No. She would not have done something so vile.
I looked back at the farmhouse, its windows brightly lit from all the candles inside, and I could not help but think of what had happened within its walls: the man bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Then I thought of Mads—and at last, I thought of her, the angry little girl who had clung to me when I carried her down from the riverbank, away from the snarling dog. I feared for her! For what she might have done, but for what it made her, too, if Gust Gunness was right. I thought she was not violent, but then I knew that she was. I thought she could not kill a man, but then I thought she could.
Her temper had always been a dangerous thing: ruthless, vicious, and boundless.
I drifted around on the farm for at least an hour, under black trees free of leaves, flitting between sheds and outhouse, the barn and the windmill, too upset to go inside, though the cold was taking its toll, and all the walking too, for a back that was not hale.
I knew I could not stay out there, but he was inside, Gust Gunness, and so was Bella, the grieving widow, and I did not know what to say to any of them. In truth, it was shameful for a woman past fifty to be so frightened of her own kin that she would rather brave the weather, but there was no honor in any of this. I could see people leave the farmhouse and go to their horses and carriages. Some of them walked along the driveway.
The house was emptying, and soon I would have to go inside. Someone was bound to notice my absence. In an attempt to escape the inevitable for a little while longer, I fled behind the barn, where there was nothing but rubbish heaps and bales of frozen hay, and was surprised to see that someone was already there: a small, black-clad girl sitting on a rock.
“Myrtle!” I hobbled toward her the best that I could on my frozen legs. “What are you doing out here? Where is your coat?”
She did not answer at first but just looked at me with a morose expression.
I sat down beside her on the rock, and she scooted over to give me space. “Does Mama know that you are out here?”
She shook her head and stared at her feet, dressed in leather shoes with straps. “She’s busy inside.”
“Did it get to be a little too much for you in there? Is the noise hurting your head?” I reached out and caressed her dark curls.
She shook her head again but did not speak. She seemed so very sad.
“Are you sad about Papa?” I tousled her hair a little.
She shook her head again; her gaze was still glued to the tips of her shoes.
“What is it, then, Myrtle? You know you can tell me. I am your aunt, after all.” I put my arm around her and pulled her close on the rock.
“I saw something.” Myrtle’s large, brown eyes looked up at me.
“What did you see, Myrtle?” I pulled her even closer.
“Something that Mama did, when Papa died—”
“Hush, Myrtle!” I all but shouted. “Do not tell me!” My whole body froze and the chest pain was back. I let her go and abruptly rose to my feet, taking a few steps away from her. The girl was almost in tears, her eyes were big and frightened, and her bottom lip quivered.
“You can never tell a soul what you saw that night.” My voice was shrill with fear, and I could do nothing to prevent it. “Not even your mama, Myrtle.” I clutched at my chest while I spoke, at Bella’s knitted shawl. “No one can know what you saw!”
Myrtle was crying by then, sobbing loudly and rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. My sanity slowly descended, called upon by the child’s distress.
“I am so sorry.” I fell to my knees in front of her, not even thinking that I knelt in my best dress. “I am sorry for shouting.” I took the girl in my arms and sobbed along with her for a while. I let out a breath of relief when her soft arms came to embrace me in turn.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked in her sweet voice.
“No, Myrtle. No! It’s just that we must never tell what we know about Mama.” I spoke into her little ear. “It has to be our secret, do you understand?”
I could feel her nodding against my shoulder, her hot breath on my neck.
“We should go inside.” I gently freed myself. “Not to worry.” I gave her a smile, and her pale face lit up just a little. “As long as we don’t tell, everything will be fine.”
She kept my hand in hers all the way to the house.
* * *
—
Though I had feared to see her, I found that I could be with my sister just fine as long as I did not think of what had transpired. As long as I pretended that all was good and well, I could stand beside her as we cleaned the china and swept the floors together. I could help her dispose of the remains of cake and pour cold coffee out the door. I could dress little Lucy for bed and take the glass of brandy she offered me as a thank-you. I could see the relief on her face when Gust retired to bed without even batting an eye.
I had not thought I could do those things, and felt strangely proud that I did.
Not even once did I think about confronting her about what I had heard. I wanted neither the lies nor the excuses, of which I was sure there were plenty, none of which would help. I no longer trusted her. I had not done so since the death of Mads.
I spent the night in agony. My back hurt, yes, but it was more than that. My soul was hurting, too. I lay on the mattress in Bella’s house, next to John, who was sound asleep, and curled up on the mattress as well as I could, and bit into the pillow so as not to make a sound, and then I breathed out my pain. My tears that night were angry tears, but more than angry, I was frightened. The fear in me was cold and sharp, and made me feel so sick that I thought I might throw up.
Later, when we were back in Chicago, I thought I should not have done what I did that day. I should not have sworn Myrtle to silence but let the girl speak and taken the burden from her narrow shoulders, but I had been a coward. I had not wanted to know what she had seen—had not wanted the weight of that knowledge—and so I asked her to never tell a soul, and condemned myself by doing so.
It was shameful what I did then, refusing her like that.
That one act of cowardice would cost us all dearly.
32.
Belle
La Porte, 1903