In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “Perhaps you should try to stay in Chicago for a while.” I offered my advice—which admittedly was different from what I would have said just a few years before. “You have to try out new places for a while before you know if you like them.”

  “You must too, then, with this new house.” She looked around again.

  “Just that.” I laughed. “Though it would take at least ten wild horses and a leaky roof to drive me out of this place now that I have settled. We have saved up for years to buy it.”

  “Mama says the same thing about Brookside.” Jennie chewed her lip. “She says it’s where we all belong.”

  “And you always will too,” I offered as comfort, “even if you stay here in Chicago.”

  * * *

  —

  It did not take many days before Bella arrived in much the same manner as Jennie had, only in a buggy. I sat by the kitchen window, giving my back a rest and admiring the flowers, when I saw her arrive. She parked out on the street and tied the horse to my fence, then walked toward the door. She wore a long, black coat that looked much too thick for the weather, the flowery hat, and a pair of men’s shoes on her feet. When she moved, the trim of her coat dusted the flagstones around her. She did not wait for me to open but entered right after she knocked.

  I had thought that I might find it uncomfortable to have Bella in my house after all the dark thoughts I had suffered, but the sight of her was so familiar to me, as if she belonged to my body, like a limb. As I watched her enter my kitchen, and she stood there on my floor in the flesh, it was as if I could not reconcile the real woman with the person in my head. She was just Bella—Little Brynhild—quarrelsome and difficult at times, but lively too, and generous.

  Surely Gust Gunness had been wrong.

  There was nothing lively about her this day, though, as she strode into my kitchen with hardly a greeting. “Did you know that Jennie is in Chicago?”

  I nodded that I did and took her coat.

  “That Ole Olson,” she huffed as she sat down by the table. “He seems to think that he can just take her back!”

  “Well, he has the right of blood,” I murmured as I poured her coffee.

  “Well, it is I who have had all the hardships involved in raising a child from infancy.” Her brow furrowed and I could see her ample bosom’s heavy rise and fall under the pearls that rested there. “Jennie had never been anything but happy with me, and she thinks of the younger girls as sisters.”

  I could not argue with that. “Jennie said you had threatened her father with a lawyer.”

  “Threatened? No, I have already spoken to a lawyer. He thinks I have every right to demand that she come home.” She lifted her chin as if challenging the world.

  “But she is no little girl anymore. Perhaps it would be nice for her to spend some time in Chicago?” I pushed the tray of rose-flavored cookies closer to her hand, knowing that some sugar would often brighten her mood.

  Bella rolled her eyes—at Ole Olson or me I could not tell. “It’s a matter of principle,” she told me. “You cannot just give your child away and then expect to have her delivered back when she is all but grown.”

  This too sounded reasonable when put like that. “What will you do then?”

  She picked up a cookie and measured it with her gaze. “Talk to Jennie, of course. When she first came here, it was supposed to be a visit, but when I came to bring her home, Mr. Olson informed me that he thought she could stay for a while, on account of him having a wife now.” She rolled her eyes again, and this time I knew it was aimed at Mr. Olson. “He also did say, loud and clear, that he wouldn’t stop her if she chose to go back to Brookside Farm. I only waited this long to give her time to miss us.” She bit the cookie in half.

  “She certainly seemed to do that when she was here,” I said, truthfully enough. “She especially seemed to miss her new brother.” Talk of her children was nearly as effective as sugared treats when it came to chasing the thunderclouds away.

  “Oh yes.” Her face softened at once, and a tender smile appeared on her lips. “He is an angel, that one, so happy and content. That I should receive such a gift from my late husband, it truly is a miracle.” Her voice had grown thick as she gave her speech, and her gaze lingered halfway up my wall. I thought she might have given it before. “You must come and see him.” Her gaze shifted to me. “He is your nephew, after all.” She frowned a little as if to remind me that I had been a negligent sister.

  “I will,” I promised, “soon.” Though just the thought of it made my belly ache.

  “Oh,” she suddenly lamented, as she sighed and stretched out her feet in front of her. Her shoes were very large and uncomely but doubtlessly comfortable. “I feel like I haven’t done anything but chase little girls since Peter died.”

  “What do you mean? Have there been others?” I was genuinely surprised.

  “Only Swanhild, Peter’s daughter. I wanted her to come and stay with us after her father died—it would have been such a comfort.” Her face took on a solemn expression and her lower lip quivered a little. “That Gust Gunness would not have it, though, and kidnapped the girl in plain daylight!” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Then I discovered that I was with child and could not put more thought into it.” She brushed crumbs off her fingers with her hands.

  “But is she safe, though? Swanhild?” Kidnapping did not sound very pleasant—not that I readily believed what Bella said. I knew there could be another truth to it. I remembered Gust Gunness that day in her kitchen, how angry he had been, how ready to think her a murderess. What he had said about Swanhild: that Peter sent her away because she and Bella did not get along.

  Bella shrugged. “I would think that she is. They would hardly go through such hardships only to mistreat her . . . However, the Gunness family isn’t all that, truth be told. I went to fetch the girl at one of their farms, and the place was hardly fit for swine. Peter married up, I will tell you that.” She lifted her chin again as she brought the cup to her lips. A flicker of anger appeared in her eyes, and suddenly I was frightened again. Suddenly she was there for a moment, that woman in my mind.

