In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  I paused to catch my breath and quiet my hammering heart. I looked at the mess on the table—at my hands so red in the light from the kerosene lamp—and quickly assessed my options: Should I step forth and show myself, bloody and reeking, to the person up there, and risk that they slipped away before I learned who it was, or could I be more clever about it?

  I chose the latter option.

  I unhooked the lamp from the ceiling and went to the door that led out into the yard. Then I extinguished the flame just as I slammed the door once, giving the illusion that I had gone outside. Next, I crouched in the darkness by the door, as quiet as I could, not even moving an inch, cursing myself all the while for not having had the wits to lock the cellar door from the inside—I suppose I was not in the habit, since it had never been a problem before.

  The flickering on the wall was stronger then, when my own light was out, and so I was sure that someone was still there, someone with an uneasy hand, as the light lifted and fell on the bricks. I also thought I could hear a rustling, and the sound of uneven breathing.

  I waited there a good long while, wondering if the person would come down or leave. I swear I was hoping for the latter, but I had brought the cleaver with me, and was clutching it hard in my hand as I sat there, waiting for that light to either grow brighter or disappear. My back started to ache after a while, and the muscles in the legs protested the strain, but I still sat there, breathing as quietly as I could, just waiting for that person to make up their mind.

  I was fully expecting it to be one of the Greening brothers, the farmhands I had just hired, poking their noses where they did not belong. Wondering, perhaps, what the widow was doing in the cellar all alone, late at night, but when the person finally came down the steps, candle held high in a shivering hand, that was not who it was. There was Jennie, looking much like a wraith in her nightdress on the stairs, her hair hanging loose to frame her heart-shaped face.

  I did not know what to do right then, if I should rush at her or stay quietly by the door. Perhaps she would turn and go back, I thought—and then I wondered if she had come there to look for me because one of the younger children was ill. When she had come halfway down, she lifted the candle, to better see the room before her: bloody table, limbs and all. Even from the distance, I could see how her eyes widened, and how the hot wax spilled down from the candle and onto her hand, shivering in her grasp. Yet she moved the candle around in a half-circle motion, let the light spill onto sacks of flour and heaps of potatoes, rows of jars and barrels of apples, until it found me, crouching by the door.

  She startled when she saw me, turned and ran back up the stairs—her stealth suddenly vanished. I dropped the cleaver and was at her heels at once, chasing her disappearing light. As I paused in the kitchen to unhook the lamp above the table, I could hear her move on to the upper floor, and found her extinguished candle in a corner on the landing when I continued the chase, rushing after the sound of her footfalls until I heard the door to her bedroom slam shut. Then I slowed down the pace.

  I opened the door and made no secret of it. I surely did not come in secrecy. Jennie lay on her stomach on top of the bed, shivering all over. Her face was burrowed into the pillow, where she made strange sounds: half crying, half whining. I sat down on the lip of the bed and she flinched. My red hand placed the lamp on the floor and turned up the wick. The air in there smelled of fresh linen and urine.

  “Why did you have to do that, Jennie? What am I going to do with you now?” I placed my stained hand on the back of her head; strands of hair plastered to my fingers. “You knew the cellar was forbidden, so what did you go down there for?”

  The girl did not answer but kept on shivering, making those ugly sounds. “You saw what happened to Myrtle and Lucy, only for taking a peek. What do you think will happen to you, now that you have seen the whole thing?” I sighed deeply and removed my hand. “I’d rather not have to let you go, but what you know now, it’s dangerous.”

  She mumbled something deep in the pillow. I leaned closer to hear what she said. “I promise, I promise, I won’t say a word . . .”

  “I hope you speak the truth, Jennie. My friend James Lee in Chicago is very fond of me, you know. He wouldn’t look kindly on you if something happened to me. If you ever tell a soul, you’ll be dead one way or another.” It brought me no pleasure to threaten her, but what was I to do? I had to make her understand the gravity of the situation.

  “I will not . . . will not . . .” she whispered.

  “Good, Jennie.” I patted the back of her head again and pulled the quilt up around her shivering form. We had made that blanket together, she and I, cut scraps and hemmed the pieces into glorious patterns. “Go to sleep now. We won’t ever speak of this again.”

  I took my lamp and walked out of the room, found the key on top of the door frame and locked her in to be sure she would not run off in the night. She was rattled and scared for sure. I would have to watch her closely until she regained her senses.

  I stomped down the cellar stairs to finish my work on Mr. Porter, but my enthusiasm for the task was diminished.

  Why would she do something so foolish?

  I could send her away, I thought, while loosening Mr. Porter’s arms from their sockets, but if she was far away from me, her tongue could easily loosen.

  I could marry her off, I thought next, sawing off Mr. Porter’s legs two inches above the knees. But then the intimacy of the marriage bed might tempt her to share.

  I could send her back to her father, but that might be the greatest mistake of all.

  She had made herself a problem and that was the truth of it, I figured, while gathering up the slops in the pigs’ bucket.

