Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  “Baby?” There it was, the best clue. The use of his preferred pet name. Richard was in a good mood tonight, and she guessed why based on how late he was. Jane. Or more likely, Jane’s tight sweater and long, stocking-covered pins she liked to display with short skirts.

  “In the kitchen,” Nellie replied, removing the aluminum foil and cutting a serving of the cheese pudding, adding a sprig of parsley for color. She set it at his spot and placed the cake beside it, turning the plate so the violets were at the top left corner. As Richard came into the kitchen, Nellie was fixing him a drink, an old-fashioned, and she offered him her cheek. When he leaned in to kiss her, she smelled unfamiliar perfume.

  “Looks good, Nellie,” he said, moving his tie clip lower to prevent the fabric from going into the cheese pudding. He shook some of the herb mix onto his pudding, then took two large bites followed by another sip of his drink before he noticed she had an empty plate in front of her. Richard gestured with his fork. “You aren’t eating?”

  “I’m a tad queasy,” Nellie said.

  His brow furrowed. “Perhaps Doc Johnson can give you something? Dan Graves said Martha was awfully ill, but Doc gave her a pill that fixed her right up.” Martha Graves had been at Kitty’s party that afternoon and had shared as much when Nellie used nausea as the excuse for not eating much. “Well, at least you’ll stay thin,” Martha had said, looking with envy at Nellie’s tiny frame while running her hands over her own puffed-out belly. “The doctor gave me something called thalidomide and it worked wonders!” Martha had laughed, though self-consciously. “Too well, some might say.” Nellie knew Martha’s “some” meant her husband, Dan, and she held back her desire to tell Martha exactly what she thought of a man who would criticize his wife while she was carrying his child. Instead, Nellie told Martha she looked beautiful and healthy, and Martha blushed with delight.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Nellie replied. “I had cake and coffee with Miriam not long ago. I’ll eat a little something later.” She longed for a cigarette, but Richard didn’t care for smoking at the table, so instead she poured a glass of lemonade and sipped it slowly.

  “How was your day?” Nellie asked, like she did every day over dinner.

  “Fine. The usual. Got stuck in a late-day meeting.” Richard worked long hours at the gum plant, had a hand in every part of the business. But he seemed to believe she fell for his lies—my sweet and naive Nellie. A wife can always smell another woman on her husband. Would Richard think her clever—or foolish—for imagining these “meetings” had nothing to do with gum at all?

  “I hope the cheese pudding is warm enough.” Nellie watched him take another large bite. “I foiled it, but it has been out a while.”

  Richard stopped eating, his expression stone-faced, and Nellie held her breath. But a moment later he relaxed, obviously deciding not to respond to her veiled jab about his lateness. “I like what you’ve put on top here. This red stuff. Quite flavorful.”

  “Paprika,” Nellie said. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “So how was your day, Nell-bear?” Richard asked, mouth half-full of pudding. “What did you get up to?”

  “Some gardening, and I baked the cake for Kitty Goldman’s Tupperware party I mentioned last night. I saved you a piece.” Nellie pointed to the cake slice, but he barely glanced at it.

  “Oh, you were at the Goldmans’ today? How’s their new kitchen?”

  To someone who didn’t know him, Richard’s tone sounded politely curious. But Nellie knew better—he had never liked Charles Goldman, Kitty’s husband. “He’s a shuckster,” Richard mumbled when his name came up, referred to Charles’s booming hardware store as “Mickey Mouse,” even though it was anything but, and drove the extra few minutes to Scarsdale to avoid shopping there. Nellie had no idea why Richard didn’t care for Charles Goldman, though she suspected it had everything to do with jealousy.

