In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  He gave a bitter laugh that came out more like a rattle. “I would have left you a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the children. I fear for them every waking minute—fear what their mother would do to them—” He broke off and went quiet again for a moment, resting against the pillows. “I do not take marriage lightly, Bella. God blessed our union, and I think he must have some plan with it all . . . Perhaps it is my task as your husband to help—to guide you onto a righteous path, away from all your devilry—”

  “You’re ill and don’t know what you’re saying.” My jaw ached terribly; it was painful to speak. “This broth will make you better, just you see.” I held out the spoon again; its silver handle was adorned with roses. My hand only shook a little.

  “Still,” he said after swallowing the broth. “I will not ask Oscar to discard my letter. Someone needs to know what’s going on in this house.” He grabbed a handkerchief off the bedside table and lifted it to his forehead to soak up the sweat. I could see a yellow tinge to the white in his eyes.

  I knew in that moment that the time had come. My husband thought he had been so clever, telling his brother about his suspicions.

  It did not suit me at all.

  I had to let go of my scorn.

  * * *

  —

  “His death is certainly long overdue.” James Lee sat in my new kitchen and watched me grind meat for sausages.

  “I needed him before. First for his measly pay, then to be a father to the children. Now he’s become a threat.”

  “If you would only settle for a less wholesome life—”

  “Well, I won’t.” I rolled my eyes. “I do know what I want, James.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He lit a cigar; the smoke wafted across the table to curl around the heap of meat and a handful of purple hydrangeas that were slowly dying in a crystal vase.

  “He’s getting very suspicious—and it was foolish of him to tell me all he thinks he knows, what he has done. How can I let him live now?” I huffed a little and went at it with the grinding; the metal rattled inside the contraption.

  “How could you let him live before, taking up your time?” James’s eyes glittered toward me.

  “I needed him, as I said. And it brings me no delight.” That was the worst thing: how I did not even anticipate his oncoming demise.

  “No?” James leaned on the table with curiosity in his gaze. Freshly ground meat spilled out from the grinder in pinkish-red swirls.

  “Where is the satisfaction?” I asked. “Mads is no challenge to me—he is half dead already.” I paused and wiped my hands on the apron.

  “Would you rather he was a large brute with heavy fists?” James gave me one of his teasing smiles.

  I shrugged before answering. “I want him dead, that’s all I know. I want him dead and to be done with it.”

  “I would offer to help, but I believe you will find it more delightful than you think.” He lifted his feet off the chair; his face had a thoughtful expression.

  “Is that so?” I gave a wry smile in turn—I just could not see how any delight would come of this.

  “Oh, there’s nothing quite like scratching an old itch.” He scratched his own mustache as to demonstrate.

  “You only want me to kill again.” I batted at his shoulder as I slumped down in a chair of my own: playful, like a kitten.

  “Why would I want that?” He was playing along.

  “So I would be more like you.” We were still playing, but I meant it, too.

  He pushed his empty glass toward me, asking for a refill. “You are already more like me than you think. I would, however, like to see you lose some of that respectability you carry around like a cloak—”

  “Well, I’m killing him.” I filled up his glass. “That’s certainly not respectable.”

  “Where is he tonight?” James glanced at the door. “Is he up in his bed?”

  “No, he’s quite well again—or as well as he can be these days. I believe his stomach and heart are ruined. There was no reason to keep him up there, though, when he was soon to go anyway. He is back at work at the department store, making a little money, and that’s something.” I sighed and downed my own glass. The liquor was strong and heady.

  James put out his cigar, then leaned so close that his face was just inches from mine. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “You could have just let him die up there, quietly in his bed. Why are you putting it off?”

  “Oh, but I’m not.” I widened my eyes. “I’m merely waiting for the right day to arrive.”

  I closed the distance between us and gave him a kiss, tasting of meat, salt, and liquor.

  * * *

  —

  On July 30, Mads came home from work in the morning as usual. Before breakfast, he played with Jennie and Myrtle on the lawn. It was a lovely day with blazing sun; he never suspected that it was his last.

  Later in the morning, I allowed Jennie to go to pick apples with a family on our street. It was a treat she was rarely given as I liked to keep her close, safely within my reach. I closed the door behind her and wiped sweat off my brow with my sleeve. If the perspiration was due to the sun or my nerves, I do not know.

  This was new to me: killing a man in a day. He could find me out, or even survive if the dosage was not right. Neither of those prospects was appealing. I also had to make sure that the poison was properly laced with the food. If not, he might taste it and raise the alarm. I had spent hours in front of the cupboard pondering the bottles before I made my choice.

  I crushed a pink tablet of cyanide and added the powder to the lemon filling in a piece of cake. Then I sliced another, equally sized piece, which I left alone. I strewed both slices with almonds, as it masks the bitter taste. Next, I poured our coffee, and then I carried it all on a tray to the parlor, where he waited in a black velvet chair. He was tired by then, ready to go to sleep, which was good, as it would make him even easier to fool. I held the poisoned cake in my right hand and held it back when I made him choose. I bit back a smile when his shivering hand reached for the one I had tampered with.

