Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

“Then, good heavens, why are you doing it?”

  “Because I was fired from my job for doing something stupid and I didn’t tell Nate what happened. He wanted to move to the suburbs and I had no paycheck and no more excuses for why we had to stay in Murray Hill, and writing a book was something I always said I wanted to do because it seemed like the sort of thing most people want to do, and it offered as good a distraction as any while I tried to get pregnant.” Alice paused, sucking in a breath. If she had gone on she might have confessed the IUD fiasco and her deep regret over it. Or her ambivalence about having a baby, and how it made her feel she was failing her marriage. Or she might have admitted her fear that Nate was keeping his own secrets, and maybe wasn’t as good a husband as he seemed.

  “My mother always used to say, ‘Never ask a simple question if you want a simple answer.’” Sally smiled reassuringly.

  “I mostly feel restless. Like I’m waiting for real life to begin, and I’m just putting in time, watching everything fall apart until things make sense again.”

  “Honey, I wish I had advice to give, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a book, or being married, or feeling the pressure to start a family,” Sally replied. “Well, I guess I know a little about that last one because Mother was endlessly harping on me to have a child, even on my own. She said I could move in, work at the hospital here, and she would help me raise the baby. She even had a list of eligible bachelors in the neighborhood she updated and mailed to me regularly, with a pro and con column for each. That list always made me laugh. She had things like ‘sharp dresser’ on the pro side and ‘beginning to bald’ as a con, as though those attributes were in any way connected to the success of a marital partnership.”

  They laughed, and then Sally continued. “Yet despite her upbringing, and the pressures of the time for women to be seen but not heard, to have no aspirations outside the home, my mother was actually quite the feminist! One of the greatest gifts she ever gave me—and she was a wonderful mother, so there were many—was to have me answer one question.”

  “Which was?”

  Sally sat up straighter, put on an animated face, and waggled a finger the way Alice assumed her mother must have. “She said, ‘Sally, the hardest question we have to ask ourselves in this life is, “Who am I?” Ideally, we answer it for ourselves, but be warned that others will strive to do it for you—so don’t let them.’”

  There was a lump in Alice’s throat; she was on the brink of tears. “Let me offer you the same gift, Alice, and tell you that your only job—more important than any book writing or rosebush tending or meal preparing—is to uncover your answer to that question.”

  “I think I would have liked your mom,” Alice said.

  Sally laid a hand on Alice’s knee. “And she would have liked you. She had a soft spot for the restless ones.”

  38

  But in case of an occasional lapse on the part of the husband—there a bit of advice may prove acceptable. And my advice would be: forgive and forget. Or still better—make believe that you know nothing. An occasional lapse from the straight path does not mean that he has ceased to love you. He may love you as much; he may love you a good deal more.

  —William J. Robinson, Married Life and Happiness (1922)

  Alice

  SEPTEMBER 23, 2018

  What will it be? My treat.” Bronwyn set her notebook on the small corner table at H&H Bagels and pushed back from the table, ready to go order. She had convinced Alice to come to Manhattan for the day, joking that her friend’s blood was probably running too suburban, the only fix being an H&H injection and manicure. Bronwyn had planned a full schedule, including a venue visit for her post-wedding party, then dinner and drinks with a few friends from Alice’s former life. But nothing would happen until bagels had been consumed, because Bronwyn was unpleasant when her blood sugar got too low. “The usual?”

  Alice had been mildly nauseated all morning but knew she needed to put something in her stomach, which was empty aside from a coffee and banana she’d had early on. “The usual is perfect. Thanks.”

  While Bronwyn ordered—the number seven for Alice (egg, avocado, and pepper jack cheese on a sesame bagel), and lox and scallion cream cheese on pumpernickel for Bronwyn—Alice glanced out the window, touching the pearls about her neck. She’d chosen black cigarette pants in addition to a polka-dotted sleeveless blouse and the pearls, her hair held back in pin curls. Bronwyn had gushed that she looked amazing—and thin!—and Alice beamed at the compliment, glad she’d chosen this outfit over her usual, more casual picks. She had lost weight since the move—the stress, lack of eating out, and probably her recent smoking habit all contributing to shrinking her to a size she hadn’t been for a while.

