When my sweet little Caroline died, I was beset with anger. I screamed and wailed so loudly that Dr. Miller had to prescribe me a powder. Mads’s face was ashen; his eyes looked like pieces of coal, but he did not share the rage I felt so deep within my bones. How could it be that I wasn’t allowed to keep this girl who had been all mine? I ached with longing and regret and my jaw hurt me all the time. I felt it was a punishment—an insult from above. I thought that my house was cursed, and that the rooms always strived to be empty. I kept Jennie in my bed at night to have her safely under my watchful eye, lest the void in that house would take her too.
“It happens,” said the doctor, and he was right, of course. He signed the death certificate and listed the cause of death as congestion. Caroline was shrouded in white and placed in a casket, while Mads arranged for a plot at the cemetery. We sang Norwegian hymns at the funeral, standing by the open grave. All our friends from church were there, shedding tears for that innocent life and telling me how sad it was—but how blessed we were there was another on the way. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh. His will is in everything, they said. We were blessed to have had her even for a time.
* * *
—
The insurance company paid out after Caroline died and that kept us going for a while longer, but I could not force those numbers. As the padding on my belly grew, the debts of our candy store followed suit. The storage filled up with uneaten candy, worthless when it was not on the shelves. Jennie had become quite obese, and so had I under the cushions. I grew worried that the longer I waited, the less profit I would make when the store burned down.
Finally, I decided I could not wait for the numbers to turn.
I bought coal oil and kerosene and placed it next to the rose and wintergreen candy in the storage room. Then I sent for James Lee. He arrived at the store at midday and served himself from the open jars of soft licorice and vanilla kisses. Jennie was playing out in the back, which made me feel a little nervous. I looked around the room, took in the colors in the jars, the scent of spice and molasses, knowing I would never see them again. Then I motioned for James to follow and showed him the fuel and the box of matches.
“I’ll make it look like an accident.” I spoke quietly so the child would not hear us. “I’ll say that the lamp fell over in here, igniting some of the newspapers.”
James was chewing on a piece of licorice; his breath was strong and sweet when he kissed me. He laughed when he felt my padded belly against him and gave the cushion a slap.
“Jennie is here,” I warned him.
“To hell with the child.” He still kissed me, and made me feel heady too. I hiked up my skirts and let him get to it, up against the storage room wall. I tried to be quiet so Jennie would not hear us, but he did not care at all. He lifted my leg up and held it while he burrowed in between my legs. Glass jars and tobacco tins rattled on the shelves. I came undone with his lips on mine, and a fine dust of sugar in my hair, but it did me good, yes, it did. I was no longer nervous when he lowered my leg and helped me brush off my dress. His kisses tasted of strawberry drops.
No matter how severe my hardships, James could always make me forget.
When I stepped outside, Jennie was still playing with her dolls in the back. She was humming to herself, quite oblivious. Little did she know that soon she and I would be running out in the street while tall flames ravaged the store behind us, leaving nothing but cracked jars, ashes, and glassy rivers of candy in its wake.
* * *
—
It was a bad year for the Sorensen family. They lost the store and lost a child. Thank the Lord for Myrtle, then, who arrived in 1897. Always a plump and wholesome child, she was greedy on the milk but slept like an angel. It was a lovely spring, green and lush. I felt a peace with Myrtle that I had not sensed before, perhaps because she was so utterly content. Jennie treated her like a sister from the very first day and wheeled her around in the backyard. Myrtle was never sick and she never complained. How could I not love her?
The insurance money from the store was not as much as I had hoped for when all the debts were settled. I had been hoping we could finally shed that wicked house, but no—we did not have enough to do so.
I kept worrying about what we would do when the money ran out. How would I stock my pantry then? The house around me seemed filthier than ever, covered in grime I could not wash away. No matter how hard I scrubbed, everything seemed gray and greasy. I cleaned my hands, and cleaned them again, but I could still see soot clogging my pores. My whole kitchen reeked of mold, it seemed, and I inspected the cupboards daily, expecting to see black spots marring the painted wood. Just thinking of the day when the cash had shrunk to nothing made me heave for breath and grab for a rag to wipe cold sweat from my brow. I could see them so clearly in my mind’s eye: Mother and Father at St?rsetgjerdet, boiling thin porridge on water and rye. The taste of stale lard and rotting potatoes coated the back of my tongue and made my heart race in my chest.
The only thing that brought me some comfort were the smiles on my little girls’ lips.
* * *
—
Not two months later, I sat up one night in the children’s room, waiting for the scent of smoke. When I could hear the crackle of flames from the parlor, I raised the alarm and got us out in the yard. There I looked on while my husband in his pajamas uselessly battled the flames with buckets of water handed to him by neighbors. I held Myrtle in my arms and had Jennie by the hand. My belly was padded with a cushion.
James Lee was long gone by then, shirt singed and hands sooty.
I was rid of the house at last, and relished watching it burn to the ground.
23.
Bella
Chicago, 1900
Our new house on Alma Street was in every way better than the one that burned. The cast-iron range was twice as big as my old one and we could even afford an icebox with the insurance money after the fire.
Behind the white house grew cherry trees and currants, bursting with glossy fruits. It felt like living in a garden, that house, with flowers bursting from every surface, both inside and out, as the walls were papered with floral designs. On hot days, the air smelled green and sweet, not stale and moldy at all. The house had a proper porch as well, where I enjoyed spending my evenings reading letters, mending clothes, and polishing pairs of small shoes. Myrtle and Jennie each got a kitten upon our arrival to comfort them after the horrors of the flames. They turned out to be toms and were at each other’s throats constantly, leaving festering wounds. They were at peace on the porch with me, though, keeping me company while I worked by kerosene light.
My new daughter, Lucy, was sleeping soundly in a cradle. If she stirred, I rocked it with my foot. She was a peaceful child, just as Myrtle had been.
I felt content in the new house and set my pride in making our home hospitable and nice. I made the beds every day, aired every mattress and every sheet, cleaned every pot with salt and lemons—took care that the pantry was always full but that nothing was left to rot.
My girls were immaculately dressed in the pretty frocks we bought after the fire. My chickens had a brand-new home out back and I even considered that pig again.