by Karma Brown
She set the timer, and while Martha’s muffins baked, Nellie sat at the table and smoked, thinking about the last time she and her mother had made this recipe. It was shortly before Nellie’s birthday—her seventeenth—and they were baking for one of her mother’s friends, who had the flu. Elsie, seated in their small kitchen, plucked lavender buds from the stems fanned in front of her. Too thin and always cold, Elsie wore a red-and-green winter sweater buttoned to the top, the wide collar high up her neck even though it was summer. She gathered the buds on top of the tea towel she’d laid out across the tabletop. That morning there were other sprigs of herbs on the table as well—oregano, thyme, rosemary, dill, mint, basil, tarragon—set in neat piles, ready to be macerated for future recipes, for satchels to scent closets and drawers, to add to the bathwater.
The herbs had been harvested from what was left of her mother’s Victory garden that year, planted three summers earlier after she was inspired by the GROW YOUR OWN, CAN YOUR OWN posters popping up in shops around town. The war garden movement had been amazingly effective, and nearly everyone in the Swanns’ neighborhood had planted one, but when the war ended most were abandoned.
Nellie, sitting beside her mother, rolled a lemon between tight palms, loosening the flesh from the rind. Later she would use the juice to make lemonade, but for now she grated the bright yellow zest, the oils from the puckered rind coating her fingers with each turn of the fruit. Soon she had a small heap of the grated rind, which she collected in her palm and plopped on top of the wet mixture.
“Nearly done with the lavender?” she asked her mother. Elsie passed Nellie the buds in a small dish. The recipe called for two teaspoons of dried lavender, and Nellie, after measuring like she knew she was supposed to (especially for this recipe), was amazed, like always, at how her mother could eyeball the precise amount of an ingredient.
“I will never grow tired of the scent of lavender in my kitchen,” Elsie had said, pressing her herb-infused fingers to her face. “It smells of contentment, doesn’t it?” Contentment was a hard thing to come by for Elsie, so any mention of it had made hope blossom inside Nellie’s chest. Elsie began to sing, and Nellie joined in—their voices blending as pleasantly in the small kitchen as the lemon rind and lavender buds within the muffin mixture.
Their frequent cooking sessions in those days weren’t only an education in home economics; they were also a housewifery training program passed from mother to daughter. Elsie taught Nellie how to make her own bread yeast, and why one should add a dash of oatmeal to soups (to thicken it), and how vinegar keeps boiling cauliflower pristinely white. And underpinning those lessons was Elsie’s wish for Nellie to marry a good man, unlike the one she herself committed to. They lived modestly, without luxuries, but Elsie’s love for Nellie was as bountiful as her gardens. “You have been my greatest joy,” Elsie would murmur to Nellie when she tucked her into bed, kissing her on the forehead, on her cheeks, her eyelids, smelling of roses and dusty baking flour. “My greatest joy.”
“Nellie, I wrote something out for you. Here, darling.” Elsie had held out a recipe card, her swooping letters as familiar to Nellie as the sound of her voice, while they waited for the muffins to bake.
“What is it?” Nellie took the card and glanced at the ingredients. “Oh, I know this one, Mother.” For a moment, she had worried about Elsie’s state of mind, as on the card was a Swann family recipe Nellie already knew by heart.
“I should say your version may in fact be better than mine,” Elsie replied, a smile gracing her lips. “I think it might be the dill. It really gave it something special.” Oh, if only that smile would hold, Nellie thought. Her mother was so beautiful when she smiled.
Elsie leaned forward onto bony elbows, gently cushioned by the thick wool of her sweater, and waited until she had her only child’s full attention. Nellie, seated across from her mother at the small table, held the recipe card tightly in her hands. Her fingertips, still dewy with lemon oil, left small prints on the card’s edges.
“But there’s something else. You’re old enough now, my love.” Elsie lowered her voice, forcing Nellie to lean in too, so the women’s faces were only inches apart. “Something only shared from lips to ears, never to be written down. So listen closely to me now, all right, my girl?”