  They tucked into their bagels, Alice taking small bites and assuring Bronwyn she was fine when asked. After a mostly quiet lunch, Bronwyn leaned elbows on the table and looked searchingly at her friend. “Ali, what’s up?”

  “With what?”

  They knew each other well, and Bronwyn could see right through Alice’s attempts to feign ignorance. “With you, obviously.”

  “Nothing new, really. Writing, gardening, trying not to burn the house down when I cook.” Alice smiled at her friend, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “All the things a good housewife does.”

  “See, I know you’re making it sound like you’re joking, but you’re not actually joking.” Bronwyn reached out, put a hand on Alice’s arm. “Talk to me, Ali.”

  Alice wasn’t in the mood—she wanted to enjoy this blue-skied Sunday and her lunch and skip the probing conversations. Coming in on the train that morning, Alice had believed everything was back on track with her and Bronwyn: she had apologized; Bronwyn had forgiven her. Yet, as soon as she saw her it felt to Alice as though remnants of the fight lingered, the way someone can clean up a sticky spill and still have it grab their socks days later. Despite the hugs and Bronwyn’s exclamation of “Now all is right with the world!” when she met Alice at the station, something fundamental had shifted between the women—like the excitement and proclamations were more for show.

  “Honestly, there’s nothing to tell. I feel good.” She sipped her water, wiped the condensation ring from the table with her napkin, thought of Nate and Drew. Held back her scowl. “All is well, Bron. Don’t look so worried.”

  “Well, I am worried. You just seem different.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, you aren’t wearing jeans . . .”

  “So it’s my outfit?” Alice glanced down at her clothes, shrugged. “I’m immersing myself in the fifties, for my book. It’s research. Isn’t that what all great authors do?” She hadn’t expected to like the vintage clothing as much as she did, but Sarah the saleswoman had a great eye, and Alice felt well put together in her outfit. Besides, because she’d lost some weight none of her old clothes fit quite right anymore.

  “I don’t know . . .” Bronwyn gesticulated to her pearls, the hair pins. “Don’t get me wrong. I like it, but it’s not you.”

  Alice threw up her hands. “You just told me I looked good!”

  Bronwyn nodded, murmured that was true, she did.

  “It’s not really about the clothes, Ali,” Bronwyn said, more quietly now. She bit her bottom lip, something she did only when deciding whether to speak freely or not. “And Nate’s worried about you too.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, he’s ‘worried’ about me?”

  “Okay, look. Full disclosure. Yes, I desperately wanted to see you—I’ve missed you, and Darren’s gluten-free and so he never comes to H&H with me—but Nate called me. Said he wanted to give you a day in the city, that things had been a bit stressful recently.” She put air quotes around the word “stressful,” which Alice knew referred to the undisclosed IUD and subsequent emergency room visit.

  “He asked me to lure you here with ba
gels and manis and my unfailing charm.” Bronwyn smiled wide, but it faded at the look on Alice’s face.

  “You two are unbelievable,” Alice muttered, pushing her chair back quickly. It screeched as she did, and the people at the neighboring tables looked over in surprise.

  “What? Wait, Ali. It’s not—” But Alice was already at the door. Bronwyn cursed under her breath, following her onto the sidewalk. She watched helplessly as Alice riffled through her handbag looking for something, ignoring Bronwyn’s pleas to tell her why she was so pissed off.

