Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Sweat trickled between Nellie’s breasts, well encased in her brassiere, and pooled in her belly button and in the creases behind her knees. Perhaps she should have worn shorts, and she considered going upstairs to change out of her dungarees. Never mind, she thought. This heat is good for me. She sang softly to the plants, stopping to caress the tubular magenta petals of the newly sprung bee balm, a favorite of hummingbirds. “Even a plant needs a gentle touch, a gentle song, Nell-girl,” her mother would say. Nellie wasn’t as green-fingered as Elsie, but she did learn to love her flowers as much.

  Once the garden was weeded and the blooms lullabied, Nellie trimmed a few herb sprigs, macerating a flat parsley leaf with her gloved fingers and holding it to her nose, the smell green and bright and satisfying.

  Back in the kitchen Nellie washed and chopped the parsley and added it to the meat mixture, along with a sprinkle of the dried herbs she cultivated in her garden and kept in a cheese shaker in the cupboard. She glanced occasionally at the meat loaf recipe to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. Despite having made this recipe dozens of times, she liked following the steps precisely. Knew it would result in a meat loaf perfectly browned on top yet still juicy inside, the way Richard liked it.

  Nellie hoped his stomach had improved as the day wore on; he’d barely been able to get his breakfast down. Perhaps a batch of fennel and peppermint tea with dinner might help—iced, because he didn’t enjoy warm beverages. She hummed to the radio as she trimmed a few mint leaves, hoping Richard wouldn’t be late for dinner again tonight. She was bursting with wonderful news and couldn’t wait to tell him.

  5

  To be a successful wife is a career in itself, requiring among other things, the qualities of a diplomat, a businesswoman, a good cook, a trained nurse, a schoolteacher, a politician and a glamour girl.

  —Emily Mudd, “Woman’s Finest Role,” Reader’s Digest, 1959

  Alice

  MAY 26, 2018

  Alice’s head screamed with the shrill beeping of the moving truck as it backed into the driveway. Their driveway. Long enough to fit two cars, three if they went bumper to bumper. Only a couple of hours earlier she and Nate had made multiple trips from their eighth-floor apartment to the truck, filling it with their worldly possessions—which had been scrunched into their Murray Hill apartment like Tetris blocks but easily fit into the truck’s cavity, with room to spare.

  The night before, their last in Manhattan, Alice’s best friend, Bronwyn, had thrown them a moving-out party to which she wore all black, including a lace-veiled funeral hat she’d picked up at a consignment shop. “What? I’m in mourning,” she’d said, pouting when Alice raised her eyebrows at the hat. Bronwyn was at times melodramatic—when she and Alice were roommates she’d once called 911 when a mouse ran out from behind the oven—but she knew Alice better than anyone, and Alice understood that while the hat was a bit much, the sentiment was fair. A year earlier Alice would have scoffed at leaving the city for the “country,” but things, and people, change. Or, as in Alice’s case, people make one tiny error in judgment and completely fuck up their lives and then have no choice but to change.

  Putting her hands to the sides of Bronwyn’s face, Alice had said, “I’m not dead. It’s only Greenville, okay? Change is good.” She held back hot tears, hoping her wide smile hid her worry.

  Bronwyn, seeing right through her, repeated, “Change is good. This city is overrated anyway,” then suggested they get drunk, which they did. Around midnight they escaped Bronwyn’s crowded living room—their friends shoulder to shoulder in the cramped, humid space—and shared the last of a bottle of tequila on the fire escape, until Alice’s words grew slurry and Bronwyn fell asleep, head in her best friend’s lap.

  So after a very early alarm and some dry heaving and not enough coffee, Alice was cotton-mouthed and in a foul mood and she wanted the truck to stop beeping. Or maybe what she really wanted was to lie down on the overgrown and weedy driveway and let the truck run her over, ending her hangover. Alice chuckled, imagining how Beverly would spin that story for the next potential home buyers.

  “What’s so funny?” Nate asked, nudging Alice.

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

  Nate glanced her way. “All good?”

