Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Carefully she stepped into the house, a quick left-and-right glance to make sure it was empty. Satisfied she was alone, she opened and closed the door a few times to see if it was sticking. It wasn’t. Alice fiddled with the lock, wondering if perhaps she had locked it from the inside when she left. After a few attempts, the mystery of the locked door remaining unsolved, she slid the cigarettes to the back of the desk’s top drawer (she’d throw them out later, before trash day) and tugged on her sweater to combat the room’s deep chill—how can it be so nice outside and so freezing inside? Her laptop was paces away, but she didn’t feel inspired and so settled on the couch with the old cookbook instead.

  It fell open at a recipe that must have been a favorite, judging by the number of spills on the page. Bread and Cheese Pudding. Alice scanned the ingredients, snuggling deeper into her sweater. Bread crumbs, cheese, milk, and eggs. Dash of paprika, which she was fairly certain she didn’t own. There was a notation beside the recipe: Perfect for after church. E.S. And underneath in blue pen, Sprinkle with 1 tbsp of Swann herb mix.

  Alice set the cookbook on the kitchen countertop, then took the butter, milk, eggs, and cheese from the fridge. After checking, and confirming, that she did not have paprika, she added extra black pepper as a compromise and a sprinkle of dried basil to replace the herb mix she couldn’t find an ingredients list for. Because cooking for oneself was not a necessary life skill in the city (and having been raised by a mother who could barely make eggs edible), Alice was generally useless in the kitchen. But she wanted to be better, so it was time she figured a few things out. Not the least of which was how to cook a decent meal. Besides, Alice had been responsible for some of the Wittington Group’s most important clients; she could certainly get dinner on the table by the time Nate came home. The pudding came together easily, and Alice, feeling accomplished despite its simplicity, gave herself a virtual pat on the back and popped the casserole dish into the oven, curious as to how a sixty-plus-year recipe would turn out.

  12

  Nellie

  JUNE 11, 1956

  Busy Day Cake

  ½ cup butter

  1⁄3 teaspoon lemon or vanilla extract

  1¾ cups granulated sugar

  2½ cups sifted Purity Flour

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1 cup sweet milk

  4 egg whites, unbeaten

  Cream butter until it is soft and creamy, and add flavoring while creaming. Add sugar. Sift together flour, salt, and baking powder and add to butter mixture, followed immediately by the milk and unbeaten egg whites. Stir mixture quickly and gently until it is well blended. Spread carefully into well-greased 7 x 12-inch cake pan and bake in moderate oven (350°F) for 60 to 65 minutes. Allow baked cake to set for 20 to 25 minutes before removing from pan. Cool and spread with any desired icing.

  Nellie held tight to the cake carrier’s handle with one hand, shutting her front door with the other. It was nearly noon, but Katherine “Kitty” Goldman—the hostess for today’s Tupperware party, starting at 12:00 P.M. “sharp”—lived only a block away, so Nellie knew she had plenty of time to make the short walk.

  It was a fine day, and the warm breeze felt wonderful. The skirt of her mint-green dress swished as she walked, her feet content thanks to her decision to wear flatties. Everyone else would be in heels, but Nellie didn’t care much about fitting in. Plus, her kitten heels would be back on tonight once Richard got home from work, so she’d enjoy the comfort now.

  She made her way up the front walk, slowly so her free hand could stroke the peonies’ bountiful pink blooms framing the Murdochs’ front garden. Nellie murmured sweet lullabies to them as she did, nurturing the flowers the way she would a child if she were ever lucky enough to have one. Turning onto the sidewalk, she eyed her roses—yellow, stunning—which were her pride and joy, and on full display for the neighborhood. Soon she’d have to deadhead them to allow for a second bloom cycle. Roses were a lot of work, but they gave much in return.

  Nellie passed by the last of her roses, nestled behind the white picket fence that squared off the Murdochs’ yard, and noticed her neighbor Miriam Claussen tending her own front garden. Miriam was bent over a large bunch of peonies, her back to Nellie, cutting the flowers low on the stem and neatly piling them on the grass beside her like fallen soldiers.

