In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  Ray was found guilty of trespassing again. His new employer, Mr. Wheatbrook, paid his fine and told everyone who cared to hear that he did not believe Lamphere was guilty.

  “She is a vindictive old woman,” Mrs. Nicholson heard him say. “I don’t know why she has it in for Ray, but he must have done something that irked her.”

  * * *

  —

  Shortly after the trial, Asle Helgelien wrote to tell me he was still looking for his brother. He asked me to help him and offered to pay. I wrote him back, trying to appease him by saying there had been a letter from Andrew. Unfortunately, my man Lamphere had made away with it so I could not show it to him. I only knew about it because I had found scraps of it in the barn. I also told him that the same Lamphere had heard that Andrew lived in Mansfield now. I said I would aid him without any cost. Perhaps he could sell what was left of Andrew’s belongings and come down here in May so we could look for him together? If everything else failed, at least I would have that then, the rest of Andrew’s estate for my coffers.

  A man from First National Bank in La Porte came to see me next, asking for Andrew too.

  “What?” I quite lost my head. “Why? Do they think I made away with him too?” It had not been that long since Budsberg.

  I told the man from First National the same as I had told Asle Helgelien, and added that I did not know anything else. Maxon was out in the yard just then and gave the man from the bank a curious stare.

  “I worry so,” I told Maxon, who was new to all this, as soon as the cashier had left. “My former man Lamphere is mad and was very jealous of Andrew. God only knows what has happened to him. I hope they’ll find him soon.”

  47.

  Fate washed up on my shores as a man called Eddie Hinkley. If he was a gift from the devil or the Lord, I do not know, but his arrival at the farm changed everything. He was a horse trader from Minnesota whom I had expected to arrive the year before. Now he was nearby in business, and had decided to show up unannounced to surprise the widow in La Porte.

  “To make up for my negligence last year,” he said, standing in my parlor, bowlegged and filthy. He was a stocky man, just shy of sixty. His mustache was unkempt and steel gray.

  “I am of course delighted to see you.” I tried for my best smile, but he had caught me at a bad time. My house was in severe disarray after the troubles with Lamphere and Asle Helgelien. Had it not been for Myrtle, the floors would never have been swept. Not that a man like Mr. Hinkley would know the difference. He was probably living in a shack from the looks of it. “Did your business go well?”

  “For sure.” He patted a bulging pocket. “I was in luck and made more than I had bargained for. I thought I’d come here to celebrate.”

  I itched to ask him just how much that was, but of course I could not. Instead, I insisted that he should spend the night and set out to make a room ready for him. Who was I to say no to an unexpected gift? As I shook out the linen and beat the pillows, I swore to myself it would be just that: one single night. I did not have the patience to keep a man around and was already mad at him for ambushing me. I could not afford surprises; my whole enterprise depended on me being in control of the comings and goings on the farm. Showing up unannounced was unacceptable.

  Before I set to making my unwanted guest comfortable, I told Maxon to dig a rubbish pit. “A little off the way,” I said. A place where no bones could worm their way to the surface. Then I asked him to go into town for feed and told him he could stay the night. He had earned it, I said, to have a little fun.

  * * *

  —

  Hinkley was resting in the parlor when I came in. His dirty boots were placed on my bottle green footrests, staining the fine velvet. I told him which room he was to stay in, in case he wanted to wash up a bit and maybe rest some before dinner.

  “I have left our soap and a towel for you, a razor too, if you are so inclined.”

  “Bless you, Mrs. Gunness.” The man grinned up at me with brown-stained teeth. “A little rest would do me good, I think.”

  “I hope you like a roasted chicken. It’s all I can offer today.”

  “Of course.” He still grinned and got up on his feet. “I love a good chicken—and bless you again. It has been a long time since I ate a proper meal.”

  With him out of the way, I went into the kitchen and found the chicken I had plucked the day before resting on the table. I had meant for my children to have it, but now it would be Hinkley’s instead. It could only feed so many: three children or one grown man.

