In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  Nellie took a deep breath. “Little Brynhild, it wouldn’t be a person’s own fault if they were . . . different after something so vile. Perhaps something in the head went wrong, like with that man after the fall—”

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with my head?” I felt an urge to laugh, but this was certainly not a laughing matter. I did not like where she was headed with this unfortunate train of thought. She had clearly not been sufficiently fooled by my grief.

  “No.” Nellie answered my question, but there was no true fire in the denial. “I just think that if one is in pain, there is help to be had—from a priest perhaps . . . Just because one has done something, it doesn’t mean one has to do it again.” She rubbed her forehead with her hands and her breathing became labored. Her scrawny frame quivered beside me.

  “Calm yourself, Nellie.” I held on to the armrests so hard that it hurt, and it helped—I did not quite lose my temper. This was neither the time nor the place. “I am sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words came tumbling through gritted teeth.

  “Oh come, Bella, of course you do.” It was her eyes, not mine, that flashed with anger. “You should have told me! I should have known! I wouldn’t have let them go at you about the scissors, or been so mad about your treatment of Mads had I known about that man . . . though Edvard died too, of course . . .”

  “They are gossiping about Peter’s death in Chicago now, I reckon.” I was proud of how calm my voice sounded to my ears.

  “Well, yes—it was so sudden, and they wrote about it, but—”

  “That is not a very Christian thing to do, blaming a poor widow.” I lifted my chin and gazed at the sun, letting the bright light blind me. My jaw was burning, throbbing and aching.

  “You know how people are not always kind—and then when I heard about that man in Selbu—”

  “Perhaps it’s the Lord’s way of weeding out the bad seeds.” I made no secret of my scorn. The sun was searing in my eyes, distracting me from the fury inside. Why would she bring this up? She was going at it like a thoughtless boy poking with a stick at something raw and fragile: a sea creature out of its shell, or a baby bird tumbled from the nest.

  Why would she hurt me so?

  “What do you mean, Bella?” She sounded breathless.

  “Only that a man who kicks a child out of its mother’s belly perhaps deserves to die.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was very quiet. “That’s what Olina said too, that he deserved it.”

  I suddenly felt more sympathetic toward my homebound sister. “Olina would know, she saw me when I—”

  “Yes, that’s what she wrote.”

  “It’s too late to mourn now, Nellie. I wanted America to be a fresh start.”

  “Yes, but some things you can’t run away from.” She spoke so quietly that I had to strain my ears to make out the words.

  “Clearly I could.” I finally looked away from the sun; my eyes watered and my vision was impaired. I blinked away the red while I motioned to the yard with my hand, presenting the glistening green of cedars, the frilly-clad girls with the dog, and the fat hogs rolling in their pen. “I recovered just fine, I would say.”

  “Did you, though?” Her voice was still so quiet that it was hard to catch the words.

  “I would not speak more of this if I were you.” Though I almost admired her for being so plain with me. “Nothing good can come of it.”

  “But, Bella—”

  “No!” Now it was I who shook. The anger in me boiled and lashed. “Leave it be, Nellie.”

  “Of course,” she mumbled, and thankfully did not say another word on the matter before she left the next day.

  I had no desire to harm my sister—where was the spite in that?—and hoped that she would take my advice. Surely she could look away if she wanted to—leave it well alone.

  The sheriff had done so, and the insurance men in Chicago.

  She had no proof, after all.

  * * *

  —

  It was later that year, when summer had given way to chilly nights, when I got word that a crate had arrived for me by train. I had not ordered anything, and felt a little bewildered.

  “Is it very large?” I asked the boy who delivered the message.

  “You better bring the carriage.”

  “Was there a note?”

  The boy nodded. “It’s at the station.”

  Nothing to do for it then but bring out the horses and go. I brought Colson with me as help while Jennie looked after the children.

  At the station, I was presented with a large, square crate and a greasy envelope. I knew the writing at once, and my heart gave a twinge.

  “Come,” I said to Colson, “let’s get it in the carriage.”

  “But what is it? Some new equipment?”

  “No, just some jars I ordered. I completely forgot.” I made my voice sound calm though I felt hot with both bewilderment and worry.

  “Are they fragile, then?” he asked.

  “Not so much,” I guessed.

  He hauled the crate onto the carriage. On the way back, I kept ogling the thing, certain that nothing good could come from it.

  Back at the farm, I had Colson help me maneuver the crate down into the cellar through the outside trapdoor. He said nothing when I told him it was for storage. Since I already kept preservatives and produce down there, it was not an unlikely place to store jars. When the crate was safely deposited, I told Colson to go outside and dig a hole for rubbish. I told him to dig deep, as the garbage would likely smell. Then I opened the envelope and skimmed through the writing: She told her mother she was to rest on a farm near La Porte. I trust it to you to see that she does.

  The time had come at last, then, to pay my dues to James Lee.

