“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 porridge.
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.