  “You know what, Bronwyn?” Alice said, head still down as she dug around in her purse, finally pulling out her phone. “Instead of worrying so much about me, you two should be worrying about yourselves.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Alice let out a harsh laugh, finally looking at Bronwyn. “You married a guy you barely know—in Vegas, no less—because he promised to build you a walk-in closet and you were tired of being single. Marriage is fucking hard, Bronwyn. I give you guys a year, tops.” It was a cruel, awful thing to say, but Alice couldn’t help herself. She hated the idea of Nate and Bronwyn discussing her, sharing their worries with each other rather than Alice. Like she was a child in need of coddling.

  Bronwyn took a step back, her expression one of shock and hurt. “You don’t know anything about him.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Because you didn’t even tell me you got married—your best friend—until days later. When was I supposed to get to know him?” Alice trembled, and Bronwyn watched her, looking like she might cry. “And Nate should worry more about his study partner and the fact she’s clearly trying to break up our marriage, and that he’s going along with it.”

  Bronwyn frowned. “Come on, Ali. Nate wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  Alice snorted. “Because you know him so well? I guess maybe you do, as the two of you have been colluding behind my back.” Bronwyn started to protest, and Alice interrupted. “He’s been lying to me about her. So don’t tell me he would never do anything like that. People can surprise you, and not in a good way.”

  “Nate is one of the good ones. You two are like a flipping storybook romance, okay? He would not cheat on you. Never, ever, never.” Bronwyn grabbed for Alice’s hands, tried pulling her closer. “She’s just his study partner. That’s it, Ali. Don’t turn this into something it isn’t.”

  “Have you two talked about this? About Drew?” Alice tugged her hands free, took a couple of steps back.

  “No! Alice. Stop it. This is ridiculous.” But despite her words, Bronwyn looked . . . nervous. What did she know that Alice didn’t?

  She wanted to go home, to get away from Bronwyn and this conversation that was degrading by the second. Then she remembered Nate was in the house studying—or so he claimed. Alice wondered if when she walked through the front door, early and without warning, she would find him alone. Or if this plan he’d concocted with Bronwyn to get Alice out of the house was about more than simply giving her a stress break. Either way, she needed to know.

  “Um, I’m not feeling great. Don’t think that bagel agreed with me,” Alice said. “Sorry about the spa and everything, but we’ll do it another day.” She turned and walked away quickly, Bronwyn calling after her to wait up. But she didn’t stop.

  39

  Food prepared with a light heart and in a happy frame of mind is often the best food. Preparing the special foods that are favourites of those you love . . . making just a little effort to garnish the salad with a sprig of parsley, a bit of grated cheese, or a wild strawberry from the nearby meadow. This says “you cared enough to do the little extra things.” This makes cooking pleasant and satisfying. Make the food look as pretty as it is good to eat.

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

  Alice

  SEPTEMBER 23, 2018

  What happened?” Nate asked, putting his computer to the side and standing quickly from the living room sofa, where he had been studying. It had been only a few hours since she had left, and Alice could tell Bronwyn had already called him—he didn’t seem surprised to see her. She saw no signs of Drew, though she would have had time to clear out after he got Bronwyn’s call.

  “Think I’m coming down with something.” Alice hung her coat and took off her shoes, then picked up the stack of Nellie’s letters from her desk, along with her laptop, which she tucked under her arm.

  “Oh. Can I get you anything?” Nate asked. “Tea maybe?”

  But Alice was already at the staircase. “Think I’ll just lie down for a while.” If Nate said anything else, Alice didn’t hear it as she climbed the stairs quickly.

  She had fumed all the way back on the train, incensed about Nate and Bronwyn conspiring and trying to make it seem like she was the one to worry about. Her thoughts ping-ponged between Bronwyn’s comments and Nate’s lie about Drew and the phone call he took from her the other night. It was hard to know who to trust.

  With Sally away, Alice realized she had no ally, no kind ear to hear her frustrations and anxieties. She would never call her mother to vent, and her other city friends had quickly turned into mere acquaintances once she moved to Greenville.