  Richard was a very successful man, but Charles was the most: a handsome fellow who ran a booming business and was quite affectionate with his wife, holding her hand in public and telling her how beautiful she looked whenever she walked into the room. Kitty wasn’t deserving of such a husband—she was a gossipy, vapid woman who was mean-spirited on the best of days. Like at today’s party, after poor Martha lamented her unfortunate pregnancy-related weight gain, Kitty had offered to make her a plate so she could rest her swollen ankles. When she brought it over she had whispered, loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, “I left off the deviled eggs, because I know you’re watching your figure.” The deviled eggs had been Martha’s contribution and were her favorite, but she’d stammered a thank-you as she took the plate of vegetables and jelly salad, looking as though she wished the ground would swallow her whole.

  Nellie treaded lightly with her response to Richard’s question, for fear he would demand they begin a kitchen renovation soon. She loved her kitchen the way it was, had no desire to uproot her life by making everything a mess in the one room in the house that was truly hers and hers alone.

  “To be honest,” Nellie began, standing to serve Richard a second helping of the pudding, “it was dreadful. The design, the colors. All of it, chintzy.” Actually, the Goldmans’ kitchen had been quite lovely. It had been the company that was dreadful. But Nellie went because what else would she do all day? The garden took up some time, as did the chores and errands required to keep the household running smoothly, but for much of the time Nellie was bored. Restless. At least these get-togethers meant she had to bake or prepare something, which always lightened her mood.

  “I hope you rested today. Put your feet up.” Richard frowned. “You know, you should have Helen come more often. I don’t like you working so hard in your condition.”

  Nellie gave a patient smile. But she didn’t want Helen underfoot all day, nor did she like paying for something she could easily do herself. Besides, cooking and gardening were pleasurable, which Richard wouldn’t understand.

  “Speaking of, I didn’t realize we were announcing our news quite yet.” Nellie sashayed over to the other side of the room and cracked the window, sliding her Lucky Strikes and cigarette holder from the kitchen drawer. “I had hoped to tell Martha and Kitty myself.” What she really meant was she had hoped to tell them nothing at all; her deception had only been intended for Richard. She took an ashtray out of the cupboard and placed it in the sink, taking a long pull on her cigarette.

  “Richard, please remove that scowl from your face.” She took another drag, blew it out. “Dr. Johnson told me it was fine to smoke. He said it was relaxing for his patients who are in the family way.”

  Richard held up his hands as he leaned back in his chair. “If Doc Johnson says it’s fine, that’s fine by me. And I know we talked about keeping the news to ourselves for now, and I’m sorry, Nell-bear, but Dan Graves was asking after you when we rode the train together, and I couldn’t help myself.”

  Richard pushed back from the table and stood close to Nellie, lifting her so she was perched on the edge of the countertop. “Don’t let it rattle your cage, baby. It’s good news, so why shouldn’t we share it?”

  “You’re right. We absolutely should,” she murmured, softening her expression with some effort. “I’m not cross. I promise.”

  He used his hands to open her knees so he could settle his hips into her circle of space. She didn’t resist him (what was the point?), but then felt him tense and pull back slightly as he hesitated, unwilling to risk anything this time. His hands remained on the curves of her behind, gently caressing through the fabric of her skirt. “This is okay, right?”

  “I won’t break, Richard.” It was easier to give in, so Nellie set her cigarette holder in the ashtray in the sink and placed her palms on the kitchen’s countertop, anchoring her body so she didn’t fall backward. This moved them closer together, and his desire, hot and demanding, pressed into her.

  “
You always know how to razz my berries, baby.” He ground his pelvis against her and leaned in to kiss her neck, his mouth hot and sloppy. The perfume scent was stronger now, nauseatingly so. Nellie was about to feign illness to extricate herself when Richard moaned, but not with pleasure, and a moment later he retreated, leaving Nellie splayed on the countertop, a single tail of cigarette smoke rising from the sink beside her.

  “Richard? What is it?” He hunched forward, a pinched look on his face.

  “I’m fine,” he said between clenched teeth. “My damn ulcer. It’s nothing.”

  Nellie shimmied off the counter and took a last pull on her cigarette before stubbing it out. Richard’s stomach was an ongoing problem, but he seemed to be getting ill more often these days. She kept at him to see the doctor about it, but Richard didn’t want to bother going in for something so trivial. “Nothing an Alka-Seltzer won’t fix,” he always said. If he didn’t get relief from the fizzy water, he would try a dose of milk of magnesium, or maybe some bismuth.

