In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “How are things with you these days?” I conversed in what I hoped was a light tone.

  “I am well, thank you.” She presented me with a polite reply. Her dark curls lifted in a sudden gust of wind that sent the dry snow drifting by our feet.

  “Your mama said you couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “I could after a while, but then Philip woke me up.” This was said without any annoyance.

  “Do you like your little brother, Myrtle?” I looked down at her and tightened my grip on her cold little hand. She had not brought her mittens out.

  “I like him very much,” she said, but despite the politeness and pleasantness of her tone, I could not help but worry. There didn’t seem to be any joy behind the words, and I wondered if she was truly happy—if she had forgotten whatever it was she saw on the night her stepfather died.

  The children before us had grown raucous in the dimly lit night and scared one another with sudden noises and ambushes from behind. It was all in good fun, though; they were all laughing, and I did not see a single child who did not seem to enjoy it, besides Myrtle.

  When we arrived at the barn, Bella knocked on the door to the hayloft with a grave expression on her face. Then she swung the door open on creaking hinges and bid the boy with the lantern go in first. This he did with equal solemnity resting upon his round, childish features. When Bella too had stepped inside, the rest of us followed suit, pooling into the musty hayloft, treading on old boards that gave a little with every step, and made me wonder if they would hold all our weight. They did, of course, but I was resting uneasy when we gathered in a semicircle around Bella with the porridge. She placed the bowl in the hay with exaggerated gestures, making it seem a little too much like a pagan offering for my liking—the hayloft was dark enough. Then she abruptly turned toward the children with one finger pressed to her lips.

  “Hush!” Her eyes were wide and wild in the darkness, illuminated only by the poor boy’s light. “Can you hear the Nisse coming for his porridge?” All the children went quiet as mice; only their feet made sounds on the floor as they shifted their weight around. They were looking at one another and at her with a mixture of excitement and terror on their faces. “Can you hear his footfalls?” Bella asked, and the children fell even more quiet than before.

  “Oh! He’s coming!” Bella threw her arms in the air and started for the door. The children screamed with terrified delight and ran along with her. Even the boy with the lantern; the flame behind the glass quivered and shook. I pulled Myrtle close to my body as we exited last. The girl shivered a little against me, though from fear or cold I could not say. The other children were still running when we came out, fast toward the warmth and light of the farmhouse. Bella was waiting for us, though; her laughter rose strong and carefree toward the sky.

  “The boy could have dropped the lantern,” I chided her. “They’ll have nightmares about that barn for weeks.” But I was not truly angry. It almost felt like before between us, when I scolded her like that. As if those men had never died. The thought was enough to send tears to my eyes, mercifully hidden by the dusk.

  “It was a true adventure, though, wasn’t it?” Bella said, self-satisfied, as we slowly walked back toward the house. “They won’t forget it anytime soon.”

  “Never, I think,” I agreed, then squeezed Myrtle’s hand and blinked away my tears.

  37.

  Belle

  La Porte, 1904–1905

  Colson grew cocky when the year turned, and thought himself my equal on the farm. He started seeking me out in my bed at night, not waiting for me to come to him, quickly closing the door again if one of the children was with me. At first, I thought little of it—he was a young man and could certainly keep me entertained between the sheets—but then our conversations turned worrisome, and I started thinking of the cleaver again.

  “I think we should have new fences up by the road,” he said, lying there beside me with his head on Peter’s pillow.

  “I think the fences are fine enough,” I said.

  “They’re rotting,” he said. “I think we should put up some new ones.”

  “I said we don’t need it.” I felt the first flickers of annoyance in the pit of my stomach.

  “Well, I’ll still do it.”

  “I think you better not.” My mood was quickly changing.

  “It’s your farm, of course. But I think you’re being foolish.”

  I lay awake long after he had fallen asleep, wondering how it was that he felt he could speak to me in that way. Did he think that he had some sway just because he kept me company at night?

  Men can be stupid like that.

  Another night, in his room above the kitchen, Colson said, “I think we should sell that old cow to the stockyard.”

  “She still gives milk—I’ll decide when it’s time to sell.”

  “She barely earns what she eats.”

  I had no quarrel with that cow; she had served me well for a long time. “She’s in good health, there’s no need—”

  “I already made the arrangements. I can take her myself tomorrow.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” I was already seeing his nightshirt red with blood. Something in my voice must have warned him, though, because when he spoke again, his voice was meek. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, of course.”

  Then one night I saw him wearing a shirt from Peter’s old chest. He clearly saw himself fit to wear my husband’s clothing.

  “You are stealing from me,” I said when I confronted him.

  “Sure I’m not, no one else uses it.”

  “Still, that belongs to me!”

  “I just didn’t think you would mind.” The young man stood on the kitchen floor, looking pale. Did he think I was always butter and sunshine?

  “Take that off!” I demanded, and found myself quite livid.