  I blessed my luck that James had sent me a crate of oranges just the other week, knowing full well my affinity for the fruit. I was all out of cyanide tablets, though, so Hinkley had to go by chloral. I cursed myself as I rattled through the amber bottles in the cupboard. Cyanide was quicker and did the job all by itself, while chloral often required the assistance of the cleaver. There was a lot I had let slip of late. The business with Lamphere and Mr. Helgelien had left me horribly unprepared.

  I set to cut the oranges, and was generous with the chloral. If I was in luck, it would be enough to kill him out without the mess. It would take some time, though, for a grown man to die from it. Next, I prepared the chicken and rubbed it with butter and set the potatoes to boil. I would serve the bird with peas, as that was all I could find in my pantry. Before long, my kitchen filled with the scent of roasting meat.

  The children came in, dirt-smeared and sweaty from working on the vegetable patch, preparing it for this year’s bounty. They crowded around me in the kitchen and looked at the roaring range with hungry eyes. I had not been a good mother to them lately. With all my troubles, I had scarcely had time to feed them. They had eaten much porridge over the last few months and had been looking forward to the bird. The disappointment was visible when I told them they would not taste the chicken after all.

  “But we are hungry, Mama.” Lucy looked at me with pleading eyes.

  “You can have some bread in the kitchen while we eat in the dining room.”

  “But we want what you’re having,” she said, sulking. “It smells so good.” She closed her eyes and sniffed the air.

  Myrtle had opened the door to the pantry. “The bread is stale and the cheese is green.”

  “There should be some ham in there,” I told her while checking the potatoes with a fork.

  Myrtle stretched to get a better view of the crammed shelves, which proved to hold nothing at all of value. “It doesn’t look so good,” she told me over her shoulder.

  “Some oats, then,” I said. “You can cook a porridge just as good as Jennie’s.”

  “But I don’t want porridge, Mama.” Lucy’s face was red from the heat from the range. “I want chicken, just like you’re having.”

  “Why can’t we have dinner with you?” Myrtle joined the choir of complaints.

  “Because I said so.” My headache was getting worse. “We are to talk about horses and you have no interest in that.”

  “I like horses.” Philip peered up from his place by the kitchen table. He was playing with a toy train, pushing it across the tabletop, between a sugar bowl and an apple core, the heel of a bread loaf and a bottle of syrup.

  “Oh, oranges!” Lucy was suddenly next to Myrtle, looking up at the shelves as well. She had spotted my plate of after-dinner treats, carefully prepared and set aside.

  “Those are for Mr. Hinkley,” I told her. “You will have the porridge Myrtle makes for you.” It was on days like that I truly missed Jennie. It had all been easier when she was around to keep the children occupied at delicate times.

  “But we are hungry,” Lucy complained again, and it cost me some not to slap her. I reminded myself it was not the girl’s fault but Mr. Hinkley’s fault, for arriving so unexpectedly and disturbing the day’s peace. The chicken was meant for the children, not him, but now all they got was porr
idge.

  It was Hinkley who was to blame.

  “I am tired of porridge,” Myrtle muttered in the pantry. “How come we never get to eat oranges?”

  “Oranges are for adults. You can have as many as you like when you grow up.” I could not tell her it was because her mama could not smell the fruit without thinking about poison.

  “I like oranges.” Philip made a tooting sound when his train drove around a vase of wilted flowers.

  “Oh, Mama, why can’t we have oranges?” Lucy asked.

  “I told you why.”

  “But please . . . ?”

  “It doesn’t seem fair that all those are for him,” Myrtle agreed with her sister.

  “You are only quarrelsome because you are hungry,” I told them. “You will feel better with some porridge in your bellies, and if there is anything left, you can have the cold chicken come morning.”

  “The oranges as well?” asked Lucy.

