In the Garden of Spite
Page 28
I felt it keenly during that service how very little I had known my new brother-in-law, and the feeling of guilt was strong and instant. I clutched Lucy tighter to my chest and thought myself heartless for abandoning them so.
I swore not to do it again.
When the service finally ended and the casket was to be borne out to the carriage, I rose with Lucy on my hip. Bella staggered to her feet, guided by my Rudolph’s strong hand. She looked down while she walked, as if too broken to face the hardships ahead; her shoulders were slumped and she asked for her veil.
I knew why that was, though I would rather not have.
I had seen that her eyes were dry.
* * *
—
After, there was coffee, and cakes lathered with whipped cream. Olga and I helped with the serving, while Nora had taken it upon herself to distract poor Jennie from the day’s sad event. I could see them sitting on top of the stairs to the next floor whenever I passed through the dining room, as fast as I could with my bad back so the anxiety would not catch up with me. I let the girls be, as I did not think it any harm to offer my young niece some respite. She had certainly seen enough death in her short life.
I was alone in the kitchen, making more coffee, when Peter’s brother, Gust, came in. The man looked haggard, but that was to be expected. He was tall and lanky like his brother, sporting a mane of graying hair, and a beard that was still fair. Wrinkles crowded his blue eyes, red-rimmed now, from mourning.
“Ah, Mrs. Larson, I just needed a moment’s peace.” He flung himself down in a chair by the table, which was heaped with empty plates and remains of sweet cake. “Is it not strange how we celebrate our dead with lavishness?” He dipped his index finger into the cream on one abandoned piece and licked it off quite shamelessly.
“It’s for comfort, I think”—I kept my voice even—“for those who are left behind.”
“Yes, yes, of course it is. Forgive me. I am not quite myself today.” He had the decency to look a little abashed.
“You are forgiven.” I turned by the stove and gave him a smile. “I suppose I cannot interest you in a treat then, or more coffee?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Just some peace. That is all I ask.”
“I will be quiet then.” I gave another smile and turned back, and for a while, it was just that: quiet.
Then Mr. Gunness spoke again. “Did your sister tell you about the inquest?”
“No.” I glanced at him with the coffee measuring spoon in my hand. “What inquest would that be?”
He laughed a little, but it was not a kind sound. “I thought she might have kept that from you. She had to explain herself in front of the coroner.”
I felt instantly cold; my hand shivered so that the precious coffee drizzled onto the floor. “What for?”
His lips pursed amid the beard. “They thought it all so strange, with the meat grinder falling down like that, on the back of his head, that the front was hurt too. I know it, as I saw him before we put the lid on.” He did not look at me while he spoke.
“What does that have to do with Bella?” I tried to sound calm, but there was a pain in my chest, and it made it hard to breathe.
“They suspected her of foul play, though we are yet to see what comes of it.”
“It’s just some foolishness.” I snorted. “Accidents happen.” Yet the pain would not let go.
“All I know”—he leaned forward on the chair, resting his arms on his knees—“is that Peter sent Swanhild to live with our uncles because she did not get along with his wife.”
“Is that so?” This was not what she had said—but that was maybe not so strange; who would want to admit to such a defeat? “It happens sometimes when a parent remarries. It is not so unusual.”
“No, of course not.” He straightened up again. “She was mightily upset about that inquest, though, mightily upset . . .” His gaze lingered on me a little longer than what was polite. “We know all about her, you know, about what they say in Chicago.” He shifted again. His eyes had gone cold. “Our mother warned him against coming here, and I’m starting to think that she was right. The accident happened right here.” He pointed to the floor in front of my feet. “The grinder fell from there.” He pointed to the shelf above my head. “It’s not so far that it would do much harm, or so I think, anyway.”
The kitchen had suddenly taken on a sinister aura, and my chest hurt so bad that I thought it might implode. “I don’t know anything about that,” I whispered. “My sister is a good, honest woman.”
He laughed again, just as humorless as the first time. “So good and honest that she’s asked me to stay. To help out, she said, but I don’t know—”
“You should not presume.” My voice and hands shook, and a surge of something like anger took hold. “She is your brother’s widow,” I hissed. “Of course she would look to you for help.”
I could not stay in there any longer and promptly abandoned the coffee. I rushed toward the back door as fast as I could, only pausing to fetch Bella’s shawl off the hook behind the wall. Then I slipped outside, into the cold, and hobbled across the frozen ground, drifted among the farm buildings, aimless and upset in the bleak afternoon.
My thoughts were in turmoil, confused by his words—frightened too, from what he had implied. My heart was racing and the pain still lingered, and I wondered if it had burst—but then, I was still walking, so clearly it had not.
What he had said, it could not be—it could not.
This was Bella’s second chance. Surely she could not have been as foolish as to—
No. She would not have done something so vile.
I looked back at the farmhouse, its windows brightly lit from all the candles inside, and I could not help but think of what had happened within its walls: the man bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Then I thought of Mads—and at last, I thought of her, the angry little girl who had clung to me when I carried her down from the riverbank, away from the snarling dog. I feared for her! For what she might have done, but for what it made her, too, if Gust Gunness was right. I thought she was not violent, but then I knew that she was. I thought she could not kill a man, but then I thought she could.
