In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  “No, of course not.” Clara’s lips twisted up in a secretive smile. “But I heard him invite her to see the Javanese orchestra play the next day. I wonder if she went.” I looked over at my friend. The years had not been good to her, though not quite as cruel as they had been to me. Her curls had turned a steely gray and deep lines had lodged in her face. Her nose, which had always been prominent, seemed both longer and broader. She still had that same smile, though—that same way of telling a story. I had missed her every day since I moved away. She had been more of a sister to me over the years than the one I paid to have cross the ocean.

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me,” I said, a little annoyed that Bella had not told me of this handsome man herself. “Then again, she is a married woman—and he a married man. They may not want to let anyone know if they visited the Midway together.”

  Clara leaned a little closer. Her finger drew invisible circles on the tabletop. Even if the room was new, the table was not, and she had drunk countless cups of coffee there before. Perhaps even drawn the same circle in that exact same spot. “Has she done it before?” She had lowered her voice. “Does she . . . find her ‘entertainment’ outside the marriage bed?”

  Again, I saw that love bite with my inner eye. “Not that I know,” I said, “but she doesn’t tell me everything. Never did.” I put down the mending in my lap and sighed. “Their marriage isn’t good, I can tell you that much. The way she speaks to him sometimes, it is . . . repulsive. I can barely stand to listen as she taunts him and mocks him. It’s not right for a woman to treat her husband like that.”

  Clara was not laughing anymore. She knew me well enough to tell that I was upset. “She has always been a little different, Nellie, that’s nothing new. One must wonder what sort of man he is, though, to let her go on in that way.”

  “Ah, he doesn’t understand her.” I shook my head. “He doesn’t understand what he does wrong, and so he cannot correct it either—or talk to her about it.”

  “He is not so bright?”

  “He is . . . different from us; a little rigid perhaps. He thinks there is only one way to be in this world, and then, when people turn out to be different, he doesn’t understand how that can be. He is simple in that way, I’ll admit to that, but he is the man she married.”

  “She makes a fool of him?” Clara toyed with her cup, swilling the remains of her coffee around the bottom.

  “That she does. He is no match for the likes of her. He rarely, if ever, puts up a fight.”

  “And a fight she must have.” Clara nodded with a thoughtful expression. “That man, though, Peter Gunness, he seems a decent sort. Many a tired wife has tried to sway him since he arrived, but the word is that he will not. He is true to his wife.”

  “A rare kind of man indeed,” I said, and then instantly regretted it. I knew of many men who were true, my husband among them. “I fear that his resistance will only make her more determined, though.” I could not help but laugh again; it was all so wicked.

  Clara rose to fetch the kettle and fill our cups. She was just as at ease in my new home as she had been in my old one, and it touched me to see it. “I must admit that he seemed a little smitten as well,” she said, “or perhaps it was just compassion. Perhaps he thought that whole scissors affair intriguing. It’s such a silly thing, you know, how something as ordinary as a pair of scissors can suddenly be used as a weapon. Perhaps he admired her for it.”

  “Oh, she would certainly like that.” I picked up the mending again. “What is he doing in Chicago?”

  Clara sat back down again; the fresh coffee steamed in our cups. “He is working at the stockyards—is a butcher by trade.”

  I could not help but chuckle again as I slid the needle through the fabric. “She has always been drawn to such skills,” I admitted. “When she was a girl, she would always go as close as she could to the butchering; often so close that she was blood-splattered in the face when she came home. If she was allowed to, she would stay on until the creature was all taken apart.”

  “I can see how Mr. Gunness is alluring, then.” Clara squinted as she threaded the needle. “Perhaps she has retained a glow for the bloody trade.”

  A cold shiver ran through me. “It’s hard to grasp what moves her, but perhaps a man with a cleaver does just that. What about the wife? Why is she not here?”

  “She is sickly, they say. He means to go back home to her when he is done with his work here.”

  “Oh, that’s a good thing, then. At least whatever is between them will shortly come to an end.”

  “Indeed,” Clara agreed. “It will not do to have domestic disturbance now that she has that girl to care for.”

  * * *

  —

  It had taken me a while to get used to our new apartment. I could not believe the sheer number of doors. Whenever I opened one, it seemed like another one appeared before me. I had a proper pantry and a sitting room as well, which was something I had never had before. I bought two chairs cheap, and added a little table, so that John and I had a place to sit at night when the dishes in the kitchen were clean and our son was about to go to sleep on the bench. He had turned into such a fine young man, and I could not have been prouder when he started working alongside his father and earned his own wages. Olga was not too far behind; a few years and she would be making it on her own. What would we do then, with only Nora, my youngest, for company?

  I could relate to Bella when such thoughts came upon me, how she must have suffered through the years without children. It was different with Jennie, though; she would stay even as other foster children came and left. That little girl was a blessing.

