Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Having already settled on a dinner of chicken thighs in a pineapple-barbecue sauce, she thought the Baked Alaska dessert would be a nice surprise for Nate—he loved ice cream. The chicken recipe was easy, and ten minutes later it was in the fridge marinating. After washing her hands, Alice donned an apron and started on the Baked Alaska.

  She was worried about the dinner. Not the meal itself, but the conversation she planned to have with Nate after it. While she gathered the dessert ingredients, she rehearsed what she’d say: she wanted to wait a few more months before they got pregnant. She would barely be thirty by that time. Nate would likely be upset, but she hoped he’d come around to see things from her point of view. Like Sally had said, they were still young.

  Alice opened the freezer to see if there was enough ice cream. No strawberry, but there was a quart of chocolate. As for the cake, she opted for a premade Entenmann’s loaf, which she trimmed and stacked onto a baking sheet until she had something resembling a round base. The ice cream was solid, so she set it out for a few minutes, using a spoon to scrape off the top layer, letting it melt on her tongue while she waited for the rest to soften. Alice flipped through the cookbook, noting that jellied salads seemed particularly popular in those days, and shuddered at a recipe that called for lemon gelatin and canned tuna.

  Fifteen minutes later she had eaten the top third of the ice cream and the remainder was soft enough to pack into a small mixing bowl. She placed the bowl in the freezer and padded back to her desk, where she sat staring out the window for an hour, making no progress on her book.

  Nate was supposed to be home at six thirty, seven at the latest. An hour later he still hadn’t arrived, and Alice texted him.

  On your way? Dinner about to come out of oven.

  No response, and still no Nate by eight thirty. Alice fumed as she poured her second glass of wine and pushed the overcooked, cold chicken and shriveled pineapple chunks around her plate. She called him, but his phone went straight to voice mail, which was when worry overtook irritation. Alice checked for news of train delays or accidents. Nothing. Maybe he had been hit by a car riding his bike home from the station? Rattled and anxious, she paced the living room while she finished the wine. Just as she thought maybe she should go look for him—but she couldn’t drive, two glasses of wine in—a text came through.

  Sorry, babe. Study session went late, grabbing bite here. Rain check on dinner?

  She stared at the text for a full minute. Rain check? She imagined Nate at the office with Drew, who probably had plenty of important things to do each day, eating takeout and laughing between bouts of focus. Nate having completely forgotten about his wife and dinner waiting for him at home.

  She seethed about Nate’s lack of consideration as she whipped the egg whites until glossy peaks formed. With some difficulty, as it was frozen solid, Alice transferred the dome of chocolate ice cream onto the loaf base. As she covered the whole thing with the egg-white meringue, trying to make the cloud-like layer even, despite her heavy-handedness, she fervently whispered the things she would say to her husband when he finally came home.

  I would have appreciated a call. I was worried.

  Did you have a nice time with Drew?

  Rain check? You don’t “rain check” dinner with your wife!

  I hope you don’t mind your pineapple chicken cold . . . also, I don’t want to have a baby right now.

  Still mumbling in frustration, Alice bent to keep an eye on the meringue dome in the oven. At four minutes the peaks were golden, but there was also a pool of brown liquid seeping out from under the cake base. Alice promptly took the dessert out and frowned as she poked the droopy meringue. Surely this was not what Nellie had labeled “Success!” It looked inedible. Using a large kitchen knife, she cut a slice in the dome’s surface and quickly transferred it to a plate. The piece itself was relatively intact, but the moment she removed it, the rest of the dessert collapsed. She tried to hold one side up with the knife, but the other side buckled, and so she let it go.

  Alice took her plate and stood at the kitchen sink, staring into the darkened backyard while she finished the piece of Baked Alaska. Then she left her plate and fork, unrinsed, on the counter beside the remainder of the dessert—by the time Nate arrived home, hours later, all that would be left was a pool of melted chocolate ice cream with a sodden cake island in its center—and went to bed, her mind made up.

