In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  They were fine horses and the carriage was sturdy, but I wondered why James had sent Olsen my way. He was not exactly what I asked for. He was elderly, for one, and I was not in any dire need of horses, although one could never have too many of those. Was that what James was sending me? A chance to gain some horses? If so, I thought it a poor trade for my hours spent carving in the cellar.

  I invited the man inside. I thought he could be a suitor if encouraged, although that did not seem to be his intention. I said his horses looked fine and I would have a closer look come morning, and then I asked him to stay and rest a few days.

  The farm and my cooking appropriately impressed Mr. Olsen. He was appropriately drunk too, come night. I had Jennie make up a bed for him, and when he had gone up, I went outside to think.

  What was I to do with this stranger in my house? James must have had some purpose in sending him to me, and it had nothing to do with his horses. I thought about the night I had just spent in his company, and realized that Mr. Olsen had kept his coat on all through the meal. When he went upstairs to sleep, it was still buttoned.

  He had something to hide, then.

  When I came inside, I took a lamp and walked up the creaking stairs. I was very careful when I opened the door just a crack to look at him in bed. He was snoring loudly with the coat cradled in his arms. They were strong arms too, despite his age. Perhaps he would be a worthy opponent. When I went back downstairs, my pulse went racing, as I thought of how it would feel to tackle this beast to the ground. To have him at my feet with my hands flecked with his blood. To conquer and win another game, and even gain some cash as a prize. I could not stop thinking about it. I could not help but being excited.

  What good was that man to anyone but himself? Better his treasure—whatever it was—was used to feed and clothe my children. That way he had some purpose in this world.

  The next day, I told Mr. Olsen that I would buy his horses and pretended to go into town to get cash. Instead, I went to the pharmacist and purchased chloral, a more potent sedative than the laudanum drops, as I did not want to take any chances. I did not know this opponent as I had my husbands.

  “I cannot sleep at all,” I told the pharmacist, dressed in my widow’s garb. “Perhaps this fine concoction will help.”

  I fed Mr. Olsen well that night, and laced his drinks before I served them. When the house was quiet, I went to his room. Mr. Olsen was snoring just as loudly as before; I knew he would be deep in his dreams from the chloral. Still, I was very quiet when I made my way across the floor. My heart pounded so hard it almost hurt and my hands felt clammy, but there was excitement as well. I was about to test my strength again and feel that wondrous feeling.

  I pulled one of the pillows from under his head and was just about to cover his face, when he suddenly woke up and started thrashing. His legs flayed and his hands clawed at mine; it reminded me of wrestling with a young bull in the barn. I had to use what I had of strength to suppress his violent thrashing; still, I held the pillow firm until he went limp as a gutted fish. His hands fell away from mine, leaving angry scratches.

  When I let go, my heart was pounding and my breath was shivering. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I picked up the coat from the bed and felt the heavy weight. I laid it out the floor and patted it down until I felt the rolls of cash sewn into the lining. There was my surprise, then, my gift from James Lee.

  Lars Olsen lay as dead on the bed, but alas, he was not yet. I could see the pulse throbbing on his neck. I brought out a sheet and laid it out on the floor, and then I rolled the man down on top of it. He landed with a heavy thud. I wrapped him up good and hauled him with me across the floor, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and down all the steps to cellar. It was hard work, for the man was heavy, and though I was big and strong, I was just a woman. I managed, though, with much fuss. When we got down there, his head was bloody from the stairs, and I do not know if he was still alive. I gave him a few whacks with the cleaver to be sure.

  It reminded me of Peter, dealing him those blows, and I gave him more than enough to see him good and dead. Then I hauled him onto the table and he was just meat after that. I bled him as well as I could and took the soft parts for the pigs. Then I sawed off his limbs, took his head off and brought him outside in gunnysacks to slip him in the ground. Ashes and quicklime. I covered him up.

  Back inside, I moved his trunk to a room that was not in use and made up his bed neatly. Next, I cleaned the cleaver. Then I sat down in the kitchen with his coat. I cut the lining with my scissors and the rolls of money tumbled to the floor, almost a thousand in all.