  I often looked after her while Bella ran errands, either at our apartment or at their house on Elizabeth Street. I felt that she was a little mine as well, since she called my sister Mama. She had a sunny disposition, and Nora enjoyed being with her as well, as they were almost the same age. The two of them would play for hours, making up their own little world. Though things were not good between Mads and Bella, the child seemed to be—so far—untouched by their discord.

  Then, as the year moved toward its end, the situation took a sinister turn.

  It was John who made me aware of it, one night when he came home from work. Though we had entered the dark season, the paleness of his face could not be attributed to winter’s hardships alone. He barely had time to shed his coat and sit down at the table, where dinner waited in steaming pots, before he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I fear that Mads is gravely ill.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I was busy filling his plate, and it took a moment for the words to sink in.

  “We met him on the street,” Rudolph said. He had come in with his father, having come from the same place of work, and was brushing off both pairs of shoes before entering.

  “He looks like a man on his deathbed,” said my husband. “I almost did not recognize him at first. His cheeks are all hollow and his color like ash. When I asked, he said it was a stomach virus, but it didn’t look like a virus to me. It looked as if life itself was seeping out of him.”

  “He did look poorly.” My son nodded from his crouching position by the shoes. “It is as Father said; it didn’t look like some little thing.”

  The girls had come out of hiding in their room at the sound of their father and brother’s arrival and were happily filling the bench, both of them hungry no doubt. When they saw John’s somber expression, they fell quiet.

  “Bella has not said a word,” I told him. “It must have been sudden, this illness. Did he mention seeing a doctor?”

  John sighed. “He said your sister was set against it, that she thought it foolish to spend money on a doctor when it would probably just pass.”

  My cheeks reddened. “She has her hands full these days. She must not have seen how bad he looked.”

  “Well, she wo
n’t have a husband for long if this is to continue.” John drew a tired hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Aunt Bella must think it’s a stomach virus.” Rudolph took his place by the table.

  “Well, for all we know it is. They can be pretty horrible,” I muttered, “and none of us are doctors.” I felt ashamed on her behalf, to let her husband go and suffer. “Maybe she is treating him with powders and suchlike.”

  “Isn’t there a doctor lodging with them?”

  “He hasn’t moved in yet. His position starts in January.” Bella and Mads had decided to let a room.

  “Now that’s bad luck,” John mused.

  “I think you should go there, Mama.” Rudolph’s bright brown eyes met mine. “Just to make sure that they’re all right.”

  I nodded and gave a deep sigh. “I will go first thing tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  Bella was busy sweeping the kitchen floor when I arrived. Little Jennie, fair and lithe, walked in her mother’s footsteps with a broom of her own, sweeping up what little her mother missed. I had expected there to be some sign of illness in the house—bottles of tinctures or medicine fumes, at the very least a hush in the atmosphere—but there was none.

  “Nellie.” Bella straightened up and stretched with her knuckles pressed to the small of her back. “I was not expecting you.”

  “I know . . . I know . . . It was just—John told me that Mads was ill.” I was still lingering by the door, unsure if I should go inside a house with such a mysterious illness. Both my sister and her daughter seemed fine, though.

  “Oh no, that’s nothing.” Bella waved it away. “He will be his old self in no time at all.”

  “Well, where is he? Is he at home?” I stretched my neck to perhaps catch a glance inside the parlor.

  “He is in bed.” Bella placed the broom behind the door and slumped down in a chair. Jennie quickly followed her example and claimed a chair of her own. “Come inside, Nellie. Don’t just stand there and gawk. I don’t know what John told you, but it’s nothing serious.”

  “No?” I took a few steps into the room and started to unbutton my coat. “John said he looked half dead!” I should perhaps not have used such strong words, but I was frightened and upset. “You should send him to see a doctor,” I said as I sat down with the coat in my arms.

  “We will have our own doctor soon,” she replied. “That will be nice, won’t it, Jennie?” she cooed at the girl, who awarded her with a bright smile. “Then we will never have to spend hard-earned cash on such luxuries.”

  “Well, he could be dead by that time.” Sometimes Bella had to have it spelled out. “What if it is not a stomach virus? What if it is something more serious than that?”

  She shook her head, rose again, and set to making coffee. “I have seen him sick with such viruses before and I know they make him seem very poorly, but he will clear right up again. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “What are you giving him, then? Surely he must have some sort of medicine?” I felt a headache coming on; it was impossible to talk to her when she was in such a mood, determined to be happy and refusing to see reason.

  “I give him a tincture the pharmacist recommended,” she said with her back turned toward me. “Three times a day without fail. He is much better already.”

  “What is the name of it?” I knew I had to test her, because sometimes—sometimes—she lied.

  “Oh, I cannot remember, I keep it upstairs on his bed stand, next to the Bible, which, as you know, is the only medicine he truly wants.” Was there bitterness I heard in her voice, or scorn? It was hard to tell with her back turned.

  Just then, the creaking door to the hallway announced Mads’s arrival.

  John had certainly not been wrong about his condition. I took one look at his face and then I knew that the man was in mortal peril.

