“No, he’s quite well again—or as well as he can be these days. I believe his stomach and heart are ruined. There was no reason to keep him up there, though, when he was soon to go anyway. He is back at work at the department store, making a little money, and that’s something.” I sighed and downed my own glass. The liquor was strong and heady.
James put out his cigar, then leaned so close that his face was just inches from mine. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “You could have just let him die up there, quietly in his bed. Why are you putting it off?”
“Oh, but I’m not.” I widened my eyes. “I’m merely waiting for the right day to arrive.”
I closed the distance between us and gave him a kiss, tasting of meat, salt, and liquor.
* * *
—
On July 30, Mads came home from work in the morning as usual. Before breakfast, he played with Jennie and Myrtle on the lawn. It was a lovely day with blazing sun; he never suspected that it was his last.
Later in the morning, I allowed Jennie to go to pick apples with a family on our street. It was a treat she was rarely given as I liked to keep her close, safely within my reach. I closed the door behind her and wiped sweat off my brow with my sleeve. If the perspiration was due to the sun or my nerves, I do not know.
This was new to me: killing a man in a day. He could find me out, or even survive if the dosage was not right. Neither of those prospects was appealing. I also had to make sure that the poison was properly laced with the food. If not, he might taste it and raise the alarm. I had spent hours in front of the cupboard pondering the bottles before I made my choice.
I crushed a pink tablet of cyanide and added the powder to the lemon filling in a piece of cake. Then I sliced another, equally sized piece, which I left alone. I strewed both slices with almonds, as it masks the bitter taste. Next, I poured our coffee, and then I carried it all on a tray to the parlor, where he waited in a black velvet chair. He was tired by then, ready to go to sleep, which was good, as it would make him even easier to fool. I held the poisoned cake in my right hand and held it back when I made him choose. I bit back a smile when his shivering hand reached for the one I had tampered with.
I sat down in the other chair and found my knitting. I was making little socks of the finest white wool for Lucy that day. I could see him while he ate, how the lemon spread dripped from the sponge; I watched as he devoured it all until there were only crumbs left.
“Would you like some more?” I asked.
“Another slice would be nice,” said the oaf, “but you must taste it too, of course.” He truly did not trust me anymore.
When I returned with more cake, he was already looking ill. His face was ashen and his movements seemed stiff.
“Are you not well?” I paused in the door.
“Just tired.” Sweat beaded on his skin.
“Should I help you to bed and send for the doctor?”
“Just help me up.” He staggered to his feet. “I’m not feeling well.”
I took the arm he reached out to me and let him lean on my shoulders while we made our way to the bedroom. There, he slumped down on top of the bed. His eyes were dark and glassy with pain.
“I should send for the doctor.” I pulled a sheet up his shivering body.
He nodded in agreement, I think. He could not speak at that point. From the sight of him then, I believed that the dosage had been right.
I left him and went back to the parlor, where I picked up my knitting. I could hear him make some noise in there, convulsing on the bed. I gave Lucy her meal and watched through the window as Myrtle chased the cat on the lawn.
When no sounds had emitted from the bedroom for some time, I carefully opened the door. One glance on the bed then, and I knew for sure.
* * *
—
Oh, what a ruckus I made after finding my husband dead. I ran out of the house and onto the street. I did not stop before I saw my neighbor, Cora, out on her porch.
“He is dead,” I cried out to her. “He is dead!”
I threw myself down in the dirt, crushing pebbles and dust in my fists. I wailed down there, sobbed and thrashed and acted as if I did not feel the hands that came to rest on my shoulders, hear the gentle voices around me, or see their faces, white with shock.
I wept uncontrollably when they guided me onto Cora’s porch, and waved away the cup of tea they tried to force into my hand.
“Go see if you can find her girls,” Cora told her daughter, and the little girl ran down the street, braids whipping on her back.
A boy had already gone to fetch Dr. Miller, and the wait seemed to last forever as I sat there with my head bent, shivering and weeping. The neighborhood women fussed around me and brought me a shawl and a stiff drink. We could see Cora’s daughter and my girls come up the street; she carried the one and held the other by the hand, just as a carriage arrived and stopped outside our house. Dr. Miller stepped down, brushing dust off his trousers.
“I cannot go back there,” I whispered, “I cannot bear to see him like that.”
“But, Mrs. Sorensen, you must. I will come with you, but you must.” Cora squeezed my hand in hers.
We staggered down the street while Dr. Miller made his way toward the porch. Cora held me by the elbow and caught me when I seemed to falter.
“What happened, Mrs. Sorensen?” Dr. Miller paused and waited for us. “Where is Mr. Sorensen?”
“In his bed!” I wailed, and broke down again. I refused to go inside but sat down on the steps to the porch. “Oh, what am I to do now? A poor widow with three small children in my care—what will happen to us now?”
Cora sat down next to me and held my shoulders while I cried. I could hear Dr. Miller walk inside, his steps on the floorboards behind me.
The sun was blazing; the air was humid. Myrtle laughed on the neighbor’s lawn. “Those poor children,” I muttered.
“You better prepare for the funeral,” said Cora. Women are nothing but practical. “You have to force yourself for their sake. Your girls.”
Dr. Miller stepped back outside. He wiped his fingers with his handkerchief, adjusted his glasses, and put on his hat. “His poor heart got him in the end, it seems. I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sorensen.” It was very convenient to have a family doctor who carried fond memories of my steaks, puddings, and stews.
“I told him not to work so hard.” I sniffled, and dried the tears with my apron.
“She is falling apart, poor thing,” Cora told the doctor. “She lay down on the street and wouldn’t move.”
“I’ll prescribe a powder,” the doctor said. “Something to settle her nerves.”
“How can this be happening?” I wailed. “How can it be?” My hands were shaking.
“Did he eat anything out of the ordinary today? Did he take his medication?” Dr. Miller looked at me.
“Of course he did! I gave it to him myself. And then he had cake and coffee.”
“Did he complain about anything? Chest pains?”
“He said he had a headache.” I dried more tears. “He wanted to lie down.”
“Well.” Dr. Miller sighed. “I can see you are distraught, so I won’t ask more questions today. He was a very sick man. Perhaps we should have expected it.”
“At least he is at peace now,” said Cora.
* * *