In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “Clearly Aunt Bella was right.” Nora curled her feet up in the chair and clutched the handkerchief in her hand. “The man was truly insane! Who would set fire to a house full of children but a madman?”

  “I only wish we knew more.” Rudolph rose from the chair and started pacing the floor, back and forth in the cramped room. “I wish we knew more before—what went down between them.”

  “It does no good to think like that.” Olga entered with a tray of bottles and glasses. “It won’t change what has happened—it won’t bring them back.” Her voice broke a little when she said that last part.

  “Jennie will be devastated when she learns what has happened,” Nora muttered in the chair, and my heart skipped a beat. They would find out now, when they tried to reach Jennie Olson. They would find out that she was already gone. The thought of that would have worried me before, but now it barely touched me. The day had numbed me; I had nothing left to give—and the truth had very few left to harm.

  “Those poor children.” Olga’s hand shook a little when she poured for us all; drops of liquor spilled down on the tablecloth. “Innocent victims in a dispute that had nothing to do with them.”

  “We must go there, of course,” said John, still holding the folded-up newspaper. “We must go there and find out what happened—make sure that the man stands trial.”

  “Mama, what do you think?” Nora looked at me with concern. “You are awfully quiet tonight; did you take a few of your laudanum drops?”

  I nodded to her, though I had not. I had not even thought to do so, even if they would doubtlessly settle me some. I only was quiet because I could not find my voice—because what I grieved was different from what they mourned.

  In my head, I did see her one final time, that little girl from before, rushing across the moor. Her large eyes and her tousled hair peeking out from the headscarf. Her laughter, loud and carefree, rising toward the mountains—beautiful and wild.

  It was over. She was dead.

  There would be peace.

  49.

  The morning after it all went wrong, I wrapped my children in blankets and carried them down into the cellar. Brought them underground like a hulder, never to see daylight again.

  Mr. Hinkley was already there by then, lying on the oilcloth. I did not put my children with him but placed them in the coolest part of the room, next to the potato bin, to preserve them the best that I could. Although I had done the work countless times, I just could not bring myself to take them apart and put them in the earth. When I wheeled away Mr. Hinkley, they were left behind.

  I did not know what to do with them.

  When I came back inside, the house was too quiet. It was as if all life had left with their sweet breaths. This was truly a house of death, when my angels were no longer there to call it home. Brookside Farm deserted me at last, and the walls wept with an invisible grime that tarnished the roses on the wallpaper and gathered between the floorboards like tar. It was as if rot came bursting forth, clinging to every surface. The house was no longer my sister but a foul and cold creature made of dread. Nothing seemed to matter anymore: not Lamphere, not Mr. Helgelien, not the bones that littered my yard. Those were all small concerns compared to what had struck me.

  My jaw felt as if hit by lightning; the pain was so bad that it made me retch.

  I wondered, not for the first time, if Anders was not done with his beating yet but reached out from the grave to pluck every child I dared called my own. That he meant to see me forever bereft.

  As if he had not done enough harm, kicking me asunder by that lake.

  Slowly, slowly, I cleaned the kitchen floor, and then I pulled on my boots and locked the door to the cellar. I left a note for Maxon saying that the children were ill, and I had taken them to Chicago to see our old doctor. He knew very well I did not trust the doctors in La Porte. I got out the buggy then and went—not to see a doctor but James.

  When I arrived, he was not at home, so I waited in the narrow stairwell of his building, completely at a loss as to what to do if James did not come home that night. Many ugly thoughts passed through my head as I tried to make sense of what had happened. All I could see with my inner eye were those blue-lipped faces on the kitchen floor. I knew I needed James, and needed him fast, or else I might truly fall apart.

  I tried but could not muster my wit to figure a way out of my predicament. I could not explain the children’s deaths as natural, nor as an accident—not after what happened to Peter. I could say I had sent them away, but that too could rouse suspicions, especially so soon after Jennie left, and with no good reason at all. Just the thought of living in that house without them made me feel sick to the bone, but if I left the farm, it would only be a matter of time before the soil gave up its secrets and my handiwork was exposed. I would be hunted if that happened. Maybe even captured and tried. And no matter where my thoughts went, they always came back to a blue-lipped child.

  When James finally arrived, I was in quite a state. He was not alone but had a friend with him, whom he promptly sent away. The two of them were reeking of beer and had had a grand day for sure. James quickly sobered up, though, when he realized my state. He opened the door to his apartment and kicked it closed behind us. Without delay, he placed a bottle and a cup on the rickety kitchen table and told me to sit down.

  “Tell me everything,” he said, pouring with a generous hand.

  He saved my life that night, James Lee, talking me through the worst of it, plying me with drink and cooking up a scheme. When I at last fell asleep in his bed, I could finally see a light. It was tiny, but it was there, guiding me through hell.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, we entered the bustling streets of Chicago, and the noise from the carriages, streetcars, and chatter was almost more than I could bear. I felt as if I were caught in a dream, exhausted and wrung out as I was, walking next to James on the sidewalk. He had donned a fancy suit with silver buttons and his shoes were gleaming black. Next to him, I looked like a beggar, but that would not last for long. Our first aim was to get me a satin skirt, a hat, and a decent coat. A pair of shoes too, and gloves.

