Ava’s Revenge (An Unbounded Novella) (3 page)

Yet in the end, none of that really mattered. I didn’t care about anything but Hannah.

Time passed. A day. Two. Or maybe three. I didn’t know. Twice I slept, still holding Hannah’s empty shell, immune to the smell. I wanted to die. Knew that I would eventually without food and water. But I only grew stronger. I felt no hunger, no physical pain. Though I didn’t put anything in my mouth, I felt the taste of leaves on my tongue.

The third time I awoke, the agony of Hannah’s death had burned to a hard ball in the pit of my stomach. Numbness had taken its place.

Still holding her, I stood and began walking. I didn’t know where I was, but I couldn’t stay in that place anymore. Trees filled my sight in every direction, giving me no sign of which way to go. In the glimpses of sky between the trees, the sun angled across the peaceful blue expanse, telling me I was heading east. I trudged on. At last I came to a river.

I knew that river. Following it, I eventually came to a section of our property. Simon hadn’t shown much creativity in where he’d dumped us, but it was unlikely that our bodies would be found until he started a search. Had anyone even noticed I was missing? Simon had allowed me no friends, and only Mrs. Adamson would question my disappearance when I didn’t deliver her embroidery.

If Simon planned to marry the new farmer’s daughter, he’d have to report my death, or have someone find my body.

Except that I wasn’t dead. I still couldn’t figure out why.

The sun told me it was midday, and Simon should be out in the fields. I found a shovel in our barn and began moving again along the river, still heading east, still carrying Hannah. Walking along this river was one of the few freedoms I’d had, and I had wandered far past our property on the rare days when Simon was out of town and my prolonged absence wouldn’t be missed.

I stopped at a place some distance from the river, still on our property, where the river widened and a large, gnarled oak tree stood watch as it had for dozens of years. I’d once entertained the thought of tying a rope to its lower branches and fashioning a swing for Hannah.

It was near this tree I buried her now. I dug a deep hole, lining it with a bed of leaves, and wrapped her in my petticoat before placing her inside. “Sleep in peace, my sweet Hannah,” I whispered. Sobs once again shook my body as I filled in the hole, though I believed she was at rest.

My fault. My fault.

I could disappear now, take on a new identity. At thirty, I was old, but I was still strong. Any work I could find would be better than my life with Simon.

With Simon, who would now remarry. Another wife, more babies, more deaths.

Those would be my fault too.

That’s why he didn’t bury me,
I thought.
He wanted someone to find us. He’d blame the murders on some fugitive or indigent, and he’d be free to abuse another woman.

My tears dried. Clutching the shovel, I began walking.

I WAITED UNTIL LATE IN
the afternoon in case Simon appeared for the noon meal. But apparently, he’d eaten in town. Maybe even visited the brothel. I didn’t care. He’d return eventually.

The kitchen looked as if a storm had come through. Dirty, food-caked dishes lay everywhere, the floor had mud tracks and scattered feathers and bones from the chicken Simon had apparently remembered how to kill and cook. There was no fire in the grate or water in the barrel. No fresh bread or butter. He hadn’t replaced me yet.

I went to work, first going to the barn where I fed the hungry chickens, catching one to cook for dinner. While I waited for the water to boil so I could begin cleaning off the feathers, I hauled more water to heat for a bath. After spicing the chicken and adding potatoes and vegetables from the bin in the closet, I bathed, washing my long hair and changing into my best Sunday dress that I kept in the cedar chest in Hannah’s room.

I needed clean undergarments, and those were in the bedroom I’d shared with Simon, which was as big a mess as the kitchen. There I found what I needed, as well as discarded clothing on the floor that was definitely not mine. My other everyday dress was missing.

The third bedroom looked the same as always, crammed full of farming equipment and Simon’s sales manifests. In the top drawer of the old desk, next to several big horse pills, I found the small black bottle of liquid and carried it carefully to the kitchen, setting it on my worktable. I began cleaning the floor as the chicken sizzled in the copper kettle over the fire. The aroma was heady, but I had no real appetite. I thought of the tree and my sweet Hannah. Perhaps I should have dug the grave large enough for me.

The kitchen looked almost normal before I felt him coming. Down the road as usual on Old Bob. Without looking out the window, I picked up a bowl and ladled steaming chicken stew into it, setting it on the table in the place where I normally sat. Then I got another bowl for Simon.

I sat and picked up my spoon. The broth tasted as good as it smelled, probably the best I’d ever made.

The door burst open. Simon stopped and stared as he saw me, his jaw going slack. I smiled, knowing the emotion wouldn’t reach my eyes. “Good evening, Simon. I’ve made you dinner. It’s hot and ready.” I stared at him, my gaze not wavering.

He swallowed noisily, the blood seeping from his face. His muddy eyes looked as big as the pit I’d dug for our daughter’s grave. He crossed himself and blinked.

“Come on, Simon. Why don’t you sit and eat? I’m sorry, I haven’t been around, but I’m back now.” I stood and motioned for him to take his place.

He backed away, not out the door, but toward the window. “You . . . how . . . I . . .”

I laughed. “What’s wrong, Simon? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come on, eat. You’ll see your daughter soon. I know how much you love her.” I walked over to the door, shutting it.

He still made no move toward the table.

I picked up a knife. “Sit,” I ordered.

He scurried to the table and picked up his spoon, his eyes still fixed on me in horror.

I sliced one of the dry biscuits I’d made to go with the stew. There hadn’t been time to make bread or butter, but the biscuits would taste good soaked in stew broth. “I’m going to make more pot roast tomorrow,” I said, “if we have any meat left from the butchering. You remember the last time we had pot roast, don’t you?”

He was gulping down the stew now, though it had to be too hot for such rapid consumption.