  It was well-deserved payment for a hard night’s work, and I even got new horses and a carriage in the bargain. I threw the coat in his trunk then, and placed the money in a locked box I kept for that very purpose.

  But I did not get that feeling. What I felt was barely triumphant at all; it was merely an echo of that joyous sense of power I remembered. I was satisfied with my work, yes, but the ecstasy evaded me—still as distant as a memory. Lars Olsen could fill my money box, but he could not sate my yearning. Killing him and taking him apart did nothing to bring me sweet bliss. I wondered if it was because of my nerves, or because I had expected too much. Perhaps that feeling could not be forced but had to erupt on its own. Perhaps it was like a snake: powerful but shy. All I could do was set the stage to try to coax it forth. Give it the proper bait and hope.

  When Colson and the girls came down for breakfast the next day, I told them Mr. Olsen had left late the night before because he remembered he had to be in Chicago this morning.

  I’d bought his horses, though, I said, and asked Colson to dig a new hole.

  36.

  Nellie

  Bella did not invite us back to La Porte before Christmas, about which I felt relieved, but troubled, too. As much as I had wanted to stay away before—to turn a blind eye, as it was—I was now plagued by the notion that something terrible would happen if I were not there to keep watch.

  I had taken up praying in earnest, for the first time in my adult life. I prayed for the children mostly, but for Bella too: that whatever was riding on her back would leave, and that her anger would mellow to peace. I prayed that her conscience would be vigilant and that her will would be strong. That she would not harm a fellow man again.

  What else could I do but pray? It is the weapon of the powerless: a way to soothe an uneasy conscience when nothing else is left. For what could I do? Even if our conversation that summer, when I broached the subject of that man in Selbu, had been a terrible thing that chilled me to the bone, she still had not admitted to any wrong. I had not witnessed any evil deeds myself, besides Mads’s bruises and the scissors many years ago. I could testify that she was eager to throw things when angry, and that she was no stranger to making a fist, but that was all. Aside from that incident in Selbu, I did not know anything that others did not know as well. Some of it had been in the newspapers; other things had traveled on people’s lips for months. Heresy and speculations, yes—but, oh, I knew it to be true. Knew it deep in my marrow—knew it as I knew my own heart. She had as good as admitted it herself, too, by forbidding me to speak of it. Her face in that moment, out in the yard, sneering and cold toward me. I could barely see her in there, that little girl at Størsetgjerdet who clung to my skirts as I tended the goat. She had been swallowed up by something else, something dark with terrible jaws—like a wolf.

  And even if I had my proof, what would I do? Go to the authorities and leave my little sister at their mercy? John would undoubtedly say yes, which was why I had not told him of our conversation that summer. I knew he would want me to go, even without any proof, to try to persuade the police to look into the deaths again, so I kept it to myself—my own terrible secret—and guarded it jealously against his prying.

  I thought of the children too, of the pain it would cause them to lose their mama, and then I tho
ught of Bella again, and the pain it would cause her to lose them . . . They were the one thing that brought her more joy than anything else combined. They were her angels and her stars at night.

  No, I could not do it.

  I thought that she had to be damaged somehow, from what had happened before, but what is damaged can often mend, I knew that as well. Be it a limb, a heart, or a soul. Surely Bella could heal herself and leave this all in the past. Her husbands were dead, and there was nothing to do for it but make sure it did not happen again. If she did not remarry, I figured, things would be safe and good. It seemed so clear to me then that it was the shackles of matrimony, the intimacy of bed and board, that brought out her terrible rage. If only she remained a widow, I thought, the wolf could be kept safely at bay—and that was why it pained me to stay away.

  I wanted to make sure she did not marry.

  * * *

  —

  She invited Nora and me back to attend the party she threw for the children at McClung Road the day after Christmas. She wanted our help, I think, just as much as she wanted to see us. She also wanted to show me, and all those who still wagged their tongues, that all was good at Brookside Farm. That she was a widow, not a fiend. That she brought joy to children, not death to men. It was easy to see, knowing what I did, and yet I forgave her for it. Perhaps I thought of it as her seeking a redemption. Perhaps I dearly hoped that it was so.