  “Hello, Miriam,” Nellie called out. “Your peonies are exquisite this year.”

  “Oh, hello there, dear,” Miriam said, her voice strong, lightly musical. Even though Miriam Claussen was in her late fifties, her mind and attitude were those of a much younger woman. Age had not been as kind to her body, however. She straightened with some difficulty, gardening shears in her hands, which were thick with arthritis. Knuckles as big as the knobs on Nellie’s dresser of drawers. “That’s high praise coming from you. This splendid weather we’ve been having has certainly agreed with them.”

  Miriam tilted her sun hat to see better and then knitted her brow, taking in Nellie’s cardigan sweater, buttoned up to the top and excessive for the day’s predicted temperature. “Are you quite well, dear?”

  “A touch of a tickle.” Nellie cleared her throat, tugging on one sleeve of the sweater, hoping it covered what it needed to. “But I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, dear.” She was always pleased to see Nellie, and the feeling was mutual. Miriam would often bring over cakes or cookies or, on occasion, a casserole, clucking at Nellie for being wisp thin. Mr. Claussen had died some years before, and their only child, Sally, was in medical school, so Miriam had no one left at home to enjoy her cooking. Nellie had never known a woman so ambitious as to become a doctor and wished she and Richard had moved in before Sally left home. She would have loved to ask her what it was like to do exactly as she wished. “I could never hold that child back from anything,” Miriam had once said about her daughter. “Good thing too. Because Lord knows that’s what we’re supposed to do with our girls.”

  Nellie sometimes daydreamed of a different life than the one she had; a less stifled one, where she could be more than the childless Mrs. Richard Murdoch. If she had married Georgie Britton instead, the sweet boy she was steady with until his father got a job in Missouri and moved the family, maybe by now she would have children and the reverence of motherhood. Or perhaps if she had never met Richard she would have lived in a quaint little apartment in the city, with only a small kitchen table and one chair. A hot plate, no oven to fill. Like her high school chum Dorothy, who wanted to be an architect and never much cared for men. Maybe Nellie could have sung advertisements on the radio; she would have liked that. Or maybe she would have gone to school to become a music teacher. If she hadn’t been so keen to be married, frankly believing it the gateway to a pleasing and bountiful life, Nellie might have discovered the secret to happiness.

  Miriam made her way to where Nellie stood by the picket fence, removing her gardening gloves as she did, revealing angry-looking hands—red and inflamed, her fingers crooked. Nellie’s own hands were smooth, fingers long and capped off by rounded nails that held a good dollop of shiny polish.

  “How are your hands today?” Nellie asked, though it was clear they were anything but good.

  “Fine, fine.” Miriam waved away the concern. “Nothing a little cider vinegar won’t fix.” Nellie knew Miriam bathed her hands most nights in a bowl of warm apple cider vinegar, claiming it eased the pain, though her daughter often chastised her for this home remedy. But Miriam didn’t like pills, didn’t like doctors, even if her own daughter would soon become one. Bert Claussen had done everything right, going to his doctor when he fell ill without Miriam having to nag him much. But they hadn’t found the cancer until it was too late for poor Bert.

  “I’m headed to a Tupperware party over at Kitty Goldman’s place, but why don’t I come by a little later this afternoon and help you finish up?”
<
br />   “You’re so kind to offer, Nellie, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, swatting her gloves against a nearby fence picket to get rid of the loose dirt. “You best be on your way. It looks like you have your hands full there.”

  “My mom’s Busy Day Cake,” Nellie said, lifting the carrier slightly. “With lemon frosting and some violets from the garden I sugared.” Her mother had often made the cake for social gatherings, telling Nellie everyone appreciated a simple cake.