  “Good God, Mads.” I rose at once and walked toward him. He stood leaning against the door frame, dressed in his pajamas. His hand, which held an empty cup, shook. “My God,” I repeated. “Look at you! You must see a doctor at once!”

  “Do you think so?” he asked in a voice that barely carried.

  “It’s not so bad,” Bella said behind me.

  “I cannot keep the food down,” he said. “It keeps coming up again.”

  “Bella!” I turned to her; my frown was so deep that the headache bloomed. “He must see a doctor!” I used the same stern voice I had practiced so often when she was a child.

  She sighed. “It’s a waste of money.” She put a cup down on the table, presumably for me, and filled it with scalding-hot coffee. Jennie pulled her knees up to her chin and followed our exchange with worried eyes.

  “I will go and bring the doctor here myself.” I fetched my coat. I did not trust that anything would be done if left up to my sister. Mads barely nodded, but I think he was grateful. Relieved that someone other than Bella took charge.

  When he went to put on a proper shirt in anticipation of the doctor’s visit, I could not help but scold her. “It is terrible what you do, keeping him from the doctor when he is clearly very ill! What has gotten into you, Bella? Have you no heart for him at all?”

  She looked at me as if confused. “I know how to make him better, Nellie. I can have him up again in no time at all!”

  “Then why is he still bedridden?” I could not believe my ears.

  “You are making a terrible fuss over nothing.” Her eyes flashed with anger.

  “That did not seem like nothing to me!” I flung my arm in the direction he had gone.

  “Well, just bring the doctor if you like—he won’t find a thing!” She all but stomped her foot. Her face was flushed and her nostrils flared.

  “You cannot know that.” I pointed a finger at her chest.

  “Oh, but I do,” she hissed in reply. “I know better than he does what ails him.” She lifted her chin in the way that she did, making her seem both stubborn and proud.

  Just then, Mads reappeared in the doorway, properly dressed this time. I gave my sister another stern look before crossing the floor to the door.

  Just as I passed through the gate to the street, I heard her call out behind me, “You should have left it well alone, Nellie! He would have been just fine on his own!”

  * * *

  —

  To my dismay, Bella was right: the doctor could not tell just what ailed my brother-in-law. He did think it was grave, though—grave enough that Mads stayed in the hospital for a few weeks. When he came home, he was better, but it took months before he could work as he did before the illness, and he never quite recovered but remained ashen-faced and delicate.

  Bella made a great fuss about her sickly husband, lamenting to all that would hear, but she never apologized or thanked me for bringing the doctor that day, even if it likely saved Mads’s life.

  I was not too surprised, and pushed it away. She never much liked to be wrong.

  20.

  Bella

  Chicago, 1895–1896

  Mads’s brother, Oscar, came to visit in the spring of 1895, having been summoned by my husband’s worrying letters. He would stay with us for a whole three weeks, and I was very displeased.

  The man was rude and did not care for me. Still, I made a bed for him in the room James and I so often used, laid out soap and clean towels and even some wax for his mustache. In the kitchen, I made sausages and mashed sweet potatoes. I bought smoked salmon and had clams delivered, made bread and served it with soft butter—yet he did not like me.

  He and Mads would withdraw once the food was devoured to smoke and drink watered-down wine in the parlor while I soaked their plates and scrubbed the pans. No matter how I strained my hearing, I could not make out what they said behind the closed door, and that angered me even more. I wanted Oscar gone but was forced to ac
t a good wife and serve delicious food that none of them even deserved.

  One day, as I was mending clothes by the kitchen table, Oscar came to me. He was as dull as his brother, stocky and balding. Despite my laid-out soap, he smelled as ripe as a farmhand.

  “How can you let him go on like this, Bella?”

  I made another stitch and then I looked up. “I cannot make Mads do or not do anything. If you’re thinking about his poor color—”

  “He can barely work, he cannot keep his food down, and he is always, always in pain. He ought to see a doctor every week!”

  “If my husband thinks he needs a doctor, I expect him to say so, or make an appointment.” I preferred if he did not, of course. I knew very well just what it was that made him ill. I had been careful since he was in the hospital, though; it just would not do if someone, like my meddling sister, realized what I had done. I had not set out to kill him that time, just punish him a little, but it had been so hard to stop. I had kept picturing what sort of life I could have had with another man—someone like Peter Gunness—and the rat poison had been right there on the shelf. He might have died then, and I would have been free, had it not been for Nellie. It annoyed me how she had come barging in and made a fuss, but I was a little grateful as well, as I still needed Mads’s income. I had been good and fed him very little poison over the past year, just enough to keep him meek. One never knew with such things, though; one day my hand might slip, or his body might give in. “We had a young doctor staying with us last year,” I said to Oscar. “Mads received much advice from him.”

  “Not nearly enough, from the looks of it! Are you aware of his chest pains?”

  “Of course, but it’s not uncommon to feel a twinge when living under strain. The heart doesn’t like a heavy load. If he made a better living—”

  “He is ill, Bella, and has been for some time. I will take him to see a specialist first thing in the morning.”