Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  “You’re all settled now.” Bronwyn sat heavily on Alice’s bed and watched as she tucked a few pairs of underwear into her weekend bag. “I miss fun Alice! She always made me feel better about my choices.”

  “She’s still here! You’re overreacting, Bron. Yes, I have a boyfriend. But I am still your best friend and will never abandon you. Don’t worry.”

  “Fine,” Bronwyn grumbled, helping Alice fold a couple of T-shirts. “But if you go all Stepford Wives on me . . .”

  A few months later Alice officially moved in with Nate, and six months after that, during an early-morning jog through the park, Nate proposed. Beside the same bench where they’d shared ice pops, pulling the diamond ring from a tiny zippered pocket inside his running shorts and getting down on one knee, causing passersby to cheer and shout out well-wishes.

  Alice loved Nate. Deeply. Initially it scared her because she hadn’t been expecting it and her past experience hadn’t prepared her for it. Her last serious relationship was with a colleague, Bradley Joseph, who was charming and successful and very much into her, but who also, as it turned out, was a control-freak bastard. At first it was small stuff: he didn’t like the hemline of her dress (too short) or the color of her lipstick (too bright); he bemoaned her weekly drink night with her work friends, suggesting he was taking their relationship more seriously than she was; he never asked her about work, preferring to talk about his own accolades instead.

  Initially she dismissed it all, explaining his behavior as that of a confident guy with a bit of an ego, but nothing to be concerned about. Until he punched a hole in the wall of her apartment, inches from her head, after she said she couldn’t attend his brother’s wedding because she had a 104-degree fever. Alice broke up with him on the spot, but Bradley turned her off the opposite gender enough that she didn’t go on another date for more than a year. Until she met Nate.

  “What about Nate made me say yes? It’s simple, actually. Life with Nate is better than life without him,” Alice had said at their wedding reception, holding a glass of chilled champagne in one hand, Nate’s hand in her other. He kissed her, her gulp of champagne wetting his lips as their teary-eyed guests clapped, and Alice thought, There will never be a moment more perfect than this one.

  7

  Nellie

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1955

  Chocolate Chip Cookies

  1 cup soft shortening or butter

  ¾ cup brown sugar

  ¼ cup granulated sugar

  2 eggs

  1 tablespoon sweet milk

  1½ cups flour

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon cloves

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 cup semisweet chocolate pieces

  ¼ cup coconut

  Cream shortening, adding sugars gradually until combined. Beat eggs with milk, and add to shortening mixture. Sift together flour, baking soda, cloves, and salt and add to shortening mixture. Cut chocolate into small pieces and stir into dough with coconut. Drop rounded teaspoonfuls of dough onto greased baking sheet, about 2 inches apart. Bake in moderate oven (350°F) for 12 to 15 minutes.

  Nellie settled the cookie tray on the back seat of the two-door Chrome Yellow Studebaker—the car had been Richard’s choosing, but he’d let Nellie select the color, which reminded her of the yellow hybrid tea roses from her mother’s garden—and got in herself. She ran her hands down her black dress to release the creases, adjusted her gloves, and stewed as she waited for Richard. They had argued all morning, he demanding she stay home (“pregnant women should never attend funerals”) and Nellie countering she would do no such thing. She was perfectly healthy and would not miss Harry Stewart’s funeral because of one of her late mother-in-law’s silly superstitions. “How would that look?” Nellie had asked, because Richard was concerned with such things. She had marched out to the car, cookies in hand, leaving him no choice but to follow.

  As Richard pulled up to the church, Nellie took in the large group of black-clothed people gathering for the funeral. Harry Stewart was one of Richard’s best salesmen and had died riding the train to work the previous Friday morning. He’d been seated, though slumped to the side and leaning against the train’s interior wall as though deep in sleep. It was only when the train braked hard—pitching Harry forward into another commuter’s lap—that someone realized something was horribly wrong. Harry was thirty-six, a year older than Richard, and father to four young children. “Heart attack,” Richard had said, looking as shaken as Nellie had ever seen him. Likely imagining himself in Harry’s place, his death going unnoticed for some time while fellow passengers read newspapers, smoked cigarettes, and carried on banal conversations.

  The fear hooded Richard’s eyes all that week as he dealt with his shocked employees and helped Harry’s widow make funeral arrangements, the cost of which Richard covered personally. Nellie tried to imagine if it had been Richard on that train, dead in an instant when his heart ceased beating. Would she be standing on the church steps like Harry’s wife, Maude, was right now? Pressing a church-bazaar embroidered handkerchief to puffy, desolate eyes? But Nellie couldn’t put herself there. Not because she couldn’t imagine the grief, but because she and Maude Stewart had little in common.

  Maude’s four daughters stood in a row beside her like Russian nesting dolls, from the oldest and tallest to the youngest—four or five, by the looks of her. Maude had made a wise choice about whom she married. Harry had been a kind man who loved his children, wife, and God, in that order. Nellie had met him only a few times, but she could see it instantly—the warmth in his eyes when they were introduced, the way he never walked ahead of his wife, always beside her. Nellie glanced at Richard now, taking in his dour expression, a worm of unease wriggling in her belly. He placed a hand to his jacket, on the left side of his chest, and his scowl deepened.