  “No,” I said. “Not those.”

  “Not even if we eat the porridge?”

  I did not answer that. It was better if they believed there was some hope.

  * * *

  —

  The chicken was dry and not nice at all, even if I had found some liquor to chase it down with. Mr. Hinkley did not complain, though, but kept telling me tedious stories about bargains he had made and bets he had lost. I could not wait to get to the dessert, and get the ordeal over with. I truly had lost my taste for the chase—it brought me no pleasure to ensnare Mr. Hinkley. It was as rewarding as milking a cow: hard work for a short-lived pleasure. When the last pea was finally consumed, I let out a secret breath of relief, filled his glass anew, and rose to get the oranges from the pantry.

  I opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside, then glanced at the table and froze. A wave of horror washed upon me, as I tried to make sense of what I saw: Philip’s head was on the tabletop, his pale face tinted blue. His mouth was working as if struggling for breath. Myrtle’s head had fallen back on the chair; her dark curls fell toward the floor. Lucy had slid down from her chair and lay sprawled on the floor like a rag doll. Her arms and legs twitched as I looked on, but her mouth was slack and there was vomit on her plaid dress: orange pulp stained the fabric. On the table, between three empty bowls with traces of porridge clinging to the rims, the china plate stood empty. They had eaten it all: every piece of poisoned fruit.

  I rushed across the floor with my hand outstretched and pressed my fingertips to Myrtle’s cool skin. I searched her neck for a beating vein, but my hands shook so badly I had to give up. Lucy, then! She had vomited some. Maybe it was enough to see her through? Her pallor was not good, though; she was white as a sheet when I knelt beside her. I took a hold of her dress and shook her. “Lucy!” I called. “Lucy, my girl!”

  Her eyes slid open then, showing just a sliver of blue as she peered up at me. “Don’t be angry, Mama . . . You said we could have them if we ate the porridge first . . .”

  “I did no such thing!” I shook her again so as to keep her with me, but her eyes closed and she went limp in my arms. Her arms and legs were still—they were not twitching anymore.

  Tears streamed down my face as I let her go and lifted my gaze to look at my son, but Philip’s blue gaze saw nothing at all. His mouth was still open in death. I could see traces of orange on his tongue.

  I rose to my feet but faltered, and had to cling to the edge of a chair so as not to fall over. I leaned over the back while sickness coursed through me in waves. Ragged sounds came pouring from my throat, sounds I did not know I had in me. How could it have gone so horribly wrong? I should have been firmer about the oranges; should have slapped them all to be sure. My jaw burned—burned and ached—as if it had just received the shattering blow, down on the ground by the lake.

  Just as I stood there heaving for breath, Hinkley entered through the door. He would have heard me for sure.

  “Oh goodness,” he muttered when he saw the children. “God almighty,” he said as he sank down to his knees by Lucy’s limp body and reached for her wrist in search of a pulse.

  “Don’t you touch them!” I cried. I spun around and found the cleaver on the counter. With it in my hand, I moved toward the cursed man who had cost me what I cherished the most.

  “Ma’am?” he tried, crawling backward on the floor. “Mrs. Gunness, please.” I hit him in the head, just in the bald patch, and watched as his skin split open like a soft-boiled egg, spilling deep red yolk.

  He was still alive, though, and kept crawling toward the door, sobbing now, while bleeding on my floor. Next, I hit him in the neck, then the side of the head, and there was no more sobbing after that.

  Eddie Hinkley was dead.

  I dropped the cleaver and looked down at my shaking hands and red-stained skirt, and then I looked at the blue-lipped children who rested by the kitchen table, their features waxen and unfamiliar in death. I looked at the open door to the pantry, where stale food crammed the shelves, and to the nook above the range, where the sausage grinder rested on the night of Peter’s death, and then I stepped over Hinkley’s slumped body and went outside.

