Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  “There you go,” she said, letting her fingers linger longer than they needed to on Peter’s chin, making sure Richard could see. Peter appeared to stop breathing, very aware of Mr. Murdoch standing only a foot away and looking none too pleased about the exchange young Peter was having with his wife.

  Nellie turned, pretending to only then notice Richard. “Oh, hello there! How was bowling today?” She opened her own bottle of beer, taking a long sip. The glass rim was wonderfully chilled against her lips. Peter’s eyes widened—she expected he’d never seen a woman drink beer right from the bottle, his own mother a teetotaler—and Richard’s eyes narrowed, arms crossed. His red-and-black bowling shirt stretched across his chest, the buttons straining.

  Peter squinted, glancing between the couple, and put his beer on the table before reaching out to shake Richard’s hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch.” His Adam’s apple wiggled with nervousness.

  “Peter,” Richard said, returning the handshake with extra force. Peter winced but held his own. “How’s your father doing?”

  “Just fine, sir.” Peter looked over at the hostas, wanting to be anywhere but standing between the Murdochs. “Uh, I guess I’ll get back to it?”

  “Good idea,” Richard said, sitting in the chair Peter had occupied only moments before and scowling at the teenager. He picked up the glass of lemonade intended for Peter and plucked out the mint, flinging it onto the grass. Peter glanced back and Nellie smiled reassuringly. “Right down the middle of that one too, Peter. Don’t let that little old plant give you any trouble.”

  Nellie settled back in her own chair, watching Peter jam the hoe into the earth. “Can you believe he’s not going steady with anyone? A boy like that?” She shook her head, gingerly sipped the beer. The flavor wasn’t her favorite, but with Richard watching so disapprovingly, gosh darn it, she would drink the whole thing. “Though he’s grown into quite a man this past year.”

  Richard glared at her. “I thought we were paying him to clean up the garden, not talk your ear off.”

  “Never mind that.” Nellie leaned toward Richard, and in a stage whisper said, “I think I may have given young Peter his first beer!”

  Richard scrubbed a hand through his hair. “For Christ’s sake, Nellie,” he mumbled.

  He was frustrated. Richard was used to Nellie being the sort of wife who did as her husband asked; who was demure and prettier than his friends’ wives and would never drink a beer, let alone from a bottle or with a strapping young man (who was, to be clear, closer in age to Nellie than Richard was). Nellie Murdoch was—or had been to now—the flawless wife. But lately she had been impudent, and Nellie knew that made Richard uneasy. But he wouldn’t punish her for it, being unwilling to take any chances this time when it came to the baby, and Nellie was quite aware of the power this afforded her. Hence her shameless flirting with Peter Pellosi, which would tie Richard up in knots.

  “I made cheese popovers and a Waldorf salad for lunch,” Nellie said, her mood brightening as Richard’s darkened. She took out another cigarette, lit it, and opened her magazine on her lap. Nellie peeked at Richard, relished the look of consternation on her husband’s face. “Why don’t you go ahead and eat? I had something not long ago, and I don’t want to leave young Peter all alone out here.”

  30

  Don’t be jealous of your husband’s acquaintance with other women. You don’t want him to think you are the nicest woman in the world because he never sees any others, but because he sees plenty, and still feels that you are the only one in the world for him. Have nice girls about the house pretty frequently.

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

  Alice

  AUGUST 13, 2018

  I was reading through Nellie’s letters to her mother, for my book research, and found something I wasn’t expecting.” It was Monday afternoon, and Alice was on her knees in the garden, patting the earth around the newly planted shrubs she’d bought to fill the holes from yesterday’s foxglove removal.

  Sally was clipping off roses for a friend in Stamford with a broken hip she was visiting later. “What was it?”

  “You said Nellie and Richard never had children, right?”

  “They didn’t. Not as far as I know.” Sally pulled back to squint at the rose bouquet in her gloved hand, then, satisfied with its fullness, lay the roses on her patio table so she could trim the thorns.

