Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch

  October 14, 1955

  Dearest Mother,

  I hope you are well and enjoying this lovely patch of weather we’ve been having. The birds are singing like it’s the middle of July, and it has been so warm my dahlias continue blooming! I’ll be sure to bring you some next time I visit. Things are fine here. I’ve been spending much of my time in the garden, preparing it for its winter rest. With so much early rain, the slugs were horrendous this year, and my poor hostas are full of holes as a result. I tried vinegar spray and sugar trails, but neither were particularly successful, and I may have to accept these pests as one of a gardener’s many challenges.

  This evening I hosted a dinner party, which went splendidly. I had Chicken à la King and Baked Alaska on the menu, and my guests were quite impressed that ice cream could go in the oven. I’ll surely be writing down the recipe for a few of them.

  Richard is keeping busy with the plant, though he has been under quite a strain. One of his sales managers passed recently, which was a terrible shock for everyone. I’ve done what I can to help soothe the pressures, but I fear it isn’t always enough. His stomach ulcer has also been acting up, though the albumen drink seems to provide some relief. I do wish he’d see a doctor about it, but you know how stubborn men can be. Speaking of, I should finish up and head to bed. It’s late and Richard is waiting up for me, so I don’t want to keep him too long. I have learned that patience is not one of his virtues!

  There have been some disappointments of late, but I expect to have excellent news to share soon! However, I will stay mum for now so it can be a wonderful surprise. I will visit soon, Mother. Please don’t worry after me, for I am well and taking good care.

  Your loving daughter, Nellie xx

  18

  Nellie

  JULY 2, 1956

  The garden was bursting because Nellie hadn’t been culling the flowers, or pulling the weeds, as frequently as she needed to. There had been nearly a week of heavy rain, which had made it difficult to spend time outdoors and turned the garden beds into a sopping mess. Plus, she was supposedly “recovering”—her fictional miscarriage keeping her housebound and Richard more mindful to her comings and goings.

  But the plants could only be so patient with her, and so after Richard left for his train she tidied the house, planned her marketing list, and got to work on the garden. She whistled as she weeded, not minding the dirt on her knees and the scratches from the thorns, nor the insects that crawled up her bare legs and required regular swatting. It was a beautiful day, and Nellie Murdoch was hopeful in a way she hadn’t been in a while.

  Things with Richard were better, and Nellie was happy. He had been more considerate lately, home for dinner on time for the past two weeks and even cleaning up the breakfast dishes that morning. The cloying perfume scent Nellie had become accustomed to was absent from his shirts and jackets, and his hands were gentle on her body in a way they hadn’t been in some time. And as Nellie’s last round of bruises faded, so did a touch of her contempt for her husband. She wasn’t certain his kindness would last, but she hoped it might. Perhaps there were rosier days ahead for Nellie and Richard Murdoch.

  These pleasant thoughts, along with a particularly overgrown section of the garden, so distracted Nellie she didn’t hear Richard until he was standing directly behind her.

  “Eleanor,” he barked, and she jumped.

  She turned quickly, a gloved hand coming up to shade her eyes.

  “Richard, my goodness,” she said, her hand going to her chest. “You scared me.” Nellie stood, a handful of garden trimmings still in hand. She dropped the weeds and fiddled with her shorts, knowing he wouldn’t like how much leg was exposed. “What are you doing home?”

  Had she lost track of time? Maybe it was nearing dinnertime . . . but the sun was directly overhead; Richard shouldn’t be home for hours yet. “Are you ill?”

  Richard glowered at her, and she realized he was angry. A quivering started in her muscles, her body filling with adrenaline, preparing to flee.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe—

  WHACK!

  His knuckles across her cheek, her jaw—hitting so hard her head ricocheted to the side and her teeth clamped tightly and a ringing filled her ears—left her stunned. He had never hit her like this before. Certainly not on her face, where it would leave a mark difficult to explain away. She gasped and put a shaky hand to her throbbing cheekbone, her glove rough against the rawness of her skin. The ringing in her head subsided, but the pain lingered.