  I sat down in the other chair and found my knitting. I was making little socks of the finest white wool for Lucy that day. I could see him while he ate, how the lemon spread dripped from the sponge; I watched as he devoured it all until there were only crumbs left.

  “Would you like some more?” I asked.

  “Another slice would be nice,” said the oaf, “but you must taste it too, of course.” He truly did not trust me anymore.

  When I returned with more cake, he was already looking ill. His face was ashen and his movements seemed stiff.

  “Are you not well?” I paused in the door.

  “Just tired.” Sweat beaded on his skin.

  “Should I help you to bed and send for the doctor?”

  “Just help me up.” He staggered to his feet. “I’m not feeling well.”

  I took the arm he reached out to me and let him lean on my shoulders while we made our way to the bedroom. There, he slumped down on top of the bed. His eyes were dark and glassy with pain.

  “I should send for the doctor.” I pulled a sheet up his shivering body.

  He nodded in agreement, I think. He could not speak at that point. From the sight of him then, I believed that the dosage had been right.

  I left him and went back to the parlor, where I picked up my knitting. I could hear him make some noise in there, convulsing on the bed. I gave Lucy her meal and watched through the window as Myrtle chased the cat on the lawn.

  When no sounds had emitted from the bedroom for some time, I carefully opened the door. One glance on the bed then, and I knew for sure.

  * * *

  —

  Oh, what a ruckus I made after finding my husband dead. I ran out of the house and onto the street.
I did not stop before I saw my neighbor, Cora, out on her porch.

  “He is dead,” I cried out to her. “He is dead!”

  I threw myself down in the dirt, crushing pebbles and dust in my fists. I wailed down there, sobbed and thrashed and acted as if I did not feel the hands that came to rest on my shoulders, hear the gentle voices around me, or see their faces, white with shock.

  I wept uncontrollably when they guided me onto Cora’s porch, and waved away the cup of tea they tried to force into my hand.

  “Go see if you can find her girls,” Cora told her daughter, and the little girl ran down the street, braids whipping on her back.

  A boy had already gone to fetch Dr. Miller, and the wait seemed to last forever as I sat there with my head bent, shivering and weeping. The neighborhood women fussed around me and brought me a shawl and a stiff drink. We could see Cora’s daughter and my girls come up the street; she carried the one and held the other by the hand, just as a carriage arrived and stopped outside our house. Dr. Miller stepped down, brushing dust off his trousers.

  “I cannot go back there,” I whispered, “I cannot bear to see him like that.”

  “But, Mrs. Sorensen, you must. I will come with you, but you must.” Cora squeezed my hand in hers.

  We staggered down the street while Dr. Miller made his way toward the porch. Cora held me by the elbow and caught me when I seemed to falter.

  “What happened, Mrs. Sorensen?” Dr. Miller paused and waited for us. “Where is Mr. Sorensen?”

  “In his bed!” I wailed, and broke down again. I refused to go inside but sat down on the steps to the porch. “Oh, what am I to do now? A poor widow with three small children in my care—what will happen to us now?”

  Cora sat down next to me and held my shoulders while I cried. I could hear Dr. Miller walk inside, his steps on the floorboards behind me.

  The sun was blazing; the air was humid. Myrtle laughed on the neighbor’s lawn. “Those poor children,” I muttered.

  “You better prepare for the funeral,” said Cora. Women are nothing but practical. “You have to force yourself for their sake. Your girls.”

  Dr. Miller stepped back outside. He wiped his fingers with his handkerchief, adjusted his glasses, and put on his hat. “His poor heart got him in the end, it seems. I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sorensen.” It was very convenient to have a family doctor who carried fond memories of my steaks, puddings, and stews.

  “I told him not to work so hard.” I sniffled, and dried the tears with my apron.

  “She is falling apart, poor thing,” Cora told the doctor. “She lay down on the street and wouldn’t move.”

  “I’ll prescribe a powder,” the doctor said. “Something to settle her nerves.”

  “How can this be happening?” I wailed. “How can it be?” My hands were shaking.

  “Did he eat anything out of the ordinary today? Did he take his medication?” Dr. Miller looked at me.

  “Of course he did! I gave it to him myself. And then he had cake and coffee.”

  “Did he complain about anything? Chest pains?”

  “He said he had a headache.” I dried more tears. “He wanted to lie down.”

  “Well.” Dr. Miller sighed. “I can see you are distraught, so I won’t ask more questions today. He was a very sick man. Perhaps we should have expected it.”

  “At least he is at peace now,” said Cora.

  * * *

  —

  That night, after Jennie’s weeping had ceased and Myrtle’s fussing had given way to sleep, I sat alone in the kitchen with Lucy in the cradle, rocking it gently with my foot. I had turned down the kerosene lamp and poured myself a brandy; the golden liquor sloshed around the glass as I lifted it to my lips. I closed my eyes and savored the taste, and then I prodded my insides. I was looking for that feeling, that same joy I remembered from Anders’s demise. Surely it would be within my reach now that I had killed another man.