  The one who could do whatever it took if only she was angry enough.

  I wanted to reply but could not find the words. It had been such a little thing, just a shadow passing through her eyes, and yet it left me speechless.

  It reminded me that nothing had changed. She was still the woman with the husbands who died in peculiar ways.

  With my inner eye, I saw Myrtle again, sitting on that rock behind the barn.

  “I thought I’d see Jennie at school.” Bella put down the cup; her eyes were all normal. “It’s easier, then, if she’s away from her father.”

  “I’m sure.” It was my turn to sigh. I had no doubt that she would win this fight and bring the girl back home. The Olson family were honest people, bound to lose against a foe like her. It saddened me, though, as I would certainly feel easier knowing that Jennie was safe in Chicago, even if the other three were still at Brookside Farm.

  “It’s not safe for a young girl in the city.” Bella rubbed her jaw with fast, angry motions. “All sorts of things can happen to her here, where I cannot look out for her. All sorts of people will look to take advantage, and if they cannot get it with promises, they will get it with violence.”

  “That’s a little grim, don’t you think?” I was shocked at the sudden vehemence in her voice. “I raised two girls—”

  “Oh Nellie, don’t even try to convince me. I’ve been a young girl myself, and I certainly did not escape it unscathed.” The furious rubbing had turned her jaw red. “She must be where she is protected—with me at all times.”

  “But children move away, Bella. Soon she will too, no matter where she lives now.” I tried to catch her eyes, but they deftly slid away.

  “Of course she will; I’m not stupid, Nellie, bu
t when she does, it will be somewhere I know she’s safe.” She was still rubbing her jaw, and her face twisted up as if she were in pain.

  “Are you all right?” I dared to whisper.

  “Of course I am.” The rubbing stopped. Her hand fell down in her lap. She breathed a little fast and lifted her other hand to wipe sweat from her brow. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”

  * * *

  —

  I was certainly not surprised when the buggy appeared again later that day with Jennie next to Bella. I did not even want to think of what my sister might have said to convince the girl to come back to La Porte.

  They would continue there the next morning but spent the night with us. John was not too thrilled about it, but what else could I do but offer hospitality? Jennie looked awfully tired and could certainly use the rest. She brightened a little when she saw Nora, though. The two of them quickly renewed their bond and spent the evening out in the garden.

  Bella slept on the bench, as she had done every night when she first came to Chicago. She did not say much about what had transpired, but I could tell that she was pleased. She even made an effort to be pleasant to John, and the three of us played cards in the sitting room. Bella won all three games and offered us all brandy from a bottle she had brought in the buggy.

  As before, I found that it was easy enough to let things be as they were before, if only I did not think about poor Myrtle, and Bella’s two dead husbands. It was almost shameful, how easy it was to pretend to forget, when everything seemed so pleasant and nice, and the brandy was rich and the game exciting.

  One thing she had said that day stuck with me, though, so much so that that I brought out my paper and pen the very next day and wrote to our sister Olina, asking her, at last, what had happened back then, when Little Brynhild was attacked. Olina had been there at the time, and would surely know. It was the rubbing of the jaw and the tone of voice that did it, the fretting over young Jennie’s safety. Suddenly it was as if I could have no peace unless I knew.

  What I learned when I received her reply was what brought me back to Brookside Farm at last.

  35.

  Belle

  La Porte, 1903

  The walls never did seem to tarnish at Brookside Farm. Maybe the place had seen so much misery that it was immune to the stains of sin. Baby Jennie died, Peter died, but my house was still the same: a silent sister that sheltered and comforted me as no place had ever done before.

  I had no desire to burn it down. I wanted to keep it and nourish it, help it thrive and blossom—just as I thrived and blossomed within its brick walls.

  Brookside was a beautiful place; the cedar and sycamore trees grew tall and green, and the barn gleamed, freshly painted. The chickens flocked around my skirts when I came out, and the hogs grew fat and happy. I had everything I needed right there on the farm: eggs, meat, and milk. The windmill spun, the orchard was bountiful, forty-eight acres of land, all my own.

  I had gotten rid of most of the pigs when Peter died. I did not think raising them to sell sausages was my trade. After all the upheaval, I just wanted to be a regular farmer and a mother, taking care of us all the best that I could.

  I no longer feared losing Jennie; she was at peace at home and only rarely spoke of Chicago with anything resembling longing. She was my daughter through and through, or so I thought at the time.

  My son, Philip, was a good boy who soon grew soft and content in my care. He did not miss his real mother at all. He was so small and trusting that he fell asleep on my chest that very first night. I had not wanted a son of my own—young men are often a menace—but now that I had one, I did not regret it. It could be wise to have a boy to stand up for his mother and take on the farm when his sisters were married. I planned for the future then.

  I always planned for the future.