  “Do you know who I ran into today?” Richard asked, standing so close—too close—to her. She curled her body in slightly, trying to protect herself. Thought briefly about the trowel near her feet and how quickly she might be able to pick it up if necessary.

  Nellie shook her head at his question, because she couldn’t find her voice. She shivered violently despite the sun’s warmth.

  “Dr. Johnson, that’s who. Did you know he had a daughter living in Brooklyn?” Again, Nellie shook her head. “She’s recently engaged, and he was on his way into the city to visit, so we sat together on the train. Had a good, long chat.”

  Richard stopped for a moment, walked over to the garden shed where the shovel Nellie had used to dig out a particularly entrenched dandelion patch leaned against the door. He came back to where Nellie stood, hand still to her cheek, and set the shovel’s sharp edge against the soil, pushing hard until it sliced into the dirt. “He’s an interesting fellow. A bit boastful, maybe, but solid nonetheless. And he’s taken quite a shine to you, I’ll say. Was quite concerned about how your rash had healed.”

  Nellie was cold all over, a numbness spreading through her body. She knew what had happened without Richard saying another word. Yes, Dr. Johnson was a professional man and would never disclose the nature of Nellie’s medical visits to anyone. Except to her husband, because the husband always had a right to know what was happening with his wife.

  I’m worried about Nellie, Richard would have said to Dr. Johnson as the train picked up speed after leaving the Scarsdale station. Sick about it, actually. He would look it, too. Slightly green around the gills, sheen of sweat on his forehead. What can we do so this doesn’t happen again?

  Dr. Johnson would surely have been confused about Richard’s excessive concern, the anxious tone to his voice. He would worry his colleague Dr. Wood had missed something with Nellie, be silently frustrated with the old doctor’s stubbornness and wish he would retire already. Is the rash much worse? he would have asked Richard. Did the Mexsana not work? Tell Nellie to call my secretary. Happy to take another look.

  There would be a pause in the conversation. Rash? Richard would finally have said, as confused as the doctor had been moments earlier.

  Yes. On her hand? Dr. Johnson would have replied, casting a doubtful look toward Richard as his sweating intensified. Maybe Richard wasn’t well, he would think. Perhaps he should suggest scheduling a visit to see him at the office . . .

  The miscarriage, Richard would have said, so quietly that the doctor would have had to lean in to hear him. There was so much blood, so much . . .

  Dr. Johnson, less confused now but reluctant to come between a husband and his wife, would have shaken his head. I’m sorry, Dick, but I’m not sure what you’re referring to.

  Richard Murdoch hadn’t even gone into the gum plant that morning. Instead, when the train arrived at the station he said his goodbye to Dr. Johnson, paced and stewed on the train’s platform calculating his next move, and caught the next train back home. And now he was standing in front of Nellie looking like he might kill her.

  Nellie took off one glove so Richard could see her hand. No longer carrying any signs of a rash. “It’s fine now. See? But it was kind of Dr. Johnson to worry after me.” She held her hand out, the shaking of her arm
making it look like a leaf in the wind. Richard ran gentle fingers over the unblemished skin Nellie presented him. He bent and kissed her hand softly, and his fingers—tender moments earlier—pressed hard into the soft and vulnerable spot between her thumb and pointer finger. Squeezing, as though he was trying to separate the bones.

  “You lied to me, Nellie.” He squeezed harder, twisting her thumb, and she yelped. “Was there ever a baby?”

  “I didn’t lie.” Nellie tried to pull her hand away, but Richard held fast. “I did lose the baby, Richard. I swear to you. You must remember all the blood! The towels in the bathtub I used to clean myself up! But you’re right. I didn’t go and see Dr. Johnson about it. I was ashamed, Richard. Ashamed my body failed me. Failed us, again.” Nellie thought he might break her hand. “That really hurts. Please. Let. Me. Go.”

