In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “What is it?” I put down the knife. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Ah, it’s nothing.” The girl seemed sullen. Her hair bun had come a little undone, and strands of blond hair danced around her face. “Is Nora still at school?”

  “No, she is playing with the neighbor’s girls—now tell me what is wrong.”

  “It is—” She paused to chew her lip a little more. “I just promised Aunt Bella not to tell.”

  “Really?” My heart instantly set up the pace. “Then I certainly think that you should.” Though I was not entirely sure if I wanted to know what had left my daughter in such a state.

  “Perhaps it is nothing,” she said without conviction. “Perhaps I am making it out to be more than it is.”

  “I think you should tell me and let me be the judge of that.” I had given up on the potatoes and wiped my hands on the apron in my lap.

  “There is a man there sometimes.” She chewed her lip again. “I don’t think he is very kind.”

  “How so?” My heart was still racing.

  “Oh, it’s just the way he looks at you.” She shrugged.

  “What is he doing there? Is he buying candy?”

  “No! He is visiting Aunt Bella. She seems to know him well, though she has never properly introduced him to me. She sends me out in the back when he’s there, tells me to look after the children . . . I don’t like it, the way she acts around him, whispering over the counter, and how she wants me not to tell . . .” My daughter looked utterly miserable, sitting there before me with her hands in her lap; her fingers were restless, rubbing against one another.

  I put my hand on hers to stop their nervous movements. “Was he there today?”

  “He was, and when I came out from the back to ask for more milk for the bottle, they were standing with their faces so very close. Oh, I wish you could have seen him, Mama; he is all dapper and fine-looking with fur on his coat, but he does not seem like an honest man to me. If he were, Aunt Bella would not send me out and ask me not to tell you about him.”

  “You are a clever girl.” I squeezed her hand. “You did right in telling me. When does this man come about? Is there any special day?”

  “No, but he is never there before noon.”

  “I will look in on the store more often,” I promised. “Perhaps I’ll catch a glimpse of him. What did your aunt say when she asked you not to tell?”

  “That you would only worry, and it was better that you didn’t know.”

  “That I didn’t know what?”

  She shrugged again. “That she did not say—but surely it must be wrong, her seeing him like that, with Uncle Mads being so ill and all.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” I gave her hands a squeeze. “Don’t mention to your aunt that you told me.”

  * * *

  —

  It took a few tries before I came upon a stranger in Bella’s store, and when I finally did, it was not who I expected.

  In the weeks that had passed since Olga confided in me, I had had time to spin the most wondrous stories in my head, even thinking that Bella’s barrenness perhaps had been Mads’s fault, and that she had found herself another man to perform that particular service. What other reason would she have to nurture an illicit—perhaps even dangerous—relationship? If word got out, wagging tongues would rip her to shreds, and she knew that.

  The man I found in the confectionery store, however, did not look like the one Olga had described, though he certainly looked comfortable, sitting behind the counter, eating sugared nuts from a tray. Strong fumes rose from the glass in his hand, and from the matching one held by my sister. The latter had taken great care with her appearance: she wore a frilly blue dress underneath the apron and had put up her hair with tortoiseshell combs. I could see Olga through the open door to the back, where she sat with Caroline in her lap. She sent me a worried glance through the gap.

  “Nellie.” Bella beamed as I came in, seemingly very much at ease with the situation, which puzzled me some. “How fortunate that you came in just now. This is Mr. Gunness.” She motioned to the blond man at her side. “He will be lodging with us for a while, in Dr. Miller’s old room.”

  “Is that so.” I heard my own voice sounding brittle and unsure. The man rose to his feet, and I could tell that he was unusually tall.

  “Mr. Gunness works at the stockyards,” Bella prattled on. “He is a butcher by trade.”

  I remembered it all then, what Clara had told me about their meeting in the beer garden. “This is my sister,” Bella said. “Olga’s mother, of course.”

  “Of course.” The man seemed polite enough and his beard was neatly trimmed. Now that I looked closer, I could see some silver among the blond strands. “Happy to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  “Likewise.” I felt faint. “But what with—isn’t Mads terribly ill?” This was hardly the time to bring a stranger into the house.

  “Oh, but Mr. Gunness and I have known each other for a long time, and he knows all about Mads’s condition. It’s such a comfort to me to have another man in the house now that my husband is bedridden.” She smiled sweetly but not to me.

  “How long will you stay for, Mr. Gunness?” I made no secret of my distaste.

  “Oh, another four weeks at least. Then I will go home. I have a sick wife and a young daughter.” He said it as if to appease me. It was hard not to believe in his good intentions as he had such an honest look upon his face. His eyes were very bright and very blue.

  “A butcher, huh?” I could not help but send my sister a look—even if the man was honest, it did not mean that she was.

  “It’s such an admirable trade, don’t you think?” She did not even bat an eye. “We’re having such lovely evenings together, playing cards in the parlor. Mads too,” she added quickly, “when he is up to it.”

  “Mrs. Sorensen is a wonderful cook.” He deftly returned the praise and sank back on the wooden chair. “I must have gained several pounds since I moved in.”