  She met us at the station, dressed in a large bearskin coat, and with that flowery hat perched on top of her head. The horse that pulled the carriage wore sleigh bells around its neck. The snow was scarce in Indiana, though; it did not look much like Christmas at home, but she did not seem to mind.

  “I want it to be a real Norwegian Christmas celebration for all the children,” she said when we had climbed into the carriage. “A few of them are German, and some Swedish, but I don’t mind. They will enjoy it just as much, I’m sure.”

  “Is Jennie at home? Is she excited?” Nora had come mostly for her cousin’s company. It delighted me to see how their bond stood fast.

  “Jennie has been setting the table and boiling rice porridge all day long. She’s looking after the boy and watching the candles while I’m away.”

  “How is your son?” I asked.

  “Healthy and plump as a piglet.” She laughed. “His sisters spoil him. Even Lucy has taken to him, though I figured she might not since she has always been the darling before.”

  “She is a sweet child,” I agreed. “And Myrtle?” My stomach ached a little when I said her name. I was still haunted by that day behind the barn—the way that I had silenced her.

  “Healthy.” Bella smacked the reins. The landscape around us changed as we left the town behind and entered rural areas. Black fields topped with patches of snow surrounded us on both sides. Here and there, a horse was out, grazing behind weatherworn barns. “She is so sensitive, that child; her tears are never far away, but then they dry up quick as well.” Bella continued to speak. “She was a little anxious about this gathering, to be honest. She couldn’t sleep at all last night from fretting. She likes it better quiet, but I told her it was a nice thing to do. Not all of our neighbors can afford a proper Christmas celebration.” A smug expression appeared on her face. “I stopped by some of the neighbors yesterday, since daughters in both households have been sick with fever, just to cheer them up with some sweets and toys, and I didn’t see as much as a pine branch in a boot—nothing to celebrate Christmas at all. I thought it was the saddest thing.”

  I did not see fit to note how scarce our Christmases had been back when we were poor tenant’s daughters. She was in such a jubilant mood that I let her have her joy in peace. It was better for us all when she was pleased.

  The farmhouse at Brookside was lit from within by candles. A few pairs of children’s skis were lined up against the outside wall, though I could not fathom how the children were able to ski with so little snow. Stepping inside, I could not help but think of the year before, almost to the day, when we were also gathered in that house to bury Peter Gunness. It had been lit by candles then, too, and the scent of wax was the same, but there were no black paper ribbons this time, and a lovely scent of boiling cream, evergreens, and spices mingled with that of the wax. In the fireplace, the flames danced upon dry logs.

  A handful of children were already there, scattered on sofas and chairs; the boys wore their Sunday clothes and had freshly combed hair. Most of the girls were dressed in the somber colors of church as well, but Myrtle and Lucy wore white dresses adorned with frills and lace. The children chattered among themselves, in English for the most part, but some in Norwegian, too. They were so busy with one another that they barely noticed that we had arrived. On the table before them were bowls filled with nuts and caramels—no wonder the children’s eyes shone with delight. Another couple of girls came in behind us, both of them wearing dresses that showed signs of wear under their equally poor winter coats. Their hair was neatly braided, though, falling down their backs in straight ropes.

  “Are you well again, Gunnhild?” I heard Bella ask one of the newcomers.

  “I am, Mrs. Gunness,” the girl replied. “Thank you so much for the doll you gave me.”

  “Oh, that was nothing.” But I could hear that she was pleased. “It would have been very sad if you had to lie in bed all through Christmas. I’m just glad to see you back on your feet.”

  “Mama said to say thank you from her as well. Those cough drops did wonders, she said.”

  “I knew they would.” She chuckled a little and strode farther into the room, carrying the large coat over her arm.

