“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.
The only silver lining I could think of was that with my disappearing like this, my sister would not be tempted to have me hanged—and I would not be tempted to kill her, either—and that was certainly something. She would grieve me, perhaps, and then she would move on, doubtlessly relieved, maybe scarred . . . Had not my pain over the children been so stark, I might even have shed a tear for leaving Big Brynhild behind.
It was better for us both if she thought me dead. Nellie would be safe now.
“Give it a little time,” James said, “and if you want another child, I will get one for you. I might even help you raise it.” His lips twitched.
“You always wanted me to elope with you.” I gave the flask back.
“That I did, and now you do. Good things come to those who wait.”
“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll kill you in your sleep?”
“Yes, but that’s a part of your charm, my dear.”
“I never had a friend as true as you.”
“We are a rare breed. We have to look out for each other.” He took a swig of the flask. “When the rumors have died down and no one is writing about the fire anymore, you will feel better.”
“I will still miss them, though.”
“Think of Minnesota.”
And I did. It is what people like me do. We learn how to survive.
When I was younger, I sometimes thought a devil had slipped inside me in place of the child I lost. Later I came to accept that there was never anyone but me in my skin, human through and through.
We are all just creatures on this earth, fending for ourselves the best that we can. There is nothing unnatural about me. I walk the same pastures as any other. I am as natural as they come. There are just not many of my kind.
Author’s Note
So, what happened next?
After the fire in 1908 and the discovery of the bodies in the basement, Ray Lamphere was arrested and charged with arson. Asle Helgelien arrived in La Porte shortly after, certain that something had happened to his brother, and insisted that they dig where the earth was disturbed around the farmhouse. In a trash pit, they found Andrew’s remains and other bodies under it, among them Jennie Olson’s. Soon other bodies were found as well, and Belle’s cunning enterprise was finally exposed.
The discoveries made huge headlines and attracted thousands of onlookers who came to watch the police dig. The visitors could buy refreshments and souvenir postcards with pictures of the deceased in their putrefied state. One Sunday, the doors to the makeshift morgue were opened, and the public was free to file past the corpses before indulging in their picnic lunches. One vendor sold pink ice cream and cake next to an open grave. A journalist dubbed the scene “An organized feast of the morbid and curious.”
Because of the findings on the property, it was soon suggested that the headless woman in the basement was not Belle Gunness but some unknown, smaller woman. A long-winded trial was set in motion; its first task was to determine if Belle was dead or alive. Her dentist came forward, describing the bridge of teeth he made for her, which had not been found in the basement. An old gold miner, Louis Schultz, was hired to sift through the ashes to look for them. Weeks later, his search was successful, and he pulled them out of his pocket one day, announcing that he had found what they were looking for.
Mr. Schultz did not testify at the trial; he disappeared without a trace shortly after the find.
Although many still believed Belle was alive, and reports of sightings kept pouring in from all over the United States and even from Norway, Ray Lamphere was found guilty of arson. He died in prison two years later, still proclaiming his innocence.
The mystery of Belle Gunness’s fate has until this day not been solved, but it was another kind of mystery that inspired this novel. Belle was a local girl, from the same part of Norway as me, and I just could not fathom how a dirt-poor girl from the middle of Norway ended up in Indiana with a yard full of corpses—and maybe even got away with it.
* * *
—
I don’t remember when I first heard about Belle. I was an avid reader as a child and probably found out about her through a lurid book or some magazine article. She existed in my mind as a vaguely Victorian, cleaver-wielding shadow who fed her victims’ body parts to pigs. That was all I knew about her, which is strange, since I have always been interested in history—especially women’s history—and have an ongoing fascination with vintage crime. She remained that vague shape for quite some time, swinging her cleaver in the recesses of my mind.