  “Those are so pretty,” Alice said, looking at Sally’s roses. She glanced back at her own garden. “I wonder if I’ll ever be good at this.”

  “You need to give it a couple of full cycles of the seasons before you’ll know for sure.” Sally snipped at the stems, the spiky thorns dropping to the table. “I think your garden is looking lovely, though. You’ve obviously been working hard at it.” She pointed to the shrub Alice had nested into the earth, her handprints still evident around its base in the dark, damp soil. “I hate to tell you this, dear, but that will likely not fare well there.”

  Alice looked at the squat shrub. “How come?”

  “It doesn’t have enough room. For its roots,” Sally replied. “You might need to choose something else for that spot. What was there before?”

  “The foxglove. I told Nate it was toxic and he yanked it all out. Was worried about our hypothetical child making a salad of the leaves.” Alice rolled her eyes. “Which is ridiculous because, one, we have no idea when and if this child will manifest, and, two, name me a toddler who eats salad.”

  Sally laughed. “You have a point there, Miss Alice.”

  “So, should I dig this out? Put it somewhere else where it won’t feel crowded?”

  The older woman brought a finger to her upper lip, scanned the garden bed. She pointed to the back corner, which did have more space. “There, beside the echinacea, maybe. The one that looks like a purple daisy.”

  “Let’s be clear,” Alice replied, crouching in front of the shrub and beginning to dig it out. “I don’t want to put it anywhere. I was happy with the foxglove.”

  “You can always get more foxglove at the garden center. Children can be trained. So can husbands, I suspect.” Sally winked, winding golden twine around the thorn-free stems. “I should be on my way, but before I go, what did you come across in Nellie’s letter?”

  Alice dug at the dirt with her gloved fingers, creating a doughnut of space around the roots. She started to tug, but it wouldn’t give. “Nellie wrote to her mother that she was pregnant, but I remember you saying she never had a child.” She grasped the base of the shrub and pulled, hard—too hard, because she ended up on her back with the shrub on her chest, her face sprinkled with dirt. She spat earth off her lips and started laughing.

  “Oh dear, are you all right?” Sally asked, covering her mouth with one hand to hide the chuckle.

  “Everything but my ego.” Alice laughed as she stood, shaking off the dirt. “Anyway, I was curious about what happened, if Nellie had been pregnant but never had the baby.”

  “Hmm,” Sally said. “No children, I’m sure of it. But I am sorry to hear that, as I’m sure it was difficult for Nellie. I remember Mother saying she would have been an excellent mother.” Sally picked up the bundle of roses. “It wasn’t easy to be married and childless in those days. The social expectations around family were rigid. “

  “I can only imagine,” Alice said. “They’re still fairly rigid now, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, I suppose they are,” Sally replied, giving Alice a long look and a gentle smile.

  One of the ovulation kit’s test strips had been on the bathroom counter that morning, right beside Alice’s toothbrush. Nate had slapped a sticky note with a smiley face and the insinuative words Drink lots of water! next to it. Alice had completely forgotten about the kit, her housewarming gift from Nate, but clearly her husband had not. She knew she should hand Nate the unopened test strip when he got home and fi
nally tell him the truth. But annoyed and wearied by the reemergence of the ovulation kit (and Nate’s stupid sticky note), Alice had decided it was easier to play along for now. She’d dropped her pajama shorts, opened the strip, and peed on its end. Then she brushed her teeth and set the urine-drenched test on the counter beside the water glass for Nate to find later that evening.

  “Alice? Where’d you go there, honey?”

  Alice shook her head. “Sorry, I’m distracted today. Not enough coffee, I think.” She smiled at Sally, but then gasped and clutched her side as an intense pain gripped her abdomen. Sally dropped her bundle of roses and leaned toward Alice, her arms outstretched as if she intended to try to catch her despite the distance between them. “Alice! What is it?”

  “I’m not sure, I . . .” Alice took in a deep breath, the pain gone as quickly as it had come. “Maybe I pulled something when I yanked that bush out.” She was light-headed and mildly nauseated.

