My Mother Killed My Father
by Michael Cooney
After a week or so, the neighbors sent word to the sheriff. Some said it was the smell of burning flesh that tipped them off. Others claimed they knew that Mrs. Druse was lying when she kept repeating the very same words to everyone who stopped by the farm: “My man has left. He’s gone away. I don’t know where he went.” Mrs. Willis, who belonged to the Baptist Church with the Druses, said it was the look in the eyes of the seventeen-year-old Mary that told her that something terrible had happened at the isolated farmhouse.
Jacob Timmerman, who testified at the trial, had his own view of the matter. “I could see they were both bruised up regular, Roxy and her girl. When Bill didn’t show up, I figured she had finally killed him.” Timmerman had paused for a moment. “He deserved killing, in my opinion.” Both prosecution and defense rose to object.
After the trial, Timmerman sold his farm near Jordanville and settled downriver from the thriving mills at Little Falls. He bought a farm, smaller than the old one, with twenty good acres of rich black soil. Soon, he grew prosperous enough to spend his idle winter days in Klock’s Tavern.
“Old Bill Druse was a bastard, truth to tell,” Jacob Timmerman said one bleak afternoon when Frank Shall dropped by. “I told the jury up in Herkimer that he deserved what he got, but they didn’t want to hear it. He was a son-of-a-bitch, and that’s the truth.”
Shall had spent the day breaking the will of a rich old farmer. “You think they were wrong to hang Roxalana Druse?”
“Here’s the way I see it,” Timmerman leaned forward and dropped his voice. “It was December, mind you, and cold and dark as the grave. Bill staggers out of bed, half-drunk from the night before, and right off starts bitching. He’s yelling that the eggs are runny or some such. Then he smashes the plate into her face and goes out to milk the cows. Roxy wipes off her face, used to this kind of thing. She wraps a ragged old shawl around her shoulders and goes to the well to pump some water. When the pail is full, she calls out to her daughter, who’s still not up. ‘Mary! Come here and give me a hand with this pail of water,’ she says.
“‘Mary,’ she calls again but the girl don’t answer. Roxy’s shoulder is sore from an arm-twisting Bill had given her the day before. It’s hard for her to carry the pail back into the kitchen, and the water is sloshing onto the floor. She goes to knock on Mary’s door. There’s no latch, but the mother never goes into her daughter’s room, unbidden.
“Finally, the girl pulls open the door, a makeshift arrangement of boards. Her hair is uncombed, and she wears a nightgown of her mother’s. Her eyes tell the story. Roxy asks the girl, ‘did he do something to you?’ She couldn’t have put more than that into words. Maybe Mary nodded, or maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe Roxy says to the daughter, ‘he won’t do it again.’ This time Mary definitely nods her head, rapidly up and down.
“‘He won’t do it again,’ the mother repeats, with no clear idea yet of how she can protect the girl. Something very bad is going on if you get my drift.
“Well, Roxy flings about for something to say. ‘We’ll wait ‘til dinner,’ she says. ‘Your Pa will be back from the fields. We’ll just wait for dinner, you and me.’ Mary nods, not saying a word.
“Mrs. Druse chooses a couple of pork-chops from the smokehouse and cooks them up just the way the old man likes them, with plenty of gravy and onions. She don’t eat. She waits to see what else he’s gonna say, maybe one word that’ll keep her from doing the drastic that’s growing on her mind. Finally, Bill stops chewing and wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘Where’s that gal?’ he asks. ‘She oughta be here at the dinner table.’
“Mary comes quietly down the stairs. He can’t read the expression in his wife’s eyes, but whatever he sees there, he don’t like it. ‘Don’t you be raising your eyes to me, woman. I’ll teach you some proper respect, you and that bitch gal of yours,’ he says. He pushes back the chair and stands up from the table. Balling his fist, he moves toward his wife, who backs up nearly into the red-hot wood stove. Behind him, Mary lifts the ax that had been resting in the corner and brings it down. Blood is everywhere, splattered across the floor, the table, the women’s dresses. Roxy gently takes the axe from Mary’s hands. ‘Go to your room, Mary. I’ll take care of him now,’ she says.