  “Fine. Except my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  “Poor baby.” Nate cradled an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. He rubbed his free hand over his face, squinting in the bright sunshine. His sunglasses were on top of his head, but he didn’t seem to remember. “I’m seriously hungover too.” The truck had mercifully stopped, the backup alarm finally quieted.

  Alice tipped his sunglasses onto his face. “Think we can pay them to unpack everything so we can go to bed?”

  “I think we should save our pennies,” Nate replied, and a spike of guilt hit Alice despite his mild-mannered tone. His salary was good—much bigger than Alice’s ever was, maybe ever would have been—and would jump significantly after his next, and final, actuarial exam in a few months. Plus, he was a responsible investor and saver, but it was his paycheck alone that would have to float them, at least for now.

  “You’re right,” Alice said, rising on her toes to kiss him. “Did I mention how much I love you, even though you forgot to brush your teeth this morning?”

  Nate clamped a hand over his mouth, laughing softly, and Alice pried it away.

  “I don’t care.”

  She squealed as he dipped her, both of them fumbling as her hand, looking for something to grasp, caught the arm of his sunglasses and ripped them from his face. Nate shifted to catch the glasses, dropping Alice to the sidewalk in the process. They lay side by side, Alice laughing so hard she couldn’t make a sound.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, cradling her head so it wasn’t resting on the cement. He grinned when he saw she was writhing in laughter, not pain.

  “Mostly,” Alice murmured, then smiled and placed his sunglasses back on his face. Nate pulled her to her feet, both of them brushing bits of gravel from their jeans when Beverly’s Lexus pulled into the driveway.

  She stepped out of the car, this time with jingling silver bracelets adorning her mostly bare arm. The skin under her biceps flapped as she waved, and Alice clutched her own arms, surreptitiously seeing how much skin she could squeeze. She made a note to do push-ups later.

  “Ali! Nate! Hello!” Beverly was carrying a package in her other hand, the excess of clear cellophane wrapping jutting out in all directions from a pale yellow ribbon tied around it. “Today’s the big day. You must be excited!”

  Beverly beamed as she thrust the basket toward Alice, who was unprepared for how heavy it was and nearly dropped it.

  “Oh, careful there,” Beverly said, putting a supportive hand underneath Alice’s. “There’s a lovely bottle of wine you won’t want to waste on these flowers.” Patches of dandelions sprouted up from the cracks in the pavement. Beverly might be equally useless in the garden if she qualified these weeds as “flowers.”

  “Thanks, Beverly.” Alice tightened her grip on the gift. A sprig of cellophane scratched her chin, and she shifted the basket into the crook of her elbow. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  Beverly waved away the words. “Don’t be silly. This is an exciting day.” She handed Nate the keys for the front door. “I think you’re going to be very happy here. Very happy indeed.”

  6

  It is up to you to earn the proposal—by waging a dignified, common-sense campaign designed to help him see for himself that matrimony rather than bachelorhood is the keystone of a full and happy life.

  —Ellis Michael, “How to Make Him Propose,” Coronet (1951)

  Alice

  Alice and Nate were in bed in the unfamiliar master bedroom, mildly tipsy after finishing Beverly’s gifted bottle of wine. They lay under a duvet on the
ir mattress, which they’d plopped on the floor, too tired to put the frame together. The only light came from a bedside table lamp plugged into the far wall. Alice’s body ached; every muscle from scalp to feet begged for a massage, or at the minimum a hot bath. She thought about the rust-ringed, almond-colored tub and decided a shower would probably be good enough tonight, if she could muster the energy. There were no blinds on the windows yet, and without the glow of traffic or the hundreds of lit window squares from neighboring buildings, it was unbelievably black skied outside the house. And quiet. So quiet.

  Remembering the box she’d placed by the bedroom door earlier, she reluctantly shimmied out of the bed’s warmth and padded over to it. “I have something for you,” Alice said. “It’s just a little thing, so don’t get too excited.” She pulled an oblong parcel, wrapped and tied with a gold bow, out of the larger cardboard box. Settling on top of the duvet, her legs tucked up under her so her nightshirt covered her knees to stem the chill, she handed it to Nate with a smile. “Happy housewarming, my love.”