  “I’m just borrowing—I can replace the shirts . . .” More than one, then—good to know.

  “You aren’t fit to use those shirts!” I threw the ricer I held to the floor; it bounced and spat potato grains.

  “I’ll put them back! I’ll put them back!” He lifted his hands in the air in surrender. “Just please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean to upset you!”

  “Take off my husband’s clothes, then, and we will speak no more of it.” No, he was not fit to wear that shirt. I could not think of anyone fit to wear that shirt, not even he who bought it.

  “I feel terrible, Belle—”

  “Mrs. Gunness to you.”

  “Mrs. Gunness, then. I feel terrible.”

  “As you ought to. Now peel that thing off and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning. We both will.” I was thinking that I ought to pay him a visit in the night. Perhaps that feeling I so longed for would be within my reach if I was already angry with my opponent. Colson was young and fit. Surely it would satisfy me to see him crumple at my feet. I had some chloroform in the cupboard and it was easy to administer in a simple glass jar—I did not dare to leave him lucid; the stakes were too high and too much could go wrong. I could not risk him waking the children. When I went up to see him, however, to make sure he was properly asleep, the bed in there was empty. Colson had flown the coop. Maybe he felt something then, much like a rat sensing a cat.

  Whatever the reason, he was gone.

  * * *

  —

  Olaf Lindboe was not a man of great means, but he certainly had his charms and was not afraid to waste them on a well-to-do widow with forty-eight acres. No, he knew exactly what he did when he came to La Porte with his harmonica and his easy smiles. This young farmhand with only a few hundred dollars and a gold watch to his name was set on marrying me from the start. It was how he was to make his fortune, that boy: find an old widow like me.

  For a time I played along; I let him think h
e had me all soft and tender, fed him nice food and cleaned his dirty shirts. I told him what a beautiful man he was, for he certainly appeared to be vain. Then I told him how my farm suffered from lack of a man, and how dreadfully lonely my nights were. He thought he had it all then, when I let him into my bed one night and fed him ham and eggs the next morning. I could see it in the way he moved, in the way he spoke to the neighbors. This foolish, handsome man acted as if he owned the farm already, dishing out his plans for this or that, as if I had no say at all.

  Men like that never think that their charms can fail them, that the one they seek to fool can fool them in turn. They are far too vain for that. They think they can have the world.

  I took great delight in seeing him lose consciousness after eating an orange infused with chloral, took even greater pleasure still in hauling him down to the cellar and giving him those final whacks. There was very little to gain from Olaf’s death, but the pleasure was exquisite. I tipped him into a hole he had dug himself, and filled it up with rubbish. This time, after I had come inside and rested at the table, it came in a heady rush, that feeling. It came upon me in waves of the purest, most delicious sense of victory and spite. He thought he had me fooled, wrapped around his finger—well, look how that turned out! I bested him; I conquered him, and now he was rotting in the ground, because I was smarter than he was and could eat him up, tail, whiskers, and all. James Lee would have been proud.

  I felt invincible that night—as if I had taken out an army all by myself. It was not as intense as when Peter died, but by God, it was something. It was a heady rush.

  “He left when I wouldn’t marry him,” I told the neighbors when they asked, and took great delight in seeing them become all confused. Why would not an old widow like me marry a handsome man like him?

  If I felt kind that day, I said he had gone back to Norway.

  * * *

  —

  James sent me William Mingay, a coachman from New York, next. He too came to La Porte in pursuit of a wealthy widow, wanting to trade city life for country life. I liked Will well enough; he was easy and comfortable to have around. He was no farmer, though, but brought a thousand dollars in cash with him. I had him installed in a room downstairs so I could visit him at night without disturbing the children. He had a tall, sinewy body that reminded me a little of the good things I had shared with Peter. Climbing on top of him and closing my eyes, I almost felt I was back in the first days after our wedding, when the sweetness was ripe and the juices never ceased to flow. When he held on to my hips and moaned beneath me, I could almost forgive the size of his savings.

  That was, until the day I arrived in the kitchen to see his hand encircling Lucy’s arm. He shook the crying girl and yelled at her. “How hard can it be to get me my shoes?”

  As I was told by Myrtle later, the girls were playing in the parlor, bringing in shoes to use as hospital beds for their little dolls. They had been in all the rooms upstairs—except the one with the trunks, as that room was forbidden—and had taken down all the shoes they could find, including Mr. Mingay’s. When the game had ended, they no longer remembered where the different shoes belonged—a fact that did not amuse Mr. Mingay.

  It earned him an orange, that treatment of Lucy, a fat one laced with cyanide. No need for those whacks with the cleaver, then; the cyanide was all it took. As for Mr. Mingay, all I wanted was for him to die, and I did not even wait for that feeling of bliss. When it came to the protection of my children, I struck as hard and cruel as a viper.