  “You expect me to believe anything you say now?” he hissed, though he did let go of her hand.

  Nellie stumbled, and Richard picked up the shovel, marching over to the garden. At first, she was confused but soon became panicked that he was going to dig up her beautiful rosebushes. But when she realized what he intended to do with the shovel, her heart nearly stopped.

  “What are you doing?” She took a few cautious steps toward him.

  He ignored her, the shovel sliding through the earth, piercing the swath of blue forget-me-nots like a hot knife through butter.

  “No!” Nellie ran at Richard, yanked on his arm. He swatted her away like a pesky fly, focused on the task. “Please, stop. Richard, please.” He remained undeterred. Tossing chunks of earth to the side, crushing the flowers.

  “I saw you out here, burying that damn towel,” Richard said, huffing with exertion. “I bet it wasn’t even your blood. Probably got it from the butcher. Huh? Have you been lying to me all along?”

  “I’m not lying.” Nellie was sobbing now, her breath catching in her throat. “The . . . baby . . . our baby is in that towel, Richard. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and dig it up. You’ll see.”

  He stopped, the only movement in his body his heaving breaths forcing his shoulders up and down. Leaning heavily on the shovel, he rested his head on its handle. “You embarrassed me today, Nellie. And I can’t allow that.”

  “Nellie? Is everything all right?” Miriam had suddenly appeared in her backyard, was up against the fence between the two properties, garden shears in hand.

  Richard stood, looked around at the forget-me-not destruction. He stepped toward Miriam, blocking her view of Nellie as he did, and placed the shovel behind him. “Mrs. Claussen, how are you today? Lovely day for some pruning, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly is.” Miriam shifted to get a better look at Nellie and at what Richard had done to the garden. Her voice kept its pleasant lilt, suggesting she hadn’t heard or seen what had transpired between Richard and his wife. “Nellie, love. I was wondering if I might bother you for a minute? If you’re not too busy? I’m still having a heck of a time with these ants. My peonies are in a sorry, sorry state, and I need to make a bouquet for a dear friend.”

  Richard wouldn’t know the peonies had already reached full bloom and were browning; Miriam was giving Nellie a much-needed escape. “I’d be happy to,” Nellie said. “Richard and I were just finishing up here.”

  He glanced at her sharply but rearranged his expression as he turned back to Miriam. “She’s all yours.” The smile stayed put. Charm back on like a spotlight. But Miriam Claussen was no fool. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Nellie, I don’t expect to be home for dinner tonight.”

  Nellie nodded, smiled back at him, though it took everything in her to make the muscles in her face do what was required. “We’ll see you later tonight.”

  He paused at the garden shed, leaning the shovel back against the door. “Yes, you will.” Turning to Miriam he gave a short, friendly wave. “Hope to see you again soon, Mrs. Claussen. Good luck with the ants.”

  A moment later he was inside, the door closed behind him, and Nellie took in her first full breath since Richard had surprised her.

  Miriam kept the smile on her face, but her voice carried deep concern. “Nellie, honey. Are you hurt?”

  Nellie rubbed her hand against her cheek. “How much did you hear?” She didn’t even want to think what Miriam might have seen. Though part of her hoped for a witness so the incident couldn’t be rewritten for a more palatable history of the marriage between Mr. and Mrs. Richard Murdoch.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Miriam said. She opened the gate in the fence between their yards, softened her voice. “Why don’t you come over for a bit? I’ll make you a compress and we’ll have some coffee.”

  Nellie hesitated. Coffee sounded good, and Miriam’s company and comfortable living room a much-needed reprieve. But Richard could be petty and malicious, and she wasn’t certain his anger would stay confined to Nellie. If he believed his wife was confiding in Miriam . . . “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She glanced back at the house, could almost feel Richard’s steely gaze on them.

  Miriam clucked at her trepidation. “Of course it’s a good idea.” She scowled then and Nellie knew she’d seen it all, heard everything. “That man is no good. No good at all,” she whispered, ushering Nellie through the gate and into her yard.

