In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “How do you think he got that hurt on his head?” Bowell leaned forth in his chair, fixing his gaze on me.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Doctor. I had washed the meat grinder, wiped it off, and put it on the shelf above the range to dry. I found it on the floor after he was hit by the brine, and I think it must have tumbled down on him. That’s what I think, but I didn’t see it happen.”

  “Did he say anything about it?”

  “He didn’t say anything about it. I asked him what had happened, but he didn’t tell me exactly.”

  “Was the door to the yard locked?”

  “I don’t know. Peter always locked the doors.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that someone could have come inside without you hearing?”

  “No. If anyone came in, I would have heard them.”

  “Had your husband ever had a quarrel with anybody around here?”

  “I don’t think he ever had a quarrel with anybody. He seemed to get along nicely with everyone.”

  “Have you ever suspected or been afraid that somebody might come inside and kill your husband? Hit him with that sausage grinder?”

  “No, I have never been afraid of that.”

  “Did he tell you how the brine came to tip all over him?”

  “He said he didn’t know how when I asked him.”

  “Did he seem to talk out of his head after he got hurt?”

  “Well, not at first, but after I went up and came down again, he seemed to be a little out of it. He asked me two or three times if I had sent for the doctor. I said I had sent Jennie to Nicholson’s because it was too far to get to town. He was asking over and over again, so I suppose he was getting a little mixed up. He didn’t say very much else but that his head was hurting.”

  “How did he break his nose?” There was that dratted nose again. I fastened my gaze on the chandelier above me, watched as a spider slowly crossed its net.

  “I really can’t say. I didn’t know about the nose before you told me.”

  “When you were sitting on the floor after he got scalded, you would see it, wouldn’t you, if his nose was cut?”

  “I guess I could have seen it, but I didn’t.”

  “Well.” Bowell tapped his pipe on the table. “I guess that’s all for today, Mrs. Gunness.” He and Oberreich exchanged glances. I did not like it at all. The latter smoothed a piece of paper on the table.

  “If you could be as good as to sign here . . .” I took the pen and scribbled my name, rushing to get them out of the house.

  * * *

  —

  I was livid when they had left, so angry that my hands shook when I was peeling potatoes for dinner. Had they no regard for a grieving widow at all? Accidents happened all the time; just think of that girl with the brine. Kitchens are dangerous places.

  He should not have hit me, though. Should not have tried, not with the cleaver so near at hand. He should not have blamed me for his wretched daughter’s death.

  “I’m glad to have Swanhild safely away.” He swayed on his feet from the whiskey, and even spilled some on the kitchen floor. “I’m glad she is somewhere you cannot touch her. You are no mother, Bella . . . The only thing that comes from you is death.”

  Any woman would be angry then. “How can you even say that to me, who cooks your meals and mends your shirts? Me, who have let you into my house on my land, to let you raise pigs in my barn!”

  He shook his head and took another swig. “The price for my greed was too steep.”

  “Was it?” I was so mad that my teeth gnashed in my mouth, and my jaw felt like it was on fire. “I rather thought that ugly little child a bargain! She wasn’t worth anything at all.” I did not think of the child then; I was only thinking of him, of cutting deep where it hurt the most.

  He lifted his hand then and lunged at me. I barely avoided the strike. Then I was there, back at the lake, with fists pummeling my face and feet kicking in my gut. The cleaver was clean on the table, ready for another day of chopping for the grinder. I took it and I struck him, and he did not see it coming. His nose exploded with blood as it cracked and he fell to the floor. I gave him another heavy whack then, buried the cleaver in the back of his head. That was the price for his insolence, I thought, as I sank back on the chair, breathing.

  Suddenly it was upon me: waves upon waves of that delicious feeling I had so yearned for after Mads died. I was back in my bed behind the kitchen in Selbu, with Gurine resting beside me, sucking the sweet victory like a creamy caramel. I had bested him, that man on my floor. He had come at me but I whacked him down, and now he was nothing but so much meat, his blood seeping down between the floorboards, dripping into the bones of my house. My jaw throbbed with a dull ache, but it did nothing to calm the wild triumph that coursed through me. I was breathless with the excitement, and wished for him to come back to life so I could do the same thing all over again: hear the sound when his nose crushed, feel when the cleaver split his skull apart. Best him, once again.

  That was what he got for coming at me with his fist raised. That was what he got for accusing me of his daughter’s death.

  He should not have done that.

  When I regained my senses, I realized my mistake. I knelt down beside him feeling for a pulse, although I was sure he was gone. I had been careless—stupid even. How could I explain such a bloody death? I looked around me in the kitchen and tried to think of an explanation.

  No sickness of the heart had ever looked like this.

  I thought to blame an intruder at first but dismissed the idea at once. Peter was a strong man; no thief would be foolish enough to try him on. No one but me knew how weak the whiskey made him, how he would stagger and lose his balance, sway on his feet like a newborn foal.

  I saw the brine on the range then, and the grinder on the shelf, took the scalding-hot brine and poured it on his head and shoulders. I took down the grinder next and put it on the floor.