  There were others too, men who came to sell me their horses or work for me. All of them were so sure of themselves and treated me as if I were a fool. A sleazy smile and a pat on the rear, why would I not appreciate that? My nights had to be lonely; my days had to be bleak. A single woman would surely crave the comfort of a man, be happy and grateful to have their attention.

  I gave them oranges.

  I wrote to James and asked him to send more bachelors my way, but he dragged his feet. You have an impressive enterprise at the farm, but I would advise you to slow down. I sometimes thought he did not like it much that I filled my house with men who were not him.

  He cared for me in his own way, though, and the crates from Chicago kept coming.

  The children never noticed much of what was going on in the house. They knew the cellar was forbidden to them and never attempted to go there. Jennie was more difficult than the rest, however. At sixteen she was not a child anymore. Sometimes I thought she looked at me with fear, or acted strangely around my houseguests. One day while we were sewing a rag doll for Lucy in the parlor, I asked her how she fared.

  “Well.” She looked up from the stitches. “I have nothing to complain about.”

  “You don’t mind that I have guests, do you? It can be lonely for a widow living alone out here.”

  “Aren’t you going to marry one of them? People think so, that you’re looking for a husband.” This time she did not look up but kept her gaze firmly on the doll.

  I laughed. “Perhaps, but not before I find one that is just as good and capable as the one I lost.”

  “They leave so fast.” A little frown appeared.

  “What?” My needle hovered in the air.

  “They are here one night and gone the next morning, and why do they leave their trunks behind?”

  She was an observant little mouse, then. “They will send for their trunks in time. It’s how the world is now. People travel all the time, looking for a place to settle down. They are just happy to find a safe place to store their goods.”

  “But why do they go in the night?” She sounded breathless.

  “Why? Would you rather they stayed until dawn?” I made another stitch. I could feel a faint pounding in my jaw.

  “I just think it’s strange, that’s all.” The doll hung limp in her hands.

  “You should not think so much. It’s unseemly for a young woman.” I could feel my lips tighten as I spoke.

  “I thought you said it was no sin to be clever.” Her eyes upon me were so large and blue.

  “There is a thing as too clever, little bird. Take care not to be too clever.” I opened my mouth to stretch the jaw.

  “Yes, Mama.” She bent her head; the blue thread from her needle wavered in the air.

  “No one likes a nosy girl. When the men leave is no one’s business but their own,” I said firmly.

  “All right, Mama.” She dropped her gaze.

  “And leave their trunks alone,” I warned.

  “I never touched them.”

  “Good . . . Now, do you think Lucy will like her new doll?” We had stitched it from cutoffs and used brown yarn as hair. I had even sewn a little cap for her head.

  “Sure, Mama. She always loves a new doll.” She gave the sweetest of smiles.

  “You should think about that, then, how happy your sister will be, and not worry so much about those men.”

  “I will, Mama.” Another flash of blue.

  “Maybe Lucy will even let you name her.” The ache in my jaw subsided some.

  We finished our sewing in silence.

  * * *

  —

  I grew tired of waiting for James and decided to take the matter into my own hands. If he would not send bachelors to me, I would find them myself.

  I placed an advertisement in the Scandinavien:

  WANTED—A woman who owns a beautifully located and valuable farm in first-class condition wants a good and reliable man as partner in the same. Some little cash is required, for which will be furnished first-class security. Address C. H. Scandinavien office.

  Who does not love a single woman of means, someone to charm and gain from? There were plenty of answers to my little advertisement, one more blossoming than the other. Gold diggers all, from the looks of it—and like a gold miner I went through it all, sifted through doze
ns of letters and sorted out those I thought worth my while. Men with money, that was what I was after, and I told them that from the start.

  Dear Sir,

  Some time ago I received a letter from you in answer to my advertisement in the Scandinavien. The reason why I waited to reply is that there have been other answers, as many as fifty, and it has been impossible to answer them all. I have chosen the most respectable, and I have decided that yours is such.

  First, I will let you know that I am Norwegian and have been in this country for twenty years. I live in Indiana, about fifty-nine miles from Chicago and one mile north of La Porte. I am the sole owner of a nice home at a pretty location. There are seventy-five acres of land, and also all kinds of crops, improved land, apples, plums, and currants. I am on a boulevard road and have a twelve-room house, practically new, a windmill and all modern improvements, situated in a beautiful suburb of Chicago, worth about $15,000. All this is almost all paid for. It is in my own name.

  I am alone with three small children, the smallest one a little boy, the two others girls, all healthy and well. I also have an older foster child, another girl. I lost my husband by accident some years ago and have since tried to make do as well as I could with what help I could hire, but I am getting tired of this. My idea is to take a partner to whom I entrust everything, and as we have no previous acquaintance, I have decided that every applicant I have considered favorably must make a satisfactory deposit of cash or security.