In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  I did not have to wait long before he clutched his stomach and croaked from the sofa, “I don’t feel so good, Belle. Maybe some water—”

  “Sure.” I rose and stepped out. I listened through a crack in the door as he fell to the floor, heaving for breath. I had decided to make it swift and clean, let him die in his own time and then drag him down the stairs. I was in no mood for slaying that night.

  He took his time dying, however. I checked on him twice, armed with a hatchet, just in case. The first time he was still conscious, and not as close to gone as I had hoped. When I bent over him, he lunged at me suddenly, tangled his hands in my hair and pulled. We had a bit of a fight then. The table turned over, and a chair went down too, but I managed to bring the hatchet high up in the air and struck his head hard twice. Still he held on, and the pain made me angry. I planted the hatchet in his neck, cursing him silently for making such a mess. The sofa was sprayed with blood and my carpet too was stained. His hands fell away and he went limp on the floor. His gaze was aghast when he looked up at me, dark blood pumping from his neck.

  Why? he mouthed.

  “We do as we must.”

  Why? His lips formed the word again; his teeth were all stained red.

  “We all find our way in life.”

  The second time I checked on him, he was barely breathing and his eyes were closed. I placed rags around his neck to soak up the blood.

  The third time there was no breath.

  His carcass was messy so I rolled him onto a sheet of oilcloth and secured the package with rope. I took a hold of it and pulled him with me across the floor, heading for the door to the cellar. My scalp hurt and I was scratched and bleeding. I hated it when things got out of hand, and there was so much to clean before morning. I opened the door and started the descent; I had come a few steps down so his body rested on the threshold, when a pair of feet appeared at the top.

  I had sent Lamphere on a fool’s errand to buy a horse that did not exist. I had told him to spend the night, but lo and behold, there he was! Reeking of alcohol, his eyes wild.

  “I knew there was something about that cellar.”

  “Be quiet, Ray, or you’ll wake the children.”

  “I knew you were up to something.” His voice was strangely calm, but fear hummed beneath it like a tightly wound fiddle string.

  “Keep quiet,” I hissed. “Come on, grab his legs.” Nothing else to do for it. The damage was done, he was already there.

  “Oh no.” The silly man shook his head. “I won’t go down in that cellar with you. You’ll be planting the axe in my head next.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ray. Whatever would I gain from that?”

  “I wouldn’t tell on you, that’s something.”

  “We have been friends for some time now, Ray. If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

  Still he stood there wringing his hands. “I won’t go down there with you.”

  “Suit yourself, then. There’s whiskey in the kitchen and good money to be earned if you help me get him in the ground after.”

  “After what?”

  “After I take him apart.”

  “Right . . . Why would you do that?”

  “He’ll take up less space in the ground, and the pigs will want the soft parts.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “They dug up some bones, the pigs, the other day. I was going to tell you about that.”

  “What kind of bones?”

  “Shinbones, I think, and maybe something like a jaw.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t know for sure then.”

  “Well, now you do. Will you help me or not?”

  He shifted on the floor and looked uncomfortable before me. “Sure I’ll help you, for a price.”

  “Of course.” There was always, always a price. “You can start by cleaning the parlor, then roll up the carpet and scrub the boards. After that, you’ll help me dig.”

  He nodded and went away. I wiped the sweat of my forehead and kept moving. Andrew was heavy but I was strong. The faint light was a curse, though. The lamp I had placed in the cellar barely illuminated the stairs, and I had no way of knowing if Andrew left a trail. If he did, Lamphere would have to wipe up that blood too.

  When I came back up, Lamphere was in the kitchen drinking. He had cleaned the floors and thrown out the water. He looked pale and his hands were shaking. He did not look at me while I cleaned my hands. I ought to be ashamed to be seen like that, bloodied and hot, my hair come undone, but no matter my state, Lamphere would always be worse. My hands were not shaking. I did not fear him as he feared me.

  “You will not speak a word of this to anyone. If you do, I have friends who’ll find you.”

  “That slick man from Chicago—?”

  “Mr. Lee? He is one.”

  “You would still fry, though, if I told.”

  “Be smart about it, Ray. What you know has some value. You can make a fine profit if you keep your mouth shut and help me out from time to time.”

  “Digging graves?”

  “Just that. I’m a wealthy woman and can pay well for your services.”

  “Maybe you’ll just kill me either way.”

  “Why would I do that? It’s hard work digging those pits. I could certainly use help.”

  He shuddered visibly by the table. “You’re a dangerous woman, Belle Gunness.”

  “I certainly am no saint.”

  “I thought you were going to marry him.”

  “So did he.” I toweled off my hands. “But be quick now, Ray; the body is out in the wheelbarrow and we have to get him in the ground before dawn.”

  Out we went then, lanterns held high, to slip Andrew Helgelien into the ground. It had not brought him much luck, that four-leaf clover. It almost never brought luck. We had a spot at Størsetgjerdet where those small, mishap clovers grew in droves, but they never brought anyone there much luck either. They lied, those clovers—their promises were hollow.