  It had just been an accident, all of it.

  After I had taken a few drinks and thought out what to say, I woke Jennie up and sent her to Nicholson. Perhaps I should not have done that. It would have been better if I said he had left me. I had so much land now where one could hide a lump of flesh, even one as big as Peter Gunness.

  Instead, I blamed it on the meat grinder.

  31.

  Nellie

  John, the children, and I arrived at Brookside Farm shortly before the funeral service. We barely made it there at all, as it had all happened so fast. The message from Bella had been short and curt, and I could not help but think she wished we would rather stay at home.

  Of course, we could not. Peter had been family, too, even if we hardly knew him.

  I had been to the farm only once since they moved there; John had not been there at all. Bella had invited me back many times, but I always opted not to go.

  I blamed my bad back or blamed the horrid weather. The long train ride or a lack of an escort. My English was not so good that I dared venture such a long trip on my own.

  In truth, life had been good for me since Bella moved to La Porte. I no longer suffered from stomach pains and poor sleep. I no longer spent hours wondering and fretting, worrying about the state of my sister. I thought of my own children more often than I thought of hers, and the image of Mads had become but a specter in my mind, a memory softened by time. I no longer felt anxious when I thought of his death; the doubt could not unsettle me as it had before.

  I had let it go.

  This new death had brought it all back, of course, though I still felt composed as we sat on the train, heading for Indiana. I told myself that it was different this time. Peter had died from an accident, that was all—it happened often on farms—but before that, they had been happy together as far as I knew. It was unfortunate that it had ended so abruptly, though, and I thought that Bel
la had to be devastated—but then I recalled her eager baking after Mads’s sudden demise, and figured that she might be all right.

  Olga did not share my composure but wept silently into her handkerchief as the train rushed toward our destination. She was a grown woman now; her hair had darkened to golden wheat and she was almost as tall as her aunt was. She had begged a day off from the hosiery store to join us on this trip.

  “Why are you crying?” Nora said beside her. “You did not even know him.” At fifteen, she had yet to grasp the importance of decorum. She had put on her dark dress for mourning, but it did nothing to diminish her spirit. She was supposed to read a book on the journey, but instead she moved restlessly on the seat and watched the other passengers without any trace of shame. It made me sigh just to look at her, but I knew it would do no good to correct her. My youngest daughter had a strong will.

  “I cry for Aunt Bella.” Olga looked up from the handkerchief to lecture her sister. “Can you even imagine what it must be like to be widowed again so soon?”

  “Husbands die all the time, Aunt Bella said that to me herself.” Nora remained unconcerned and fished an apple out the paper bag propped up between them. It was wrinkled and old but sweeter for it.

  “That was an incredibly foolish thing for her to say,” I remarked, annoyed with my sister and daughter both. “When did she say that to you?”

  “After Uncle Mads died.” Nora bit into the apple and closed her eyes; when she was quite done chewing, she spoke again. “She said it when we went to the graveyard with flowers. Then she gave me a piece of candy to make me stop crying.”

  “She only said that so you would not feel so bad.” Olga’s nose was red from crying.

  “She seemed to mean it.” Nora shrugged.

  Olga’s tears had made my own heart catch up with me. “Those poor children,” I lamented. “To lose another father so soon . . .” Now that we were on our way, I just could not wait to see them. I had brought some sweets from Chicago as a treat, though I doubted any sugar could make these days better. “So close to Christmas too,” I mused. “It will be a sad celebration for them this year.”

  John had been very quiet ever since we got the note. He sat beside me, pale and stone faced, and barely said a word until Nora turned to him: “Maybe we should invite all them to Chicago, Papa?” she asked. “Maybe it would be good for them to get away from the farm.”

  In my stomach, the familiar churning came back, grinding acid and emitting pain.

  “Let us see them first.” John’s voice was a little hoarse; his jaws were set in a grim expression. “We do not really know what happened yet.” I could tell then that he was frightened. He worried about what we would find on Bella’s farm in La Porte.

  His worry made me worry too.

  “She did not mention how the accident happened?” Rudolph put down the newspaper he was reading. He was sitting on Olga’s other side, directly in front of me.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Only that it had been terrible.”

  “Most accidents are.” He softened the words with a gentle smile under his brown mustache. He was engaged to be married, which baffled me some. To me, he would always be that sweet little boy who clung to my skirts. Now he was hoping for children of his own.

  “Is your back all right, Mama?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Of course. It’s as good as it will ever be.”

  “This weather won’t help.” John looked out the window. The landscape was frosty, but there was no snow. Only a bone-deep cold.

  “Do you think Aunt Bella will have room for us all?” Olga looked over to me; tears still glistened in her eyelashes. We had been planning to stay the night, thinking that Bella might appreciate some help on the day her second husband went into the ground.

  “Oh yes,” I murmured. “She has room for even more. There’s twelve rooms in all.”

  “It used to be a house of ill repute.” Rudolph’s smile was happy and bright.

  “Hush.” I slapped his knee and furrowed my brow, but his sisters were giggling with delight, all tears seemingly forgotten.