Nellie’s heart had raced at the intensity of her mother’s voice. She listened carefully to what Elsie said next, her eyes growing wide for one, sharp moment, before they settled back to normal. Though her heart continued thumping wildly for some time, long after the muffins were cooled enough to pack up and deliver to Elsie’s ailing friend.
35
Now, if you are one of those frigid or sexually anesthetic women, don’t be in a hurry to inform your husband about it. To the man it makes no difference in the pleasurableness of the act whether you are frigid or not unless he knows that you are frigid. And he won’t know unless you tell him, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
—William J. Robinson, Married Life and Happiness (1922)
Alice
AUGUST 20, 2018
After Alice had the IUD removed, which was much simpler than its insertion, and picked up her prescription for the birth control pill, she stopped to browse at the vintage consignment shop close to Dr. Sterling’s office. The saleswoman, looking like she’d stepped out of a Ladies’ Home Journal magazine right down to her sleek pageboy and emerald-green pencil skirt, had been outside on a smoke break. After Alice complimented her on the outfit, the woman, Sarah, offered her a cigarette, with the warning that it was unfiltered.
“Thanks,” Alice said. “I’ve never tried one of these.” She set it between her lips.
“Lucky you,” Sarah said, extending a lit match to the cigarette’s end. “You won’t believe the difference.” Alice took a drag of the cigarette and promptly started coughing, a raw burn of heat in her throat.
“Yeah, you get used to it.” Sarah sucked deeply on her own cigarette before exhaling a long plume of smoke. “I used to cut the filters off myself, which is way cheaper, but it’s not quite the same. I buy them online now.”
Alice nodded, her eyes watering from coughing, and took a tentative puff. The burn was less, and she didn’t cough. Saleswoman Sarah was right: without the filter, the toasted taste of tobacco and its effects were more intense, the nicotine quick to hit Alice’s bloodstream. The head rush lingered pleasantly, and after she browsed the vintage shop she headed home and promptly cut the filters off the last of her pack of cigarettes. Rather than write, as she had planned, she sat in her new-to-her vintage dress on the back patio so as not to smell up the house, and blew smoke rings into the air, imagining Nellie Murdoch doing the same half a decade earlier.
* * *
• • •
The rest of the week flowed easily, Nate, off to the office each morning but home for dinner at night as promised, and Alice, trying to work on her novel. Which mostly meant hours online researching details of life in the 1950s, as well as rereading the magazines and Nellie’s letters, and smoking unfiltered cigarettes with the mother-of-pearl holder outside while Nate was at work. She was smoking every day now and knew she’d have to stop soon—she wouldn’t be able to hide it from Nate indefinitely. It was tiring, worrying about him finding out. But the cigarettes helped her concentrate and smoothed her frustrations. Plus, it seemed everyone smoked in the fifties—back when even doctors believed it had health benefits—and so it felt almost poetic every time she slid a cigarette into the antique holder; a necessary part of her research.
Sally returned from visiting her ill friend and came over for dinner on Saturday night, which was long overdue. Alice made a simple supper of Welsh rabbit (toast points smothered in a sauce of cheddar, cream, dry mustard, and spices) with tomato slices, from Nellie’s cookbook, and barbecued sausages, along with a “fluffy white cake” that turned out not to be that fluffy but was still delicious. The three of th
em stayed up far too late and had too much wine, as Sally regaled them with stories of her adventures.
When Alice and Nate went to bed, quite drunk and uncharacteristically (these days) cheerful, they hatched a plan to set Sally up, even though they couldn’t remember the name of the handsome elderly gentleman who lived on the street and who was always raking his lawn. They had sex for the first time since the ruptured-cyst fiasco, and it was overall a quite pleasant evening, Alice feeling more optimistic about things than she had in some time.