“Dragging her husband’s body across the snow into the barn while Mary falls asleep, bloody dress and all, Roxy cuts Bill up with the same ax as the girl used on him. She chops and chops, breaking the body apart at the joints. She takes the pieces to the pig pen and throws them to the hogs. ‘Mr. Druse always said pigs’d eat anything,’ she said once to me when I visited her in jail. She had a little smile when she said it.
“Then she goes inside to wash down the floor, the chairs, and the table. She puts her dress and the old man’s clothes into the wood stove and lights a fire. Later, she manages to undress Mary and wash her off. She burns Mary’s dress, as well. Before the sheriff comes out to the farm six or seven days later, she sits on the bed next to Mary. ‘I killed him, Mary,’ she tells the girl. ‘That’s all you need to know. Just keep saying, ‘My mother killed my father.’ Say it, now. Say it.’
“Mary says nothing. ‘Say it, girl, say it.’ Finally, after hours of pleading, Mary speaks: ‘My mother killed my father. My mother killed my father. My mother killed my father.’
“The trial was a great sensation in Herkimer County. Biggest story since the Civil War, as far as most people were concerned. People came in carriages from all over the county for each of the three days that it took. Brought picnic baskets and made a regular party of it.
“I was there in the courtroom, and I heard it all. They cut me off when I was trying to give my testimony, to tell the truth of what happened out there on the Druse place. Mary testified in a voice so low that the county attorney had to repeat very loudly for the jury the few words that she used. I couldn’t hear her, but the prosecutor told everybody that she said, ‘My mother killed my father.’
“On the day that Roxy was hung in the back yard of the county jail, the crowd was just about the largest I ever seen in Herkimer. When they asked her if she had any last words, she looked out over the crowd and said as loudly as she could: ‘I killed him. I know it’s wrong and I hope I don’t burn in hell, but I’m glad I done it.’
“Mary served a couple of years for accessory after the fact, as they put it. She took up religion in the new state prison for women and later on, she went out west where people say she took up with the Mormons.”
“So, what was the upshot, Jacob?” Frank Shall asked him. “Was justice served?
“All I know,” Timmerman paused to spit tobacco juice into the fireplace, “is that that mother loved that girl as much as any mother ever loved a child. What does the Bible say, greater love has no man? Nor woman neither, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well maybe,” said Shall, who years later was elected county judge and eventually shot himself.
Jacob Timmerman, who testified at the trial, had his own view of the matter. “I could see they were both bruised up regular, Roxy and her girl. When Bill didn’t show up, I figured she had finally killed him.” Timmerman had paused for a moment. “He deserved killing, in my opinion.” Both prosecution and defense rose to object.
After the trial, Timmerman sold his farm near Jordanville and settled downriver from the thriving mills at Little Falls. He bought a farm, smaller than the old one, with twenty good acres of rich black soil. Soon, he grew prosperous enough to spend his idle winter days in Klock’s Tavern.
“Old Bill Druse was a bastard, truth to tell,” Jacob Timmerman said one bleak afternoon when Frank Shall dropped by. “I told the jury up in Herkimer that he deserved what he got, but they didn’t want to hear it. He was a son-of-a-bitch, and that’s the truth.”
Shall had spent the day breaking the will of a rich old farmer. “You think they were wrong to hang Roxalana Druse?”
“Here’s the way I see it,” Timmerman leaned forward and dropped his voice. “It was December, mind you, and cold and dark as the grave. Bill staggers out of bed, half-drunk from the night before, and right off starts bitching. He’s yelling that the eggs are runny or some such. Then he smashes the plate into her face and goes out to milk the cows. Roxy wipes off her face, used to this kind of thing. She wraps a ragged old shawl around her shoulders and goes to the well to pump some water. When the pail is full, she calls out to her daughter, who’s still not up. ‘Mary! Come here and give me a hand with this pail of water,’ she says.
“‘Mary,’ she calls again but the girl don’t answer. Roxy’s shoulder is sore from an arm-twisting Bill had given her the day before. It’s hard for her to carry the pail back into the kitchen, and the water is sloshing onto the floor. She goes to knock on Mary’s door. There’s no latch, but the mother never goes into her daughter’s room, unbidden.
“Finally, the girl pulls open the door, a makeshift arrangement of boards. Her hair is uncombed, and she wears a nightgown of her mother’s. Her eyes tell the story. Roxy asks the girl, ‘did he do something to you?’ She couldn’t have put more than that into words. Maybe Mary nodded, or maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe Roxy says to the daughter, ‘he won’t do it again.’ This time Mary definitely nods her head, rapidly up and down.