  Lamphere worked in silence, filling in the hole. I held the light for him and was glad not to have to do the digging myself for a change. My hands were too rough and callused as it was. All the blood I had touched became brown stains, embedded deep within the skin. It would not come off, no matter how much I scrubbed.

  After the ordeal, when the earth was black and smooth again, I poured Lamphere more whiskey in the kitchen. “Just be quiet now, Ray, and all will be well.”

  “I won’t say a word,” he swore.

  I gave him some cash and promised more, but only—only—if he was good.

  “It’s in your best interest to do as I say.”

  “Always was. Nothing much has changed there.”

  “I can be a good friend to you if you like.”

  “Or you could kill me dead.”

  “That too.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Gunness.” He folded the bills and put the cash in his pocket. “You can trust old Ray.”

  I could not, of course, and should have known that too, but misery always made me reckless—foolish enough to entrust a fool with the means of my own undoing.

  45.

  Nellie

  Chicago, 1908

  It had felt like such a brave thing to do, walking into Bella’s kitchen to make my demands. When the sickness had passed after our encounter, I had been humming with it for weeks, that sense of power it gave me. Finally, she had given in and crumbled a bit before me; finally, I could make her behave. There would be no more dead children. There would be no more dead men. I had seen to that.

  Oh, I knew she ought to hang. No one had grieved sweet Jennie more than me, but then I grieved for that other girl as well: Little Brynhild, with her large eyes and difficult disposition, the aim of our father’s lashings more often than not. That li
ttle girl so at odds with the world—I grieved for her as well. All I had ever wanted was for her not to ruin things for herself. Ever since she was little that was all I had wanted, and so I could not bring myself to give her up.

  If I did, I betrayed that girl, as dear to me as if she were my own.

  I thought that my words would be enough—I chose to believe that my words would be enough, and I told myself that it would not bring Jennie back, even if Bella hanged. All it would do was make us all more miserable, and with three little orphans to care for . . .

  There is the law of men, but there is another kind of law as well: the law of blood and kinship. I had not even known before how sacred the latter was to me, and how little I trusted the first. I figured it was better if we could solve this all between ourselves and never tell a living soul. If only Bella stayed her hand, we would be fine. There would be a reckoning on judgment day after all, and she would have to answer for her crimes to a far greater power than the sheriff in La Porte—and all I ever wanted was peace.

  There was only one flaw in that brave act of mine: I had not thought of how I was to ensure that she did as I said. For all my blustering words, I could not bring myself to go back there and pretend that nothing was amiss, so I had no way of knowing what she did or not, because I could not be there to watch her. All I could do was trust that she behaved, though I had no reason to nurture such a trust, as she had always been an accomplished liar. She had lied to my face many a time, not least about Jennie and her whereabouts.

  I lied, too, in turn, because I did not want my daughter to worry; I told Nora that I had seen the letters from Jennie, and that the girl was fine but terribly busy. I did not realize before it was too late how Bella’s lies had trapped me, too. Because how could I give up my sister then, without admitting that I had known the truth for some time? How could I explain to my husband that I had known that our niece was dead, and never even said a word? I felt much like a villain myself, laboring under the weight of those lies. Perhaps that was why I did not go back to La Porte, even if I knew that I should, for the children’s sake if for nothing else; I did not like who it made me—how Bella’s secret changed me, and so I chose to stay away.

  Pretended that nothing was amiss—again.

  I worried, though—oh, how I worried, and how I wished that my words were enough to keep her walking a straight and narrow line. Yet when a whole year turned, and I still had not gone back, I was starting to question if I ever would.

  I often wondered if there ever was a time where I could have prevented what happened later. If I missed a crucial moment to intercept fate. Then I thought of what had happened in the wake of that dog—the one that chased Little Brynhild up the hill.

  It was about a week later that a farmer called Gustav Olavsen knocked on our door at Størsetgjerdet. He was a poor sort of man—lying and cheating, but he had some land of his own and so no one spoke too loudly about it. His wife was a waif of a woman, often bruised and losing teeth, but no one spoke much of that either. His knocking on the door was hard and rapid—angry sounding. It was only me, Mother, and Little Brynhild at home, and so I went to answer.

  The man was red in his face and had not even bothered to take his hat off as he stood before the stone step. His dark beard was unkempt and uncut, reaching halfway down his barrel chest. I did not like his eyes at all; they were hard as pebbles as he squinted at me.

  “Is your father home?” he asked me.

  I shook my head, unwilling to speak with such an angry man. At first, I thought it was Father who had done something wrong, stolen some liquor or failed to pay for this or that.

  “Where is he, then? When can I speak to him?”

  I shrugged and made to close the door, but then he moved, quick as a cat, and caught it before I could.

  “Let go.” I tried to wrestle the door from the man’s firm grasp, but of course, he was too strong.