  He looked surprised and shifted to sit beside her as he took the box. “What? I didn’t get you anything.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “You bought me a house.”

  “We bought this house.” Nate nuzzled his chin, which with a shadow of a beard was like fine sandpaper, into Alice’s neck and planted a soft kiss. She didn’t correct him, didn’t remind him it had been mostly his savings that had gone into the down payment.

  “Open it,” she said.

  Nate shook the parcel and something heavy shifted inside. His eyebrows rose with curiosity, and he ripped off the bow, followed by the wrapping paper. Lifting the lid of the white box, he pushed aside the tissue paper Alice had nestled around the gift and gave a big, joyful laugh.

  “Like it?” Alice asked, grinning.

  He kissed her, twice. “I love it.” He held the polished wood handle in his right hand, pretended to hammer a nail into the air in front of them. “It’s perfect.” Nate ran his fingers over the rustic hammer’s handle, where Alice had had inscribed into the wood, Mr. Hale.

  “I’m so glad, because it’s nice to have a matching set.” She went back to the box by the door and pulled out her own identical hammer, though on its handle it read, Mrs. Hale.

  “You are the best,” he murmured, still smiling. “Thank you. Now let’s hope I don’t smash too many fingers.”

  “Same.” She laughed, pausing briefly before adding, “We may be in over our heads here, you know.”

  “I know. But at least we’ll go down together.” He took the hammer from her hands and placed it beside his on the floor next to the mattress. “We can christen those tomorrow.” He nudged her backward until she was flat on the mattress, his hands tugging her nightshirt up so his palms rested on her bare skin. Alice shivered, from the room’s chill and the tickle of Nate’s thumb lazily circling her belly button.

  “We’re going to make a life here, babe,” Nate murmured. “I’m going to take care of us.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Nate Hale and Alice Livingston met in Central Park, midway on the running path that circles the reservoir. He was running toward her but she didn’t notice him, as she was frantically trying to get dog feces off her shoe. Nate was a “real” runner—he had the GPS watch, the moisture-wicking shirt with stripes of reflector tape sewn into the seams, one of those Lycra water belts, and the bouncy stride of someone who found jogging fairly effortless. This was only Alice’s second attempt. Though later she would come to appreciate it, at this particular moment Alice hated everything about jogging.

  When Nate first noticed Alice she was hopping around on one foot—her soiled shoe hanging from its laces, pinched between her fingers, from her outstretched arm.

  “Everything okay?” Nate slowed his pace as he got to Alice. He was nice-looking, with a good head of hair that appeared as though it would stick around for at least a couple more decades. Long, dark eyelashes. Slim build, and a six-pack to boot, which was hard not to notice—first when he pulled up his shirt to wipe sweat out of his eyes, and later that afternoon, up close in Alice’s bedroom.

  “I stepped in something.” She forced back a gag.

  “Here, give it to me.” Nate held out a hand, and Alice gladly passed the shoe to him. He walked a few feet to a green swath of grass under a tree. “I’m Nate, by the way,” he said over his shoulder as she limped after him, toe-touching with her shoeless foot. “And I’d shake your hand, but, well.” He grinned and Alice noted his great teeth.

  “Alice,” she replied. “And thank you. You saved me from losing my breakfast.”

  Nate crouched, sliding the bottom of her shoe back and forth over the grass, firmly, like he meant business. Alice waited nearby, sorting out how she was going to get home with only one shoe because obviously the one in Nate’s hands would be going in the closest trash can. After inspecting the sole, Nate rubbed it again on the grass and took one of the miniature water bottles from his belt. When he squeezed a stream of water onto her shoe, the fouled water ran off the rubber sole and Alice turned to the side and heaved—this time embarrassingly losing the few sips of Gatorade and half a banana she’d had before she left her apartment into the grass at her feet.