  As much as I had, it still cost to run a farm, and it felt as if the money went out as soon as it came in. Although I had a comfortable amount of cash, the farm barely paid for itself and I could not help but worry. What if the crops failed, or the animals got sick? What would happen to us then, if our livelihood shrank to nothing? I would not eat poor man’s fare again. I had crawled my way up from that deep, dark den. My pantry grew ever fuller as my worry increased, and I preserved as much of the produce as I could, lining the cellar walls with glass jars and filling the vegetable bins to the brim.

  Now that I had what I wanted, my new aim was to keep it.

  I hired Peter Colson in March. He was a good worker and a handsome man. I let him sleep in the room above the kitchen and found that I liked to have him around. He was easy to please, this new Peter. All I had to do was feed him and tell him what a great man he was and he would light up like the sun and work twice as hard just to keep me satisfied. After the demands of my husbands, it was easy to like Peter Colson. He laughed a lot and played with the children. At night, he joined me in games of cards, and later, after Philip’s arrival, he joined me in bed as well. Though he was much younger than I was, we were not a poor match between the sheets. Colson had a fondness for rough play that suited me, and he never brought our secrets out of the bedroom. It did not take long before his gaze softened when he looked at me, and there was not a thing he would not do to please me.

  I found myself thinking how easy it was to make a man happy. How easy to make him feel strong and wanted. I was certainly no courtesan—far past my prime and plain to look at—but even I could make a man like Peter Colson soft as clay. Most people, men and women alike, are foolish in that regard. They all yearn to be something special. There is much power in flattery and a hearty meal.

  In the end, what all men want is a mother.

  * * *

  —

  Nellie came out to see me late in the summer, bringing Nora with her. My sister never learned to speak English well and needed an aide when traveling far from home. I was happy to see them, but the visit was not wholly pleasant. Nellie had grown very ill, for one, and walked slowly, blaming her bad back.

  “Did you ever experience pain like this after you had yours?” she asked, sitting outside in the yard with a glass of lemonade, watching my girls and the dog chase the chickens inside the barn. The birds had been at the vegetables again and were now banished to their own enclosure.

  “No,” I answered. “I never had any problems after I had my children.”

  “Not even with the latest one? They say it’s harder the older you get.”

  “No, I’m as spry as I ever was.” I laced my hands and stretched out my arms to demonstrate.

  She gave me a curious look. “So you seem,” she agreed. “It’s rare, though, having a child so late, and with his father dead and everything.” Was it distrust that surfaced in her eyes?

  “Yes, it’s a shame.” I fanned my face with my hand. It was a warm day. Far too warm for our heavy dresses. “The boy never knew him, though, so he won’t grieve the loss.”

  “How do you like it, being a widow?” Another glance in my direction.

  “Oh, I miss him terribly, of course. I had so many hopes pinned on Peter.”

  “And to die from the sausage grinder—” Nellie choked, and I gave her a curious look. Her face looked pinched and pained all of a sudden, and I moved uneasy in the wicker chair. My jaw tensed up a little.

  “Indeed,” I said. “It was a terrible affair, but such is life; you never know what’s waiting.”

  “Your daughters must be distraught.” Her voice was clipped and she looked at the chickens, not me.

  “Well, they didn’t know him very long, and I bought them a pony.” The little animal, aptly named Chocolate, had become everyone’s darling and was the envy of the children on McClung Road. I was very pleased with the purchase.

  “Still, though.” Nellie shifted on the white-painted wicker seat. “I got a letter from Olina.” The pained expression intensified.
“Little Bry—Bella, why didn’t you tell me about that man in Selbu, the one who died?”

  “Who?” I feigned ignorance, though my heart began to race.

  “The heir at the farm, he who attacked you!” Her gaze shifted to me, brimming with tears.

  My jaw ached. What was it to her? Bringing up that ugly story. “There was nothing to tell.” My voice had grown harsh. I rubbed my throbbing jaw.

  “Olina spoke of it as if everyone knew.” She blinked rapidly to chase the tears away; her gaze was on the sky. “She said it was a shame that all your men keeled over and died.”

  I felt my cheeks go red—what sort of an ambush was this? “That’s a terrible thing to say.” I suddenly felt hot all over.

  “Yes, isn’t it just? But that’s just like her, though; she never held anything back. She reminds me of Father in that way.” Nellie lifted a hand to wipe at the tears.

  “What else did she tell you?” I did not want to but had to ask. I was sweating profusely under my clothing.

  “Oh, she said that the man who got you pregnant—pregnant, Bella?—died, but not before he had kicked the child out of you.” I could not tell if that was anger in her voice. I had never heard her speak in such a tone, as if the words were traveling through rocks—through pebbles on a beach.

  Having it spelled out in such a crude manner made me cringe. For a brief moment, I saw my hands curl around Nellie’s neck to stop the foul words from coming out of her mouth. “Yes,” I managed to say. “I worked at the farm still when he died; but what happened between us was an old story even then.”

  She went quiet for a moment. “It could make a person change, couldn’t it? It could inflict wounds on one’s soul.” She was still wiping tears and I wished she would stop. “I heard of a man who lost his memory after a fall—”

  “Life is a perilous journey,” I cut in, “or was there something else on your mind?” My own mind was racing. Why did she speak of my soul?