  “Is it true, Mama?” Nora wanted to know. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” I admitted at last, and could not help but smile a little too. Even John, in his morose state, curved his lips a smidge.

  * * *

  —

  When I had last visited the farm, it had been a beautiful day in spring. Everything had been green and the light crystalline. This time, when we arrived, the sky was bleak, and the fields around the houses black and hard with frost. The farmyard was littered with puddles of water covered in thin crusts of ice that broke to shards under our heels. The air was cold and damp as we scampered up the stairs and entered the farmhouse.

  This time, the devastation was apparent in the household. The mirror that hung in the parlor was covered up, and candles burned on every surface; the candlesticks were adorned with black paper bows. The air was scented with woodsmoke, wax, and lemon from scrubbing.

  Bella greeted us in a dress made from black silk, the double wedding band her only jewelry. Her hair was piled high up on her head, brown and silver in equal measure. Her face looked gaunt and her eyes troubled. I took her in my arms.

  “Oh Bella,” I murmured into her shoulder, taken aback by the tenderness that suddenly bloomed so fiercely in me. “That you should have to experience such misfortune . . . I am so very sorry for you.”

  “It was such a shock.” She sniffled and embraced me back. “Such a terrible loss for all of us.”

  Jennie and Myrtle had followed in her trail like black little goslings; their stiff skirts rustled and the air was scented with hair oil from their glossy braids. Olga was with them at once, looping one arm around each girl and pulling them close to her body.

  “Oh, you poor dears.” She was sniffling again. “Oh, you poor, poor dears!”

  Nora stood back, looking as if she wanted to be somewhere else. She lifted a foot to scratch her heel against her calf and looked around at the landscape paintings that hung on the papered walls. John and Rudolph had better manners and came toward Bella with their hands outstretched, about to offer their condolences.

  “It’s such a terrible tragedy,” she muttered as she shook their hands. “He was such a wonderful husband, and so good to the girls!”

  “Where is Swanhild?” I asked, looking around.

  “Oh.” Bella shook her head. “She was away when it happened, visiting Peter’s uncles in Janesville. She won’t make it back in time for the service.”

  “That’s awful.” Olga’s eyes widened. “It must be such a shock for her as well, losing both of her parents in such a short time.”

  “Of course it is.” Bella nodded with a grave expression. “But at least she didn’t have to be here when it happened like the rest of us.”

  “What happened, exactly, Aunt Bella?” Rudolph asked. “If you do not mind me asking?”

  Bella glanced at the girls before she answered in a quiet voice, “It was all so stupid—he was going for his shoes and then the meat grinder fell down and crushed his head.”

  I balked at the description; it sounded so very coarse.

  “A meat grinder?” John sounded about as surprised as I felt.

  “I know.” Bella rolled her eyes. “One wouldn’t think such a small thing could do such damage, but . . . that’s what happened.” She started walking, guiding us farther into her house of death. “I tried to clean him up, but water can only do so much. We had to close the casket. It was awful.” At this she lifted a black handkerchief to her eyes and staggered a little so she had to use her free hand to steady herself against the wall.

  Rudolph came to her aid.

  “Here, Aunt Bella, you can lean on me.” He offered her his arm, and she clung to it as we entered the dining room, where the pine casket rested on top of the t
able, surrounded by a few more candles.

  “We will have to bring in more chairs, of course,” Bella said as we passed by. “Every chair in this house, I reckon. I expect people to come from all over the place.”

  “No wonder,” John murmured to me as we moved toward the kitchen. “It’s not every day a man dies from a meat grinder.”

  My stomach began to hurt again.

  * * *

  —

  During the service, I sat with Bella and her children in the front row of the ramshackle collection of chairs brought into the parlor. I was charged with keeping an eye on Lucy, who, at only two, found it hard to sit still on the chair. She kept looking back at the crowded room, wondering, perhaps, what all those people were doing in her home. I was happy for the arrangement, being so averse to crowds. Every seat in the room was filled, and there was even a gathering in the back of local farmers in their Sunday best. Peter Gunness had apparently made a good impression on his new neighbors in La Porte.

  Jennie and Myrtle sat in their shiny black dresses, ramrod straight on each side of their mama. Jennie’s braid was finished off with a black velvet bow, while Myrtle’s dark hair sported a white one. Little Lucy beside me—and sometimes in my lap—wore a white cotton dress with a cascade of ruffles. Jennie was clutching a Bible in her slender hands. Myrtle held a rose of wax. She was anxiously looking up at the casket, while her front teeth gnawed at her plump lower lip. I wondered if the closeness to the dead scared the five-year-old, or if she remembered Mads’s death two years before, or more recently the death of Baby Jennie.

  Bella hid her face in her hands throughout the service and did not once look up. While the gray-bearded reverend spoke, her shoulders shook as in crying, and low moans and whimpers erupted from time to time. Olga leaned in from the row behind us, where she sat next to Peter Gunness’s brother, to pat her aunt’s shoulder and whisper words of encouragement. I was very proud of her then.