During the service, I sat with Bella and her children in the front row of the ramshackle collection of chairs brought into the parlor. I was charged with keeping an eye on Lucy, who, at only two, found it hard to sit still on the chair. She kept looking back at the crowded room, wondering, perhaps, what all those people were doing in her home. I was happy for the arrangement, being so averse to crowds. Every seat in the room was filled, and there was even a gathering in the back of local farmers in their Sunday best. Peter Gunness had apparently made a good impression on his new neighbors in La Porte.
Jennie and Myrtle sat in their shiny black dresses, ramrod straight on each side of their mama. Jennie’s braid was finished off with a black velvet bow, while Myrtle’s dark hair sported a white one. Little Lucy beside me—and sometimes in my lap—wore a white cotton dress with a cascade of ruffles. Jennie was clutching a Bible in her slender hands. Myrtle held a rose of wax. She was anxiously looking up at the casket, while her front teeth gnawed at her plump lower lip. I wondered if the closeness to the dead scared the five-year-old, or if she remembered Mads’s death two years before, or more recently the death of Baby Jennie.
Bella hid her face in her hands throughout the service and did not once look up. While the gray-bearded reverend spoke, her shoulders shook as in crying, and low moans and whimpers erupted from time to time. Olga leaned in from the row behind us, where she sat next to Peter Gunness’s brother, to pat her aunt’s shoulder and whisper words of encouragement. I was very proud of her then.
I felt it keenly during that service how very little I had known my new brother-in-law, and the feeling of guilt was strong and instant. I clutched Lucy tighter to my chest and thought myself heartless for abandoning them so.
I swore not to do it again.
When the service finally ended and the casket was to be borne out to the carriage, I rose with Lucy on my hip. Bella staggered to her feet, guided by my Rudolph’s strong hand. She looked down while she walked, as if too broken to face the hardships ahead; her shoulders were slumped and she asked for her veil.
I knew why that was, though I would rather not have.
I had seen that her eyes were dry.
* * *
—
After, there was coffee, and cakes lathered with whipped cream. Olga and I helped with the serving, while Nora had taken it upon herself to distract poor Jennie from the day’s sad event. I could see them sitting on top of the stairs to the next floor whenever I passed through the dining room, as fast as I could with my bad back so the anxiety would not catch up with me. I let the girls be, as I did not think it any harm to offer my young niece some respite. She had certainly seen enough death in her short life.
I was alone in the kitchen, making more coffee, when Peter’s brother, Gust, came in. The man looked haggard, but that was to be expected. He was tall and lanky like his brother, sporting a mane of graying hair, and a beard that was still fair. Wrinkles crowded his blue eyes, red-rimmed now, from mourning.
“Ah, Mrs. Larson, I just needed a moment’s peace.” He flung himself down in a chair by the table, which was heaped with empty plates and remains of sweet cake. “Is it not strange how we celebrate our dead with lavishness?” He dipped his index finger into the cream on one abandoned piece and licked it off quite shamelessly.
“It’s for comfort, I think”—I kept my voice even—“for those who are left behind.”
“Yes, yes, of course it is. Forgive me. I am not quite myself today.” He had the decency to look a little abashed.
“You are forgiven.” I turned by the stove and gave him a smile. “I suppose I cannot interest you in a treat then, or more coffee?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Just some peace. That is all I ask.”
“I will be quiet then.” I gave another smile and turned back, and for a while, it was just that: quiet.
Then Mr. Gunness spoke again. “Did your sister tell you about the inquest?”
“No.” I glanced at him with the coffee measuring spoon in my hand. “What inquest would that be?”
He laughed a little, but it was not a kind sound. “I thought she might have kept that from you. She had to explain herself in front of the coroner.”
I felt instantly cold; my hand shivered so that the precious coffee drizzled onto the floor. “What for?”
His lips pursed amid the beard. “They thought it all so strange, with the meat grinder falling down like that, on the back of his head, that the front was hurt too. I know it, as I saw him before we put the lid on.” He did not look at me while he spoke.
“What does that have to do with Bella?” I tried to sound calm, but there was a pain in my chest, and it made it hard to breathe.
“They suspected her of foul play, though we are yet to see what comes of it.”
“It’s just some foolishness.” I snorted. “Accidents happen.” Yet the pain would not let go.
“All I know”—he leaned forward on the chair, resting his arms on his knees—“is that Peter sent Swanhild to live with our uncles because she did not get along with his wife.”
“Is that so?” This was not what she had said—but that was maybe not so strange; who would want to admit to such a defeat? “It happens sometimes when a parent remarries. It is not so unusual.”
“No, of course not.” He straightened up again. “She was mightily upset about that inquest, though, mightily upset . . .” His gaze lingered on me a little longer than what was polite. “We know all about her, you know, about what they say in Chicago.” He shifted again. His eyes had gone cold. “Our mother warned him against coming here, and I’m starting to think that she was right. The accident happened right here.” He pointed to the floor in front of my feet. “The grinder fell from there.” He pointed to the shelf above my head. “It’s not so far that it would do much harm, or so I think, anyway.”
The kitchen had suddenly taken on a sinister aura, and my chest hurt so bad that I thought it might implode. “I don’t know anything about that,” I whispered. “My sister is a good, honest woman.”
He laughed again, just as humorless as the first time. “So good and honest that she’s asked me to stay. To help out, she said, but I don’t know—”
“You should not presume.” My voice and hands shook, and a surge of something like anger took hold. “She is your brother’s widow,” I hissed. “Of course she would look to you for help.”
I could not stay in there any longer and promptly abandoned the coffee. I rushed toward the back door as fast as I could, only pausing to fetch Bella’s shawl off the hook behind the wall. Then I slipped outside, into the cold, and hobbled across the frozen ground, drifted among the farm buildings, aimless and upset in the bleak afternoon.
My thoughts were in turmoil, confused by his words—frightened too, from what he had implied. My heart was racing and the pain still lingered, and I wondered if it had burst—but then, I was still walking, so clearly it had not.
What he had said, it could not be—it could not.
This was Bella’s second chance. Surely she could not have been as foolish as to—