“Of course,” she mumbled, and thankfully did not say another word on the matter before she left the next day.
I had no desire to harm my sister—where was the spite in that?—and hoped that she would take my advice. Surely she could look away if she wanted to—leave it well alone.
The sheriff had done so, and the insurance men in Chicago.
She had no proof, after all.
* * *
—
It was later that year, when summer had given way to chilly nights, when I got word that a crate had arrived for me by train. I had not ordered anything, and felt a little bewildered.
“Is it very large?” I asked the boy who delivered the message.
“You better bring the carriage.”
“Was there a note?”
The boy nodded. “It’s at the station.”
Nothing to do for it then but bring out the horses and go. I brought Colson with me as help while Jennie looked after the children.
At the station, I was presented with a large, square crate and a greasy envelope. I knew the writing at once, and my heart gave a twinge.
“Come,” I said to Colson, “let’s get it in the carriage.”
“But what is it? Some new equipment?”
“No, just some jars I ordered. I completely forgot.” I made my voice sound calm though I felt hot with both bewilderment and worry.
“Are they fragile, then?” he asked.
“Not so much,” I guessed.
He hauled the crate onto the carriage. On the way back, I kept ogling the thing, certain that nothing good could come from it.
Back at the farm, I had Colson help me maneuver the crate down into the cellar through the outside trapdoor. He said nothing when I told him it was for storage. Since I already kept preservatives and produce down there, it was not an unlikely place to store jars. When the crate was safely deposited, I told Colson to go outside and dig a hole for rubbish. I told him to dig deep, as the garbage would likely smell. Then I opened the envelope and skimmed through the writing: She told her mother she was to rest on a farm near La Porte. I trust it to you to see that she does.
The time had come at last, then, to pay my dues to James Lee.
* * *
—
When it was night and all were asleep, I went down in the cellar with the crowbar. The crate was tightly sealed, but as soon as the top was pried loose, the smell flooded the room at once. Neither the oilcloth she was wrapped in nor the hay that was tightly packed around her could prevent the stench of decay.
The woman could have been about twenty-five years of age, with pretty clothes and nice, red hair. She did not look like a whore, and I wondered what kind of mess she had been in to end up in my cellar. Her purse lay with the body, but no name was inside. I hauled her up and placed her on a table I used for storing milk. She was a slight woman. I could easily carry her on my own.
I was both annoyed and amused by this crated surprise. Of course, James should not have done it—sending me a body by train! On the other hand, it was just like him to do something so bold to get a rise out of me, and that made me feel close to him. The crate would be untraceable, of course. He never much liked to put his head in the noose.
I went upstairs and looked in on both Colson and the girls to make sure they were sleeping soundly—they ought to be by then; I had given them all some laudanum. The oilcloth was a blessing, for the woman was messy. The train ride must have been hot. I wrapped her back inside it and brought her out through the trapdoor. Then I placed her in a wheelbarrow, found Colson’s freshly dug hole, and tipped her in. I went to get the rubbish next, a heap that was ever growing behind the barn. I had meant to burn it, but now it was useful. I wheeled some loads to the hole and tipped them in as well, saw the woman disappear under broken glass and empty cans, bones and rotten hay. Then I filled in the hole with the shovel.
* * *
—
Colson was in the kitchen when I came back inside. “What are you doing up so early?” he asked while I heated water to clean my hands.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I slept like a rock. Must’ve been all the nice food you gave me.”
“Just that.” I sat down in his lap and hoped the dead woman’s stench did not cling to me. “Why don’t we make the most of it now, while the children are still asleep?”
“Oh, but you are such a kind woman, Mrs. Gunness.” He was fumbling for my breasts through my dress, already eager as a pup.
“Just let me wash up first.” I rose and went for the water. “I don’t want to get you dirty. I just filled in the rubbish pit you dug.”
“Now? So early?”
“Why not?” I dried off my hands. “The night was moonlit and I brought a lamp.”
“Why, you are something. You never rest, do you? Working this hard, even at night . . .” He had come up behind me, his arms wound around my waist, his face burrowed into my neck. “There never was a woman as good as you.”
“No.” I smiled and tossed the towel on a chair. “I’m certainly not like the rest.”
I let him have me then, leaning with my hands on the wooden washstand and my skirts pulled up around my waist. I rarely wore a corset on the farm, and my heavy breasts swung inside my blouse, tickled by the dancing pewter button.
It did not take me long to finish, excited as I was from the night’s adventure. The young man behind me slapped my buttock as he finished, proud, no doubt, that he could take me to such heights. That he could make this old widow dance.
I closed my eyes and thought of James Lee.
Burying that woman stirred something in me. For three nights after, I could not sleep. I kept thinking about when Peter died; I saw it all in my mind. How the blows fell; how the blood sprayed, how his knees buckled.
I thought about the feelings I had that night: how strong I felt. How joyously alive. How utterly triumphant when he lay there—just a lump of flesh.
He could not hurt me again when he was dead.
I ached for that feeling—I yearned for it. It was as if my life were worth nothing if I could not have it again. I lay there at night with my hand pressed to my aching jaw and I longed—yes, I longed—to lift the cleaver again.
Sometimes, it was Colson I saw on the receiving end of my blade.
* * *
—
I went to see James in Chicago and found him in his small apartment reeking of yesterday’s liquor. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair tousled. He had not shaved for some days. I never understood his desire to live in squalor despite his means. He said it kept him safe and out of sight, but to me it felt undignified.
Of course, I did not know all that he was hiding from.
He laughed when he saw me standing in his tiny kitchen. “I thought that present would get a rise out of you.” He gave me a sloppy kiss on the mouth, then poured coffee into cracked china and sat down before me at his worn red table. “She’s resting, then?”
“Yes, she’s resting. I had my hired man dig a hole.” My fingers closed around the scalding-hot cup.
“Didn’t I tell you to always have one ready?” He raised an eyebrow at me.