  Sally’s wrinkles deepened as she watched her younger neighbor rub at her side. “Where’s the pain, exactly?”

  Alice pointed to her left side, near her hip. “It’s gone now. I think I’m okay.” She arched her back, then stretched from side to side. “I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “A muscle spasm, I think,” Alice said. “See? I told you I’m not cut out for gardening.”

  Sally smiled, bending somewhat gingerly the way older people do, and picked up the fallen roses. “Maybe no more gardening for you today. Go put your feet up and get something cold to drink. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m spending the night with my friend, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sally said. “We’ll figure out what else to put in those foxglove holes then.”

  After Sally left, Alice absentmindedly rubbed her side, staring at the three holes in the garden, which she decided to just fill in with dirt and call it a day.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Did you call your mom back?” They were in bed, Alice flipping through a Ladies’ Home Journal magazine from a new stack she’d brought up from the basement, Nate with Alice’s laptop propped on his thighs. She didn’t love him using her computer—worried he’d discover how unproductive she had been with her book—but his was going through an update and he wanted to research bathroom tiles.

  “Not yet. I’ll call her tomorrow,” Alice said. Nate had mentioned it wasn’t urgent. Something to do with them taking a trip to California for Thanksgiving. Alice had been on the couch most of the afternoon—a heating pad on her still sore side—and so they’d had leftovers for dinner and were in bed earlier than normal. Nate had obviously found the test strip Alice had left out, because it wasn’t on the countertop when she went in to wash her face. But he hadn’t said anything about it, and she didn’t mention it either.

  “What do you think of this black-and-white honeycomb?” Nate asked, squinting at the tile thumbnails on the screen. “Do you want a neutral scheme, or something with color?”

  “Sure. Okay.” Alice was immersed in an article about the value of simple white vinegar in a housewife’s pantry (poaching eggs, cleaning windows, a rinse for shiny hair). She remained bothered by Nate’s note and the test strip, and her maddening inability to talk with him about it, and so had been quiet all evening. Though he believed she was subdued because she wasn’t feeling great—the lingering pain of her “pulled muscle” from gardening casting a shadow on her mood.

  “Ali, are you even listening to me?”

  “Hmm, what? I am. Just reading about the miracles of vinegar. Big news for women in the fifties.”

  He put the laptop to the side—at least a dozen tabs remained open, a DIY bathroom tiling step-by-step blog on the screen—and nestled beside her, resting his chin on her shoulder and glancing at the magazine page. He flipped the magazine shut, Alice’s finger marking the spot, to see the cover.

  “Is this responsible for that?” he asked, pointing to Alice’s head. She had wrapped strands of hair using sections of an old T-shirt she’d cut up, tying up the pieces in small balls all over her head. The technique promised a cascade of shiny curls by morning, at least according to the old magazine.

  “It is.” Alice patted a few of the hair balls, which felt springy under her fingers.

  “It’s a good look on you,” Nate said, and Alice smirked. It wasn’t a good look on anyone. Then he set his palm on her side, rubbing it gently a couple of times. “Feeling okay?” Nate pressed closer, and his breath tickled her neck. His hands came around her body to cup her breasts, her nipples hardening under his touch. Alice then realized what the test strip must have shown—she was about to ovulate.

  Despite her determination not to participate—annoyed by Nate’s presumptive move that morning and his transparent agenda now—her body betrayed her, stirring at his touch. Nate’s roving hands massaged her body through the thin fabric of her nightshirt, and his lips continued their descent down the side of her neck, pausing on her shoulder blade. Alice lifted her arms to allow him to pull her shirt over her head. But the neckline got caught on her homemade fabric hair curlers.

  “Tug,” Alice said, her voice muffled by the shirt. Nate was being too gentle, trying to peel the shirt over her head. Not long after, they were naked on the duvet, and Nate rolled her so she was on top.

  “It’s better if you orgasm,” he said. Of course it is. But Alice knew he meant in reference to her getting pregnant, and tried to ignore his comment.

  He held her hips and closed his eyes, his chin tipping back as she moved over him, quickening her pace with every breath, a tingling pressure building in her pelvis as Nate groaned under her.