  “What is this about?” Mother came to my aid, though she could not truly help with the door. She stepped beside me and I gave up, letting the man swing it open. Mother and I stood beside each other in the doorway, as was our habit, hiding the state of our home from strangers’ view. It was no one’s business but our own, said Mother, although I knew it was because she felt ashamed.

  “What has he done to have you in such a huff?” Mother crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Oh, it’s not about him this time, but that girl of yours,” Olavsen spat. His face was even redder than before. The fists at his sides were clenched.

  “Which one?” Mother asked as calm as ever. “We have several, as you might know.”

  “The little one.” His nostrils flared as he spoke. “I found her bothering my dog yesterday—throwing rocks. The creature was bound to a post.”

  I felt my own cheeks burn hotly when I realized that the man had to be the owner—the one who had laughed when Little Brynhild fled up the hill. My hands made fists of their own.

  Mother did not think twice. “Nah,” she said. “Little Brynhild would not do something like that; she cares for all living creatures.”

  “Well, that’s what I saw,” he said.

  “Perhaps your sight is failing, then.”

  “What do you want Father for? Would you have her punished?” I asked.

  “As she rightly deserves,” he admitted.

  “In front of you, maybe?” I crossed my arms over my chest as well. “I know you like to see little girls suffer.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His hard gaze eyes met mine.

  “She told me how you laughed when your dog chased her. I think the priest would like to hear about that.”

  He huffed and spat phlegm down on our doorstep. “Good luck with that,” he said, implying that he did not think the priest would ever side against him—and maybe he was right. It cooled his anger, though, that threat. He did not want a rumor like that to spread.

  “Was the dog hurt?” Mother asked.

  The man shook his head. “But only because her aim was poor.”

  “No harm done, then.” Mother’s lips twisted up with scorn. “I’ll talk to her,” she said, mostly to make him leave, I think, as she never did anything of the sort. She never told Father what had happened either.

  When Olavsen was gone, I found Little Brynhild up in the loft. She was sitting by the small window, on top of her mattress, clutching her woolen blanket. She had likely climbed up there the very moment she heard who was outside the door. The pale light that filtered in gave her round face a cold pallor. Her mouth was turned down at the edges and her gaze brimmed with defiant anger. When I settled down beside her on the mattress, she pursed her lips and her gaze drifted down in her lap.

  I fussed a little with her shawl, pulled it further onto her shoulders. “It’s not the dog’s fault,” I told her. “It’s the master that rules the dog, not the other way around. It won’t help punishing the animal.”

  She did not answer, but I could see her jaw working, grinding away in the dim light.

  “Now, I’m not saying that you should throw rocks at Gustav Olavsen, but I think he deserves it more than—”

  “I missed,” she muttered, still not looking up. “I didn’t hit the dog.”

  “I know.”

  “I was angry with it for scaring me.”

  “It’s a dog, Little Brynhild. You cannot blame it for being what it is.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “It is just how it is. A dog has its own nature. It cannot think like us.”

  She did not reply at first, and neither did she look up again. She just sat there staring down in her lap. “I could throw rocks at them both, then.”

  “No.” I sighed. “Not at any of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will only make it worse for you. People like us will always get punished, even if what we do i
s just.” I reached out and let my hand rest on her arm. “Let it go, Little Brynhild. That is all you can do. It won’t do you any good to struggle.”

  She did not speak to argue, but I could feel her muscles tense up under the cotton, and a week later, Olavsen was back, claiming that she had set a fire in his hayloft. No one had seen her there, and the fire had died before it could do much harm, but the farmer was still red with fury, and Father gave her a lashing just in case.

  When I asked her if she had done it, she just shook her head and averted her gaze, refusing to tell me either way.

  She had never been one to let go of a grudge.

  46.

  Belle

  La Porte, 1908

  Choosing an ally like Lamphere was stupid. A drunkard is no one’s friend—not even his own. I so dearly wanted to kill him, and no one would have batted an eye if he died. Men like Lamphere are expected to go to an early grave—but I had said I would not kill again, and so I stayed my hand.

  It was the hardest thing I ever did.

  We had barely entered the month of February when the next troublesome news reached me. My neighbor, Mr. Nicholson, came by one bleak cold morning. He stood in my kitchen, clearly uncomfortable, refusing to sit down.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Why are you so strange this morning?” I was ashamed of the state of my house then; the table was crammed with dirty pots and pans, the floors were dusty, and I worried that he could smell the reek from the pantry. I could smell myself too: the unwashed skin. My shirtwaist was stained under the apron. Only the children were clean in those days, neatly combed and braided. We brought out the tub every Saturday, and they all had their turn in the water.

  “I won’t stay long.” Nicholson toyed with the cap in his hands. “I just wanted to inform you that your man Lamphere is perhaps not your friend.”

  “That Lamphere, he is mad.” I slumped down in a chair. “He has been gone now for three whole days; I cannot trust him at all. What has he been saying?” I felt cold with dread, but I do not think it showed.