  Then we went on a hunt.

  We found Moira in a women’s clothing store, drifting among rows of shirtwaists and long skirts, coats and pairs of gloves. James sat in a chair by the entrance reading a newspaper when I swung by him and nodded in her direction. She was clearly not a woman of great means, and was likely shopping for a mistress. Her coat was worn and her hat simple; her hands were as dry and hard as my own. When she riffled through the silk gloves, the fine fabric snagged in her skin. The clerk, a tall woman my age with a shirtwaist beset with ruffles, saw what happened too, and scowled.

  James looked up. “She’s a little small compared to you, I think.”

  “Well, I would have to handle her, wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh, but you have handled some big beasts before.”

  I looked at the woman again. She was perfect in age and stature and I did not think the difference in size was that notable. “She’s the best we’ve found all morning.”

  “The hair color is wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I could work around that.

  “Well, go talk to her, then.”

  I circled her a few times before I approached. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Finding the right color.”

  She looked up. Her eyes were brown, not blue like my own, and there was a gap between her front teeth. “Yes.” She smiled at me. “My employer is very particular.”

  “I used to work in Chicago as well. I had two different employers while I was here. It was hard, I remember, living with all those demands. It did not turn around for me before I left the city behind.” I was amazed at how easy it was to slip back into it. I had worried that with my grief, the lies would not come as easy to me as they usually did. But they ca
me, like ducklings in a row, one following the other, tumbling forth. I liked being the woman I pretended to be, the one without blue-lipped children in the cellar.

  She looked me up and down then, at the fur I wore and the bottle green hat with a plume. “Where did you go, then?” Her mouth hung open.

  “I married a farmer in Indiana. My husband is dead now, bless his soul, but the farm is thriving and makes a good living.”

  “Oh, how I miss the countryside.” She sighed. “I grew up outside Dublin and came here when I was eighteen.”

  “I was twenty-one when I came from Norway. It was hard at first, trading one country for another, but it paid off. I never could have made as much money in Norway.”

  “No?”

  “We don’t have farms the size of mine in Norway.”

  She laughed then and lifted her hand to hide her teeth. Some rot then, perhaps. “I don’t think I’ll ever escape the city.” Her smile turned bitter, drooping at the edges.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I was going to settle with my fiancé as soon as we had the money, but he died. Now I don’t see how it could happen.”

  “It’s a hard life, unless one is in luck.” I reached out my gloved hand. “Belle Gunness.”

  “Moira Callaghan.”

  The soft, dark fabric of my glove swallowed her callused hand. “It appears you are in luck today, Moira. I’m looking for a woman just like yourself.”

  She instantly looked wary.

  “Nothing strange, I assure you.” I laughed and patted her hand. “I’m looking for a new housekeeper, that’s all. The running of the farm takes up so much of my time that my house and children suffer for it—and here you are! Another woman left behind. I think I could appreciate your company.”

  “But I—I could . . .” She stuttered and struggled to find the right words.

  I gave her another warm smile. “Come meet my brother if you like; he’s waiting there by the door. We could take you for a meal and talk things over. You don’t have to decide right away.”

  She would, though, I was certain that she would. She had that longing in her eyes for something easier—better. A glass of beer, a nice meal, and a promise to fix her teeth, and she would be mine, signed and proper.

  How could she ever resist?

  * * *

  —

  Moira loved the farm, as I knew she would. I gave her a nice room upstairs and told her the children were visiting an aunt but would be back in the morning. “They’ll be so happy to have someone to look after them when I can’t,” I told her.

  Maxon was out and I was glad for it; everything would be easier then. I asked Moira to keep me company while I made soup and sliced bread. I found that while she was there beside me and had me talking as if nothing were amiss, I could briefly believe it too—that the children were merely away for a while. It was a most welcome respite.

  Moira stood by the window while I cooked, and looked out in the yard at the chickens and the dog.

  “He’ll bark at you at first, but then he’ll get used to you,” I said.

  “Oh, look at the cat. I love cats!”

  “We have kittens in the barn too, no more than a week old.”

  “And so many chickens!”

  “They are a menace at times, digging up my vegetables.”

  “All those horses, Mrs. Gunness!”

  “They are a fine investment.”

  “Oh, I could never have done all the things you have done.”

  “No,” I muttered, “I don’t think you could.”

  Halfway through the meal, Moira had to excuse herself, as she was feeling ill. I wished her a speedy recovery as she made her way upstairs. Soon after, I cut her throat and let her bleed out in a bucket.

  I do not think she ever woke up from that soup.