  “Oh, but you have not tried my waffles yet.” Bella continued the shameless banter.

  Through the gap in the door I saw Olga shake her head, though I did not at once grasp why that was. “I only came in to see Olga,” I told the merry couple behind the counter.

  “Go ahead.” Bella motioned to the back. “Take some sweets home for Nora,” she offered. “She is barely even here anymore.”

  When I had entered the back, Olga bent over the feeding infant and whispered into my ear, “That’s not him. Mr. Gunness is just a lodger. You have to try again.”

  And so I did.

  * * *

  —

  It took me a while longer than intended, as my back took a bad turn and I could not walk about as much as I liked. It helped that Olga reported that her aunt had started sending her and the girls out with the pram to walk a bit in the park, most commonly on Fridays. Olga no longer saw the man so often in the store, and deduced from this that Bella must have noticed her reluctance toward him and started to plan ahead so that both her niece and her daughters would be out of her hair whenever the strange man appeared.

  This made it easier to know when to go, which was a blessing, as my back did not much like those long trips on the streetcar.

  Over the weeks, I had started thinking that there perhaps was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his presence there. Maybe he was a wholesaler or suchlike. That did not explain the secrecy, of course, but Olga might have gotten that part wrong.

  When I arrived at the store, I was surprised to find that the door was locked. At first, I thought it was I who had not been firm enough when trying the handle, but no matter how many times I tried, the door remained firmly shut.

  When I took a step back to assess the storefront, I could tell that the sign in the window read Closed.

  This wa
s both irregular and disturbing. There was no good reason why Bella would close the store on a busy afternoon. I stepped up to the door and looked inside at the familiar interior, the counter and the glass jars. I did not see my sister, though, but figured she might be in the back, so I lifted my hand and rapped on the glass.

  At first, nothing stirred in there, and I lifted my hand and rapped once more. I called for her too. “Bella, are you in there?”

  The store remained dark and quiet.

  I was about to turn and go to the park in the hopes of finding Olga and the girls. Maybe my daughter would know if her aunt had stepped out, if something was amiss with Mads perhaps. Just then, something moved in the dimly lit store, and I moved a little closer to the glass to get a better view.

  It was the door to the small storage room, usually locked, which slowly slid open in there, revealing my sister’s ample figure. Without thinking, I lifted my hand, curled into a fist now, and hammered on the glass once more. The residue of fear and the lightness of relief dueled inside me as she moved toward the door. When she came closer, I could see that she was adjusting her clothes: straightening the lace collar of the shirtwaist and checking all the buttons, dusting off the gray skirt with her hand.

  I felt cold and barely wanted to enter when she finally turned the key in the lock.

  “Olga is not here,” she said by way of greeting. Her face was flustered, but from embarrassment or anger, it was hard to tell. “I sent her to the park with the girls.”

  “Why was the door locked?” I knew she wanted me gone, but instead I took a few steps inside. If she wanted me to leave, there was obviously something to see.

  “I just needed a moment’s silence,” she said as she retreated behind the counter. “I have such a terrible headache—”

  “Oh, come.” What sort of a fool did she think I was? “Why would you be in the storage room all by yourself? That never cured any headache.” There was nothing but shelves in there; not even a chair to sit on.

  “What do you mean?” She did not smile, but her eyes had lit up with mirth.

  “Well, you were hardly alone in there, were you?”

  “I have no idea what you mean, but I do think you should go. This headache—”

  I moved as fast as I could with my poor back and ripped open the door to the storage room. There, with only a kerosene lamp as company, a man stood casually leaning against the candy shelf. He was dressed as Olga had described, in a long coat with fur trimmings; his mustache was thick yet neatly combed, and his slanted eyes glittered merrily in the warm light from the flame. He cocked his head when he saw me, and his full lips split in a smile. “I am merely inspecting the shelves,” he said, and rapped his knuckles against one.

  I stepped away at once—aghast at the sight and unsure what to say. The man followed me out of the cramped little room.

  “Oh, come, we are all adults.” He threw out an arm, as if to say it was all such a little thing, of no particular consequence.

  To my astonishment, I could tell that Bella was smiling behind the counter. “Nellie, this is Mr. Lee,” she said, with amusement written all over her features. “Mr. Lee, this is my sister, Mrs. Larson.”

  “A pleasure.” He made a deep bow, in mockery no doubt.

  “Mr. Lee was just leaving.” She sent him a poignant look.

  “Oh, I was,” he replied at once; that mocking smile never once left his lips. “Have a wonderful day, Mrs. Larson.” He hurried toward the door. Once there, he turned with his hand on the knob. “I will see you soon, Mrs. Sorensen.” He tipped his hat, and then he was gone. The bell above the door jingled in his wake.

  “Bella, what is this?” I hissed at my sister and moved up to the counter, standing opposite her, with only a few jars of striped candy between us. My heart was beating very fast—I had not liked the look of that man, his glib mockery and too-easy smile.

  “It’s nothing—I just . . .” She did not complete the sentence but started fussing with the brown paper bags stacked near the thread weight. She did not look at me but still had that half smile lingering on her lips.