  “Why don’t I make you an albumen drink?” Nellie opened her cookbook even though she knew the recipe by heart. She often made it when his stomach acted up. “You go rest and I’ll bring it to you.”

  Richard nodded and clutched his belly, sucking in a pained breath.

  “Off you go,” Nellie said, ushering him out of the kitchen. He groaned as he settled onto the green velour sofa, and Nellie set the washing bucket beside him in case. Then she separated the egg white, saving the yolk in a small glass dish—she would use it tomorrow—and with her rotary hand blender beat the white until it formed glossy but soft peaks. Squeezing lemon juice into the egg whites, Nellie added a heaping tablespoon of sugar and stirred it all together until it was smooth enough to drink.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” Nellie said after handing Richard the albumen drink. “If you need anything else, just holler.”

  Richard grimaced as he sipped the white foam from the glass. He was pale, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his face, beading at his hairline and above his upper lip. He had loosened his belt and tie and definitely appeared quite unwell.

  “Thank you, baby,” he said, his voice thin and reedy from pain. “Take your time. I’m fine here.”

  After retrieving her robe from her bedroom closet, Nellie went into the bathroom and ran a bath. Locking the door, she undressed and glanced at herself in the mirror, critically taking stock of her various parts. Flat stomach, nothing growing inside to stretch it out. Breasts high and full, nipples erect with the chill of being out from the warmth of her brassiere. Her skin was smooth, slightly tanned and freckled where she hadn’t covered it during gardening. Nellie slid into the bath water and positioned each foot on either side of the tap. She shimmied close to the faucet so her knees bent deeply and the stream of water hit directly between her legs. As the water caressed Nellie in ways Richard never did, the tension built in her abdomen. A fluttery feeling took over her body, and her limbs began to tingle. Nellie’s body soon tensed under the water and she shuddered from head to toe. She let her head drop back so her hair fanned out around her, the noises she made drowned out by the rushing water.

  * * *

  • • •

  Richard was expectedly heartbroken when she told him ten days later—after she scrubbed another lipstick stain out of another shirt collar—she had lost the baby, and his uncharacteristic tears both invigorated and saddened her. She didn’t want to be the sort of wife who lied to her husband, especially about such a thing as this, but he had given her no choice. Besides, her guilt was allayed by her belief that she would fall pregnant soon enough. They would have their child and Jane (or whoever replaced her) and her god-awful lipstick would be forgotten.

  Richard didn’t ask many questions this time, remembering the horror of the bloodied towels from Nellie’s miscarriage, only, “Are you certain?” She said she was but promised to make an appointment with the doctor. Instead, she went to Black’s Drugs, the pharmacy in Scarsdale, and perused the tubes of lipstick, pausing at the bright red ones, wondering what kind of woman believed she had a right to another’s husband. Nellie finally settled on a soft seashell pink tube, which she purchased along with a cold bottle of Coca-Cola, her fingertips leaving imprints on the frosty green glass, not dissimilar to the fingerprints Richard had left on her arm.

  16

  Woman’s sexual response is so general and diffused that frequently she does not even know that she is being aroused, and even more frequently is quite unaware that her behavior is arousing the boy beyond the boundaries which she herself would wish to maintain.

  —Evelyn Duvall and Reuben Hill, When You Marry (1953)

  Alice

  JUNE 11, 2018

  Georgia finally answered the attorney’s pointed question. “Look, I knew Alice could handle James Dorian. I never would have put her in that position if I thought otherwise.”

  To that point Alice reiterated that Georgia knew exactly what and who James Dorian was, because they had discussed the issue on multiple occasions. In fact, when Georgia first assigned Alice to James it came with a not-so-subtle warning: “He likes his booze and young women who are not his wife.”