“‘He won’t do it again,’ the mother repeats, with no clear idea yet of how she can protect the girl. Something very bad is going on if you get my drift.
“Well, Roxy flings about for something to say. ‘We’ll wait ‘til dinner,’ she says. ‘Your Pa will be back from the fields. We’ll just wait for dinner, you and me.’ Mary nods, not saying a word.
“Mrs. Druse chooses a couple of pork-chops from the smokehouse and cooks them up just the way the old man likes them, with plenty of gravy and onions. She don’t eat. She waits to see what else he’s gonna say, maybe one word that’ll keep her from doing the drastic that’s growing on her mind. Finally, Bill stops chewing and wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘Where’s that gal?’ he asks. ‘She oughta be here at the dinner table.’
“Mary comes quietly down the stairs. He can’t read the expression in his wife’s eyes, but whatever he sees there, he don’t like it. ‘Don’t you be raising your eyes to me, woman. I’ll teach you some proper respect, you and that bitch gal of yours,’ he says. He pushes back the chair and stands up from the table. Balling his fist, he moves toward his wife, who backs up nearly into the red-hot wood stove. Behind him, Mary lifts the ax that had been resting in the corner and brings it down. Blood is everywhere, splattered across the floor, the table, the women’s dresses. Roxy gently takes the axe from Mary’s hands. ‘Go to your room, Mary. I’ll take care of him now,’ she says.
“Dragging her husband’s body across the snow into the barn while Mary falls asleep, bloody dress and all, Roxy cuts Bill up with the same ax as the girl used on him. She chops and chops, breaking the body apart at the joints. She takes the pieces to the pig pen and throws them to the hogs. ‘Mr. Druse always said pigs’d eat anything,’ she said once to me when I visited her in jail. She had a little smile when she said it.
“Then she goes inside to wash down the floor, the chairs, and the table. She puts her dress and the old man’s clothes into the wood stove and lights a fire. Later, she manages to undress Mary and wash her off. She burns Mary’s dress, as well. Before the sheriff comes out to the farm six or seven days later, she sits on the bed next to Mary. ‘I killed him, Mary,’ she tells the girl. ‘That’s all you need to know. Just keep saying, ‘My mother killed my father.’ Say it, now. Say it.’
“Mary says nothing. ‘Say it, girl, say it.’ Finally, after hours of pleading, Mary speaks: ‘My mother killed my father. My mother killed my father. My mother killed my father.’
“The trial was a great sensation in Herkimer County. Biggest story since the Civil War, as far as most people were concerned. People came in carriages from all over the county for each of the three days that it took. Brought picnic baskets and made a regular party of it.
“I was there in the courtroom, and I heard it all. They cut me off when I was trying to give my testimony, to tell the truth of what happened out there on the Druse place. Mary testified in a voice so low that the county attorney had to repeat very loudly for the jury the few words that she used. I couldn’t hear her, but the prosecutor told everybody that she said, ‘My mother killed my father.’
“On the day that Roxy was hung in the back yard of the county jail, the crowd was just about the largest I ever seen in Herkimer. When they asked her if she had any last words, she looked out over the crowd and said as loudly as she could: ‘I killed him. I know it’s wrong and I hope I don’t burn in hell, but I’m glad I done it.’
“Mary served a couple of years for accessory after the fact, as they put it. She took up religion in the new state prison for women and later on, she went out west where people say she took up with the Mormons.”
“So, what was the upshot, Jacob?” Frank Shall asked him. “Was justice served?
“All I know,” Timmerman paused to spit tobacco juice into the fireplace, “is that that mother loved that girl as much as any mother ever loved a child. What does the Bible say, greater love has no man? Nor woman neither, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well maybe,” said Shall, who years later was elected county judge and eventually shot himself.
Michael Cooney has written a series of stories inspired by the history and legends of upstate New York. "My Mother Killed My Father" is based on a notorious murder of the 1880s, in which a woman was convicted of chopping up her husband and feeding him to the family's pigs. Cooney's tale of early 20th century radicalism and the remnants of Salem witchcraft, entitled "The Wobbly and the Witch Girl," was published by Running Wild Press in 2021 and his story of McCarthyism in rural America, "Hammer and Sickle," appeared last month in Bandit Fiction.