a harsh world”—James offered me a smile—“but the girl seems healthy enough.”

  I smiled down at the mewling bundle. “She is so fresh I can smell the womb on her. I could take her to the doctor in the morning and claim I had her myself!”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Maybe he’d sense that something was wrong.”

  “Men never do, not when it comes to children and birth; they would rather no
t think of it at all. But I’ll take your advice.”

  “Good—and make sure to draw up an insurance policy. One never knows how long such tiny things last.” He put a finger on the swaddling to pull it down and have a look at the newborn’s face.

  “I have hopes for this one.” I looked down at her at well, watched as her little mouth formed a soundless O and her little fist waved in the air.

  I wanted to invite James inside but was unsure how deep Mads’s sleep was, as I had not tinkered with his coffee. The fool had not asked about my protruding belly, fat with cushions. He accepted mentions of “the happy event” with a gracious nod whenever it was brought up at church but seemed pained when I spoke of it at home. He knew it was not real, of course but had decided to go along with it. Maybe he was curious too, to see what this scheme of padding would produce.

  James asked, “How is the old man?”

  “Suffering from a faulty heart, according to the doctor. He takes prescribed powders and eats at certain times. Yet he does not seem to get better.” James and I shared a wicked smile over the baby’s soft head.

  “A pity,” said he, who would rather see him dead.

  “Not so much.” I quite enjoyed seeing him in pain.

  James looked at the bundle in my arms. “Won’t people suspect it’s not yours when it’s taken so long? You have been married for how many years?”

  “Too many, and no—they will just think it an act of God. I don’t care what they think either way.” I pressed the child to my chest and wrapped my shawl tight around us both. The girl made another mewling sound but did not cry. She was a good child, I decided. An easy, quiet child. A child meant for light, not a hole in the ground.

  “And the store?” James leaned his shoulder on the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “It’s coming along. I’m expecting deliveries in the morning.”

  “A confectionery store.” He shook his head. “How did that come about?”

  “It was a natural choice; it was already there, just waiting for a new owner. And I’m hardly the first person in this city to be tempted to stake my fortunes on sugar and sweets.” It was the only business I could make Mads agree to; he had gotten it in his head that the future was made of flavored sugar. It had taken all we had—a second mortgage and my meager savings—to make it happen.

  “You might be the first with such fiery intentions.” James raised a hand and let his fingers trail along my hairline to brush away a few stray strands.

  “Hush,” I scolded him but smiled.

  “Won’t you find it hard to build something just to tear it down?” His dark gaze narrowed.

  “No, I find I like the sweets and the planning,” I told him. “I like to watch it grow around me. One day I might build a business for real.” If I could make that work, I would never have to rely on a man’s poor pay again. I glanced at the girl’s tiny face once more. This child was different; she would carry my name. She was no borrowed child—she was mine through and through. “Did you pay and settle with the mother?”

  “She doesn’t even know where the girl went. She didn’t want to know.”

  “Good. I better take her inside, then, and make sure she doesn’t get cold.”

  James gave an amused chuckle. “It’s good to see you so happy.”

  “I’ll be happier still when all is said and done with the store.” I bent forth to receive a light kiss on the lips.

  He tipped his hat. “I’m at your service, as always.”

  “Know that I’m grateful for that.”

  I closed the door gently and brought Caroline inside.

  21.

  Nellie

  Chicago 1896–1898

  Bella’s store was a marvel, filled to the brim with caramels, candy canes, and sugared nuts. It had newspapers, magazines, cigars, and tobacco as well, neatly lined up on polished shelves. The counter was large and held a golden thread weight. Behind and upon it, small and large glass jars displayed the goods to the customers. The sign on the storefront spelled out the business’s purpose in black and golden letters: Sweets & Tobacco. Bella cleaned it every day, balancing on a ladder.

  I often went there to help her in the beginning, and rejoiced in how her mood had improved. She was humming to herself while tying on the white apron in the morning, and cleaning the shelves with a feather duster. Part of that improvement was due to little Caroline, of course. It was a wonder how that girl came to be. Not only had Bella been barren before, but she was not so young either—and yet there was Caroline, a well-shaped child who made her demands known through great bellows of her lungs.