  Fifteen minutes later they sat on a nearby bench, both shoes back on her feet (Nate had done an excellent cleaning job), enjoying an ice pop he’d purchased from a cart to get something back into Alice’s stomach.

  “So, tell me, Alice, what are three things I should know about you?”

  “Hmm. Outside of knowing dog shit makes me throw up?” Nate laughed and Alice looked contrite.

  “Sorry about that, by the way.”

  “It’s fine,” Nate said, taking a lick of his ice pop, which was melting quickly in the day’s rising temperature. “You made today’s run much more interesting.” He smiled, and Alice, though mortified by her weak stomach, enjoyed his flirty banter.

  “So, three things?” he asked.

  “One, I’m in PR and I work too much but I love it. Two, I’m not really a runner despite how it looks.” She gestured at her shoes and jogging shorts. “This is only my second run, actually.”

  “And what do you think? Do you want to be a runner, Alice . . . what’s your last name?”

  “Livingston. And that remains to be seen.” She laughed. “I would not count today as a great success.”

  “And three?” Nate was finished with his ice pop by now, the wooden stick between his teeth as he leaned back against the bench, watching her intently.

  Alice blushed under his stare, a warmth coursing through her body that had nothing to do with the humidity or her prior exertion. “Three . . . I don’t generally eat ice pops with strange men in Central Park.”

  Nate smirked, and it was adorable. “Well, this is the first time I’ve bought an ice pop for a woman who threw up at my feet, so I guess we’re both in unfamiliar territory.”

  “Funny guy,” she murmured, chuckling. Alice tried to keep up with the melting sugary ice and failed, its stickiness all over her hands.

  Nate took one of his water bottles and said, “Hold ’em out.” Alice did, and Nate squirted the water, then lifted his shirt to dry her hands. For a moment his touch lingered, and then he smiled, looked away, and busied himself with putting the bottle back in his running belt around his waist.

  “I don’t know if you want to give this running thing another try—I know the shoe incident might have been a deal breaker,” Nate said, a deeply serious look on his face that made Alice laugh but then cringe as she held a hand to her stomach. “But I’m out here a few times a week at least and am happy to, you know, give you some pointers if you’re willing to risk it.”

  “Are you asking me on a jogging date, Nate . . . Wait, what’s your last name?”

  He held out a hand, and she took it. “Nate Hale. Ru
nner; actuarial analyst, which is a fancy way to say I work with numbers; and overall nice guy with a rescue-the-damsel-in-distress weakness.”

  Thirty minutes later their naked bodies were pressed together in Alice’s shower, running shoes haphazardly kicked off by the front door and a trail of shorts, T-shirts, a sports bra, and underwear leading to the bathroom. Alice didn’t typically invite guys she had just met back to her apartment, but Nate was different. She knew it right away.

  It wasn’t long before Alice was spending most nights at Nate’s place and Bronwyn started asking—somewhat grumpily, as up until Nate, Alice had insisted she was not relationship material and Bronwyn, similarly minded, imagined them living together for years to come—if she should find a new roommate.

  Alice had met Bronwyn Murphy a few years earlier, both of them junior PR associates hired only a week apart, and they’d bonded over their fear of, and worship for, their boss, Georgia Wittington. Though Alice would have called herself “ambitious,” Bronwyn had been rabidly so. For her, Georgia and the firm were merely stepping-stones, and she had a fully charted timeline for when she would advance within Wittington or leave without a glance back. When a promised promotion from Georgia didn’t come through, Bronwyn gave her notice. She’d begged Alice—by then her roommate—to come with her, but Alice hadn’t wanted to give up her seniority, expecting soon to be rewarded for her hard work and loyalty. Now Bronwyn pulled in twice what Alice had at her top salary, and had a coveted “director of publicity” title from a competing firm.

  “It’s going to be hard to find someone who understands my needs,” Bronwyn had said, following Alice around when she came back to their apartment briefly to pack a few things to stay at Nate’s. “Someone else might want to use the oven, for, like, roasting a chicken.” Alice had hugged her friend—Bronwyn currently used their oven to store her shoe overflow.