In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “You could have waited for me.” I scolded her lightly and went to kiss the girls. “Is Lucy asleep?” I glanced in the direction of the parlor, where the cradle mostly stood these days.

  Bella nodded, suddenly solemn, as if she had just remembered how to grieve. “She is blessed, that child, to not know what has happened in this house. She does not have to endure grief as we do.” She lifted a hand to her eyes, as if hiding a tear.

  “Where is he? In his bed?”

  “No, he is upon the dining room table. I had a casket brought in.” Her lips quivered a little.

  “I better go and see him then, before the neighbors descend.”

  “Suit yourself.” She nodded in the direction of the door. “I won’t look at him again until I have to. It’s too hard for me.” She looked down at the half-filled baking tray before her, bottom lip still quivering.

  “You washed him, though?”

  “Nothing but my duty. Just as it’s my duty to write those cards that have to be sent.” She shook her head so the loose tendrils of hair lifted. “As if correspondence is what I want to spend my time on just now.” Her face twisted up with distaste.

  “As you say, it’s your duty. His family needs to be told.”

  “Well, they won’t make it here before he’s in the ground.” She lifted her chin a little.

  “So be it—they still have to know. Cora said she would stop by with the mourning paper as soon as she got back.”

  I stepped out of the sweltering kitchen and entered the dining room. I did not fear death—I had seen it many times before. I had washed my own children, and siblings too, but it still came as a surprise to see a body thus, so pale and smooth. Void of life.

  Mads was almost unrecognizable in death. His brow was smoother than it had been for many years; all signs of strife and toil had left him. He lay there in his best suit, and a candle burned in the windowsill. She had combed his mustache, I noticed, taken better care of him in death, perhaps, than she had in the last few years of his life.

  I put my fingers on the waxen hands folded on his chest. I wanted to think that his soul was at rest, wherever it was. It pained me to think of how he had struggled to maintain some sort of peace in his house while alive—that his time on earth had held so little happiness.

  “Farewell,” I whispered to his still face, the mask of him, cast in death. “I am sorry,” I added. Something like guilt moved in me, twisted in my chest. I hope it was not her fault, I added, but silently, inside. Then my cheeks reddened with shame from even thinking such a thing.

  The candle flickered when I opened the door and left, emitting a scent of hot wax and smoke.

  Back in the kitchen, it seemed even stranger than before, how they were all at it with the sugar and the flour, with the dead man so close. Jennie’s brow was creased with concentration as she pressed the cookie cutter down in the sheet of dough, pausing from time to time to keep Myrtle from eating the almonds by pushing her little hands away from the blue enamel bowl.

  “It’s all right,” Bella said across the table. “She can have one, and you too.” She was rolling out another batch of dough. They were baking for a whole army, it seemed. The grief from before was wiped from Bella’s face; it looked like any other day. “Oh,” she said when she noticed me. “Did you get a good look at him? I groomed him well, I think.”

  “Oh yes, he looked very fine.” I felt faint again. The scent of melted wax lingered in my nostrils.

  “It is a tragedy, of course.” Her face rearranged again, displaying grief once more.

  “Well, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.” I found a spare apron behind the door and set to tie it on. “Jennie will help me with the flowers later, won’t you, Jennie?” I smiled at the girl.

  “Sure, Aunt Nellie.” She gave me a quick smile in return.

  “It was sad about your father,” I said, while setting to make more dough in the ceramic bowl.

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded, but I could not help but note the way her gaze went to Bella for approval, as if she was uncertain if this was the right way to respond.

  “We are all crushed, of course,” Bella said, and sat down on a chair, happy to leave the baking to me. “He seemed better too. He was going to work as normal.”

  “Sometimes it’s sudden,” I said, not to comfort but because it was the truth. “Did he have any savings? Anything to help you get by?”

  “No”—Bella’s lips tightened—“but he was insured, thank God, so that was lucky. We won’t starve just yet.”

  “Good,” I said, while whipping the eggs. I could not help but remember Mads’s own words, spoken just after the fire when she had expressed similar sentiments. Such magnificent luck, he had said, in a voice dripping with bitterness.

  I pushed the thought away.

  * * *

  —

  I was there often over the next few weeks, long after Mads had been buried, to help with the girls and be of comfort. Sometimes I brought Olga or Nora, but most often I went by myself. I could not understand my sister—the nature of her grief. It blew as hot and cold as a Norwegian summer; sometimes it was as if nothing was amiss, while at other times she would cry her eyes out to strangers. When we were alone together, she did not want to speak of Mads at all.

  I still came, though, for Jennie’s sake if nothing else. Myrtle was too small to mourn, but it was different for the older girl. I noted that she had grown quieter since her father died. Only when her mother was around did she make an effort to seem lively. She did not shed her tears, even when her lips quivered and her eyes turned moist but made an effort to keep her grief inside herself. Bella thought her brave, but I thought it all very sad, and brought her out in the garden to pick flowers for Mads’s grave. She seemed to enjoy that, to do something nice for him, even if he would never come back.

