“He sat down, did he?” The doctor made a note while the stenographer clicked.
“Yes, we sat in the kitchen for a while. I was rubbing the Vaseline on and he said he was afraid he would lose hair because of the burn. I can’t say exactly what time it was, but we sat there for a good, long while. Then he began to feel a little better, and I said I thought he should lie down. When he agreed, I told him he’d better not go upstairs but lie down on the sofa, as it was warmer in the parlor. He thought so too, and I went and fixed the sofa for him and took off his clothes, put on his nightshirt, and then I went to bed.”
“So he took his shirt off?”
“No, I don’t think he did.” I quickly corrected myself. “He went to lie on the sofa and I told him to call me if he needed anything, and then I went to lie down with the girls.” I spoke fast to cover up my slip. “I went up to sleep as I was tired. Then, suddenly, I heard him calling ‘Bella’ as loud as he could. The children woke up and were scared and I told them to stay put, and that I would go to Papa. I think I told them that Papa had burned himself. I put on my clothes for it was so cold, and then I went down the stairs and when I came down, Peter was walking around in the kitchen saying, ‘Oh, Bella, my head! I don’t know what’s the matter with my head!’”
“I went upstairs and got Jennie up, and she went over to our neighbor, Nicholson, as I realized we needed help. When I came down again, I found him on the kitchen floor and he held his head and said, ‘Oh Bella, I think I’m going to die.’ I asked Peter where it hurt so badly, and got some water to clean up the wound, but he said not to touch his head. The next thing I knew, he drifted off and didn’t answer when I spoke to him. When Nicholson finally arrived, he said that he thought Peter was gone. But I don’t think he was before they came, I think he was only unconscious.”
“When you first came down he was walking around?”
“He was walking around in the kitchen.”
“Was he still doing so when you went upstairs to wake the girl?”
“Yes.” Had he not been listening at all?
“How long were you up there?”
“I don’t know.”
“When you came back down, he was lying on the floor?”
“Yes, on his back, because I tried to turn him over.”
“When Nicholson came, was he lying with his face on the floor or the back of his head on the floor?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Whyever did it matter? “I remember the last time I tried to give him a drink, he was lying with his face against the floor.”
“Did you see that his nose was hurt at any time?”
“I never knew it was hurt before you told me about it.” I never should have said that I had not seen his nose, but it was too late to take that back.
“About how long do you think it was from when he was hurt until he died?”
“Well, I guess he was hurt right after eleven, and I don’t know exactly what time he died. Nicholson said he thought he was dead when he arrived, but I don’t think he was gone then . . . I tried to feel for his pulse, but my hands were so cold they had lost all feeling.”
“He was hurt at eleven o’clock, and Nicholson came about three?”
“That might be. I can’t tell you the time exactly.” I had already told them that, many times over.
“But you sat up with him for two hours after he was hurt?”
“Yes. I wasn’t upstairs for long. I said good night and went upstairs, and was in bed just a short time before he called me down.”
“But he seemed fine when you went up there, did he?”
“Well, the pain seemed to ease. He didn’t lie down at first. He sat up or walked around until he went on the sofa. But he complained terribly of the pain in his head, and I thought of the pain that girl must have had, and she didn’t complain as much as he—” I stopped myself. I had just read in the newspaper about a girl who had tipped some boiling brine over herself and barely lived. Her mother had told the journalist about the baking soda and the liniment, and the Vaseline for the blisters.
“How do you think he got that hurt on his head?” Bowell leaned forth in his chair, fixing his gaze on me.
“Oh, I don’t know, Doctor. I had washed the meat grinder, wiped it off, and put it on the shelf above the range to dry. I found it on the floor after he was hit by the brine, and I think it must have tumbled down on him. That’s what I think, but I didn’t see it happen.”
“Did he say anything about it?”
“He didn’t say anything about it. I asked him what had happened, but he didn’t tell me exactly.”
“Was the door to the yard locked?”
“I don’t know. Peter always locked the doors.”
“Do you think it’s possible that someone could have come inside without you hearing?”
“No. If anyone came in, I would have heard them.”
“Had your husband ever had a quarrel with anybody around here?”
“I don’t think he ever had a quarrel with anybody. He seemed to get along nicely with everyone.”
“Have you ever suspected or been afraid that somebody might come inside and kill your husband? Hit him with that sausage grinder?”
“No, I have never been afraid of that.”
“Did he tell you how the brine came to tip all over him?”
“He said he didn’t know how when I asked him.”
“Did he seem to talk out of his head after he got hurt?”
“Well, not at first, but after I went up and came down again, he seemed to be a little out of it. He asked me two or three times if I had sent for the doctor. I said I had sent Jennie to Nicholson’s because it was too far to get to town. He was asking over and over again, so I suppose he was getting a little mixed up. He didn’t say very much else but that his head was hurting.”
“How did he break his nose?” There was that dratted nose again. I fastened my gaze on the chandelier above me, watched as a spider slowly crossed its net.
“I really can’t say. I didn’t know about the nose before you told me.”
“When you were sitting on the floor after he got scalded, you would see it, wouldn’t you, if his nose was cut?”
“I guess I could have seen it, but I didn’t.”
“Well.” Bowell tapped his pipe on the table. “I guess that’s all for today, Mrs. Gunness.” He and Oberreich exchanged glances. I did not like it at all. The latter smoothed a piece of paper on the table.
“If you could be as good as to sign here . . .” I took the pen and scribbled my name, rushing to get them out of the house.
* * *
—
I was livid when they had left, so angry that my hands shook when I was peeling potatoes for dinner. Had they no regard for a grieving widow at all? Accidents happened all the time; just think of that girl with the brine. Kitchens are dangerous places.
He should not have hit me, though. Should not have tried, not with the cleaver so near at hand. He should not have blamed me for his wretched daughter’s death.