  “Are you all right?” Nellie asked.

  Richard ignored her, stepping out of the car and opening Nellie’s door. She took his arm, and they walked side by side toward the widow Stewart and her sad, nesting-doll children on the church steps.

  Nellie clamped her glossy fingernails into her palms through the service, her breath returning to normal as soon as they stepped back outside the heavy church doors. She loathed funerals. Could barely stomach how trite and predictable those left behind made grief look. Somber faces, quiet murmurs of consolation, and silent tears streaking rouged cheeks, dabbed by linen handkerchiefs balled into fists. Through the entire service, Nellie would wait for a tortured wail to burst forth from one of the front rows, proving the importance of the dead’s life. Occasionally there would be a gasp or ragged sob, perhaps the odd swoon, and Nellie would be glad for it. She would appreciate such an overt display if it were her in that coffin at the front of the church. But funerals were not for the dead; they were for the living.

  After the graveyard service, they drove to the Stewarts’ home for the luncheon. Nellie glanced at the tray in the back seat, the cookies meticulously plated in perfect rows. Richard had questioned their luncheon contribution, suggesting cookies were not hearty (or impressive) enough for the occasion. “You’re such a good cook, Nellie,” he’d said, but she knew what he really meant. He didn’t think cookies made the right kind of statement for the Murdochs.

  But Richard knew nothing of feeding sadness—that was women’s work—or how far a simple chocolate chip cookie could go to lift one’s mood. Besides, Nellie had already dropped off a chicken casserole for Maude’s freezer the evening before when she attended the wake, without Richard, who was once again suffering stomach pains. The fourth time that week. He’d promised Nellie he would see Dr. Johnson soon, but when she pressed him again he told her it wasn’t any of her concern. Not her concern! She was his wife; who else’s concern would it be?

  As they drove, Nellie thought about how many casseroles and cold-cut trays and jellied salads would adorn Maude
’s dining table and knew the cookies would be welcomed. “Everyone feels better after eating chocolate,” her mother always said.

  Once inside the Stewarts’ house, packed to the eaves with mourners, Richard stuck beside Nellie, his hand firm on her low back. They found Maude resting in a wing-back chair in the living room, a large photo of the Stewart family, with amazingly identical smiles, perched on the table beside her.

  “Oh, Dick. Nellie. Thank you for coming today,” Maude said, the skin on her face sallow and hanging. “And thank you again for the chicken casserole, Nellie. We were sorry to miss you, Dick. Hope you’re feeling better?”

  Richard tensed beside Nellie, his fingers pinching the skin at her waist through the dress. She knew better than to pull away.

  “Perfectly well,” Richard replied, his voice louder than necessary as if to prove it. He smiled warmly at Maude. “Harry was a great man. Damn, damn shame. Please accept our deepest condolences to you and your girls. Whatever you need, Maude, don’t hesitate to ask. Harry was an important part of our Murdoch family.”

  They exchanged polite niceties for a minute longer, as one does in these situations, before moving on to the dining room under the guise of fixing a plate of food.

  “You were not to tell Maude Stewart about my condition,” Richard hissed in her ear. Nellie kept the smile on her face as she walked toward the table, where she noticed with great satisfaction only half her cookies remained. But that bubble of righteousness soon popped once they found a quiet corner with plates of food they would barely touch and Richard started in on her again. “You were supposed to say there was an emergency at the plant.”

  An emergency at the plant. Richard’s business was chewing gum—what possible emergency could there have been? Not to mention, the wake had been full of Richard’s employees, who knew as well as she did no such emergency had occurred. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” Richard pressed the edge of his plate sharply into her breast. It hurt, and instinctively she pulled away, unfortunately smacking her elbow on a chairback as she did. Her plate tilted, and a wobble of jelly salad toppled onto the broadloom below.

  “Goodness,” Nellie said, putting her plate down and crouching to wipe up the spill.

  “Let their girl get it, Nellie.” Richard’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking his tone.

  Her heart beat faster as she stood, depositing the soiled napkin on her untouched plate.

  “It’s time to go.”

  “We can’t leave yet, Richard,” Nellie replied quietly. “We only just arrived.”

  “Say you’re unwell. That’s expected in your condition.”

  “Fine.” She started toward Maude but stopped when Richard didn’t follow. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m going to get the car.” He held his lips tight against his teeth, the way he did when he was angry. A look Nellie had become all too familiar with in recent months, as the Richard she’d met at the supper club vanished, an ill-tempered and fickle one taking his place. She was about to apologize again for revealing his illness to Maude, but one of Richard’s plant managers clapped a hand on his shoulder and he turned away from Nellie with a ready smile and confident handshake. It still surprised her, the ease with which he turned it on and off.

  Nellie took this opportunity to go back to Maude and offer her excuse: “a bit woozy from being on my feet for so long, so Richard’s insisting I get to bed.” Maude was kindly concerned, suggested a mug of scalded milk and nutmeg and a pillow under her feet once she got home.

  “That sounds perfect.” Nellie gave her a warm smile. “Please let me know if you need anything, Maude. I’m only a short drive away.”