  I did not stop before I was in the orchard, below the naked branches of the apple trees. There I sank to my knees in the cool night air and buried my hands deep in the soil, just to feel something real. Around me, the world moved on: a crow cawed, a cow lowed, and a light breeze touched my skin—but it had nothing to do with me anymore.

  It was all lost. There was nothing left for me to want.

  48.

  Nellie

  FOUR LIVES ARE LOST

  Fearful Fire at La Porte Results in Shocking Tragedy.

  LA PORTE, IND., APRIL 28.—The farm residence of Mrs. Belle Gunness was destroyed by fire at an early hour this morning. Four lives—those of Mrs. Gunness, who is a widow, and three children ranging in age from 5 to 11 years—are believed to be burned in the ruins. The theory is advanced that the fire was started by a former hired man with whom Mrs. Gunness had been having legal trouble, and whom she attempted to have declared insane. Mr. Gunness died under suspicious circumstances several years ago.

  Chicago, 1908

  No one came to tell me that my sister and her children were dead, no officer of the law, nor a priest. It was Rudolph who learned of it first, having read about it in the newspaper at work. I was at home preparing some cabbage for dinner when he suddenly burst through the door, waving the greasy newspaper in the air. I could tell at once that my son was upset; his face was pale and his eyes were wild. When he saw me sitting there by the table, there were even tears gathering in his eyes.

  “Mama.” He staggered toward me. “Mama . . .” He bent down and embraced me, holding me tight to his chest, while his body shook with sobbing.

  “What is it? What is it?” I patted his shoulders with nervous hands, like bird wings flapping. “What has happened to have you in such a state?”

  He put the newspaper down on the table then, but of course, I could not read it. I recognized her name, though—I recognized the name, and at first, I went cold with fear, thinking that she had killed someone and been caught red-handed.

  That her secrets would all come tumbling down.

  “What is it?” My voice seemed to come from that cave again, that vast place built of dread. “What did she do? What did they find?” Now it was I who clung to my son’s shoulders for support, as the world around me became hazy and spun.

  “They are dead, Mama! All of them are!” Another sob shook his body. “Aunt Bella is, and Myrtle and Lucy, and little Philip, too . . . There’s been a fire, Mama, at the farm. A terrible, terrible fire!”

  It was too much—was just too much. I leaned on my son and keened.

  * * *

  —

  We gathered in the sitting room later. John and I, Rudolph and Nora. Olga was at the house too, but
in the kitchen just then, rummaging through the pantry for a bit of liquor to settle our nerves. It was all for our benefit, as she was heavy with child and abhorred strong drinks in those days.

  John looked gray and old, sitting in the chair next to mine. I had never before seen it so clearly, how age had changed my husband’s handsome features.

  Nora was as pale as her father was gray, weeping into a handkerchief. When she looked at me, I could tell from the expression in her eyes that it was not as much grief as shock that had her so in tears. She had not yet embraced the truth of the ink.

  Neither had I, and perhaps I never would.

  “Those little children,” she muttered. “How can it be? How can someone do something so vile?”

  “It does happen.” Her brother sat on the sofa; his hands lay aimlessly in his lap. “Men do mad things for all sorts of reasons, and Aunt Bella did not always get along with people—not to speak ill of the dead.” He sent me an apologetic look. He was trying so hard to keep it together, my boy, but the thin line of his lips and the redness of his eyes gave him all away.

  “But who is this ‘hired man’?” John folded the newspaper and smacked it lightly against the table. “Who is he? What is this story about her wanting to declare him insane?” He looked to me, but I could not answer. I had not been there in a year. I did not know what sort of squabble they had, and I could never voice the suggestions that ran through my head: that she had tried to kill him but failed; that he had caught her in some unspeakable act . . . The worst thought of all was that she might have killed this foe of hers instead of trying her luck in court—and thus saved the children’s lives—if only I had not gone there with my anger and demands . . . The guilt was almost as strong as the grief, though I knew it held no reason . . .