  * * *

  —

  When it was night and all were asleep, I went down in the cellar with the crowbar. The crate was tightly sealed, but as soon as the top was pried loose, the smell flooded the room at once. Neither the oilcloth she was wrapped in nor the hay that was tightly packed around her could prevent the stench of decay.

  The woman could have been about twenty-five years of age, with pretty clothes and nice, red hair. She did not look like a whore, and I wondered what kind of mess she had been in to end up in my cellar. Her purse lay with the body, but no name was inside. I hauled her up and placed her on a table I used for storing milk. She was a slight woman. I could easily carry her on my own.

  I was both annoyed and amused by this crated surprise. Of course, James should not have done it—sending me a body by train! On the other hand, it was just like him to do something so bold to get a rise out of me, and that made me feel close to him. The crate would be untraceable, of course. He never much liked to put his head in the noose.

  I went upstairs and looked in on both Colson and the girls to make sure they were sleeping soundly—they ought to be by then; I had given them all some laudanum. The oilcloth was a blessing, for the woman was messy. The train ride must have been hot. I wrapped her back inside it and brought her out through the trapdoor. Then I placed her in a wheelbarrow, found Colson’s freshly dug hole, and tipped her in. I went to get the rubbish next, a heap that was ever growing behind the barn. I had meant to burn it, but now it was useful. I wheeled some loads to the hole and tipped them in as well, saw the woman disappear under broken glass and empty cans, bones and rotten hay. Then I filled in the hole with the shovel.

  * * *

  —

  Colson was in the kitchen when I came back inside. “What are you doing up so early?” he asked while I heated water to clean my hands.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I slept like a rock. Must’ve been all the nice food you gave me.”

  “Just that.” I sat down in his lap and hoped the dead woman’s s
tench did not cling to me. “Why don’t we make the most of it now, while the children are still asleep?”

  “Oh, but you are such a kind woman, Mrs. Gunness.” He was fumbling for my breasts through my dress, already eager as a pup.

  “Just let me wash up first.” I rose and went for the water. “I don’t want to get you dirty. I just filled in the rubbish pit you dug.”

  “Now? So early?”

  “Why not?” I dried off my hands. “The night was moonlit and I brought a lamp.”

  “Why, you are something. You never rest, do you? Working this hard, even at night . . .” He had come up behind me, his arms wound around my waist, his face burrowed into my neck. “There never was a woman as good as you.”

  “No.” I smiled and tossed the towel on a chair. “I’m certainly not like the rest.”

  I let him have me then, leaning with my hands on the wooden washstand and my skirts pulled up around my waist. I rarely wore a corset on the farm, and my heavy breasts swung inside my blouse, tickled by the dancing pewter button.

  It did not take me long to finish, excited as I was from the night’s adventure. The young man behind me slapped my buttock as he finished, proud, no doubt, that he could take me to such heights. That he could make this old widow dance.

  I closed my eyes and thought of James Lee.

  Burying that woman stirred something in me. For three nights after, I could not sleep. I kept thinking about when Peter died; I saw it all in my mind. How the blows fell; how the blood sprayed, how his knees buckled.

  I thought about the feelings I had that night: how strong I felt. How joyously alive. How utterly triumphant when he lay there—just a lump of flesh.

  He could not hurt me again when he was dead.

  I ached for that feeling—I yearned for it. It was as if my life were worth nothing if I could not have it again. I lay there at night with my hand pressed to my aching jaw and I longed—yes, I longed—to lift the cleaver again.

  Sometimes, it was Colson I saw on the receiving end of my blade.

  * * *

  —

  I went to see James in Chicago and found him in his small apartment reeking of yesterday’s liquor. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair tousled. He had not shaved for some days. I never understood his desire to live in squalor despite his means. He said it kept him safe and out of sight, but to me it felt undignified.

  Of course, I did not know all that he was hiding from.

  He laughed when he saw me standing in his tiny kitchen. “I thought that present would get a rise out of you.” He gave me a sloppy kiss on the mouth, then poured coffee into cracked china and sat down before me at his worn red table. “She’s resting, then?”

  “Yes, she’s resting. I had my hired man dig a hole.” My fingers closed around the scalding-hot cup.

  “Didn’t I tell you to always have one ready?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I never thought I would get lodgers by train.” Even as I said it, the annoyance and amusement battled in me.

  “I wanted to surprise you.” He lit a cigar and extinguished the match with a flick of his wrist.

  “Is this how it’s going to be now? You send me bodies and I dig them down?” It was my turn to arch an eyebrow.

  “You can handle it, I’m sure. Didn’t you tell me you’d become quite the expert, butchering those pigs?” He was nothing but glittering eyes and smiles, and it was hard not to smile with him.

  “How often am I to expect a delivery?” I bit my lip and looked down at the floor, not wanting to be drawn in by his charm just yet.

  “My, you are more compliant than I thought.” He sounded amused.

  “I want them delivered to my door, though. You can’t send bodies by train.” And yet I could not stop the smile from forming on my lips.