I laid the knife down and joined him at the table. “How long has it been?” I pressed. “The last pot roast. The one that was too cold.”

He swallowed again noisily. “But you’re . . .”

“What?” I smiled. “I’m what, Simon?”

“You’re dead.” He swallowed the food in his mouth, his spoon clutched tightly in his gnarled hand. “I saw you . . . I . . .”

“You saw what, Simon?” When he didn’t reply, I added, “I’m obviously not dead, as you can see. Isn’t the stew delicious? I made it just the way you like it.”

He nodded, his thick neck bobbing like the chicken I’d beheaded hours earlier. He lowered his eyes, spooning in the broth and chunks of chicken with the same desperation as before. I sipped my own stew, the flavors exploding in my mouth, reminding me that I still had no answer.

“How long would you say I’ve been gone?” I asked. “You looked so surprised to see me. I can’t really remember what happened. It’s all a blur.” I tilted my head and waited to see if he’d detect the lie. I always could.

With the comment, more color seeped into his face. “T-two weeks,” he said.

“What happened?”

He stared at me for several seconds before gulping more stew as if he hadn’t eaten during all the time I’d been gone. I didn’t interrupt him, but let him spoon it all down and cram in the biscuit without once dipping it into the broth. He tipped the bowl to his mouth and slurped up the rest of the liquid.

“Would you like some more?”

He shook his head. “N-no.” This time it was difficult for him to push out the word.

I stood and retrieved the small black bottle, setting it on the table near his bowl. “Last time you made me take two spoonfuls. You’ve just taken four. You’re larger, so I thought it might take more. I hope I didn’t give you too much.”

He tried to speak, but it came out a jumbled, unintelligible mess. I smiled and finished my stew without saying a word. Then I arose, taking our dishes to the sink. But these I wouldn’t be washing. I would never wash dishes again. I picked up the knife from the worktable and brought it back to Simon. I rubbed the side of the blade against his cheek. My mind screamed at me to plunge it into his heart, to cut off his hand or his manhood, but I wouldn’t be rushed.

I drew the blade lightly over his throat, just enough to bring a few beads of blood. “Remember this?” I asked. I could see that he did. He remembered it all. And like me, he had no idea how I’d survived. I could feel his emotions as I always had this past year: his fear, his shame, his anger. Even now he wished he could move his limbs so he could kill me again.

And Hannah.

A sob shook me and I turned away, stepping out of his sight so he wouldn’t see my pain. The knife clattered to the floor. I felt nearly blinded, agonized, with grief. How could I go on without her, especially knowing it was my fault?

I couldn’t, of course, and that was why I was still here.

With the tongs, I pulled out one of the smaller logs from the fireplace, placing it under the table. Then I heaped on the piles of clothes I’d gathered: Simon’s work clothes, the rest of mine, and even those left from Simon’s prostitute. I didn’t look at the monster that was my husband until the table was burning.

“No more,” I said to Simon, whose eyes glittered with fear and hatred. “No more dead babies. Or dead wives. No more prostitutes. No more cheating or lies. It’s over. You built this house with your own hands, and now you will see it destroyed by the freak you created. By me.”

Fire licked at his shoe.

I left the kitchen, going back to Hannah’s room. In the cedar chest that had once been my mother’s, I swept up the tin box that held my most dear memories. Hannah’s first little outfit, barely outgrown, the stuffed bear my mother had made for me as a child that I had planned to share with Hannah. The gold necklace that had belonged to the mother of my first love, Gabriel, a gift from her wealthy parents before she’d run away to marry Gabriel’s father. She’d died when Gabriel was only ten, and he’d given me the necklace when I was sixteen, along with a rose that had long since dried and was crumbling. These treasures were all I had left of those I loved.

I slumped to the floor. Hannah’s cradle was still in the kitchen cupboard where I’d left it last, but I felt close to her here.
I love you Hannah. I’ll be with you soon.

Something inside, a slice of sanity that remained, screamed at me to get away. Another part of me cried out that I should have been more humane, even to Simon. I should have at least knocked him unconscious before setting the fire. As it was, he wouldn’t be able to cry or scream, but he’d feel himself burning. When he’d given the potion to me, I had felt everything he’d done to my body.

During the afternoon planning, I purposely hadn’t thought about any of the good times we had shared together, but they came now: a dance we had attended two months after our marriage, the time our crops had sold for twice what we’d expected, the day he had brought home the porcelain dinnerware.

I was doomed. Maybe by taking revenge, I’d made a pact with the devil himself.

I sensed Simon then. I felt the flames as they spread up his clothes in a deceptively gentle rush before sinking in and biting deep. I experienced his suffering, his regret—not regret that he’d hurt me, but regret that he hadn’t done a better job of killing me.

I was burning—consumed by fire. No,
he
was burning. The flames hadn’t yet reached the nursery, but in my misery, I’d forgotten we were connected, that I would feel his terror and anguish as if they were my own.

Greedy fire. Horrific agony. So much torture I didn’t think I’d live long enough to feel actual flames on my own skin. I brought my hands to my head, clamping down, pushing him away.

All at once the agony stopped and I was aware of my surroundings again, though I knew he wasn’t yet dead. I still had an awareness of the glow that signaled his life, but I’d somehow separated myself from his pain.

I clung to my tin more tightly. Shattering glass echoed throughout the house. The glass Simon had been so proud of when he’d had it put in before any of the neighbors.

Smoke curled into the room, quickly becoming huge billows of gray. I began coughing. I could already feel the heat from the fire. For the first time since laying my baby in her grave, I was scared. Scared to feel the flames again. The agony.

Shame filled me. I couldn’t even die right.

Clutching the tin, I scrambled to my feet and ran for the window.