Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Suddenly he was right in front of her, and though Nellie’s instincts told her to Run! Get away! she stayed put. She was slow on her crutches and wouldn’t get out of the room before he caught up. “Lie down on the sofa, Eleanor. And take them off.”

  “Take what off?”

  “Your panties, Nellie. Take them off.” Her mouth dropped open. Surely he didn’t intend to do what she thought he was suggesting? Her heart pounded, and she wanted to cry. But she did as he asked and didn’t shed a tear, because what was the alternative? She set her crutches to the side and sat somewhat clumsily on the sofa’s edge, removing her panties from under her skirt. She took an extra moment to fold them and set them on the coffee table before lying back and closing her eyes.

  “Open your eyes,” Richard said gruffly as he settled his heaviness between her thighs, shifting and moving her skirt up. Roughly pushing her legs apart with one hand as he opened his fly with the other. His tie remained on and his shirt collar, Nellie noticed, was still freshly laundered white—absent a lipstick stain. Perhaps today’s black mood had more to do with that than anything else.

  “Richard, my ankle!” Nellie gasped as he shoved her plastered leg deep into the back of the Kroehler. It didn’t hurt, but it seemed the only rebellion she could get away with. He didn’t apologize or seem concerned about her comfort—or the open drapes framing the picture window that faced the street—as he pushed himself inside her. She wasn’t ready for him, her anxiety making his passage uncomfortable. Nellie bit her lip and turned her head.

  Richard abruptly stopped his rough movements, grabbed her chin, and forced her gaze back. “Look at me, Eleanor.”

  She did, and had never hated her husband more.

  As he thrust and grunted and writhed over her, the sofa springs groaning with the force, Nellie’s body stayed still. Quiet and contemplative in a battle she couldn’t win. Her arms useless by her sides, the only clue to the tension swirling inside her found in her fists, clenched so tightly there would be bloodred marks left on her palms from her nails. She briefly wished she had not sent Helen home, because then dinner would have been ready and Nellie wouldn’t have broken the glass and Richard would never have forced himself on her like this.

  She drove her mind out of her living room, away from her husband’s face so close to hers she could smell the whiskey on his breath, and thought about her garden. About how she needed to cull more herbs, maybe cut some flowers for Miriam. Perhaps a collection of roses—Miriam loved Nellie’s roses. She imagined Elsie in the garden, singing church hymns to the roses, lilies, even the tiny forget-me-nots, encouraging Nellie to sing aloud with her. “God gave you the voice of an angel, Nell-baby. Never be shy to use it, my girl.” Her body went numb as her mind wandered, one of the hymns coming back to her as she softly hummed its tune in time to Richard’s cruel thrusting.

  He moved quickly, and soon his eyes rolled back and he went limp, releasing his weight fully onto her chest as he shuddered in waves. Nellie couldn’t take a proper breath but didn’t dare say a word, knowing it would only delay things. Richard was spiteful that way. She understood she was still being punished, and so she took it like the dutiful wife she was supposed to be.

  Soon enough he rolled off her, zipping up his trousers though he didn’t bother tucking his shirt in. “Stay like that for now, Nellie.” He leaned down and kissed her on the lips—gently, the way a good husband would. Tugging the edge of her skirt, he pulled the hem over her bare thighs, using such care in covering her back up, unlike the way he had exposed her only minutes ago. He smiled and the hatred inside her grew to a rolling boil. “We want to make sure there’s a baby, don’t we?”

  Nellie nodded and smiled, though she remained still and otherwise detached so Richard would leave her be.

  “Would you like a cigarette?” he asked. “Apparently you were right about that. The doc did say it helps relax women.”

  “Yes, please,” Nellie said, her voice steady.