  Then one day, as I was making a stew in the kitchen, there came a hard rapping on the front door. As I stood there stirring the pot, I could hear Bella rush from the parlor to answer.

  At first, I paid little attention to the murmuring voices by the door. I glanced outside the window, though, to keep an eye on the older girls, who were out on the lawn, and caught sight of a stocky man on the porch. He seemed vaguely familiar. Then, suddenly, the murmur grew into proper words, shouted in an angry voice. I almost dropped the wooden spoon into the stew from the shock.

  “You’re an evil woman, evil!” the man out there cried. “He knew it would come to this! He always knew it would come to this!”

  “You’re grief-stricken.” I heard Bella’s voice, trying to appease the stranger. “Calm yourself, Oscar. We’re all shocked by his sudden death, but he was ill—”

  At this, I lifted the pot onto the cooler side of the stove, took off my apron, and stepped into the hall. I should have recognized him, of course, but I had not seen Mads’s brother since their wedding. I lingered at the back of the hall, biding my time, ready to step closer if Bella needed me.

  “He was not so ill that he couldn’t unburden himself to me first.” Oscar waved a piece of paper in the air, covered in thick scrawls. “I’m not surprised you didn’t write to me at once, and saw fit to bury him before I had a chance to see him.”

  “The days are hot; it couldn’t wait.” She held up her hands as to ward him off.

  “I will tell you this, though.” The man hardly seemed to hear her. “I won’t rest easy before I have proven your guilt. I have arranged to have him dug up.” Oscar’s lips twisted up in triumph, and a chill ran through my body, from my scalp and all the way to my toes.

  “Whatever for?” Bella had placed a hand on the door frame, and I could see how her fingernails clawed at the wood.

  “To look for evidence of foul play!” He pressed his lips tightly together.

  “I would think his widow has a say in what happens to her husband’s remains.” My sister wa
s not lost for words. Though I could not see it, I imagined how her chin had tilted up.

  “I’m a brother and that counts for something,” Oscar Sorensen sneered.

  At that point, my silent watching ended. I could not let this go on. I quickly stepped up to the door. “Please,” I said. “All this shouting! There are children here, and neighbors. Surely whatever is amiss can be discussed in a calm manner.”

  “Oscar thinks I did away with his brother.” Bella’s voice was filled with scorn.

  “Please stay out of this, Mrs. Larson.” Oscar pointed at me with his walking stick.

  “I will not.” I looked him up and down. Who was he to speak to me in such a way? “There has been a death in this house—”

  “Oh, believe me, I am well aware!” He spoke with such anger that spittle flew from his lips and landed on my cheek.

  “Then you should act appropriately!” I was so shocked at that point that my whole body shook when I pushed by him, wanting to reach the children, to get them away from the furious couple.

  “They did an autopsy before he went in the ground,” I heard Bella say behind me as I strode across the lawn. I was marching toward Jennie and Myrtle, who sat there in their mourning clothes, adorning the latter’s new doll with flowers. Their hands had stopped midmotion, though, and their eyes had fastened on the spectacle on the porch.

  “You ought to leave your brother to rest in peace!” Bella told her brother-in-law.

  “Apparently the autopsy wasn’t thorough enough—”

  “His heart was enlarged! You know this!” She did not try to appease him any longer; her voice had colored with anger too.

  “I have spoken to Mr. Jackson at the insurance company and informed him of my plans.” His voice was nothing but triumphant.

  “You’re being a fool, Oscar. Whatever did you do that for?”

  I turned back to see that Bella’s brow had creased. Then I was with the girls and reached out my hands, waiting for them to latch on with their fingers.

  “He said they have found that there was another policy as well, expiring on just that date,” said Oscar—and despite the chaos that reigned in that moment, the words left me feeling cold.

  “I have already spoken to Mr. Jackson—” she said.

  “Fed him your lies for sure!” he cried.

  “Dr. Miller said it was his heart and I have no reason to doubt that!”

  From the open window to the parlor, I heard Lucy wailing in the cradle, wanting a change and some milk. I decided that I did not want to push by the screaming couple again, not with the two girls.

  “Come,” I told my charges. “We will go in through the back and leave your mama to speak to your uncle in peace.”

  “Why is he so mad?” Jennie’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “Oh, he is only upset that his brother is dead.” I tried for a reassuring smile.

  Just then, his dry, rasping laughter sounded from the porch. “You won’t get away with this,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you don’t!”

  I rushed the girls along to the corner of the house, but even as we stepped onto the flagstones that led to the garden in the back, we could still hear their voices.

  “Have you no shame, saying such things in front of his daughters? Attacking a defenseless widow—”

  “Rich widow,” he interrupted.

  “Who is only trying to do what’s best after an awful tragedy.” She would not be silenced so easily. “If I had wanted Mads dead, why would I have waited all these years?”

  “I don’t know the workings of an evil mind—”

  “Don’t even think Mr. Jackson will help you in your folly. You will have to pay for your insanity yourself!” There was real fury in her voice now, and I found I feared for his safety. I silently begged that she would not invite him inside, where she had all sorts of things within reach.

