The children before us had grown raucous in the dimly lit night and scared one another with sudden noises and ambushes from behind. It was all in good fun, though; they were all laughing, and I did not see a single child who did not seem to enjoy it, besides Myrtle.
When we arrived at the barn, Bella knocked on the door to the hayloft with a grave expression on her face. Then she swung the door open on creaking hinges and bid the boy with the lantern go in first. This he did with equal solemnity resting upon his round, childish features. When Bella too had stepped inside, the rest of us followed suit, pooling into the musty hayloft, treading on old boards that gave a little with every step, and made me wonder if they would hold all our weight. They did, of course, but I was resting uneasy when we gathered in a semicircle around Bella with the porridge. She placed the bowl in the hay with exaggerated gestures, making it seem a little too much like a pagan offering for my liking—the hayloft was dark enough. Then she abruptly turned toward the children with one finger pressed to her lips.
“Hush!” Her eyes were wide and wild in the darkness, illuminated only by the poor boy’s light. “Can you hear the Nisse coming for his porridge?” All the children went quiet as mice; only their feet made sounds on the floor as they shifted their weight around. They were looking at one another and at her with a mixture of excitement and terror on their faces. “Can you hear his footfalls?” Bella asked, and the children fell even more quiet than before.
“Oh! He’s coming!” Bella threw her arms in the air and started for the door. The children screamed with terrified delight and ran along with her. Even the boy with the lantern; the flame behind the glass quivered and shook. I pulled Myrtle close to my body as we exited last. The girl shivered a little against me, though from fear or cold I could not say. The other children were still running when we came out, fast toward the warmth and light of the farmhouse. Bella was waiting for us, though; her laughter rose strong and carefree toward the sky.
“The boy could have dropped the lantern,” I chided her. “They’ll have nightmares about that barn for weeks.” But I was not truly angry. It almost felt like before between us, when I scolded her like that. As if those men had never died. The thought was enough to send tears to my eyes, mercifully hidden by the dusk.
“It was a true adventure, though, wasn’t it?” Bella said, self-satisfied, as we slowly walked back toward the house. “They won’t forget it anytime soon.”
“Never, I think,” I agreed, then squeezed Myrtle’s hand and blinked away my tears.
37.
Belle
La Porte, 1904–1905
Colson grew cocky when the year turned, and thought himself my equal on the farm. He started seeking me out in my bed at night, not waiting for me to come to him, quickly closing the door again if one of the children was with me. At first, I thought little of it—he was a young man and could certainly keep me entertained between the sheets—but then our conversations turned worrisome, and I started thinking of the cleaver again.
“I think we should have new fences up by the road,” he said, lying there beside me with his head on Peter’s pillow.
“I think the fences are fine enough,” I said.
“They’re rotting,” he said. “I think we should put up some new ones.”
“I said we don’t need it.” I felt the first flickers of annoyance in the pit of my stomach.
“Well, I’ll still do it.”
“I think you better not.” My mood was quickly changing.
“It’s your farm, of course. But I think you’re being foolish.”
I lay awake long after he had fallen asleep, wondering how it was that he felt he could speak to me in that way. Did he think that he had some sway just because he kept me company at night?
Men can be stupid like that.
Another night, in his room above the kitchen, Colson said, “I think we should sell that old cow to the stockyard.”
“She still gives milk—I’ll decide when it’s time to sell.”
“She barely earns what she eats.”
I had no quarrel with that cow; she had served me well for a long time. “She’s in good health, there’s no need—”
“I already made the arrangements. I can take her myself tomorrow.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I was already seeing his nightshirt red with blood. Something in my voice must have warned him, though, because when he spoke again, his voice was meek. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, of course.”
Then one night I saw him wearing a shirt from Peter’s old chest. He clearly saw himself fit to wear my husband’s clothing.
“You are stealing from me,” I said when I confronted him.
“Sure I’m not, no one else uses it.”
“Still, that belongs to me!”
“I just didn’t think you would mind.” The young man stood on the kitchen floor, looking pale. Did he think I was always butter and sunshine?
“Take that off!” I demanded, and found myself quite livid.
“I’m just borrowing—I can replace the shirts . . .” More than one, then—good to know.
“You aren’t fit to use those shirts!” I threw the ricer I held to the floor; it bounced and spat potato grains.
“I’ll put them back! I’ll put them back!” He lifted his hands in the air in surrender. “Just please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean to upset you!”
“Take off my husband’s clothes, then, and we will speak no more of it.” No, he was not fit to wear that shirt. I could not think of anyone fit to wear that shirt, not even he who bought it.
“I feel terrible, Belle—”
“Mrs. Gunness to you.”
“Mrs. Gunness, then. I feel terrible.”
“As you ought to. Now peel that thing off and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning. We both will.” I was thinking that I ought to pay him a visit in the night. Perhaps that feeling I so longed for would be within my reach if I was already angry with my opponent. Colson was young and fit. Surely it would satisfy me to see him crumple at my feet. I had some chloroform in the cupboard and it was easy to administer in a simple glass jar—I did not dare to leave him lucid; the stakes were too high and too much could go wrong. I could not risk him waking the children. When I went up to see him, however, to make sure he was properly asleep, the bed in there was empty. Colson had flown the coop. Maybe he felt something then, much like a rat sensing a cat.
Whatever the reason, he was gone.
* * *
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