* * *
• • •
By Monday Alice was back at her desk, feeling bloated and moody thanks to being on the pill and her overall lack of inspiration on the novel. She was staring out the front window, smoking a cigarette and definitely not writing, when Nate rode up the driveway on his bike. Panicked, she glanced at the time on her computer screen—3:07 P.M.—and sat paralyzed for a moment, the cigarette burning in her fingers. The window was open, but a thin curl of smoke floated above her like a gauzy veil, and she waved furiously at it, trying to make it disappear. It had been stupid to risk smoking in the living room, but it was pouring rain and Nate was supposed to be late because he was meeting up with a college friend who was in town on business. He wasn’t supposed to be home on time, let alone early.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she mumbled, tugging the cigarette from the holder and plopping it into her glass of water. She used one of the old magazines to fan the smoke out the open window. The front door slammed shut and then Nate was in the living room, his helmet still on and his messenger bag slung across his chest. He was soaking wet from having biked home in the rain.
“Oh! You should have called me,” Alice said. Her tense voice betrayed her nerves. “I could have picked you up at the station.”
Nate stared at her, incredulous. “Are you smoking?”
Alice held up her hands, tried to think quickly. Denial was not an option. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the room. “I had one. I never told you this, but I used to smoke, in college, for like, a second.” She sounded a touch hysterical and so took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, I know this probably seems crazy. But this book . . . it’s making me do things I wouldn’t normally do. The writing is harder than I thought and the saleswoman at that vintage shop in Scarsdale offered me one and, well, in my research everyone smoked in the fifties, so I figured it was part of my due diligence. I mean, I didn’t plan to actually smoke the cigarette. I swear, Nate! Please, stop looking at me like that.” Nate continued staring at her like he wanted to throttle her.
“I have writer’s block and it seemed like maybe it could help? Like, maybe it would give me some insight or something stupid like that. It’s only this one. I promise.” She pointed to the glass of water, the half-finished cigarette bobbing on the surface, tobacco strewn like loose-leaf tea. Then she noticed the cigarette carton on the edge of the desk, slightly hidden by the stack of magazines. She shifted to block Nate’s view.
Nate still hadn’t moved. Like a statue in the living room’s doorway, rainwater dripping to the floor under his feet, his expression one of disbelief. “You smoked in college?”
“Barely. Here and there. Come on, Nate. It’s just one lousy cigarette.”
“What the hell is going on with you, Ali?” Nate asked—yelled, actually—and that was when she realized whatever made him come home early was worse than finding your nonsmoker wife sucking back a midday cigarette.
Alice frowned. “Wait. Why are you home early?”
“You want to know why?” Nate said, his voice rising.
That’s why I asked. Alice’s hands had started to shake and she clasped them together. “Yes, Nate. I want to know.” She quickly ran scenarios in her mind: he was sick (he didn’t look sick, not exactly); his dinner got canceled and he decided to work the rest of the day from home; he was still worried about her after the whole cyst incident (except she was perfectly fine now, and they both knew it). However, none of those explained why he was clearly very upset.
Nate fiddled with the clasp on his bike helmet, not taking his eyes off Alice’s. “I met Jessica Stalwart at lunch. Remember her? Because she remembers you.”
She nodded, kept her face blank and curious even though the picture was taking shape in Alice’s mind. “How did that happen?” Nate’s and Jessica’s paths had never crossed before, and Alice couldn’t sort out how this had transpired.
“She’s dating Jason Cutler.” Jason worked at Nate’s firm, and he was a part of Nate’s social group. “She came to the office to meet him for lunch.”
Jessica Stalwart started at Wittington about six months before Alice was fired. She liked her immediately—a go-getter like Alice, Jessica was quick-witted and confident, and Alice thought they could have been friends if things had turned out differently. Alice heard Jessica got her job as Georgia’s lackey after she left, which meant she would without a doubt know things. Private things only Georgia could tell her. Like, say, about a potential lawsuit and a certain famous author. Damn it.
