I had taken up praying in earnest, for the first time in my adult life. I prayed for the children mostly, but for Bella too: that whatever was riding on her back would leave, and that her anger would mellow to peace. I prayed that her conscience would be vigilant and that her will would be strong. That she would not harm a fellow man again.
What else could I do but pray? It is the weapon of the powerless: a way to soothe an uneasy conscience when nothing else is left. For what could I do? Even if our conversation that summer, when I broached the subject of that man in Selbu, had been a terrible thing that chilled me to the bone, she still had not admitted to any wrong. I had not witnessed any evil deeds myself, besides Mads’s bruises and the scissors many years ago. I could testify that she was eager to throw things when angry, and that she was no stranger to making a fist, but that was all. Aside from that incident in Selbu, I did not know anything that others did not know as well. Some of it had been in the newspapers; other things had traveled on people’s lips for months. Heresy and speculations, yes—but, oh, I knew it to be true. Knew it deep in my marrow—knew it as I knew my own heart. She had as good as admitted it herself, too, by forbidding me to speak of it. Her face in that moment, out in the yard, sneering and cold toward me. I could barely see her in there, that little girl at St?rsetgjerdet who clung to my skirts as I tended the goat. She had been swallowed up by something else, something dark with terrible jaws—like a wolf.
And even if I had my proof, what would I do? Go to the authorities and leave my little sister at their mercy? John would undoubtedly say yes, which was why I had not told him of our conversation that summer. I knew he would want me to go, even without any proof, to try to persuade the police to look into the deaths again, so I kept it to myself—my own terrible secret—and guarded it jealously against his prying.
I thought of the children too, of the pain it would cause them to lose their mama, and then I thought of Bella again, and the pain it would cause her to lose them . . . They were the one thing that brought her more joy than anything else combined. They were her angels and her stars at night.
No, I could not do it.
I thought that she had to be damaged somehow, from what had happened before, but what is damaged can often mend, I knew that as well. Be it a limb, a heart, or a soul. Surely Bella could heal herself and leave this all in the past. Her husbands were dead, and there was nothing to do for it but make sure it did not happen again. If she did not remarry, I figured, things would be safe and good. It seemed so clear to me then that it was the shackles of matrimony, the intimacy of bed and board, that brought out her terrible rage. If only she remained a widow, I thought, the wolf could be kept safely at bay—and that was why it pained me to stay away.
I wanted to make sure she did not marry.
* * *
—
She invited Nora and me back to attend the party she threw for the children at McClung Road the day after Christmas. She wanted our help, I think, just as much as she wanted to see us. She also wanted to show me, and all those who still wagged their tongues, that all was good at Brookside Farm. That she was a widow, not a fiend. That she brought joy to children, not death to men. It was easy to see, knowing what I did, and yet I forgave her for it. Perhaps I thought of it as her seeking a redemption. Perhaps I dearly hoped that it was so.
She met us at the station, dressed in a large bearskin coat, and with that flowery hat perched on top of her head. The horse that pulled the carriage wore sleigh bells around its neck. The snow was scarce in Indiana, though; it did not look much like Christmas at home, but she did not seem to mind.
“I want it to be a real Norwegian Christmas celebration for all the children,” she said when we had climbed into the carriage. “A few of them are German, and some Swedish, but I don’t mind. They will enjoy it just as much, I’m sure.”
“Is Jennie at home? Is she excited?” Nora had come mostly for her cousin’s company. It delighted me to see how their bond stood fast.
“Jennie has been setting the table and boiling rice porridge all day long. She’s looking after the boy and watching the candles while I’m away.”
“How is your son?” I asked.
“Healthy and plump as a piglet.” She laughed. “His sisters spoil him. Even Lucy has taken to him, though I figured she might not since she has always been the darling before.”
“She is a sweet child,” I agreed. “And Myrtle?” My stomach ached a little when I said her name. I was still haunted by that day behind the barn—the way that I had silenced her.
“Healthy.” Bella smacked the reins. The landscape around us changed as we left the town behind and entered rural areas. Black fields topped with patches of snow surrounded us on both sides. Here and there, a horse was out, grazing behind weatherworn barns. “She is so sensitive, that child; her tears are never far away, but then they dry up quick as well.” Bella continued to speak. “She was a little anxious about this gathering, to be honest. She couldn’t sleep at all last night from fretting. She likes it better quiet, but I told her it was a nice thing to do. Not all of our neighbors can afford a proper Christmas celebration.” A smug expression appeared on her face. “I stopped by some of the neighbors yesterday, since daughters in both households have been sick with fever, just to cheer them up with some sweets and toys, and I didn’t see as much as a pine branch in a boot—nothing to celebrate Christmas at all. I thought it was the saddest thing.”
I did not see fit to note how scarce our Christmases had been back when we were poor tenant’s daughters. She was in such a jubilant mood that I let her have her joy in peace. It was better for us all when she was pleased.
The farmhouse at Brookside was lit from within by candles. A few pairs of children’s skis were lined up against the outside wall, though I could not fathom how the children were able to ski with so little snow. Stepping inside, I could not help but think of the year before, almost to the day, when we were also gathered in that house to bury Peter Gunness. It had been lit by candles then, too, and the scent of wax was the same, but there were no black paper ribbons this time, and a lovely scent of boiling cream, evergreens, and spices mingled with that of the wax. In the fireplace, the flames danced upon dry logs.