In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “Why would they do that?” Her rosebud mouth hung open. She was picking the beans she was set to shell completely apart with her fingernails.

  “To rob you or just be unkind. Some would even beat you and leave you for dead.”

  “Why?”

  “They quite enjoy it. It brings out the juices in them.”

  “Oh.” Her blue gaze dropped to the beans.

  “The safest thing you can do is to fend for yourself. If I were young again, I would study law and become a lawyer. Not all girls have the minds for that, but I believe that you do, Jennie.” I was peeling potatoes while we spoke; spirals of peel fell down on the floor. I looked at her across the table: the first child I properly raised. I knew Peter thought I was hard on her, strict and often angry. Too angry, he said. Too strict. But what did he know about being a young woman? What did he know about being prey? He was the butcher—always the winner. I envied that in him. Envied how he took it for granted.

  Jennie was nothing like that; she was fragile and soft and needed to toughen, else she would perish when she stepped outside my doors.

  “It was sad about the baby.” She picked beans out of the leathery pod.

  “Everything must die, and infants are so fragile. She was always sick.”

  “My sister lost a child, but it wasn’t proper born yet.” She had seen her sister in Chicago just the other month.

  “She’s young,” I murmured. “She’ll have another child.”

  “Why is Papa blaming you for Baby Jennie?”

  I felt cold all over and ashamed too. Jennie heard more than she ought to, understood far more than she should. “He is mad with grief. He will soon come to his senses.”

  “I think it’s a cruel thing. You were always so good to her.”

  “Yes.” I put the knife away. “I treated her like my own, just as I do you. It truly is unfair, but that’s what men do. They always blame and point fingers at others for everything that goes wrong.”

  The girl gave a sweet little sigh. “I hope no one else dies. It’s hard to remember not to laugh, and my black dress is pretty, but it itches.”

  I could not help but smile then; she was still such a child. “I will buy you another black dress, then. One that is soft and doesn’t scratch at all.”

  I often thought of James Lee in those days, and all the things he had warned me about that sadly had come to pass. I missed his easy company, the way he never condemned me, and thought myself quite the fool for choosing wholesomeness over him. Had it not been for my urge to spite, we could have been quite happy, he and I. I had chosen differently, though, and now I was, yet again, burdened with a man who did not live up to my expectations but made my days both miserable and grim.

  What happened the next day did not help one bit.

  * * *

  —

  I was out in the stable drying off the horse. It had been a long day with haggling at the market, but I had returned to the farm with cash instead of vegetables and had a few fine deals in my pocket as well. I did not mind so much, then, that my day ended with horse sweat. Peter came in behind me, wearing just his undershirt, as was his habit. He carried a bottle and took a swig, but there was nothing tempting or lustful about him. He was merely a drunk husband who ought to know better.

  “I see you’ve gotten things done while I was away.” I could not help but being snide.

  I heard the liquor slosh in the bottle as he lifted it to his lips. “I have been thinking, Bella.” His voice was loud and clear enough; he had not been drinking as much as I feared. “We ought to send Swanhild to live with my uncles in Janesville.”

  I looked at him then. “Why have you been thinking that?”

  “The two of you don’t seem to get along very well, and she’s still upset about the death of her mother.”

  It was true that the girl had not warmed to me as much as I would like, but then she had just lost her natural mother and moved to a new place. “How is moving in with strangers going to help?”

  “I think it would easier if she didn’t have to see me with another woman.”

  I pressed my lips tightly together and could feel my nostrils flare. “Haven’t I been a good mother to her, cleaning the muck off her frocks? What kind of mother was your first wife, then? Cake for breakfast every morning? New dresses every month?” I could take much from this man, but he would not question my ability to take care of our little girls.

  “It’s just for the best, Bella. You do have a terrible temper, enough to make any child worry.” The accusation hit me like a bucket of cold water. True, I could be angry; I was often tired from all the work, but my children knew me—they knew it would pass. It was only he who looked at me with worried eyes when a plate or a shoe hit the wall.

  “I think it’s you who worries. The poor girl never said such a thing.”

  He shrugged and drank again. “I cannot help but wonder if my Jennie would still be alive if I had been at home that morning.”

  “What do you mean by that?” My anger snapped like a hungry bird.

  Peter did not answer but turned his back on me. “I’ve already written to my uncles. I’m sure they will take her in. It’s for the best. Better with three than four little girls. It’s easier for you to handle them then, if they’re all yours.”

  With that, he left me alone.

  * * *

  —

  When I was back inside and had eaten some, I made the girls ready for bed. Then I counted the day’s earnings and went in search of my husband. I found him in the barn, drinking and slicing through a rib.

  “I didn’t harm your daughter,” I told his back, “but if I had, you should be glad of it, as the child was a nuisance every day of her life. It was a blessing to us all that she died.” The hurt rose in me like poison, spilled out as anger and spite. My jaw ached and burned.

  “I’m sending Swanhild away no matter what you say. She doesn’t care for you, and you don’t care for her.” He chased the words with a swig of the bottle.