  “Oh!” Alice gasped, slamming her hands to Nate’s chest as her fingernails dug into his skin. A fiery swath of pain stabbed her abdomen. Nate winced and reached for her hands, chuckling, not yet understanding what was going on. “Easy, babe,” he murmured. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

  Alice couldn’t catch her breath—the pain far more intense than it had been in the garden, as though she were being cut in half. She bucked off him and curled into a tight ball at the foot of the bed, the way she’d seen potato bugs do in the garden when sensing imminent danger.

  Nate, catching up to the seriousness of what was happening, sprang over to where she writhed, her knees up to her chest. She was sweating profusely, a low hum of a moan coming out of her. “Ali! What’s wrong? Is it your side?” Nate’s hands roamed the parts of her body he could get to, trying to figure out what was causing her extreme pain. For one delirious moment Alice understood she was being punished. But for what, exactly? For all of it, she thought.

  “Talk to me, babe. What’s wrong?”

  She screamed, clawed at her side, and Nate held on to her. “Should I call 911?” He fumbled with his phone, swearing loudly as it dropped to the floor. He managed to keep one hand firmly on Alice’s hip as he stretched for the phone. “Hang on. I’m calling 911.”

  “No. Don’t call,” she managed, sucking in shallow breaths. “Just give me a minute.” The pain was subsiding a bit, maybe. At least she could draw in a full breath.

  Nate, phone in trembling hand, rubbed her side—too hard—and she wished he would stop because the motion combined with the waves of pain was making her sick to her stomach. She focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  “Better?” he asked, his voice high, his breathing nearly as ragged as hers.

  She nodded, but the pain had yet to abate. Hand leaving her side, Nate placed it momentarily against his chest, where red crescents remained from her fingernails. “Are you okay? You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry. Me too.” She sat up, slowly, with Nate’s help. She regretted it instantly, though, and pressed her hands deeply into her left side, sucking in a breath as waves of pain coursed through her.

  “Still bad?” he asked,
his eyebrows knitting together. He placed a hand behind her shoulders, bending to see her face. “Maybe we should go to the ER. This can’t be from a pulled muscle.”

  “It’s getting better.” But the pain was picking up again, impatient for its grand finale. Alice’s heart raced. Maybe I’m dying. Could it be her appendix? That was on the right side, she was pretty sure. Wait . . . had she touched the foxglove plant? No, Nate had pulled it out and she had only held the yard-waste bag. She was wildly confused, unsure of the order of events.

  “Nate?” she whispered, turning to him. His eyes seemed too big for his head, his mouth working but no sound coming out. “What’s wrong with me?” He didn’t even have time to answer before she screamed as the pain ripped through her again, so forcefully this time it was as though her insides had liquefied.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, knowing with such clarity it was the only way to get the blackness out of her. She scrambled off the bed and Nate held her up as her legs buckled, his panic evident. They’d only taken one step toward the door, Nate trying to get her to the washroom, when she violently threw up, the new bedroom rug taking the brunt of it.

  Nate cursed repeatedly as he propped her naked body against his, his one arm tight across her chest and under her armpits, crushing her breasts while she sagged against him. He dialed with his other hand and tried to get her back on the bed, but she resisted him.

  “I don’t want to mess up the duvet,” Alice said, a temporary feeling of relief filling her. “I’m sorry about the rug. I’ll clean it up.”

  “Alice, stop. Stop. Just let me get you . . . Ali, stay with me, okay? Keep your eyes open. Yes, hello? My wife . . . she needs an ambulance . . .” Nate’s voice hitched and Alice wanted to tell him she was fine, not to worry. But she soon gave up, too dizzy to do anything but let Nate lay her on the bed. Alice tried to hang on, but sleep promised a reprieve from the pain and nightmare happening in their bedroom, and so she closed her eyes and succumbed. The house hummed softly to her through its cracks, like a mother serenading her child with a soothing lullaby, and she drifted away, Nate’s frantic shouts disappearing into the void.