  After Alice shared this quote, the room was silent for a moment, and then everyone was talking at once. Georgia called Alice histrionic and childish and implied she was misremembering the conversation; the attorneys tersely asked Georgia if there had been other sexual assault complaints about James Dorian; Alice stated to no one in particular that she was going to the washroom. Once alone in the stall, she went to text Bronwyn again, but she’d left her phone on the meeting room table.

  When she returned, Georgia’s face was tense with frustration. Her plan had been to pin this on Alice: the rogue employee, whom she had fired for reasonable cause (breaking her nondisclosure), would take the fall. But now with sexual misconduct hanging in the air, at a time when powerful men were finally being exposed and branded with damning hashtags that ruined reputations, Georgia had few options.

  There would be others who came forward too, Alice knew, if she went public—she was hardly unique when it came to James Dorian’s wandering hands. Hell, Georgia probably had stories of her own. Plus, he’d had a long career, both in academics and in publishing, and the Wittington Group was not the first firm to represent him. But even though it was tempting to nail James Dorian and Georgia to the wall, Alice wasn’t naive. She would not come out unscathed. There would be sympathy from some, perhaps job offers at other firms with better scruples, and certainly much discussion about predatory, powerful men and what to do about them. There would also be the question of culpability: Why did Alice wear short skirts for her meetings with James? Why would she agree to be in a hotel room alone, knowing Dorian’s reputation? Why did she continue to serve him alcohol? How much vodka did she herself consume? What did she think would happen?

  When Alice said she had no interest in taking things further, Georgia seemed relieved. As for James and his lawsuit, he had been quite drunk, but Alice suspected not enough to forget the feel of her thigh against his uninvited fingers.

  “I assume I’m free to go?” Alice asked, gathering her things.

  “Yes,” the female attorney said, giving her a tight smile as she thanked her for coming in. “We’ll let you know if we have any other questions. Is this the number where you can be reached?” She read out her cell number, and Alice nodded. Georgia followed Alice out of the room, closing the door behind her as the attorneys huddled over their notes.

  “I know the way out,” Alice said, not interested in spending another minute with Georgia.

  Her ex-boss nodded, tersely said, “Thanks for coming in today.”

  Alice started to walk away but turned back and flipped her phone around so Georgia could see the screen. Georgia’s eyes grew wide, moving from the screen to Alice’s face. Alice tapped the red button to stop the recording and closed the voice
memo app, then tucked the phone safely into her purse. “In case you’re ever unclear on the order of events today, let me know. I recorded the entire meeting and am happy to refresh your memory as needed.” Then she walked—head up, shoulders back—down the hall and past the reception desk, ignoring Sloan’s half-hearted goodbye and the bleeding blister on her heel, feeling more like her old self than she had in months.

  * * *

  • • •

  “How was your lunch?” Nate asked late that evening as Alice gently flipped the tattered and food-drop-stained pages of Elsie Swann’s cookbook, looking for something to bake for coffee with Sally the following day. Banana bread? Oatmeal bars? Chocolate chip cookies? Alice was nervous about baking—it necessitated such precision—so she needed something easy.

  “What lunch?” Alice murmured, focused on a recipe for sugar cookies. But the notation, Lousy, was written in what Alice now recognized as Elsie Swann’s hand. She turned the page and glanced through a recipe for brownies.

  “With your editor friend. Didn’t you go into the city today?”

  “Right, sorry.” She checked for cocoa in her pantry as Nate opened the fridge for a bottle of sparkling water. No cocoa, so no brownies, but she did have chocolate chips. “Good. It was a quick coffee, actually, because she had another appointment. But I had lunch afterward with Bronwyn.” The fib slipped out easily, and as soon as it did Alice wished to take it back. To tell Nate the truth about how she’d spent her day, if for no other reason than to share how satisfying it had been to one-up Georgia Wittington. But revealing the truth about her day meant exposing the more significant truth she’d been keeping from Nate. If she didn’t confess, the shame of her professional misstep could remain buried and, therefore, benign.

  “Where did you go?” Nate asked, swigging water from the glass bottle.