  “It’s only when you try to get too fancy do you find trouble,” Elsie was fond of saying, letting Nellie lick the buttercream icing from the beaters as she did. Some might consider sugaring flowers “too fancy,” but not Elsie Swann—every cake she made carried some sort of beautiful flower or herb from her garden, whether it was candied rose petals or pansies, or fresh mint or lavender sugar. Elsie, a firm believer in the language of flowers, spent much time carefully matching her gifted blooms and plants to their recipients. Gardenia revealed a secret love; white hyacinth, a good choice for those who needed prayers; peony celebrated a happy marriage and home; chamomile provided patience; and a vibrant bunch of fresh basil brought with it good wishes. Violets showcased admiration—something Nellie did not have for the exhausting Kitty Goldman but certainly did for the simple deliciousness of her mother’s Busy Day Cake.

  “Oh, how very lovely, Nellie.” Miriam’s voice was wistful, and Nellie understood the loneliness behind her tone. She felt it too, for different reasons. “Just lovely.”

  “I’ll save you a piece. I’ll bring it over later along with my gardening gloves. All right?”

  Miriam seemed pleased. “I’ll send you home with a casserole for supper. I made a little more than I needed today.” Nellie wondered how long it took to become accustomed to cooking for one. She suspected that after spending so many years with someone the way Miriam and Bert had, one always made enough for two because not doing it was harder.

  “Oh, and before I let you go, tell me. What’s your secret for getting rid of the ants?” Miriam asked. “I love a vase of peonies on my kitchen table, but those blasted ants end up everywhere. I even found some inside my butter dish last week!”

  “Give them a bath,” Nellie said.

  Miriam cocked her head. “A bath? The ants?”

  Nellie laughed, but kindly. “Fill a sink with warm water and a few drops of dish soap, and give the flowers a bath. They’ll bounce right back and there will be no ants.”

  “You are so wise, Nellie Murdoch.” Miriam tugged her gloves back on. “Maybe you should run a class for those of us with black thumbs at the church. I bet you’d have a packed house.”

  “I like to keep some secrets for myself. And for my favorite neighbor,” Nellie replied with a wink. “I’ll see you later?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Miriam said. “Enjoy your party. I hear Kitty has a spiffy new kitchen.” She leaned closer, one hand coming up to shield her mouth as though she was sharing with Nellie a great secret. “Not that she needs it. That woman couldn’t boil water if her life depended on it.”

  Nellie chuckled. Kitty was a ditz, notorious for her lack of kitchen skills (they would likely be served cold sandwiches today, perhaps a jelly salad of some sort) and her wagging tongue, all of which made her someone Nellie had little time for.

  “I’ll bring back a full report.” Nellie was looking forward to her visit with Miriam later, much more so than to this darn Tupperware party. All those gossipy women fawning over pink- and peach- and yellow-hued plastic bowls, talking about how a casserole dish would change their lives. Nellie waved to Miriam and set out on her way, her armpits slick with sweat, and wished she wasn’t wearing the cardigan. But no matter how sweltering the day got, or how many times she had to explain she was coming down with something, taking the sweater off was not an option.

  * * *

  • • •

  The first time Nellie outright lied to her husband about something that mattered coincided with the first time she discovered a lipstick stain on his shirt collar—a gaudy, dark red color that would never graze Nellie’s delicate lips.

  It was a couple of weeks before the Tupperware party, and Nellie’s garden had finally woken up, the days growing longer and warmer. The peonies were nearly ready to burst; Miriam’s lilac bush had exploded with lavender-hued flowers whose heady perfume stretched a half block away; and the lilies, tall as they reached to the sun, bloomed fiery orange. Nellie had been anxious to get to her garden that morning and so had put off Richard’s laundering—her least favorite of the household tasks. But the next morning, when Richard realized his “lucky” shirt (identical, as far as Nellie could tell, to all his others) hadn’t been pressed for that day’s important meeting, he had grabbed her forcefully. The bruise left behind—deep purple dots in a line along her arm, the shape of Richard’s fingertips—lingered longer than the others had, which was why Nellie had been forced into a sweater the day of Kitty Goldman’s Tupperware party.