  “You’re very kind, Nellie.” Maude held her hands and glanced around. “Where has Dick gone?”

  “To get the car.”

  “He’s a good man,” Maude said, wistfulness and envy coloring her words. She wiped a few tears. “You’re very lucky to . . .” Her voice broke, and Nellie gently squeezed Maude’s clasped hands. “You hang on to him, you hear?”

  Nellie assured Maude she would and made her exit, taking a deep breath once she was outside the Stewarts’ house. But her lungs filled less easily as Richard parked at the curb outside the house. The doting husband, the good man she was lucky to have. You hang on to him, you hear?

  Richard made a show of coming to retrieve Nellie, and she played into it, as she knew he expected. Leaning on him to prove her wooziness as he led her gently back to the car, his arm tight with concern around her shoulders. Such loving care surely noticed by a few curious eyes from inside the house. This was the Richard she’d first met, the one she missed, and she let herself enjoy his comfort if only for a moment.

  Once he’d settled Nellie into her seat and started driving, his mood went black again. Nellie sensed the shift, like a cool breeze you know is coming but still shiver from when it hits your skin. Richard didn’t speak or look in her direction, and Nellie knew he’d likely brood all evening, berate her again, and after a whiskey or two find his way to forgiveness and the good husband he believed he was. She wished to rewind time to first thing that morning, when she awoke to Richard gently kissing her on the forehead, his palm caressing the gentle hill of her growing stomach. A man with two faces, her Richard.

  Nellie stared out the window, was thinking about dinner and whether she could thaw the pork chops in time, when Richard reached over and dug his fingers into her thigh.

  “Oh!” She was shocked by his sudden, painful grab. “Richard. Please. You’re hurting me.”

  He didn’t look her way, his fingers clamped around her thin leg. “I can’t have my workers thinking I’m ill, Nellie.”

  “I told you I was sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any problems. Now, please, let go of my leg.” But his fingers dug deeper, squeezing as though trying to pop the bones right out of her skin. Nellie knew there would be a bruise tomorrow, though tucked well under her skirts and dungarees so no one else would see it. Richard had never outright hit her, but this would not be the first bruise Nellie had endured in their marriage. However, he hadn’t touched her in anger since he found out she was pregnant—she naively believed his prior angry outbursts, and rough fingers, had everything to do with his frustrations. Richard wanted a child more than anything else, and Nellie’s inability to conceive during their first year of marriage had been a great source of tension.

  “I can barely stand to look at you right now. Maybe I should make you get out of the car, walk home. What do you think about that, Eleanor?”

  Nellie’s shoes were already pinching, her feet swollen with pregnancy. “I’m sorry, Richard. Please don’t make me walk.” Nellie’s father had once, four miles from home, brought the car to a screeching halt and demanded a then five-year-old Nellie and her mother get out of the car. He was belligerent, having drunk too much at dinner, and Nellie had moments earlier kicked the back of her father’s seat, her little legs bored and restless. Nellie and her mother were forced to walk home in the dark, Elsie snapping the heel on her only good pair of shoes when she picked up her half-asleep daughter and carried her the last mile. Nellie’s father had been a cruel man, but she couldn’t believe Richard, no matter what she’d done, would leave her on the side of the road—especially in her condition.

  Despite his threat, Richard didn’t slow the car, but he also didn’t let go of her thigh, no matter how many times she apologized. Suddenly a jagged pain tore through her stomach, and with a gasp she doubled over and cried out.

  “What is it?” Richard’s hand popped off her thigh and her leg tingled as blood pulsed to the capillaries no longer under strain.

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure.” She could no longer hold the tears back. The pain was dreadful.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital.” Richard made a move to turn the car around.

  “No! Please, we don’t need the hospi
tal.” The only place Nellie wanted to go was home. “It’s easing. Only a cramp. I overdid it yesterday in the garden and didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  He glanced between Nellie and the road, foot hovering between brake and gas pedals. “Are you certain? You look quite pale.”

  Nellie nodded and pinched her cheeks, straightening as best she could. She still pressed her hands to her stomach, which continued to roll with bands of cramping, but forced the tension to fall from her face. “It’s better now.”

  The car lurched forward as Richard stepped on the gas pedal. “Well, let’s get you home and to bed.”

  “Thank you, Richard,” Nellie managed. He didn’t deserve her decency, but he expected it. Even in pain, Nellie understood her role—the wife who bowed to her husband, who apologized for things out of her control, who made his life easier even if it made hers harder. The perfect wife.

  8

  Nothing destroys the happiness of married life more than the lazy, slovenly wife.

  —Mrs. Dobbin Crawford, Bath Chronicle (1930)

  Alice

  MAY 27, 2018

  On Sunday Nate ran errands and Alice wandered the house, trying to get a feel for it. In the city, they could grab sundries at the nearby bodega, only twenty paces or so from their building. Here in Greenville picking up milk and bread and other necessities required a plan and a car, which Alice was nervous about. She wasn’t the most confident driver (she hadn’t driven in a decade, since moving to New York), but out here she was trapped without a car. The only thing twenty paces from their house was the street corner.