  “Oh, I’ll pay if it comes to that.” His voice was fainter now, as we had arrived on the other side of the building. “I cannot leave my brother to rot without justice!”

  “It’s all in vain, Oscar. The only culprit in his death was his weak heart!”

  “We’ll see about that, Mrs. Sorensen!”

  By the time we reached the kitchen, it was over. Bella came back inside with a red face and foul mood that did not lessen all day.

  I changed Lucy and brought the stew back to a boil. Jennie helped me set the table while Myrtle trailed behind her, wanting to play with her doll again. Bella sat in a chair, looking through the door to the stove, left ajar for the airflow. She watched the crackling flames without a word.

  When Lucy fell asleep again and the other girls went outside to bring in the wash on the line, I could no longer hold my tongue.

  “What was that?” I turned to her with the wooden spoon in my hand.

  She came back to life slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere deep in her mind. Her voice when she spoke was slow and quiet. “Oh, it was just Oscar who—”

  “No! Not that. The insurance policies—he said there were two.”

  “Well, it’s just a silly coincidence.” She did not look at me but at the woven rug on the floor. “It happens that on the day Mads died, our old insurance ended and the new policy began.” She lifted her gaze a little so it lingered on the spoon, which was steadily dripping stew down on the floor. “It turns out that both of them are valid, so I will get paid by both companies.”

  I was so calm in that moment, even if my heart raced. I dropped the spoon back in the stew and sat down on the other side of the table, folding my hands on the tabletop.

  Bella continued to speak. “Now Oscar thinks all sorts of bad things about me—he claims that Mads sent him a letter, but I think he wrote it himself. He says that it’s my fault that he’s dead, that I did away with him on just that day so that I would get double pay.”

  My voice barely carried when I asked, “Did you?”

  “Well, of course not!” She abruptly rose from the chair and started pacing the floor, her hands gesturing wildly in the air. “It just happened to be the right day, that’s all! I did not even know that he had signed the new papers—I never took an interest in such things!”

  “Was it the only day that they overlapped?” My voice was still calm—I was still calm—and I could not quite figure why that was. My heart pounded heavy and fast in my chest.

  “Yes.” Her eyes flashed when she looked at me, as if daring me to believe her. “Perhaps it was God’s will.” She threw out her arms. “Perhaps it was Mads who did it himself to leave us a little extra . . . he was in poor shape, as you know.”

  “But you didn’t do a thing to hasten his departure?” My voice was weak, but still calm. My whole body felt as if taken with fever.

  “No!” Another flash of her eyes. “And now he wants to dig the poor man up! Who treats his brother like that? Who will attack a defenseless widow—?”

  “If you did nothing, you have nothing to fear,” I reminded her.

  “Of course I didn’t”—she all but hissed the words—“but it’s the indignity of it! The suspicion!”

  “Are you getting very much money out of it?” I asked, though I would rather have not. I wanted the conversation to be over more than anything else, and yet I had to ask.

  “Yes.” Her gaze met mine, as briefly as the beat of a butterfly’s wings. “I do get a lot of money.”

  “Then your troubles are far from over.” I added a smile to mask my fear.

  I wanted to believe her. I would believe her.

  What else was there to do but believe?

  She was my flesh and blood, after all.

  25.

  Bella

  Ithought the devil had forsaken me at last.

  In front of me sat Mr. Jackson, the insurance man, with a bushy brown mustache and a silver pen in his hand. To hi
s left sat his clerk, a man half my age. On his right-hand side was the insurance company’s investigator, a thin, tall, sandy-haired man, Mr. Samuels. We were waiting for a representative from our former insurance company, a Mr. Wicker, but he seemed to be running late.

  “What is astonishing to me, Mrs. Sorensen, is that you thought there would be no questions asked after your husband’s death.” Mr. Jackson leaned forth in his chair; his hands slid across the glossy surface of his desk. I myself was seated on a high-backed chair in front of him. The plain wood already grated at my backside.

  “Not so untimely, I think,” I said, clutching at a handkerchief. “My husband had a bad heart for years. It was only a matter of time—”

  “Yet it happened on that one day out of the year that your two insurance policies overlapped . . .”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” I lifted my teary gaze to meet his. “My husband took care of bills and suchlike. I know very little of such things.”

  “Did you even know there was a policy?”

  “Well, we discussed it after our first daughter was born, to secure the children. I believe he made a habit out of it after that, just in case.”

  “Does it not surprise you that he died on that very day?” Mr. Samuels spoke.

  “No—I didn’t know it was a special day before you told me so.”

  “You didn’t know there was an overlap?”

  “No . . . I only learned it when I went through Mads’s papers after he died, and even then I did not quite grasp—”

  “Would you say your husband was depressed?” Mr. Samuels interrupted me. “Would he have any reason to end his life a little sooner than expected? He was sick, after all, and waited to die; perhaps he wanted to give you a boon . . . a little more than you would otherwise have?”

  “Oh”—I shook my head and dabbed at my eyes with the handkerchief—“I really don’t think he would. He was a very religious man, Mr. Samuels. Very concerned with his soul.”

  “Couldn’t it be that he worried about his family, of what would befall you after he was gone?”