  I recognized relief. I recognized hope and possibilities: the start of a brand-new day. I saw Peter Gunness there, his face flashing before me, and I saw myself content and at peace. I saw James too, sauntering through my mind in that feline way that he had. But I did not find that feeling, that red-hot flood of triumph I had felt after Anders died, and found I was dismayed by that fact.

  Maybe Mads’s death had been too easy to count.

  I had been hoping for ecstasy, but as with everything with Mads, all I was given was disappointment.

  24.

  Nellie

  The days following Mads’s death were like a bad dream. One of those that does not make much sense but still lingers long after you wake up and leaves a sickening feeling.

  I learned about the death early next morning, when Bella’s neighbor, Cora, came to deliver the sad news and summon me to Alma Street.

  “She is in no state to come and tell you herself, Mrs. Larson.” Cora sat at my kitchen table, refreshing herself with some hot coffee. “Oh, she was so upset! Though we all knew that he was ill, so it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise! She told me herself, out on the street. ‘Cora, we’ll be lucky to keep him till fall,’ she said, but I guess it’s still a shock when it happens. He seemed so hale too, in the last few weeks. My daughter saw him outside, playing with the girls that same morning. Perhaps he overtaxed his poor heart.” She sipped the coffee.

  “Yes.” My vision was swimming a little, and I had to hold on to the countertop to keep myself steady. “My brother-in-law has been ill for some time.”

  “It will be hard for her now with three girls to care for, and two of them are still so young.” Her face fell into concerned folds. “I advised her to get him in the ground as soon as possible, with this heat and all . . . She should not keep him at home any longer than necessary.”

  “Is he washed yet?” I crossed the short space to the table and sat down as well. I did not have any coffee, though; I felt a little sick, a little dizzy.

  “Oh yes, she took care of that herself. Didn’t even want any help. She is such a hard worker, your sister, and with such a robust constitution. She is certainly of the old country—nothing can slow her down.” Clara served herself from the buttered bread I had put out on a tray; it was a little stale, but I had nothing else. The woman did not complain, though, but drizzled crumbs down on my clean table.

  “What did the doctor say?” My voice barely carried when I asked. With my inner eye, I saw the bruise from the soap bar, and behind it all, I saw my father’s swaying form, his fist poised to strike, his breath strong with liquor.

  “That it was the heart, of course.” Cora shook her head and tutted a little, then took another piece of bread from the tray. “I know Bella gave him all sorts of powders for it, prescribed by that doctor they know, but I suppose there’s little to do once it’s broken.”

  “Of course,” I said. “He did have a broken heart.” No blood then. No wounds or a nasty fall.

  “And that vomiting too,” Cora went on. “She told me all about it. It’s a miracle that he did not die before.”

  “Yes, isn’t it just.” I saw that bruise again. “She wants my help, I reckon?”

  “Oh yes, with the children, of course, but the flowers too. She gave me some coins for black-edged paper, so she can write to his relatives and such.” Cora brushed crumbs off her hands. “You will go there at once?”

  “Of course.” I was already off the chair, looking for my shawl.

  “I am happy for it. She is in such a terrible state and should not be alone.” Cora rose too, leaving her cup on the table. “Jennie is an angel, of course.” She tightened her own knitted shawl over her shoulders. “She helps as much as she can, but she shouldn’t be alone with it, being as young as she is.”

  “Not to worry,” I told Cora, “I will look after them all.”

  * * *

  —<
br />
  All the way on the streetcar, I imagined what I would find when I arrived. I saw Bella sitting in darkness in the parlor, with all the curtains drawn, stiff and unmoving. I imagined the children filthy and starving. The baby crying from the cradle. I saw Jennie trying to comfort them all, bringing her mother and Myrtle treats from the pantry and dipping bread in milk for Lucy. She was only twelve—it would not do.

  It was not what I found, though, when I arrived at the house on Alma Street.

  As soon as I opened the door, I met a delicious smell of hot sugar and butter, and when I entered the kitchen, I found Bella busy with the rolling pin. Jennie and Myrtle were there as well, wearing little aprons. Jennie was in charge of the cookie cutter, while Myrtle’s small fingers pushed one scalded almond on top of each perfect circle of dough. They had already baked one tray, and that was where the smell came from. It smelled even stronger in there, mingling with scents of woodsmoke and lemon. Bella wore black, that was true, but other than that she did not look much like a newly minted widow, with her hands covered in flour and her hair bun half undone.

  “Oh Nellie!” She beamed when she saw me. “I was hoping you could help me with the flowers. We will take them from the garden, of course. There’s no point in spending money on such vanity.”

  “What is this?” I took off my coat; it had already been too warm outside, and in that kitchen it was unbearable. “Cora said you were in mourning,” I said, accusing her. “She made me think you couldn’t be on your own.”

  “Well, I am—I can’t.” She grimaced and finally stopped her eager rolling. “But there’s no one else here but me, so I have to go on the best that I can. Who will feed the children if I don’t?” She wiped her hands on the apron; small puffs of flour rose in the air. Her eyes looked angry—she did not much like to be questioned. “All sorts of people will come to see him, and they will expect refreshments. It just won’t do to have nothing to serve them.”