The next day, Mads was in bed, retching into a bucket.
He stayed in that bed for days. Every time I thought of letting him heal, of not adding something to his food, my anger got the better of me. I sat by the bed, in a room reeking of vomit and piss, and spooned liquids into his mouth—into mine too, to put him at ease, but my health was robust so I was barely affected. I had not added much. He, on the other hand, was weak already, and the soup made him weaker still.
I wanted him dead; but then I wanted him alive, just so I could see him ache.
“When was the last time you felt sorry for someone?” he asked as we slowly went through a bowl of broth. “You always seem so cold to me. You cried at Caroline’s funeral, that’s true, but not after that, and never at home.”
“I cried for a chicken just this morning,” I lied. “Her leg was broken and I had to wring her neck. It was hard on me.” I bit my lip as if battling tears.
“It just seems so wrong to me that you did not even seek my comfort—” He tried to sit up in the bed but failed, falling back onto the pillows propped up against the headboard. The pillow casings were stained with sour sweat.
“A wife ought to be strong for the family’s sake and not give in to her own grief.” What did he know of how I grieved my daughter? That sorrow was my own and not for someone else to see.
“Is that how it is?” I thought he smiled. Mocking me, perhaps.
“It is.” I looked down into the broth and stirred it with the spoon, hoping—yet not hoping—that this would be the meal that did it. I had almost come to love my scorn for him. Living with hatred is like living with a being, an entity made of spikes and thorns. You get used to it—you embrace it and nurture it. Eventually it becomes a part of your soul.
I found I was reluctant to let it go.
Mads had been quiet for a moment, lying there with a thoughtful expression and broth on his stubbly chin. “I still think my illness is your doing.”
I did not even hide my smile this time. “How can it be my doing when I eat and drink the same as you?” I lifted the spoon to my lips just to demonstrate.
“I don’t know how you do it, but I know that you do. You have fed me wicked drops for years.” His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
“If you are so certain, why don’t you go to the police with what you think you know?” I gave him another smile, one with hard edges.
“Oh, I have thought of it, but what can I do when the doctor blames my heart? And you are such a wonderful liar.” His voice was quiet, void of emotion. He looked up at the ceiling, not at me, while blinking back tears. “I figure you could spin them right around.”
“Leave me, then.” I held out another spoonful of broth. My heart had sped up its pace, but only a little. My jaw, though, was pounding and aching.
He gave a bitter laugh that came out more like a rattle. “I would have left you a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the children. I fear for them every waking minute—fear what their mother would do to them—” He broke off and went quiet again for a moment, resting against the pillows. “I do not take marriage lightly, Bella. God blessed our union, and I think he must have some plan with it all . . . Perhaps it is my task as your husband to help—to guide you onto a righteous path, away from all your devilry—”
“You’re ill and don’t know what you’re saying.” My jaw ached terribly; it was painful to speak. “This broth will make you better, just you see.” I held out the spoon again; its silver handle was adorned with roses. My hand only shook a little.
“Still,” he said after swallowing the broth. “I will not ask Oscar to discard my letter. Someone needs to know what’s going on in this house.” He grabbed a handkerchief off the bedside table and lifted it to his forehead to soak up the sweat. I could see a yellow tinge to the white in his eyes.
I knew in that moment that the time had come. My husband thought he had been so clever, telling his brother about his suspicions.
It did not suit me at all.
I had to let go of my scorn.
* * *
—
“His death is certainly long overdue.” James Lee sat in my new kitchen and watched me grind meat for sausages.
“I needed him before. First for his measly pay, then to be a father to the children. Now he’s become a threat.”
“If you would only settle for a less wholesome life—”
“Well, I won’t.” I rolled my eyes. “I do know what I want, James.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He lit a cigar; the smoke wafted across the table to curl around the heap of meat and a handful of purple hydrangeas that were slowly dying in a crystal vase.
“He’s getting very suspicious—and it was foolish of him to tell me all he thinks he knows, what he has done. How can I let him live now?” I huffed a little and went at it with the grinding; the metal rattled inside the contraption.
“How could you let him live before, taking up your time?” James’s eyes glittered toward me.
“I needed him, as I said. And it brings me no delight.” That was the worst thing: how I did not even anticipate his oncoming demise.
“No?” James leaned on the table with curiosity in his gaze. Freshly ground meat spilled out from the grinder in pinkish-red swirls.
“Where is the satisfaction?” I asked. “Mads is no challenge to me—he is half dead already.” I paused and wiped my hands on the apron.
“Would you rather he was a large brute with heavy fists?” James gave me one of his teasing smiles.
I shrugged before answering. “I want him dead, that’s all I know. I want him dead and to be done with it.”
“I would offer to help, but I believe you will find it more delightful than you think.” He lifted his feet off the chair; his face had a thoughtful expression.
“Is that so?” I gave a wry smile in turn—I just could not see how any delight would come of this.
“Oh, there’s nothing quite like scratching an old itch.” He scratched his own mustache as to demonstrate.
“You only want me to kill again.” I batted at his shoulder as I slumped down in a chair of my own: playful, like a kitten.
“Why would I want that?” He was playing along.
“So I would be more like you.” We were still playing, but I meant it, too.
He pushed his empty glass toward me, asking for a refill. “You are already more like me than you think. I would, however, like to see you lose some of that respectability you carry around like a cloak—”
“Well, I’m killing him.” I filled up his glass. “That’s certainly not respectable.”
“Where is he tonight?” James glanced at the door. “Is he up in his bed?”