  “I know.” Nellie was exhausted and wrung out by the altercation, and leaned into Miriam. “But he’s my husband.”

  “Well, he doesn’t deserve you. He’s got something coming, you mark my words.”

  19

  Housekeeping accomplishments and cooking ability are, of course, positive essentials. In any true home, every wife should take a reasonable pride in her skill. Happiness does not flourish in an atmosphere of dyspepsia.

  —Reverend Alfred Henry Tyrer, Sex Satisfaction and Happy Marriage (1951)

  Alice

  JUNE 13, 2018

  The first letter, dated the middle of October 1955, was written by Nellie Murdoch to her mother, who Alice now knew was Elsie Swann. It was two pages of humdrum stuff, at least from Alice’s perspective: a dinner party where she served something called Baked Alaska; garden slugs; her husband Richard’s stomach ulcer, which was acting up. The second and third letters, dated a few weeks apart, contained similarly mundane details.

  Disappointed, Alice set the letters aside and called Bronwyn, but the call went to voice mail. A few seconds later she got a text back from her friend saying she was in meetings all day, chat later? Alice missed meetings, or at least her old schedule, which had been frustratingly harried at times but also the foundation of her identity. The confidence from her encounter with Georgia had since faded, and she was back to feeling unmoored. Who was she if not a crackerjack publicist at a top-tier firm? A so-far-failing novelist, a hopeless gardener, an amateurish cook.

  With a sigh Alice set her phone—which rarely lit up with messages other than those from Nate, Bronwyn, and her mother these days—on top of the letters and decided to look for this Baked Alaska dessert. Checking the cookbook’s index and flipping to a page near the middle, she found the dessert’s photo—a dome-shaped layered cake—and scanned the recipe, whose main ingredients were ice cream, egg whites, and sponge cake. Impress your guests! the description promised, with Elsie Swann’s familiar handwriting beside it: Fancy and delicious, and directly underneath, Nellie’s own notation (which Alice now recognized thanks to the letters): Success! Dinner with the Graves, the Reinhardts, the Sterlings—October 14, 1955

  Baked Alaska

  9-inch-round layer of Egg Yolk Sponge Cake

  2 quarts strawberry ice cream

  6 large egg whites

  ½ teaspoon cream of tartar

  1 cup sugar

  Make sponge cake and set aside to cool. Pack strawberry ice cream in a round bowl (about 1 inch smaller than cake layer) and place in freezing compartment of refrigerator. Shortly before serving time
, make meringue by beating egg whites with cream of tartar until frothy. Add sugar gradually while continuing to beat until meringue is stiff and glossy. Place cooled cake on baking sheet and loosen ice cream from bowl, then invert over cake and remove the bowl. Cover the ice cream and cake with the meringue, ensuring it reaches the baking sheet to create a meringue seal so the ice cream won’t melt. Place in very hot oven (500°F) for 3 to 5 minutes, or just until meringue is lightly browned. Slip dessert onto serving tray and serve at once.

  * * *

  • • •

  Checking her phone (no messages) Alice saw it was close to three. She had promised herself she would write for at least an hour before starting dinner, so she left the cookbook open at the dessert recipe and sat at the desk, determined to make progress.

  Alice set her hands on the laptop keys and waited for something to happen. She thought about her interaction with Georgia—what could be more Devil Wears Prada–ish than that?—but all that came to mind was Nellie, and what she might have been doing on a Wednesday afternoon. Based on the letters so far, Alice envisioned a predictable trifecta of cleaning, cooking, and gardening. She wondered what that would have been like—when a clean house and a meat loaf in the oven fulfilled expectations. Would it have been a relief, the simplicity of it? Or dispiriting to know that’s all there would ever be?

  Pushing thoughts of Nellie aside, Alice forced her fingers to type, words turning into sentences, and soon enough she had her first two pages written. But when she paused to reread, she scowled and promptly deleted all of it. Discouraged, she closed her laptop and headed back to the kitchen.