Her temper had always been a dangerous thing: ruthless, vicious, and boundless.
I drifted around on the farm for at least an hour, under black trees free of leaves, flitting between sheds and outhouse, the barn and the windmill, too upset to go inside, though the cold was taking its toll, and all the walking too, for a back that was not hale.
I knew I could not stay out there, but he was inside, Gust Gunness, and so was Bella, the grieving widow, and I did not know what to say to any of them. In truth, it was shameful for a woman past fifty to be so frightened of her own kin that she would rather brave the weather, but there was no honor in any of this. I could see people leave the farmhouse and go to their horses and carriages. Some of them walked along the driveway.
The house was emptying, and soon I would have to go inside. Someone was bound to notice my absence. In an attempt to escape the inevitable for a little while longer, I fled behind the barn, where there was nothing but rubbish heaps and bales of frozen hay, and was surprised to see that someone was already there: a small, black-clad girl sitting on a rock.
“Myrtle!” I hobbled toward her the best that I could on my frozen legs. “What are you doing out here? Where is your coat?”
She did not answer at first but just looked at me with a morose expression.
I sat down beside her on the rock, and she scooted over to give me space. “Does Mama know that you are out here?”
She shook her head and stared at her feet, dressed in leather shoes with straps. “She’s busy inside.”
“Did it get to be a little too much for you in there? Is the noise hurting your head?” I reached out and caressed her dark curls.
“Are you sad about Papa?” I tousled her hair a little.
She shook her head again; her gaze was still glued to the tips of her shoes.
“What is it, then, Myrtle? You know you can tell me. I am your aunt, after all.” I put my arm around her and pulled her close on the rock.
“I saw something.” Myrtle’s large, brown eyes looked up at me.
“What did you see, Myrtle?” I pulled her even closer.
“Something that Mama did, when Papa died—”
“Hush, Myrtle!” I all but shouted. “Do not tell me!” My whole body froze and the chest pain was back. I let her go and abruptly rose to my feet, taking a few steps away from her. The girl was almost in tears, her eyes were big and frightened, and her bottom lip quivered.
“You can never tell a soul what you saw that night.” My voice was shrill with fear, and I could do nothing to prevent it. “Not even your mama, Myrtle.” I clutched at my chest while I spoke, at Bella’s knitted shawl. “No one can know what you saw!”
Myrtle was crying by then, sobbing loudly and rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. My sanity slowly descended, called upon by the child’s distress.
“I am so sorry.” I fell to my knees in front of her, not even thinking that I knelt in my best dress. “I am sorry for shouting.” I took the girl in my arms and sobbed along with her for a while. I let out a breath of relief when her soft arms came to embrace me in turn.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked in her sweet voice.
“No, Myrtle. No! It’s just that we must never tell what we know about Mama.” I spoke into her little ear. “It has to be our secret, do you understand?”
I could feel her nodding against my shoulder, her hot breath on my neck.
“We should go inside.” I gently freed myself. “Not to worry.” I gave her a smile, and her pale face lit up just a little. “As long as we don’t tell, everything will be fine.”
She kept my hand in hers all the way to the house.
* * *
—
Though I had feared to see her, I found that I could be with my sister just fine as long as I did not think of what had transpired. As long as I pretended that all was good and well, I could stand beside her as we cleaned the china and swept the floors together. I could help her dispose of the remains of cake and pour cold coffee out the door. I could dress little Lucy for bed and take the glass of brandy she offered me as a thank-you. I could see the relief on her face when Gust retired to bed without even batting an eye.
I had not thought I could do those things, and felt strangely proud that I did.
Not even once did I think about confronting her about what I had heard. I wanted neither the lies nor the excuses, of which I was sure there were plenty, none of which would help. I no longer trusted her. I had not done so since the death of Mads.
I spent the night in agony. My back hurt, yes, but it was more than that. My soul was hurting, too. I lay on the mattress in Bella’s house, next to John, who was sound asleep, and curled up on the mattress as well as I could, and bit into the pillow so as not to make a sound, and then I breathed out my pain. My tears that night were angry tears, but more than angry, I was frightened. The fear in me was cold and sharp, and made me feel so sick that I thought I might throw up.
Later, when we were back in Chicago, I thought I should not have done what I did that day. I should not have sworn Myrtle to silence but let the girl speak and taken the burden from her narrow shoulders, but I had been a coward. I had not wanted to know what she had seen—had not wanted the weight of that knowledge—and so I asked her to never tell a soul, and condemned myself by doing so.
It was shameful what I did then, refusing her like that.
That one act of cowardice would cost us all dearly.
32.