  I sometimes wondered if Bella was like me and had suffered through miscarriages, yet never told a soul. The thought of it pained me, that she would have carried such a burden in silence, year after year, too proud to admit to her body’s failings. No wonder her marriage had suffered so, and that she had often been so glum.

  When I asked her, though, she said that she had never lost even one.

  Mads, too, seemed much improved since Caroline’s arrival. He rose from his bed shortly after the birth and showed the child off to every neighbor who happened to pass by. He regained even more of his glow after they opened the store. He said it was a fresh start for all of them, their great opportunity in life. Bella only huffed and said that he sure was more useful wiping down windows and placing orders than he had been for the last few years, lying on his back in the bed.

  I used to bring Nora with me to the store, and she and Jennie would help fill the shelves, spelling out the names of the various flavors as they worked in tandem with their smooth brows creased with concentration: “Sugarplum, lemon drop, peppermint, cinnamon, wintergreen, lavender . . .” Baby Caroline slept in a cradle in the back, where the door could be closed if she cried.

  It was a joyous time for all of us and I was thrilled to see Bella so happy. She was always marvelous company when pleased, and our days at the store were filled with laughter and sugared treats in equal measure. Whenever a customer came in, Bella’s eyes lit up and she brought forth her sweetest smile as she went behind the counter to exchange caramels and cigars for shiny coins. I thought that she might have found her place in life at last.

  “Perhaps you were never meant to stay at home,” I told her one day as we sat by the little table in the back where the window showed a view of the backyard, crammed with wagons, wooden boards, and crates stacked against the outhouse walls. “Some women fare better if they work outside the kitchen.”

  “Yes, but it wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t own it.” Her fingers dipped into a bowl of toffee, bringing a piece to her lips—she always had a sweet tooth. “I don’t think I could work for another again, not after Rødde farm.”

  “Well, you always had a good head on your shoulders, and now you can put it to use.”

  “You should encourage Olga to come and work for me.” Her eyes lit up with the idea. “It would be better for her to work for her aunt than in some other place with strangers. I would always be fair to her, and I could certainly use the help, with the children here all the time.”

  I quickly repressed the fear that flared in my chest. My daughter was fifteen and certainly not a child anymore. Bella could not take her from me even if she tried. “That’s a good idea.” I forced my lips to form the words. “It will be useful for her to learn how to manage a store.”

  “Won’t it just.” Bella fished out another piece of toffee. “I am sure she will like it here, with all these delicious goods to sample.” The toffee disappeared in between her lips.

  “Certainly,” I agreed, and reminded myself again how much my sister’s mood had improved since the store opened.

  Olga would surely be safe.

  * * *

  —

  I was at the store less after Olga started her apprenticeship. I wanted to give my daughter
space to find her place without her mama looking over her shoulder. She seemed excited by her new work, though, and often regaled me with stories when she came home. She spoke of the little boy who always came in for cigars, reeking of them though he said they were for his father, and the woman who bought peppermint candy to mix in with her gin. She told me of the lovesick young man who sought to impress his sweetheart by offering a new flavor of candy every day, and the baker’s daughter who bought caramels to comfort herself whenever her father had been cruel.

  She seemed taken with her small cousins and had decided to teach little Jennie how to knit a scarf. She also could not say enough good things about Caroline, the sweetness of her face and the way it would light up in a smile whenever Olga came in.

  She told me that Mads was rarely there anymore, that he had taken to his bed again, suffering as bad as before. This was indeed worrisome news, and I went to Elizabeth Street a few times to check on him myself. It was as my daughter had said; he was back in bed with an ashen pallor, suffering from vomiting and cramps. Bella had told me that his heart was poor, but I could not see how that would cause such an upset. He said he was seeing a doctor, though, Dr. Miller who had lodged with them before, and so there was very little I could do but offer him broth and cream puddings.

  It worried me, though, the poor color of him.

  Yet my daughter’s latest news worried me even more.

  She came home one night in her red-striped shop girl dress and apron, took off her coat, and slumped down in a chair by the table, where I was peeling potatoes for dinner.

  “You are early,” I remarked.

  “Aunt Bella said that I could go,” she said, chewing her lip a little, as she did when lost in thought.

  “Did she close the store early?”

  “No, I just—I don’t think she wanted me there.” Her gaze danced around the room, taking in everything but me.