  “Coming right up.” Richard patted her hip before he went to the kitchen. She heard him fixing a drink, and knowing it was a risk to do so—but perhaps riskier not to—Nellie got up, taking her weight on her good leg. She hopped one-legged, her eyes never leaving the doorway, hoping to dispel what Richard had left inside of her before he returned. Because even though Nellie’s longing for motherhood endured, burned in her like a fever that wouldn’t break, she couldn’t be sure how deeply rooted the evil was in her husband. And as a result, Nellie would not be responsible for bringing a son, another man like Richard Murdoch, into this world. Or worse, a baby girl, for Richard would see it as his absolute right to control her the way he did Nellie. Ensuring he raised an obedient daughter who would grow into a submissive wife, without a moment’s concern for her own wishes.

  After some one-legged bouncing, there was a wetness between her thighs, and knowing she had done all she could, Nellie settled back on the green sofa and waited for her cigarette.

  25

  From the wedding day, the young matron should shape her life to the probable and desired contingency of conception and maternity. Otherwise she has no right or title to wifehood.

  —Emma Frances Angell Drake, What a Young Wife Ought to Know (1902)

  Alice

  JULY 19, 2018

  Did you take the ibuprofen?”

  Alice nodded, the paper crinkling under her head as she did. She stared at the ceiling, at the track of fluorescent lighting running over the procedure table she lay on. The light hurt her eyes but it was better than focusing on what was happening down below.

  “What do you do for work, Alice?”

  “I used to be in PR, but now I’m a writer.” At least I’m trying to be. Alice stared at the lights, then blinked and dots appeared in her vision. Can you call yourself a writer if you don’t actually write?

  “Oh yeah? What sort of writing do you do?”

  “This and that. I’m working on a novel right now.” She thought of her book. Every morning she woke up eager to work, but within a couple of hours her hopes were dashed and she closed her laptop with a promise the next day would be better. It had become a predictable yet concerning cycle, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. “That’s, uh, why I’m here. I need to get my book finished before I get pregnant.” Why had she said that?

  “Birthing a book and a baby? Yeah, that would be a lot of work.” The doctor sounded sympathetic. “I used to be a voracious reader but don’t have much time these days. But I have a stack of books on my nightstand waiting for my next vacation!”

  Alice smiled, but it was closemouthed and quick.

  “Okay, I’m placing the speculum . . . there we go. Try to relax, let your knees fall a bit more to the side. There, perfect.” Dr. Yasmine Sterling, the Scarsdale gynecologist Alice had found through a quick Google search, was hunched between Alice’s legs. She looked up and smiled. “All good, Alice?”

  “I’m great.” Alice tucked her chin to her chest so she could see the doctor. She returned her smile before looking back to the ceiling. Though she was confident this was the right decision (one year and then I’ll have it taken out)—especially after Nate’s joking but thoughtless “barefoot and pregnant” comment—a wiggle of guilt moved through her abdomen and her muscles tensed. The speculum slipped slightly and the doctor told her again to try to relax. “Sorry. I’m just . . . I’m fine.”

  “I know how uncomfortable this is, but it won’t take me long. Hang tight,” Dr. Sterling said, then laughed. “Actually, don’t hang ‘tight’—loose would be better. Hang loose.” Dr. Sterling repositioned the light and grabbed something off the table beside her.

  “Now I’m going to clean your cervix with an antiseptic and we’ll be on our way.” The doctor had blond hair in need of a root touch-up, but her part was pin straight—not a hair out of place, all pulled back into a low, tight ponytail. Somehow this made Alice feel better
about the gynecologist’s ability to place the IUD. If she was that precise with her part, she would definitely get the device in exactly the right spot in Alice’s uterus.

  “I love your purse, by the way. My grandmother used to have a similar Chanel bag.”

  Alice glanced over at the small, rectangular black quilted handbag sitting on top of her clothes. She had promised Bronwyn she would use it and she had to admit she liked the simplicity of it. The purse wasn’t large, so she wasn’t endlessly losing her keys or lip gloss in its depths. “We recently moved into this old house, and the previous owner left it behind. It’s from the fifties, I think.”

  “Lucky you,” Dr. Sterling said. “It’s in great condition, too.” Alice jerked at the sharp clang of metal on metal as Dr. Sterling set something on the tray beside her, where a variety of items were lined up, including the IUD, its arms looking like a little white anchor at the top of the tube. “We’re almost ready here. Now, you may feel some cramping when I insert the tube and release the IUD. Perfectly normal and it will pass.”