  When I had her in the cellar, I cut off her head but nothing else. I dug it down behind the water pump but left the body clothed in the cellar. I brought down a log from the range next, glittering with embers, and set to singe the severed flesh of her neck. The air quickly filled with the reek of burned meat. It was not perfect but the best I could do.

  The whole time I was down there, I had not looked at the children. I did not want to see those blue lips again. Every time I closed my eyes, I was there, by the hole in the dirt, next to a root. I could smell the damp forest floor and feel the slick soil in my hands. It had happened again, despite my best efforts.

  Anders had hit me again.

  My teeth ached and my stomach too, as if fists had just pummeled the flesh.

  Then came the moment when I had to approach them. I had to go upstairs for a glass of whiskey first, had to pace those empty rooms once more and tell myself that it needed to be done. Then I went back in the cellar.

  Steeling my heart, I dragged Moira’s headless body to the resting angels in the corner by the bins. She was stiff and hard to move, but Philip was soft when I touched him. I had him cling to her breast just as he would a mother, and he fit neatly in the curve of her arms. Had it not been for her headless state, the scene would have looked comforting.

  I placed Lucy on her left side and Myrtle on her right, leaning in on Moira’s shoulder.

  People would believe it was me, would they not?

  Why would they not believe it?

  * * *

  —

  The morning after, I went in to La Porte. I was to see the lawyer to draw up a new will. I made quite a spectacle, I believe, sitting there in his office, weeping into my handkerchief.

  “I cannot put it off any longer. That man drives me mad . . . There simply is no telling what he can do!”

  “The police—”

  “They won’t put him under bonds, and they won’t declare him mad. What is a poor woman to do but endure? There’s no justice in this world!”

  “I’m so sorry that you have to put up with this, Mrs. Gunness. I’m sure that he is harmless—”

  “Harmless? If only people knew what things he’s been saying to me! No Christian woman should ever be forced to hear such foul language.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gunness.”

  “Well.” I took the fountain pen he gave me. “It is no fault of yours . . . Where do I sign the papers?”

  My new will gave everything to my children, but should they all die without issue, it would go to the Norwegian Lutheran Children’s Home in Chicago. They could surely use the money. It was not much, as most of my earnings were kept at home in my money box, but I did have a few trinkets in a safe deposit box at the bank and added some seven hundred dollars to it when I went to deposit the will. The farm would probably fetch a decent sum of money too, when it sold.

  I stopped on my way home to buy a large can of coal oil.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, I found myself on a train with James. I sat on a red velvet seat in a first-class coach and read about my ghastly death in the newspapers. Arson, it said, suspected to be the work of a madman.

  Outside the window, dusk had just settled and painted the leafy woods in shadows. Soot from the train had stained the glass and obscured the view even further.

  “This is old news already.” James lifted his cane from the floor and tapped the newspaper in my lap. “Lamphere is long since arrested.”

  “I know that.” I reached for the paper bag of sweets by my side and shoved a piece of anise-flavored candy in between my lips. At least I could have some sweetness, I thought, even if I all I cared for was lost—except the money. I still had that, greasy and foul in a box. “What if they don’t believe it’s my body?” My gaze darted to the wooden door to our small compartment, making sure that it was closed. It would not do at all to be overheard by a Norwegian, although the chugging of the train made that almost impossible.

  “W
ho else could it be? Not to worry, Bella, they will buy it.” He looked calm enough to calm me too.

  “It’s not Bella anymore.” Not Belle either, and certainly not Brynhild.

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know.” I picked another piece out of the bag. “I’ll think of a new name when we get to New York.”

  “You ought to rejoice! You escaped!” James tapped the cane against the newspaper again. The train kept chugging, ever faster. James smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He worried for me, my friend. “You can have another child.”

  “Another child won’t make up for those I lost.” My mouth felt dry and the darkness that always dwelled inside me ever since that fateful day came rushing back to the surface, threatening to devour me whole. It did not mean much at all, the clever planning, the cunning escape, when I thought of the three little bodies in the cellar. “I like to think that they went to Minnesota. I think they were adopted by a family there. They have eggs and milk for breakfast every day. Myrtle plays the piano and Philip has a new kitten. Lucy is learning to make apple pie.”

  “If that suits you.” He arched an eyebrow. “It was a damned unfortunate affair. They shouldn’t have eaten those oranges.”

  “No, they knew well that they shouldn’t.”

  “It isn’t your fault that they chose to misbehave. Children will do that, no matter how well-raised.”

  “If they had only listened to me, nothing bad would have happened.” I moved, uneasy on the seat, my lips pressed tightly together.

  “But you would have been stuck in La Porte, and things could have gone very wrong. Instead, you are here with me, on your way to a new enterprise.” He slipped his hand inside his coat and a second later, it emerged with a flask. “Here.” He held it out to me. “Dry your tears now and strengthen yourself.”

  I had not known I was crying, but when I touched my cheek, it came away wet. It startled me, as I was not prone to tears, other than those of convenience. The whiskey tasted good, though; it burned all the way to my stomach, soothing the pain all the way. The anger too.