  20

  Nellie

  JULY 7, 1956

  Mint Sauce

  1½ tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

  3 tablespoons hot water

  ⅓ cup finely minced mint leaves

  ½ cup very mild wine vinegar

  A couple drops of green vegetable coloring

  Dissolve sugar in hot water. Cool sugar water then blend in minced mint leaves and wine vinegar. Add green vegetable coloring. Let stand for half an hour and serve cool. Makes 1 cup of sauce.

  The best time to harvest herbs was after the early-morning dew dried, and Nellie had a long list of things to do, starting with her herb garden. While the sun rose higher and Richard kept sleeping, Nellie used her kitchen shears to trim leaves and stalks from her herb plants to later dry for her seasoning mix. Rosemary. Sage. Parsley. Dill. Lemon balm. Mint. Marjoram. Snip, snip, snip went her nimble hands, swathed in gardening gloves to prevent scratches.

  It had been nearly a week since Richard had hit her, and Nellie had since accepted her marriage was at best unsustainable, at worst perilous. The Richard she met at the supper club—the charming man who showered her with attention and gifts and made her believe happiness was ripe for the taking—no longer existed. In truth, he had vanished on their wedding night, when Richard roughly pushed himself inside her, his small hands selfish as they ripped her beautiful pale blue nightgown in his haste, the delicate pearl buttons flying off like popped corn. That was the moment Nellie began her education on what it meant to be Richard Murdoch’s wife. This would be a life where the most important thing she could do was stand by his side, take care of him, give herself over to him bit by bit. He needed her to look pretty, cook him hot meals, open her legs to him without feigning a headache or lady troubles. She was to keep her opinions to herself while also keeping his dozen or so white dress shirts sparkling and clean of other women’s lipsticks. But Nellie had wanted a baby badly enough that despite all this she remained patient if not vigilant, hoping her efforts wouldn’t be for naught.

  Nellie knew leaving Richard would not be simple; it came with repercussions, both financial and social, and therefore, she needed a plan.

  Satisfied with her work, she stood and arched back slightly to stretch her cramped muscles. It was turning out to be a beautiful day, and Nellie, not quite ready to go inside, slid a cigarette from the carton and set it between her lips. She sat on the grass and smoked languidly, the herbs piled on a dish towel by her feet.

  Tomorrow, Sunday, was Richard’s thirty-fifth birthday. She was planning his favorite meal—lamb chops with mint sauce, which she would make today, along with mashed potatoes, green peas, and peach cobbler. Nellie would wear her prettiest dress, adding to it a spritz of perfume and her most convincing smile, and they would have a nice meal.

  As she smoked the cigarette, the sun adding another layer of tan on her outstretched legs, she decided Monday would be the day. She would tell him she had to go visit her mother, whom Richard had never met—her dementia made her incredibly agitated with strangers, Nellie explained when Richard had asked once about joining her. She would pack only a small valise for the trip, into which she would bury the envelope of dollar bills she’d been squirrelling away.

  Nellie had been clever, and careful, the way her mother taught her to be. Whenever she went to the market, she would buy only what was on sale, pocketing the extra from her weekly budget and sliding it into magazine spines, where Richard would never think to look. Sometimes
when he had too much to drink, or was ill and delirious with stomach pains, Nellie would help herself to a little more as she emptied his pockets to launder his clothes. And when she went to the bank to get money for her dresses or beauty items or necessities for their home—areas Richard allowed Nellie to have near complete control over—she would take slightly more than she needed. It was amazing how much one could save with careful scrimping.