  Alice nodded, trying not to tense up again with anticipation.

  “Take a deep breath. Let it out. Good, good. And one more . . .”

  There was pressure, a flutter of sharp pain in her lower abdomen—which deepened quickly and made her suck in her breath, her heels pressing hard into the foot beds of the stirrups. She felt dizzy, but it might have been because her breathing had gone shallow. It hurt a lot more than she expected.

  The gynecologist didn’t look up. “Keep breathing, Alice. Almost done. I’ve put the tube through your cervix and am about to release the IUD. A few seconds more. Okay . . . there we go. You okay?”

  The cramping continued, and Alice took a deep breath. “A bit of cramping, but I’m okay.”

  “Good. Last step. Going to remove the tube . . . there we go . . . and now I’m trimming the strings, a couple centimeters below the cervix.” A few seconds later it was over, and Dr. Sterling put the empty tube on the tray. “You’ll need to check the strings once a month, just to make sure the IUD is still in position. If you don’t feel them, come back right away. It’s not common, but an IUD can fall out, which means you won’t be protected against pregnancy.”

  Dr. Sterling set the scissors back on the tray and turned off the spotlight pointed between Alice’s legs before helping her get her feet out of the stirrups. She snapped off her gloves and pushed her rolling stool back against the wall.

  “I’m going to leave this pamphlet here for you.” Dr. Sterling set the folded paper on top of Alice’s Chanel purse. “It gives you the ins and outs about possible side effects and anything else you need to look out for, like infections or pain. If you get any unbearable pain, or excessive bleeding or a fever”—she put her fist to her ear, mimicking making a phone call—“you call my service right away, okay?”

  Alice nodded, a small flutter of cramps continuing to roam through her pelvis. “Now, we can leave this in for five years, and you may not actually have periods. But it won’t protect you from sexually transmitted infections, so you’ll still need to use condoms.”

  Dr. Sterling washed her hands in the sink. She lathered twice, rinsed, and ripped some paper towel from the dispenser. “Any other questions?”

  “I think I’m good. Can I sit up now?”

  “You can.” Dr. Sterling nodded. “Nice to meet you, Alice. And like I said, any questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to give us a call. My nurse’s name and number are on the back of the pamphlet. But I don’t expect you to have any problems. You’re young and healthy.” She started to close the door behind her, then popped her head back in. “Oh, and good luck with that novel. I’ll keep my eye out for it!”

  26

  Eat proper food for health and vitality. Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply make-up, a dash of cologne, and perhaps some simple earrings. Does wonders for your morale.

  —Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, revised and enlarged (1956)

  Alice

  AUGUST 7, 2018

  What’s all this?” Nate worked the knot into his tie as he surveyed the food spread across the table. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Sunny-side-up eggs. Toast. Bacon and sausage. All of it displayed on the vintage platters that had come with the house. Alice wore a sundress and sheer stockings, her hair in a loose bun, a dab of lipstick and some mascara to complete the look.

  “This is breakfast, obviously.” Alice pulled out a chair for him. “Sit. Eat. While it’s still hot.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Nate carefully tucked his tie into the space between two of his shirt buttons, tidy and precise. Alice thought if she were the one keeping a tie out of her eggs she’d merely toss it over one shoulder and dig in. Nate dusted his eggs with the paprika she’d recently purchased—it seemed a frequently used spice in the cookbook’s recipes, and so good to have on hand—while Alice poured the juice, sitting across from him.

  “Thanks, babe.” Nate buttered a piece of toast and Alice cut into her egg, the sunny yolk pooling onto her plate. “But I have to ask—and don’t take this the wrong way—what’s the occasion?” Alice typically wasn’t up for breakfast, Nate flying out the door before seven with a flask of green smoothie or a coffee and a quickly grabbed banana.