  “You cannot be doing this—not now, with Mads so ill, and your little girl—”

  “Well, that is just it!” Her eyes flashed when she finally looked at me. “Mads is ill and I have my needs, which he is certainly not in any condition to—”

  “Bella!” I slammed my hand down the countertop, “People will talk, don’t you see? There is no such thing as a secret, and especially not when you meet him so publicly.”

  “It is my store,” she said, looking for a moment like the girl I left behind, petulant and angry, and not the matronly woman she had become.

  “And your marriage too—you make a mockery of your husband, who’s lying there so very ill. Who even is he?” I slammed my hand down on the countertop again.

  “Oh, just a friend.” She shook her head as if it meant nothing.

  “A friend, huh? That I have never seen before?” I rolled my eyes and made no secret of it.

  “You don’t know everything about me,” she hissed, ripping the paper bag between her fingers.

  “Clearly I do not!”

  “What will you do then, Nellie? Will you tell Mads that I have a visitor at the store? That will not improve his condition.” She lifted her chin at me. Her eyes were very cold.

  My anger subsided some and turned into a tired sense of hopelessness. She was right to ask; whatever would I do? More than anything else, I wanted to cry. Why was there never any peace around her? “This is utterly irresponsible,” I muttered. “What about Caroline?” I asked. “Is she even Mads’s child?”

  She looked at me for a moment, still with her chin raised high. “No—and he knows it.”

  My chest filled up with ache for him; the tears were closer than ever. “Is it his child then? Mr. Lee’s?”

  She shrugged. “I do not believe that she is.”

  “Mr. Gunness?” I could not think of any other.

  She shook her head but did not reply. Whenever I tried to catch her eyes, her gaze just slid away.

  “Whose is she, then?” I gave a deep sigh, feeling faint with exhaustion.

  “She is mine,” Bella said with triumph in her voice. “That girl is only mine.” And that was the last she would say on the subject no matter how much I prodded and begged.

  I found I had utterly failed in my mission: there was nothing I learned in the store that day that I could use to put Olga at ease. It cost me many sleepless nights, tossing and turning on the pillows. What was I to make of this? What was I to do? If word got out, Bella would be the harlot and poor Mads would be the fool. Yet when had she ever listened to me? She never took advice, thinking her own counsel always the best. What could I do but hope that it would pass? Telling Mads was not an option, not while he was so ill. It pained me to think that he knew he was not Caroline’s father, and I wondered if he had chosen to go along with it for the sake of a child, and if it caused him misery. Still, just the thought of asking him made me blush, and I knew that I would never do such a thing. I could of course ask my sister how her husband felt—but sometimes she lied, so there was no use.

  What bothered me the most, though, was the careless way in which Bella had spoken of her affair—as if she felt no remorse at all, as if she did not even care that it was wrong.

  It made me trust her less, and I could not help but wonder what other secrets my sister kept.

  What she did when no one saw.

  22.

  Bella

  Six months in and my wondrous store was not a wonder anymore. The competition was too steep. Mads was not the only man to think the road to a better future was paved with hard candy; Chicago was booming with confectionery stores. The coins in the secondhand cash register were fewer than I would have liked, and the store was not paying the expenses for its upkeep. The customers we
re not clamoring at our door, and the little bell above it was slowly gathering a sheen of dust.

  I found that I had much preferred opening the store to running it. The days behind the counter felt long and useless. I kept skimming the glass jars, stuffing myself with butterscotch candy. Jennie, too, grew soft around the edges, puffed up like a cloud from all the treats. I had to keep a bottle of brandy in the back to help me get through the days. Having Mads around became so exhausting that I sent him back to bed, suffering from another bout of vomiting. He only came out to go to kiss little Caroline or eat his meager meals. Since we started taking in lodgers, it had been harder to see James at night, and I had thought that the store would be a perfect place for us to meet, but my sister and niece made it hard. Their disapproval wafted like sour smoke around me, and I soon regretted offering Olga that position, even if she helped me with the children.

  The only true respite I had was those weeks when Peter Gunness stayed with us. I relished having that man at my table, with his fine looks and strong hands. What he lacked in conversation skills he certainly made up for with practical help. My house almost felt as new when he left, with no creaking doors, jammed windows, or smoking ovens—he had taken care of all that. It took weeks before the filth came creeping back again.

  I thought that I could care for a man like him.

  He never behaved indecently toward me, though, which certainly was a disappointment. I had figured myself so clever, sending Mads to bed just when Peter arrived home, but it turned out that it made no difference. Mr. Gunness was determined to stay faithful to his wife, no matter how well we got along. He even took pity on Mads and brought him newspapers and good cigars. It was aggravating, the decency in that man—and certainly not what I had planned for.

  I had wanted to keep the confectionery store going for a year, to last until the expenses were all paid, but I soon realized that it cost too much. The store bled money in a steady stream, adding to our debts every day. I ought to wait, though; to avoid suspicion, I ought to make it thrive before I set it ablaze. No one would suspect arson if the store did well and the finances were in order. Before the store opened, while I constructed my plan, it had not even occurred to me that sales would be a problem.