  “Be as that might, she’s your child and it’s your decision. I won’t say anything more against it.” I nodded and placed my hands on my hips, thinking myself very reasonable.

  “You can stop asking me about the life insurance as well. Swanhild is young and healthy and no one should profit from her death should she die.” He looked back at me over his shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot and his brow slick with sweat.

  “It was meant as a kindness. All my children are insured.” I lifted my chin and clenched my jaws.

  “It’s just wrong.” He glanced at me and went for the bottle again; the knife in his hand was filthy with gristle. “Even thinking of a child’s death is asking for it. Writing it down like that is an invitation.” His voice shivered with emotion.

  “I never took you for a superstitious man, Peter Gunness.” My voice was steady and calm.

  “Well, I never took you for a harpy,” he snapped, and looked back. His face had twisted up in an ugly grimace.

  “Is that what I am to you now?” I could not believe what I heard!

  Another glance at me then, before his face smoothed out and he put the bottle down. “What about your child who died? Were you alone with her as well when she passed? A regular angel of death, aren’t you, passing the little ones those drops.”

  “That is one outrageous claim—and a terrible thing to say to a mother!” My voice was not so calm anymore. “All mothers give a few drops to keep the children calm! Your first wife did it too, I’m sure.” I crossed my arms over my chest so he would not see how my hands shivered with fury. All of me felt hard and stiff; my jaw ached, ached and burned.

  “Not as frequent and not so much.” That ugly sneer was back on his face.

  “Yet when her children died you didn’t accuse her!” I heard my own teeth gnash together in my mouth; I had
no control of it. My vision swam with black spots. It took all I had to restrain myself—but I had sworn it would not be as before.

  I had told James that my enterprise was over.

  Peter did not answer, just kept carving the meat.

  “Small children are such fragile things; you never know what will break them.” I forced my voice to be calm and even; it shivered only a little.

  I would let him send Swanhild away, I thought, and when she was out of the house, he would forget all about it, every suspicion and every angry thought. All could be as it used to be before, happy and good between us.

  I should have learned by then that what is broken rarely mends.

  30.

  The coroner, Dr. Bowell, and Mr. Oberreich sat before me in my dining room, with only the polished table between us. Oberreich was the stenographer and sat there with his little machine. Dr. Bowell asked the questions.

  I sat in one of the straight-backed chairs, facing their stern expressions. They meant to have me feel like a child, but I was not new to any of this. I had sat in that same chair in other locations talking to other men like them. After Mads died, of course, and after the Alma Street fire as well. Insurance men and lawyers, coroners and priests—they all set out to make you feel small.

  “What is your name?” Bowell asked.

  “Bella Gunness.” That question was easy. Oberreich’s fingers clicked on the keys.

  “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Gunness?”

  “We moved here in November 1900.”

  “You lived here alone with the children at first, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Peter came to join us at the end of March.”

  “And you married then?” Bowell did not look at me but kept his gaze glued to his notes.

  “I married him on April first. He came down on Saturday night and we were married on Monday.”

  “How long did you know Peter Gunness?”

  “I got to know him in Chicago the year of the world fair, and then later, when I kept a store in Chicago, he came back and stayed for some time. He worked there.”

  “Worked in your store?”

  “No, he worked down at the stockyards.” A sweat broke out on my forehead; my corset was too tight. I kept remembering all of James Lee’s warnings and cursed my own poor temper. Nothing to do for it now, though, but to see the inquiry through. I knew our neighbors on McClung Road had said nothing but good things about me. I was a mother and a recent widow and surely these men would not take this any further.

  “Was he a good man? Did you get along?” Dr. Bowell finally looked at me while he stuffed his pipe and lit a match.

  “He was a very nice man.” My voice mellowed. “I wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t. I didn’t just want a good man for myself but a nice father for my children as well. I never heard him say a wrong word to anyone.”

  “So . . . when did he die?” His eyes were back on the notes.

  “What time in the night, you mean?”

  “Yes, it was a Tuesday morning, wasn’t it? Early in the morning, after midnight?”

  “I can’t tell you the exact time, I think I was too shocked to notice, and we never paid much attention to the time.”

  “All right.” He made a note. “What were you doing Monday afternoon?”

  “I was finishing up some work—”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He was working as well. He went into town to get supplies and when he came back he helped me out.”

  “What did you do on Monday night, then?”

  “After I put the children to bed, Peter ground some meat for me. Then I made sausage while he was in the parlor writing letters. I was in the kitchen at the time. I washed up everything and finished up for the next day, and he was looking at some papers when I joined him. I think it was right after eleven. We were sitting there and I said to him that it probably was time to go to bed. He thought so too, and picked up his pipe and went into the kitchen. He always locked the doors before we went upstairs, and I heard him make some little noise out there. He always put his shoes at the back of the range to warm them, and I guess he must have tried to get hold of a pair, because he had only slippers on his feet. Suddenly, I heard a terrible noise. I dropped the papers and went to look . . .