  Alice shrugged, cut another triangle of egg with the edge of her fork. I got an IUD and sorry I didn’t tell you about it first? She had planned to confess over breakfast, but the words wouldn’t come. He will forgive you, she assured herself. But maybe she’d wait until after they’d eaten so breakfast wasn’t ruined. “You’re working really hard and I’m . . . not. I mean, I know I’m writing the book.” Even though she wasn’t. “But I want to do more. ‘Earn my keep’ so you don’t toss me to the curb on garbage day.”

  Even though her tone carried the lilt of humor, Nate stopped cutting the sausage link and lay his silverware down. “Ali, I hope I’m not doing something to—”

  “No. Sorry. That was a bad joke,” she replied. “All I meant was we’re a team and I can do more. Especially with your exam coming up. Besides, I’m kind of getting into this whole housewife thing.” Not the whole truth, but there were aspects of it Alice minded less these days. Like cooking and baking, which helped pass the time and produced something tangible. She dipped a toast finger into her egg yolk, and the fridge emitted its soft hum into the kitchen. It hadn’t rattled in weeks.

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” Nate took a sip of the juice and smiled again, though it was quick and soon gone.

  Are you really, Nate? Can it actually be that simple? Alice thought to ask, but instead she crunched on her yolk-sodden toast.

  “So, what do you have going on for the rest of the day?” Nate asked, silverware back in hand.

  “Mostly writing, I hope. I’ve been reading those magazines and Sally gave me a bunch of letters that belonged to the woman who used to live here, Nellie, to help me with my book. And I’m sort of inspired. I think she’d make a great protagonist.”

  “How so?” Nate asked, genuinely curious.

  “I don’t know if I can explain it,” Alice replied, which was true. Nellie had revealed little more than the day-to-day details of a 1950s housewife schedule, which involved gardening, meal preparation, and Tupperware parties ad nauseam. There was frequent concern over Richard’s stomach ulcer, news of babies born to the couple’s friends. But despite the predictability of Nellie’s life, Alice sensed an untold story between the lines in those letters, penned in the housewife’s pristine cursive. “Just a hunch, at this point.”

  Nate seemed interested, so Alice pressed on.

  “Related, and you probably aren’t going to believe me when I say this, but I’m not sure I want to change things.”

  “What do you mean by ‘things’?”

  “Well, maybe we can leave the kitchen as is? I know we’ll need a new fridge and stove even
tually, and I’m not sure how long this baby blue will feel charming, but for right now I like it. It’s good for me. For my writing, I mean, because I’ve sort of switched gears, with the book idea. I’m going to set it in 1955, and we’re basically living that decade with this decor. I can be immersed in it, you know? Especially with all this vintage stuff. It just fits. With my vision. If that makes sense.”

  Alice spoke too fast, her body humming with nervous energy. Worried she’d blurt out the truth about the IUD between talk of Formica tabletops and floral wallpaper. No, she needed to tell Nate properly—the way she had planned. Calmly, the explanation rational so her logical husband could see the benefits of waiting. Career ambitions aside (though his would be unencumbered by a pregnancy), they could focus on making the house safer for a baby, without eliminating its vintage charm. Like, replacing the wiring and removing the asbestos. Getting rid of the lead paint on the non-wallpapered surfaces. Nate would surely respond positively, if Alice framed the conversation properly.

  “Baby blue and ancient appliances it is.” Nate rinsed his plate and silverware in the sink, following suit with hers before putting them in the dishwasher. This small gesture, which she wouldn’t have noticed in Murray Hill, felt meaningful to Alice, and another bubble of guilt bloomed. She would tell him over dinner—she had to.

  “Hate to eat and run, babe, but I have to go.” He bent to kiss Alice. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Hang on.” Alice opened the fridge and took out a reusable bag. “Lunch.”

  “You made me lunch, too?”

  “Turkey and cheese croissant, chocolate chip cookies, and an apple,” Alice said.

  “Are you feeling okay?” He laughed, pretending to check her temperature with the back of his hand against her forehead.

  “Ha. Have to keep you on your toes, throw in a surprise every now and then.” Alice playfully pushed him toward the front door. “Now, go, before you miss your train. Hope you have a good day.”