Belle
La Porte, 1903
Jennie’s sister, Mrs. Oleander, came to visit unannounced, shortly after Christmas. It was not convenient. The house was in quite a disarray. I had not found it in me to clean or even cook after Peter died. I kept worrying about the inquest, if something more would come of it. My heart jumped whenever a stranger entered the yard or if I saw Sheriff Smutzer in town. Though Smutzer was hardly a stellar sheriff but easy to dupe with a motherly smile, I felt frayed and hunted like a rabbit, and I did not like it at all.
I gathered the girls around me in bed at night and pulled the young ones so close I could smell the sweet scent of their skin. In those dark nights, my daughters brought me solace, for how could something truly bad happen to me when I kept these precious angels under my roof? The caress of a cherub’s hand on my cheek or a kiss good night could make my eyes water. I could not truly be so bad when my daughters thought me the world.
“Are you sad, Mama?” Myrtle would ask. Her brown eyes were large with worry.
“A little,” I would tell her. “I am sad that Papa died, but it will pass in time. All things that live must die. There’s just nothing to do for it.”
“We can pick flowers for his grave,” the little angel said to comfort me. It was what we had done back in Chicago when tending Mads’s final resting place. She had been very young then, but maybe she remembered.
“Yes, my dear, we can,” I said, and then I burst out in tears again, not from grief, though, not at all. My tears were from anger and disappointment. I loathed Peter for using me, for being so unfair about the dead child, and for leading me to believe that he could be a good father to my children.
I had had such hopes for my new husband, and now it had come to nothing.
I was in quite a state then when Mrs. Oleander arrived, yet there she was, standing in my parlor, waiting for refreshments, no doubt. Jennie had already come in and spoken politely with her sister. I let the woman sit down and remove her hat. She was young and lovely to look at, though not as lovely as Jennie was. Her clothes were fine but not new. I poured her tea and found some old biscuits.
“This is not a very good time, I’m afraid. We have so much to do with the butchering, I have little time to be indoors and sweep floors.”
“Oh, I just came to see Jennie.” Mrs. Oleander lifted her teacup; her voice was a little high-pitched and she seemed far too happy. “I’m aware that farmers are busy people. This is a very new life for you, Jennie, isn’t it?”
“It is very different from Chicago,” the girl agreed.
“She’s of great help,” I told Mrs. Oleander. “She’s in charge of the goats and the chickens, and goes to school too. She’s very bright.”
“How wonderful.” Mrs. Oleander smiled and showed her teeth; her incisors were stained a pale brown. “What do you like best in school?” she asked Jennie.
“Algebra,” said the girl.
“They are reading scripture too, and we go to church every Sunday. I wish we could be more involved in the good work of the church, but there simply isn’t time. Jennie and I knit socks for the orphans in Chicago, though.”
“I still play,” said Jennie. “I practice the piano every day.”
“You were always such a musical girl. Our mama was too, did you know that? She would be happy to know you are playing so much.” Mrs. Oleander had a strain in her too-happy voice; something was not right.
“Maybe Mama knows that I play.” Jennie slipped a spoonful of sugar into her tea. She always took her tea too sweet, but today I would not scold her. “They say that the angels can see everything we do, and Mama must surely be an angel now.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Oleander was touched; her voice had grown thick. “Mama is listening to your playing every time.”
I could not help then but sigh and nearly rolled my eyes. I ate a biscuit to cover my impatience. “Why don’t you play some now, Jennie?” That way we would not have to talk so much.
“Yes, it is so. Just before Christmas. How did you learn about that?” Jennie had not written her, to my knowledge.
“I read about it in the newspaper, the Chicago Tribune.”
“My, was it in the Chicago papers?” I had certainly not anticipated that. I really should have dug him down, not left him on display in the kitchen.
“It said it was a mysterious death, that a sausage grinder hit him.” Her eyes were twinkling with that well-known light, that particular thrill of dread. People do like to see a spot of blood and have a nice soak in their neighbors’ misery.
“Oh no, there was nothing mysterious about it. He went to La Porte in the morning to purchase a sausage grinder and saw one on the shelf that he wanted. He reached up to get it and it slipped and fell on his head and killed him. They brought him home dead.” I sipped my tea.
“Oh! Well then!” She looked puzzled. Maybe the Chicago newspapers had given details.
“You cannot always trust the newspapers, they write what they like. No one ever came here to ask me what happened.”
“Of course.” She gave another smile, but the hand that lifted the teacup shivered. She ought to get herself some drops for her nerves.
Jennie was playing by then; her slender fingers danced on the keys.
It had been a very stupid thing to do, leaving him there on the floor, nose broken and skull crushed. I would never do such a foolish thing again.
* * *
—
Then it was the question of the insurance. Peter had drawn up policies for nearly thirty-five hundred dollars but with no named benefactors save for his next of kin. That, I figured, had to be me. That is, until Peter’s uncles in Janesville put forth a claim on his living daughter’s behalf. I had almost forgotten about that surly little girl. Now I had to deal with it all, her and his relatives both. Without writing first, I set out to travel all the way to Janesville. It was an arduous trip and I fumed all the way. For all the trouble I had had, at least I ought to receive whatever he left behind—even if it had to come through the girl.