“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 act 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.”
“Of course,” I said, and cut the thread with my teeth. I did not like this at all. The specialist might not think of poison, but then again, he might. I had not given Mads anything since Oscar arrived, and I was glad for it now, even if I felt that both of them deserved a generous sprinkle on their clams.
Not enough to kill—just to do a little harm.
Oscar made to leave, but then he paused by the door. His gaze when he looked at me was cold and hostile. “Don’t think you can fool me, Bella. I don’t think you care for my brother at all.”
“Really?” This made me curious rather than annoyed. I always took great care to be seen as a loving wife to my husband when his brother was about. “What makes you say that?”
“Don’t think he hasn’t told me how you always complain about his income, the state of the house, and even the size of his life insurance. Nothing is ever good enough for you!”
“Those are private matters.” The anger quickly flared up in me and licked my insides with swift tongues. I would get Mads for this when Oscar was gone. I would have him retching and aching.
“Had he fallen ill and died, I don’t think you would have shed a tear.” Oscar’s fat bottom lip quivered.
“I don’t want Mads dead,” I lied.
“I don’t think you would grieve him for long, though, if he did. You don’t think twice about accusing him or even throwing a fist—”
“Does he say that?” I tried to sound amused, though it was hard to sound merry when angry. “He must be more tired than I thought. Maybe he truly ought to see a specialist.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Of course I do.” I slipped a new thread through the needle’s eye. My hands did not quiver one bit, and I felt proud. I was getting apt at this, putting on a deception.
“I saw bruising just this morning, right here at his temple.” Oscar pointed with his finger at a throbbing vein. “He said you threw a book—”
“He hit his head on the bedside table when rolling over to fetch his Bible.”
Oscar’s face had become quite red. “Why would he lie about that?”
I found a little frock in the pile of clothes and set to mending a tear. “To gain your sympathies, I suppose. Maybe he finds me cruel to complain about the lack of money—”
“It’s hardly a woman’s concern.”
“To feed our child is.”