  No matter how I looked at the problem, what solutions I tried to come up with, the answer remained the same.

  Of course it did. It always did.

  She should not have gone down in the cellar.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Jennie pretended that nothing was amiss, though she looked paler than usual and her blue gaze wavered.

  “Did you sleep well?” I shoved some sausages onto her plate.

  “Very much so, yes.” Her voice sounded breathless.

  “Mr. Porter had to leave us early this morning to go to Chicago and trade some horses.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “He will be back, though, for his trunk.”

  Lucy and Philip were playing at the table, although they knew I frowned upon it. Myrtle picked at her sausage with a fork. Outside in the sunny yard, the Greening boys were digging in the chicken coop. There was a vault under there and I had told them I wanted to see it. Maybe I could store something there through the months while the ground was frozen. I liked the boys well enough, but the younger one had a soft spot for Jennie, and a blossoming of hearts might not be for the best. I knew there was talk in La Porte of how I always kept my Jennie close at hand—too close, some said, but what did they know of the dangers of this world, what horrors could befall a young woman?

  “I’ve been thinking, Jennie.” I joined them at the table. “Maybe it’s time we thought about your education. You could go to California and study law as we talked about.” I had always dreamed of something more for Jennie. Women lawyers were rare, but I thought it fitting for a daughter of mine. Not to mention how practical it would be to have her handle all my legal woes.

  The girl did not answer, though, just bit her lip and looked down at the table.

  “I could look at the advertisements and see if there is a good school for you. I so want you to have a profession, a proper career for a proper young lady.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you, Mama.” But she did not seem pleased at all.

  “Maybe we should go into town, you and me, and get some of that red fabric you have wished for. You could use a new dress, I agree on that.”
r />   “Thank you,” she whispered again.

  “We could buy some sweets as well. You can choose what kind.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but her heart was not in it. She had not even touched her food.

  I placed my hand on hers on the table. “It’ll be fine, just you see.”

  “Of course,” she repeated, and her eyes met mine.

  But we both knew it would not.

  41.

  Belle

  Answering letters took up much of my time. Some days I had as many as four or five delivered. They were from my acquaintances in Chicago, from men who had seen my advertisements, and sometimes they were inquiries asking for a loved one’s whereabouts. The latter was always a challenge. I had to be crafty so as not to have relatives knocking on my door. I could always say the men had moved on, but if the man in question had been close with his family, they did not always accept that. It annoyed me because I always urged my suitors to be discreet and keep our arrangement a secret. Still, some of them just could not keep their mouths shut, and told God and everyone they were off to see a widow in La Porte. Some even left a forwarding address for letters and suchlike. It caused me a world of trouble, fending off the relatives. Sometimes I said the men had gone to Montana or California, chasing an even brighter future there. I said they had learned of some fine opportunity to buy some land or invest. It took some cunning to have them look elsewhere. It took some cunning to make sure the suitors did not meet each other too. At times, I had to usher a departure when I learned the next one was on his way.

  This day in November, I sat in the parlor and wrote to a man I did not expect to arrive for some time, but for whom I had great hopes. Mr. Helgelien was a Norwegian and good for some thousands in cash. Upon his arrival in America, he had run into some problems with the law and spent a little time in prison before settling down on his farm, which I now urged him to sell.

  November 12, 1906

  Mr. Andrew K. Helgelien

  Dear Friend,

  Today I received your long and interesting letter. Thank you so much. I have never before received such dear, true words.

  It feels good to be honest and sincere, and then find a friend who is the same. If a woman is ever so honest and faithful, what good does it do when she is unfortunate enough to come into contact with falseness and deceit?

  No, it would be better to be dead. It is a shame that you have had the same experiences as I have. There are so many false people in this world, so many who are low enough to lie and spread falsehoods, especially when they see someone who is a little more fortunate and can afford to live a little better than they do. They cannot do enough harm to us.

  I have worked alone for four years now, and have done pretty well for myself. As you know, it is hard for a single woman, but I would rather live alone than have anything to do with false, mean, and drunken men.

  There are so many Swedes here, and I do not like them either. Nearly all of them have been jealous because they see I can manage on my own and I suppose they will be worse when you arrive. Some of them have been good to me and helped me out at times, but there are many who would rather see me not make it.

  Now, dear friend, I hope the worst is over for the both of us. It seems that I have known you for a long time even if we have never met, and I will live for the future and you, my good friend, from the first day you arrive and as long as I can. I really think we will live together always, because a true friend, who has the same disposition and heart as I, will surely get along with me, and then I will get my good nature back, because I will think that life is worth living and will do the best I can for us both. We will always have good Norwegian coffee and waffles, and I will always make you a nice cream pudding and many other good things.

  My very best friend, it is just as you say, if you are going to take a few horses, you might as well bring a whole carload of stock with you here. Hurry and come before winter sets, and take with you all you can get in a carload, and do not stop anywhere longer than necessary. Do not leave anything up there because you cannot leave me later to go and get it. Rather sell your things a little cheaper for cash, for then you know what you have and will not have anything outstanding. I am sure you will find things here that are just as nice and useful as those you have now.