  He laughed and added something from a bottle to our coffee. “I promise I won’t do that in the future. As for how often? That depends on my need. You certainly have the land to handle one from time to time. I won’t give you too many, though. It must be neat and clean—no traces.”

  “I can do that.” I finally looked at his face again, at the fullness of his lips.

  “Don’t you want to know who they are?” He blew out smoke, filling the small room with just one puff.

  “No, that doesn’t concern me. I just want to know what’s expected of me.” I shifted on the chair and took a deep breath, making ready to state my terms.

  “I always knew you would be of use, Mrs. Gunness.” He looked entirely smug.

  “Yes, you always said there would be a time to pay.” I sipped my coffee while holding his gaze.

  “That’s not why I like you, though. I hope you appreciate that.” The smugness was replaced with a rare softness, one I did not know what to do with.

  “I want you to do me a favor in return,” I said instead.

  “Of course you do.” Another puff of his cigar.

  “I was thinking I might marry again. A kind Norwegian man or such. A man of means, preferably.” There was a plan in my head but it was incomplete, like jagged shadows playing on a silk screen.

  A twitch of annoyance showed on James’s face then, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “You are fine on your own. A new husband might ruin it all—”

  “I need help on the farm, and a farmhand is expensive.” I said it fast and breathlessly, prepared for such objections.

  “You know your husbands don’t last, and then you’ll make a ruckus trying to cover it up.” The frown on his face deepened.

  “Maybe it won’t come to that.” I leaned closer over the table; the hot steam from the cup warmed my chest.

  “You know it will. You have no patience with those men.” The frown turned into a sneer.

  “Well, maybe I won’t be marrying, then; maybe I just need a farmhand.” The shadows on the screen danced and played.

  “Don’t you have one already?” A puzzled smile.

  “He might not last.” Quiet words that sounded like thunder. My breathing came faster. I felt hot all over.

  James went quiet for a while; I could see his mind working. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find one for me and send him my way. Some young man with strong arms, fresh from the old country. A man of some means, of course. Say you are my brother, and that I’m looking for hired hands—or a husband, if that’s preferable.” I picked at the tight collar of my shirtwaist, trying to let in some air.

  “What do you want them for?” His eyes were mere slits as he regarded me across the table.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” I licked my lips and struggled for breath. How could I explain that the shadows were still dancing, that I just wanted someone to be there at hand—to have their bodies within my reach.

  “Of course you have decided.” James added more liquor to our china cups. “Now you’ve seen how easy it is to make them disappear on land such as yours.”

  “Maybe I just want the company.” Maybe that was all. Maybe it would not come to carnage.

  “Maybe you just want the cash.” He gave me a wide grin.

  “I can’t have the one without the other.” I smiled back across the table, but my heart beat hard in my chest.

  “People disappear all the time in this country.” He said it as if it were nothing.

  “No one has roots here, and people move around . . . In the old country, families knew each other generations back, but here there’s no kin so no one feels obliged to look out for one another.” It was just the truth, what I said.

  “No one keeps track of all the comings and goings.” James happily played along.

  “And the land is so vast. It’s easy to get lost.” I joined in his smile.

  “Many bad men on the roads too.” James winked.

  “Will you do it, then? Will you send them to me?” I c
ould barely breathe while waiting for the answer.

  “Will you keep taking my crates?” His eyebrow rose again.

  I nodded and stretched a hand across the table.

  “We have a deal, then, Mrs. Gunness.” His hand, so warm and deadly, met mine in a hard grip.

  “That we have, Mr. Lee,” I said, and the shadows danced and leapt on the screen. Joyous, I think, and free.

  * * *

  —

  The next shipment from Chicago came a few weeks later. This time the crate held a man, foul looking. It came to my door by carriage, and the man at the reins looked as foul as his cargo, but he was burly and strong and helped me get the crate down in the cellar.

  That night I gave the children laudanum drops. Colson was so tired on his feet that he did not need my help. I brought the cleaver and the saw with me downstairs. I had bought quicklime and even read up on anatomy, as I figured there would be some differences from a hog. I hauled the man onto the table and cut his clothes off with scissors. He felt just like another pig to me then, perhaps because I had not seen him alive. I felt no different, I think, than any undertaker filling his customers with embalming fluids. I made a mess of it, though. The oilcloth beneath him was slippery and the floor too, but at last I managed to sever his limbs. Then I placed the parts in gunnysacks and hauled them with me outside where the wheelbarrow waited. I tipped him into the hole I had had Colson dig for just another occasion like this, and covered him in quicklime and ash. Then I cleaned up the mess.

  It was a good thing I had married Peter, I thought, cleaning my hands that night. He had taught me how to strike with the cleaver, and the easiest ways to separate limbs from a corpse.

  I made some coffee and ate some bread, and then I went to find Colson.

  * * *

  —

  In the middle of October, a man stood at my door, introducing himself as Lars Olsen from Montana. He came, he said, because my brother had told him I was looking for a carriage and some horses, which he had with him, right there. He wondered if I wanted to have a look.