  Yes, she would leave Richard on Monday. She would go see her mother and, after that, figure out what to do next. Nellie was resilient and capable, and she would land on her feet. Leaving her beloved house and cherished gardens and dear friend Miriam would pain her greatly. But it had been Miriam who had given her the idea, and Nellie knew she would understand.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Nellie. Smart too,” Miriam had said, pouring them both a coffee after she rescued Nellie from her backyard standoff with Richard. “And my Lord, can you cook! There isn’t a thing you can’t do, dear, if you put your mind to it.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Miriam,” Nellie had replied, the shaking finally subsiding, though her jaw continued to throb. Miriam had made a chamomile poultice, heating the dried buds in warm apple cider vinegar before squeezing out the liquid and wrapping the moistened flowers in layers of cheesecloth. Nellie held the soothing, fragrant compress to her cheek. “But I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”

  Miriam had frowned, regarded Nellie with a look that was sympathetic but not at all pitying. “You can always stay with me if you need to. I’d love the company.”

  Nellie nodded, wrapping one hand around the warmth of her coffee cup. Knew that could never happen because of how much it would anger Richard, putting Miriam at risk as well.

  “You could say I needed the help, for a few days anyway. Maybe I’ve caught my death of a cold, or my arthritis has flared so badly I can’t boil water?”

  “You’re a good friend.” Nellie grasped Miriam’s hand, squeezed lightly.

  “I have some savings,” Miriam said, reaching into the drawer of her buffet table. She handed her a thick envelope, Nellie’s name written in black ink on its surface. Nellie felt ashamed at her own weakness, wondered how long Miriam had been keeping this envelope of cash for her.

  “I’d like you to have it, honey. I want to help.” Nellie was filled with gratitude at the offer but would never take Miriam’s money, despite the older woman’s insistence. Nellie assured her she had some savings of her own tucked aside—not a lot, but enough to get her away from Richard.

  It was nearly ten in the morning when she took the last drag on the cigarette. Nellie wanted to get the herbs drying and the mint jelly started so there was still time to market before she had to get ready for their evening. They had a dinner party to attend, at the Graveses’. Richard had been sulking about it all week, knowing he’d have to talk to the “shuckster” Charles, who was surely invited, as the Goldmans and Graveses were close friends. Nellie wasn’t any more interested in socializing with Kitty, but she did enjoy Martha’s company and at least it meant she and Richard wouldn’t be alone.

  That only left Sunday—his birthday—to get through. They would attend church, and after the luncheon Richard had plans to go bowling with a few of the men in the neighborhood. While he bowled, Nellie would prepare dinner and then treat Richard like a king all evening, ensuring he suspected nothing. The next morning, she would leave under the guise of a quick trip to visit her ailing mother, and that would be the last time she ever saw Richard Murdoch.

  Nellie stubbed her cigarette out on the patio stone and took the herbs inside, bundling them loosely with string so they had space to breathe while they dried. She laid the newspaper-lined tea towel flat along the top of the refrigerator, setting the bundles of herbs gently on the towel. Turning her attention to the mint sauce for Richard’s birthday dinner, Nellie chopped the fresh mint, adding a few other green herbs for flavor. After dissolving the sugar into the hot water, she smoked another cigarette while she waited for the mixture to cool. Then she added the finely chopped mint and herbs along with the vinegar and vibrant green coloring. She managed to get slightly more than a cup of sauce, and after pouring it into a jam jar, tucked it into the back of the refrigerator.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, they got ready for the dinner party in silence, both of them seemingly lost in thought. At the last minute, Nellie switched her shoes, preferring a higher heel with the dress she’d chosen. Richard wasn’t pleased, his mouth taut, his hands shoved into his pockets as he watched her slip on the heels. He didn’t like her added height, as they would be nearly eye to eye now. But he didn’t say anything, simply gestured for her to walk out of the bedroom ahead of him. As she reached the top of the staircase, Richard a half step behind her, Nellie glanced down and was glad for the change. The heels made her legs look even longer under her skirt.

  But she should have been more careful, more attentive to her surroundings and less vain about her outfit. Suddenly unbalanced, she gasped as she tipped forward off the top stair. Unable to stop the momentum, Nellie tumbled down the staircase like a rag doll, and though Richard had been right behind her only moments earlier, he didn’t grab for her before she fell.