  When Richard had finally released her arm that fateful morning, he tossed the shirt at her feet and demanded she do her “goddamn job.” Nellie dropped to her knees, clutching her arm, while Richard glared at her with disdain. She waited on the bedroom floor until the front door shut before picking up Richard’s discarded shirt, which was when she noticed the stain. Nellie stared at it a good long while, her heart rate increasing as the realization of what it meant settled in.

  Later that day she dialed Richard’s number at work, holding his soiled, deceitful shirt in her hands. “The rabbit died,” Nellie said the moment Richard’s girl, Jane, transferred her call. “The rabbit died, Richard.”

  “What? You mean . . . ?”

  “I suspected it,” she said, trying to infuse as much joy into her voice as she could. “But I didn’t want to say anything until after my appointment this morning, and oh, Richard . . . I do hope you’re pleased?”

  “Pleased? How could I not be?” he boomed with delight, before quickly lowering his voice. “And, Nellie, I’m sorry about, uh, earlier. Sometimes you make me so . . . Well, never mind that. You have made me a happy man today. A very happy man.” And he sounded it. All puffed up, she could imagine it, standing on his tiptoes to make himself seem grander than he was. Probably opening a bottle to pour something in celebration, already waving at Jane with her red, painted-on lips to find a boozehound colleague to share the news with.

  “I’m glad,” she’d whispered, clutching his shirt tighter, wishing she could rip it to shreds. “You’ve been so patient, Richard.”

  There was nothing Richard wanted more than progeny, specifically a son to carry on the family business (as if Nellie had any control over gender), and the diamond tennis bracelet he presented her with later that night was his way of proving it. As was his kinder, gentler nature, which he seemed able to turn on and off with disturbing ease.

  That evening, after clasping the bracelet around her delicate wrist, Richard made her put her feet up on the sofa and cooked them eggs for dinner, though they were rubbery because he left them in the frying pan too long. After taking her plate, not noticing she’d barely touched her eggs, Richard added another pillow under her feet and gave her a serious look.

  “I expect you’ll take better care of yourself this time?”

  “Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I most certainly will.”

  13

  Don’t expect life to be all sunshine. Besides, if there are no clouds, you will lose the opportunity of showing your husband what a good chum you can be.

  —Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives (1913)

  Alice

  JUNE 11, 2018

  Alice woke to her phone buzzing on the nightstand. A text from Nate, who was already on the train.

  Don’t forget the lawn company. Good luck with your lunch!

  She squinted bleary-eyed at her phone’s screen: 8:07 a.m. Exhausted—her
anxiety about Georgia, her anger at James Dorian, and her guilt about lying to Nate squashing any chance at falling back to sleep—Alice stared at the ceiling crack, wishing she could stay in bed. Call in sick today on her life.

  Rather than admit her meeting with Georgia, and everything that had led to it, she’d told Nate she was going into the city to meet an editor friend to get a few novel-writing tips. “That’s a great idea,” Nate had said. He’d asked then how the writing was going, and she’d kept things vague, offering, “It’s coming along.” The truth was Alice had yet to write a thing.

  But it wasn’t only the writing that was stalled. Despite their efforts and dollars spent trying to spruce it up, the house remained disgruntled with the Hales. Already a half-dozen things had gone wrong: first, there were the flickering lights, which led to a large electrical repair bill estimate (they decided to live with the flickers); then the newel-post came loose, followed by two of the stair treads, requiring vigilance when going up and down so as not to take a tumble; next, a bird hit one of the bedroom windows and cracked the glass—double paned, antique, expensive to replace; the chills and drafts continued, and it was decided new windows could be the answer but there was no budget for that. And finally, only yesterday, the bathroom tap came off in Alice’s hands, soaking the floor and requiring a supremely costly Sunday-afternoon plumber. Even Nate, eternally positive, had finally agreed things could be going better with the house.

  While in Murray Hill the beginning of a new week would bring the sounds of harried, jam-packed city dwellers getting to and from, in Greenville things remained quiet. No honking. No sounds of pedestrian traffic marching on below. A few bird whistles mingled with the sound of a rumbling truck in the distance. . . .