“How is she?” Alice finally managed, which was when Nate lost the fight to keep himself contained. He exploded into the living room, threw his messenger bag onto the floor, and unclipped his helmet, tossing it down as well. Alice winced as the helmet hit the hardwood, the floor’s tremors of displeasure rolling under her feet.
“Jessica is fine. She recently left Wittington, apparently. But what was most interesting was her concern for how you were doing.”
“Me?” Alice did her best to look perplexed. “Why?”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Ali?” Nate stepped closer, his body tense and fired up. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me about James Dorian?”
Her mind raced, trying to determine exactly how much Jessica had told him. “Nate, there was nothing to tell.”
Nate shook his head, pressed his lips together. “He assaulted you, Ali.”
Oh. So, this wasn’t about Alice exposing James’s secret and losing her job and, more important, lying to Nate about it. “It wasn’t that serious. I was never in danger or anything. I mean, yes, he put his hand on my knee, and no, I didn’t tell him he could. But that was it. As far as things went.” She took a breath. “He’s a drunk, and a misogynist, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”
“Not anything you couldn’t handle?” Nate’s eyes went wide and his voice dropped. “You need to get the police involved, or something.” He huffed, pacing the room in circles. He kicked his helmet by accident, and it skidded farther across the floor. “Sue Georgia, for putting you in that position. And the Wittington Group for lack of employee protection.”
He was enraged, but not with her, so Alice relaxed. There would be no police or lawsuit; she had already taken care of that. And it was good he ran into Jessica Stalwart. Her revelation meant Alice could keep up appearances—James Dorian’s perverted ways the ideal explanation for why she left Wittington when she did. She would explain her silence on the issue as not wanting to worry Nate about something she had a handle on, but before she could say anything, Nate asked, “Were you fired? Because Jessica said you were fired.”
“No. I—”
“Did Georgia fire you over this? Because if so . . .” Nate grabbed at her hands, squeezed her fingers gently in his. God, he looked so sad. And yet, the anger simmered in his eyes, in the way his jaw shifted back and forth, his teeth clenching.
This was the moment to tell Nate. But it was certainly easier not to, Alice decided, the details of what had unfolded with James Dorian and Wittington irrelevant now. Besides, the whole IUD thing was still fresh and raw and Alice wasn’t sure either of them could deal with yet another revelation right now. “This is why I couldn’t work there anymore. It was a toxic environment and I needed to get away from James Dorian and Georgia and Wittington.” She squeezed his fingers ba
ck. “I’ve let it go, so you have to let it go, too. There’s nothing to be done. Okay?”
Nate took a deep breath in through his nose and released it with a hiss. “Okay, Ali, okay,” he finally said, and Alice whispered a thank-you and leaned into him. “I’m just glad you got out of there.”
“Me too.” There was a vibration between them, and Alice pulled back as Nate took his phone from his pocket to see who was calling. Drew Baxter. Alice noted Nate’s sudden but subtle move away from her, eyes on his phone.
“Ah, sorry, I should take this. It’s Rob,” Nate said, referring to his boss, Rob Thornton. He glanced up from his phone to Alice’s face, not realizing she had seen Drew’s name on the screen. Nate appeared conflicted about what to do—keep his focus on Alice, who had just verified a serious and upsetting experience, or answer an incoming call from his study partner. It shouldn’t have even been a choice. “But I can let it go . . .”
As Nate’s phone continued to ring—he clearly wanted to answer it—a numbness moved through Alice’s limbs, but she forced a smile. “No, go ahead. You should take it.”
He smiled and put the phone to his ear, walking toward the stairs, which he then took two at a time. Alice stood at the base of the stairs, hoping to catch a snippet of the conversation, but all she heard before Nate shut the bedroom door was, “I know this is hard . . . same for me . . . ,” in a tone that was too informal, too intimate for Alice to believe it was a work-related call. With a sick drop in her stomach, Alice realized, as she had feared, that something other than studying was going on between Drew Baxter and her husband.
36
Nellie
SEPTEMBER 13, 1956