  Do not even let the banks have anything to do with your money, not even to send it to you, because you do not know what will happen nowadays. One bank closes right after the other and the cashiers steal. Follow the advice I gave you in a former letter and sew the money into your clothes. You are the first one I have told this secret to, but it is practical, and I know you will do it.

  I am very happy to have a friend in whom I can have confidence. However, do not let anyone know anything about our understanding. Let us keep it to ourselves for now.

  Oh, please hurry and come before it gets too cold, and let me know in your next letter when you think you will be ready.

  Live well until we meet.

  Loving regards from your friend,

  Bella Gunness

  I enclosed a dried four-leaf clover I had been saving since summer.

  I did not lie when I wrote. It was as if a spell came over me then, and the words on the paper rang true to me, even though I knew what would happen. For those few moments, though, while ink spilled on the paper, I was that woman—that lonely, struggling woman—who wanted nothing more than a good and capable husband, a wholesome life and arms to hold her. I could see it all so clearly before me: him and me together, his horses in the stable, and all the children healthy and fed. I pictured Philip a little older, helping him in the barn, and Myrtle and Lucy playing games with him: Red Riding Hood and the Fox. It was as if the boneyard outside were not mine just then but belonged to a different woman altogether.

  The next letter I wrote was for James, and the bones were suddenly mine again. Jennie had been a festering wound that never dried up ever since she saw me in the cellar. She never said anything, or did anything, but something had wedged between us. She was not as sweet as before, not as compliant and trusting. She would flinch when I entered a room and look at me with scared blue eyes. I hated the sight of those eyes. I tried to soften her with promises and gifts, but nothing seemed to please her. I kept talking about California, but the silly girl looked at Emil Greening with longing in her eyes, and he would look at her in turn. When they spoke to each other out in the yard, my heart ran cold with worry. Surely she would tell him.

  Emil was not the only hound sniffing around her skirts either. Mr. John Weidner, who worked at the coach house, was frequently around, wanting to call on Jennie. I let him into the parlor and had Jennie play some at the piano but was terrified of letting the two of them be alone together. I had always been protective of Jennie, but now I became a hawk. I did not want a single word passing through her lips without me there to hear it.

  I knew I was putting off the unavoidable.

  * * *

  —

  One afternoon, about a week before Christmas, James arrived in a coach. With him was a professor from the Norwegian seminary in California and his lovely wife. I had told Jennie they would be coming, and that she was expected to return with them to begin her studies.

  “You are lucky,” I reminded her. “Not many girls get such an opportunity.”

  “I am grateful, of course.” The girl would not look at me. We were in the kitchen and could hear the professor and his wife in the parlor through the half-open doors, James too, chattering nonsense about the weather. It was for our benefit, all of it. The professor was a hired man, the woman a Chicago brothel owner catering to the tastes of very rich men. Innocent and well-bred girls like Jennie were always in high demand. The two of them did not know that I knew who they truly were, however. With them was a satchel of money that James Lee would get when they left with the girl the next day—if she was to the
madam’s liking. We aimed to strike twice, James and I, rid me of a problem and gain some in the process.

  I ushered the girl inside to our guests, and she stood before them shy as a kitten in her new blue dress, with red spots riding high on her cheeks.

  “My, aren’t you a lovely girl.” The woman introduced herself as Cecily, although I knew her name was Laura Burns.

  The professor, who called himself Smith, rose and bowed to Jennie, shook her hand, and invited her to sit. He asked her what she had studied before, and pretended to listen while she listed the books she had read in school. I went out for more coffee and checked on the roast.

  “I’m sure you will love California,” chirped Mrs. Smith—Laura Burns—when I returned. “We have the best school for bright girls such as yourself, eager to better themselves.”

  She did not sound like some posh professor’s wife, but Jennie would not know that. She became eager, even excited, when shown so much attention. She told them about her fondness for numbers, and I asked her to play some on the piano.

  “Endearing,” said Mrs. Smith.

  “Just the kind of talented girl we want at the seminary.” Professor Smith had just a gleam of malice in his eyes. He knew where the girl was to go, and what talents she was to hone.

  “You will get along fine with the other girls,” Mrs. Smith told her. “They’re all just as pretty and well behaved as yourself.”

  I paraded my children in there too, so they could tell our neighbors about the professor: detail his thick gray beard and the lovely red color of his wife’s fancy dress. They each got to choose a cookie from the tray as a reward after reciting their names. They curtsied and bowed, wearing their Sunday best. Philip looked much like a little man in his long breeches and vest, and I felt a sudden burst of pride even if it was just a charade. Myrtle wore her dark hair in ringlets, and Lucy’s fair hair was gathered in a braid. The three of them were so rosy cheeked and well behaved that I caught myself wishing the professor were real. No one in their right mind could ever resist my children’s charm and good manners.