Ihad wanted to marry Peter Gunness ever since that first time I saw him at the fair. He seemed to me a decent man without any of Mads’s limitations. A man like that, I thought, I could care for without hesitation.
Through the letters he wrote to me, I felt I knew him well. I saw a kind but firm man holding the pen. A man who could hold a child or butcher a hog with the same ease. Those months he stayed with us had done nothing to change my view. I felt I deserved a man like that for enduring Mads for so long. Peter was no young man either, past fifty when his wife finally died, but he was tall and straight as a rod; no gout or other ailment had diminished his physique. His blond hair had turned a pale silver since we met, but I did not mind those few changes; I had gone through a few myself. To me he was still that same man who had defended me at the beer garden.
I held no illusions of love. I knew Peter had been close to his wife and mourned her passing, but I thought such things would come in time. He liked me, that was plain enough to see, and we always had such good conversations. He was as eager as I was to start a new life after his loss. Though it had irked me before, how steadfast he had been in his loyalty to his wife, I could much appreciate such a character trait if it was me he was true to.
Our wedding was a small ceremony; all our daughters but his younger one were there. We celebrated our union with baked sweet potatoes and beer, ice cream and soft cakes for the children. I felt happy then. I did. My luck had finally changed and I was on my way to contentment—though I still carried James’s pewter button around my neck.
The girls and I had moved to La Porte in the fall of 1900, while Peter and his two daughters joined us in March the following year. Shortly after the wedding, he set to repairing the buildings and preparing the barn for scores of hogs. I put up my chickens and did my best to make the house our own. I purchased new beds of walnut and brass and adorned every one of them with quilts. In every bedroom there was a marble-topped stand with a washbasin and a brand-new kerosene lamp. I wanted us all to be comfortable. I had my dark wooden furniture upholstered in green to go with the walls in the dining room, and I installed a new range in the kitchen. I did everything I could to make Peter feel welcome, even if the farm was mine. I brewed good, strong coffee and pampered him with treats while discussing barley and corn. I served him mutton and beef, waffles and puddings, and filled his glass with whiskey or beer, while planning curing, smoking, and salting. It was a relief to have a husband who did not mind if I had a drink from time to time. Living with Mads had been frugal and sparse, while Peter enjoyed the good things in life. He never took me for a fool, my new husband, or dismissed my advice. Though he would be the master of the farm, handling all the decisions outdoors, he still let me have my say, and agreed to keep some goats when I asked him. He valued me and I thrived for it. Never mind that his elder daughter was sullen and his younger one was not well; I still treated them as my own and saw to it that they were clean and neat and always had food in their bellies.
I was Bella Gunness now. Bella Sorensen was just as dead as poor, wretched Brynhild St?rset.
* * *
—
The first time I saw Peter practice his skills, I knew I had done right in marrying him. He had taken a lamp and a bottle of whiskey to the barn when he went outside to butcher a hog. By the time I entered, the animal lay on the bench, its blood in a bucket, its hide scalded and ready for the knife. Peter had taken his shirt off; his white undershirt clung to his skin and sweat slicked his forehead. While I watched, he made incisions, quickly like a surgeon, using a steady hand. From time to time, he would pause to take another swig of the bottle he had left on the hay-strewn floor. The kerosene light painted him golden; the cleaver sank into the rough skin and made red ribbons in the flesh. I gathered the shawl around me and leaned against the wall, where I could hear the other pigs through the wood: soft squeals and shuffling, as well as the occasional grunt. That was our future in there.
“You don’t have to be here, Bella. You can leave if you dislike the sight.” Peter gave me a concerned look.
“I don’t mind at all, I enjoy it . . . I helped with the butchering when I was a child; I told you so before.”
He paused to smile at me. “I thought you said that to seem bolder than you are.”
“I would think most women are accustomed to blood.”
“Some of them don’t like to see too much of it.”
“How do they make blood pudding, then?”
He laughed and hacked with the cleaver. In his other hand was the knife. “Even if they handle the blood, they might not like to see the animal.”
“False sentiments, I think, said only to make them seem fragile and weak.” All women bleed and that is the truth of it. We slice, cut meat, and clean festering wounds. Sometimes we bleed out from childbirth or violence.
“You’re not so fragile, though.” Peter’s lips twitched.
“No, husband. I’m not.”
“Let me see then.” He reached out and handed the knife to me, hilt first.
“Do you want me to cut?”
“If you think you can.” Peter was still smiling. I stepped forth and took the knife from him. The scent of blood and muck was stronger in front of the animal. Behind me, I could feel Peter’s heat coming off his body. I felt a shiver when I let the knife sink in to finish his stroke, unleashing a fresh wave of coppery scent.
Peter’s arms embraced me from behind; his fingers closed over mine that held the knife. “I’ll show you how it’s best done.” I let him guide my hand to slice and cut the pig apart into glistening flesh and tendons, hard muscles and firm fat. I realized then that I knew nothing at all. The butchering I had partaken in before had been poor handiwork at best. My new husband, though, he had the skills. He even let me use the cleaver. “If we are to make money from these pigs, it doesn’t hurt if you can swing that too.”
He was a very clever man, Peter Gunness.
When we were done with the butchering, sweaty and bloodied, we lay down in the hay like drunken youngsters. Our hands were everywhere, tugging at fabrics and grazing warm skin. I savored the feel of his hands on my flesh: callused from work and flecked with red. He tasted of salt and liquor, that man, and his passion was anything but gentle and kind. When he came undone inside me, he did so with a ragged moan. I loved that sound; it sent shivers down my spine and let me come undone myself.
“Next time I want to kill the animal.” I plucked hay from my hair and brushed dust off my skirts.
He laughed, brushed his hand through his hair, and came away with a few wizened pieces of straw. “Not to worry, I will teach you all there is to know.”