  21

  Don’t expect your husband to make you happy while you are simply a passive agent. Do your best to make him happy and you will find happiness yourself.

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

  Alice

  JULY 12, 2018

  What is the right outfit to wear to your estranged father’s funeral? Alice stared at the black sea of clothing strewn across the guest room bed, paralyzed by indecision. Eventually she chose a skirt and jacket off the top, and paired them with a sleeveless white blouse and black flats. She dressed slowly despite being late, while Nate, long ago ready, paced the living room, waiting for her.

  It had been raining for three days straight, but the moment Alice stepped from the car and onto the cemetery’s soggy green grass, the sun came out. A woman behind her whispered, “Oh, Greg always loved a good silver lining,” as the sunbeams cast a glare on top of her father’s glossy coffin. Alice kept her head lowered, but she did not cry. Nate wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  Alice was relieved at how easily she blended in—another black-outfitted mourner, anonymous in the crowd. She wondered if those around her knew Greg Livingston had a daughter. If they could see a resemblance between Alice and her dad. Likely not, she decided, as no one gave her more than a polite but reserved smile.

  Sure enough, the sun didn’t stay long (much like her father, she thought), and soon a swath of umbrellas opened, like colorful dots against the otherwise gray sky. Alice had no idea who all these people standing in concentric circles at the grave site were, but her father clearly had friends who cared about him. Alice wanted to be glad for that, but realizing all these strangers knew him in ways she didn’t cut deeply. Greg Livingston had left and never once tried to get in touch, at least as far as Alice knew. No birthday cards, no Christmas presents, no phone calls to check in. Jaclyn also had no idea where he was, so it wasn’t like Alice could have reached out even if she’d wanted to. As she grew up, her father became a faded memory she rarely invoked.

  Because of this, Alice hadn’t wanted anything to do with the funeral. “Why should I go?” she’d said to Nate on Sunday night, four days earlier, when Jaclyn—still Alice’s father’s emergency contact—had called to let their only child know he had died. “We’re basically strangers.”

  Apparently, he had moved from Florida and back to New York State at some point earlier in the year, and was working odd construction jobs for the summer. He had settled only fifteen miles from where Alice and Nate now lived, close enough that they might have even passed each other at a grocery store, or on the trains going back and forth. Would she have recognized him, not having seen him in nearly twenty years?

 
; Greg had been alone when he died, her mother told her. In a one-bedroom apartment that probably had little food in the fridge but a well-stocked liquor cabinet. “What happened?” Alice had asked, her breath catching despite her best efforts to stay unaffected by this news. Nate, unaware of the news at that point, had looked over at her, the shift in her tone causing his forehead to crease with concern.

  “An accidental overdose, apparently.”

  “Of what?” Alice asked. Pause. “An accidental overdose of what, Mom?”

  Jaclyn heaved a sigh. “Does it really matter, Alice?”

  “Yes, it matters.”

  “Well, they said it was Valium. He was probably having trouble sleeping again,” Jaclyn said. “Greg was never a good sleeper.” The silence hung heavy between the women for a moment. “Alice? Are you still there, honey?”

  “Yes,” Alice had said, as Nate set a supportive hand against her back. “Now what?”

  Jaclyn went on to say she hoped Alice would go to the funeral. Reminded her to up her vitamin C intake to counteract the physical effects of this news.

  “Why?” Alice had asked, about the funeral, not the vitamin C, because she was truly incredulous at her mother’s request. Jaclyn said she would have flown up but Steve had rotator cuff surgery scheduled the day after, and she needed to be home.

  Alice was the only one left to go, and so she went. She held her own umbrella against the rain, and an ache in her gut spread through the rest of her body like tentacles; soon every part of her hurt. Like she was feverish with a flu, her body struggling to rid itself of some virus trying to take over. Maybe she should have listened to her mother about the vitamins, she thought, as the sense of sickness spread.