  “When I came out in the kitchen, he was rising from the floor with both hands pressed to his head, and I noticed there was water on the floorboards . . . I had a big bowl of brine on the back of the range, meant to go on some headcheese. The bowl was full and hot when I left it, and I saw that it had tumbled to the floor.” I could see it all as I went along. See it so clearly in my mind, what just might have happened that night. “‘Oh Bella,’ he said, ‘I burned myself so terribly.’ I was so scared by then, I didn’t know what to do. All his clothes were wet and I told him to take them off . . . I remember he said that his head burned, and I knew that baking soda and water is good for putting on burns, so I set to mix that up. I bathed a towel in it and put it on his neck.”

  “Was all the brine spilled?” Even though I was sniffling in my chair and dabbed at my eyes with my handkerchief, Bowell seemed deeply unmoved by my plight.

  “Yes, I think the bowl was nearly empty. It was a common crockery bowl to put milk in.”

  “Was it boiling-hot?”

  “It had stood for some time, so it wasn’t that hot—but warm enough to burn for sure. I rubbed him with Vaseline and liniment after I had put on the baking soda. I was very distraught. I didn’t know what to do to help him.”

  “When you were rubbing on that Vaseline, did you see the cut in his head?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was it bleeding?”

  “Not very much. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.”

  “Did he have a nosebleed?”

  “No. I didn’t notice anything with the nose; I saw the cut on his head and asked him two or three times what happened.” I could see the doctor’s lips tighten. It was clearly a foolish thing of me to claim not to have seen the nose.

  “What did he do next?”

  “Well, we were just sitting there.” What did Bowell want from me?

  “He sat down, did he?” The doctor made a note while the stenographer clicked.

  “Yes, we sat in the kitchen for a while. I was rubbing the Vaseline on and he said he was afraid he would lose hair because of the burn. I can’t say exactly what time it was, but we sat there for a good, long while. Then he began to feel a little better, and I said I thought he should lie down. When he agreed, I told him he’d better not go upstairs but lie down on the sofa, as it was warmer in the parlor. He thought so too, and I went and fixed the sofa for him and took off his clothes, put on his nightshirt, and then I went to bed.”

  “So he took his shirt off?”

  “No, I don’t think he did.” I quickly corrected myself. “He went to lie on the sofa and I told him to call me if he needed anything, and then I went to lie down with the girls.” I spoke fast to cover up my slip. “I went up to sleep as I was tired. Then, suddenly, I heard him calling ‘Bella’ as loud as he could. The children woke up and were scared and I told them to stay put, and that I would go to Papa. I think I told them that Papa had burned himself. I put on my clothes for it was so cold, and then I went down the stairs and when I came down, Peter was walking around in the kitchen saying, ‘Oh, Bella, my head! I don’t know what’s the matter with my head!’”

  “I went upstairs and got Jennie up, and she went over to our neighbor, Nicholson, as I realized we needed help. When I came down again, I found him on the kitchen floor and he held his head and said, ‘Oh Bella, I think I’m going to die.’ I asked Peter where it hurt so badly, and got some water to clean up the wound, but he said not to touch his head. The next thing I knew, he drifted off and didn’t answer when I spoke to him. When Nicholson finally arrived, he
said that he thought Peter was gone. But I don’t think he was before they came, I think he was only unconscious.”

  “When you first came down he was walking around?”

  “He was walking around in the kitchen.”

  “Was he still doing so when you went upstairs to wake the girl?”

  “Yes.” Had he not been listening at all?

  “How long were you up there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When you came back down, he was lying on the floor?”

  “Yes, on his back, because I tried to turn him over.”

  “When Nicholson came, was he lying with his face on the floor or the back of his head on the floor?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Whyever did it matter? “I remember the last time I tried to give him a drink, he was lying with his face against the floor.”

  “Did you see that his nose was hurt at any time?”

  “I never knew it was hurt before you told me about it.” I never should have said that I had not seen his nose, but it was too late to take that back.

  “About how long do you think it was from when he was hurt until he died?”

  “Well, I guess he was hurt right after eleven, and I don’t know exactly what time he died. Nicholson said he thought he was dead when he arrived, but I don’t think he was gone then . . . I tried to feel for his pulse, but my hands were so cold they had lost all feeling.”

  “He was hurt at eleven o’clock, and Nicholson came about three?”

  “That might be. I can’t tell you the time exactly.” I had already told them that, many times over.

  “But you sat up with him for two hours after he was hurt?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t upstairs for long. I said good night and went upstairs, and was in bed just a short time before he called me down.”

  “But he seemed fine when you went up there, did he?”

  “Well, the pain seemed to ease. He didn’t lie down at first. He sat up or walked around until he went on the sofa. But he complained terribly of the pain in his head, and I thought of the pain that girl must have had, and she didn’t complain as much as he—” I stopped myself. I had just read in the newspaper about a girl who had tipped some boiling brine over herself and barely lived. Her mother had told the journalist about the baking soda and the liniment, and the Vaseline for the blisters.