  Desperate for a distraction—she really didn’t want to think about Nate, or Bronwyn, or Drew—Alice reached into the stack of Ladies’ Home Journal magazines beside the bed. She leaned against her pillows and thumbed through one she hadn’t yet read. After a dozen pages of advertisements and articles aimed to help the modern housewife be her best self, she came across an envelope. Yellowing, not unlike the pages of the magazine, nestled deep into the crease. Nothing written on its outside.

  She sat up and set the magazine beside her, sliding a finger along the envelope’s seal. Inside was another “Dearest Mother” letter, from Nellie to Elsie. This one quite short compared to the others, only half a page. Alice’s eyes widened as she scanned the words, written in Nellie’s flowing hand, and once she got to the end, she read them again. Her breath quickened along with her pulse.

  From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch

  September 15, 1956

  Dearest Mother,

  Richard is dead.

  I am fine, so please don’t worry. There is plenty of money and I have a dear friend, Miriam, to look out for me. I believe I am better alone, Mother, as we both know Richard was not the good man I had hoped for. The one you wished for me. But that matters little now.

  I should also thank you for the tansy tea recipe. I was careful, like you taught me to be, and though it made me quite ill both in stomach and at heart, it worked as promised. I am free, which is a great blessing. These truths will follow me to my grave, when I’ll see you again.

  Your loving daughter, Nellie xx

  Alice flipped the paper over, but the back side was blank, offering no further clues. She read it again. These truths will follow me to my grave . . .

  For whatever reason, Nellie hadn’t included this letter in the stack she’d left with Miriam. She had obviously placed it inside this magazine to keep it hidden. Though if she had really wanted it to never be read, Alice thought she would have destroyed it. No, Nellie must have wanted this letter to be found by the right person. Someone like Alice Hale; this letter had been waiting for her all this time.

  Alice opened her laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating her face, and typed “tansy tea” into the Google search box. Scanning the results, she read “medicinal” and “digestive tract benefits” and the words “toxic” and “abortifacient herb.” Alice typed “abortifacient” into the search box and stopped breathing at what popped up, though she’d had an inkling. Now Alice understood why Nellie had been expecting but never delivered a baby.

  An abortifacient is a substance that induces abortion. . . .

  Springing to her feet, Alice shut her laptop and grabbed the laundry hamper, setting
the most recent letter underneath a pile of towels to be washed. She headed to the basement, taking only a moment as she passed by Nate to tell him that she was going to do a load of laundry. He asked if she was feeling better and she said, “A little,” before shutting the basement door.

  Undeterred by the shadowy corners and certain arachnids, Alice walked quickly down the stairs and to the laundry machines. She started the load, then crouched in front of the box of magazines and pulled out as many as her hands could hold. It took three dips in to get them all, and she sat on the bottom stair and, one by one, the energy-efficient bulb finally having reached its full potential, flipped through the magazines. Unsure about what she was hunting for, she initially found nothing in the first few magazines and wondered if her instincts had been wrong. Perhaps Nellie had left nothing further for her to find.

  But on the eighth magazine—a September 1956 issue with a photo of a chubby-toothed blond toddler, dressed in a blue-and-white seersucker dress on the cover—something fell out of the pages when Alice shook it. It was another envelope, though thicker than the others, its center sturdier. Tucked into the paper’s folds was a small card with the words “From the kitchen of Elsie Swann” printed across its top. Her heart racing, Alice quickly read the recipe card.

  It listed ingredients and instructions for an herb recipe—Swann Family Herb Mix—the same mix Alice had seen mentioned so many times throughout the pages of Nellie’s cookbook. Lemon balm, parsley, basil, thyme, marjoram, sage, every herb measured in equal parts (a tablespoon of each). She recognized Elsie’s handwriting, until she came to the final ingredient, which was penned in Nellie’s hand and which made Alice lose her breath.

  With shaking fingers, she opened the folded paper and read the letter, Nellie’s greatest secret, and the one she had intended to take to her grave, finally revealed.