  A little hand slipped into mine. “Come and see our tree, Aunt Nellie.” Lucy’s eyes were sparkling with excitement and the smile was bright on her lips. If her older sister was hesitant about the Christmas party, the younger girl seemed to flower from the festive commotion.

  “Of course.” I bent down to steal a touch of her soft cheek against mine before letting myself be led across the Persian rug to the lavishly decorated pine tree that towered in the middle of the room.

  It truly was magnificent. The green needle branches were hung with ropes of silver pearls, red and green apples, gold-painted walnuts, glistening angels glued to cardboard, paper lilies with stamens cut from gold foil, flags from the old country, and bits of glittering tinsel, and at the very top was a nest of twigs holding a golden bird. Half-burned candles sat on every branch, unlit now, to spare the wax.

  “We made those,” Lucy said with pride, and pointed to long ladders made from white paper, meant to remind of us of the climb to heaven.

  “That you did!” I bent down to embrace her once more. “How very, very beautiful they are.” I would have liked to lift the girl into my arms, but my back was such that I could not.

  “I’m joining Jennie in the kitchen, Mama,” Nora said over her shoulder. “Find yourself a nice chair and rest.”

  “Let us know when the porridge is ready,” Bella called after her, before she turned her attention to her small guests. “Oh, how much fun we will have today!”

  When all the children had arrived, counting over a dozen, ages ranging from four to twelve, Bella declared that no one was to touch the fragrant porridge that was bubbling in the kitchen before the Nisse in the barn had gotten his share. This made all the Norwegian children giggle and look at one another with fear-tinged excitement. They all knew this required the utmost care—no one wanted to upset the Nisse.

  “What is that?” a girl with a pinched face and a tired brown dress asked in Swedish.

  “Don’t you know what a Nisse is?” Bella feigned shock and surprise. “He is a small man in a red cap who lives in the barn.”

  “Only he isn’t a man.” The girl who had been sick, Gunnhild, spoke up. “He is something else.”

  “Oh, you mean tomten.” The Swedish girl’s face lit up with understand
ing. “Mama says they don’t live in America.”

  “Does she now?” Bella’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I think they do, and that we have one right here on this farm. If treated right, he will help out with the animals and bring good luck, but if he’s not, he’ll cause all sorts of mischief!” At this, she pulled a grimace, and the children squealed with delight.

  “We gave ours porridge on Christmas Eve.” A red-haired boy in a too-big suit piped up from the floor.

  “Yes.” Bella nodded with a grave expression. “That’s the most important day. If you forget him then, nothing will go right in the coming year. But we can give him porridge on other days as well.” She was all good fun and sunshine, sitting there in her favorite chair with all those young gazes upon her. I knew she had been a popular teacher at the Sunday school in Chicago, and seeing her with these children, I could understand why that was. No one’s attention wavered; she held them all firmly in her grasp.

  As if summoned, Nora appeared in the door to the dining room, holding a large crockery bowl brimming with rice porridge. In the middle of the bowl swam a brightly yellow lump of butter, and the porridge was strewn with cinnamon and sugar. Food worthy of a prince, though now it would likely benefit Bella’s mangy barn cat. Jennie came up behind Nora with little Philip riding on her hip. The boy was just as beset with ruffles as his sisters. The young women were smiling, clearly enjoying both the day and each other.

  “Careful, it’s warm,” Nora warned as Bella took the bowl, but my sister was in such a bright mood that I did not think she would notice even if she burned herself, would not see the damage before it was done.

  We set out. Bella, the children, and I. Only Jennie and Nora stayed behind to watch Philip and the candles. Dusk had begun to settle and Bella brought out a storm lantern, which one of the boys was bestowed with the proud task of carrying as we made our way across the farmyard and up toward the barn. I came last, of course, with my slow gait, herding all the children before me. Only Myrtle fell back and walked beside me, while Lucy was in front with the light bearer, her eager feet all but dancing on the ground, as she was allowed to guide all those children to her barn. Myrtle did not speak, but after a little while, her hand laced with mine. I thought she was perhaps afraid of the Nisse, and I could not blame her for that.