Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  40

  Nellie

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1956

  Helen can finish up here, Nellie. You should rest, put your feet up.” Miriam steered Nellie toward the green sofa in the living room, but Nellie resisted. She would never again sit on that sofa, even with Richard now gone. Miriam’s weathered hands fluttered over Nellie’s arms as she tried to gently tug her again. “Honey, it’s been a long day. Let me take care of you.”

  “Thank you, Miriam. But I’m all right. I don’t need to lie down.” The dining room was cluttered with plates of food—sweet squares and tuna casseroles and triangles of egg salad sandwiches dotted with pimentos. Nellie would send it all home with Helen, who had a family to feed and would certainly appreciate the leftovers. Except for the lavender lemon muffins Martha had baked, using Nellie’s own recipe, the thoughtfulness of the gesture bringing tears to her eyes. Those she would keep.

  While Richard’s mourners mingled in the Murdochs’ living room, nibbling squares and offering platitudes and whispering about the poor young milkman who had discovered Richard’s body during his morning delivery, slumped on the sofa, his face planted in his plate of shepherd’s pie.

  “Heart attack, Doc said. He was likely gone before he knew what was happening,” Charles Goldman murmured to a small circle of Richard and Nellie’s neighbors and friends, running a hand through his dark hair, streaked lightly with silver. How awful! Poor Nellie! Their sympathy mattered little to Nellie. She could only imagine what they would say if they knew the truth about Richard’s untimely death. About the shepherd’s pie Nellie had left for her husband, which he doused liberally with his wife’s homemade herb mix.

  Nellie sat in the wing-back chair that had been Richard’s favorite and listened to the gossiping women, watched their frown-faced husbands shake ice cubes in highball glasses of liquor.

  Her situation was especially tragic. With a baby on the way who would grow up fatherless, and therefore, these wives assumed, at a great disadvantage. They perked up when one suggested Nellie could find someone else to marry, still young and beautiful as she was. Perhaps the widower Norman Woodrow could step in?

  Everyone believed Nellie was still pregnant, even Miriam. She would wait one week longer before blaming the miscarriage on Richard’s sudden death and her body’s inability to deal with the grief. The casseroles would then continue for another few weeks, the hushed and pitying whispers of her women friends when they believed her out of earshot: Who is she now, if not a mother? If no longer Richard Murdoch’s wife?

  “Who am I?” She whispered it back, though not loud enough for any of them to hear her. “I am a survivor.”

  * * *

  • • •

  With shaking hands Nellie took one of her Lucky Strikes and lit it, waving away the first puff of smoke. Miriam sat across from her on another chair, worried eyes scanning Nellie’s face. “Nellie, honey. What do you need?”

  “You’re sweet to worry, but I’m fine, Miriam.” Nellie took a long drag of her cigarette.

  “I know you are, honey. I know.” Miriam pressed her lips together, her hands clasped on her knees.

  “Sit with me until Helen goes,” Nellie said. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes and a gauntness that was distressing. She confessed to Miriam she’d been unwell when she went to see her mother; the baby was probably making her ill, as they had a tendency to do in these early months. Nellie assured her she was feeling much better; however, she hadn’t ingested a thing except for iced tea and cigarettes.

  “Of course I will,” Miriam replied, patting Nellie’s knee through her black skirt. “I’ll get Helen to make us some soup for supper. We’ll eat together.”

  Nellie nodded, finished her cigarette, and immediately lit one more. “I’d like to write my mother a letter. Would you mind getting me my correspondence paper, over there in the top drawer of the desk? And my cookbook from the kitchen? I have a recipe I’d like to share with her.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Miriam said after she handed Nellie everything she had asked for. “But give a holler if you need anything. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Soon a low hum of voices, along with the sounds of running water and dishes being stacked, seeped out from the kitchen. Miriam wouldn’t leave her alone for too long, so she hastily started the letter, the last one she would ever write to Elsie.

  From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch

  September 18, 1956

  Dearest Mother,

  I know you told me to never write it down, that our secret was to only be passed from lips to ears, but I will not be having a daughter to whisper it to. Therefore, I have noted the final ingredient on the recipe card.

  I have no regrets, Mother. It was the only way to ensure he would never hurt me again, and in some ways, it was too easy. I may be a widow now, but I am fine. There are worse things than being alone, I have learned.

  Thank you for your lessons, and for the beautiful foxglove plant you insisted I take with me for my own garden one day. I had hoped the plant would be useful only as a deer deterrent in my garden—another pretty flower to bolster my spirits! I did believe Richard would be a good and decent husband, but it appears I was fooled. Alas, men seem a most predictable beast. Some must be worthy, but I am not certain how to be sure of it.

  I will visit soon. My dahlias continue to bloom, which has been a lovely end-of-summer surprise.

  Your loving daughter, Nellie xx

  Nellie finished writing, then pulled the recipe card—the one Elsie had given her years earlier, shortly before she died—from the front of the cookbook, and after making a notation at the bottom, placed the card into the folds of the letter. She sealed it, then pressed the envelope deep into the crease of the most recent Ladies’ Home Journal magazine. Later she would box all the magazines up, including the September 1956 issue, which hid this final letter, along with her cookbook. She wouldn’t need it again, not now that there was no one to make dinners for. Besides, Nellie knew most of her favorite recipes by heart.

  When Miriam came back into the living room, with a fresh coffee and a bowl of soup, she asked Nellie if she wanted her to take the letter and put it with the rest. She didn’t comment on the stack of letters she still held for Nellie in her own dresser of drawers, or question why Nellie never seemed to post them.

  “I decided I’ll write it later, but thank you,” Nellie said, closing the cookbook and settling it onto her lap. With a nod Miriam started in on her soup, and Nellie drank her coffee in the quiet living room, both thoughtful in the silence.

  41

  Don’t quarrel with your husband. Remember it takes two to make a quarrel; don’t you be one of them. Lovers’ quarrels may be all very well, but matrimonial doses are apt to leave a bitter flavour behind.

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

  Alice

  SEPTEMBER 24, 2018

  Alice awoke in the guest bedroom Monday morning, late enough that the house was quiet and sun-filled. She hadn’t slept in bed with Nate because she was still angry, unsure how to proceed normally when she believed he might be having an affair with his study partner (how had everything become so screwed up?). But rather than get into the real reason for her distance from her husband, she blamed it on not being well, worried he would get sick just before his big exam. Nate seemed hesitant to accept the excuse but, like Alice, appeared too weary to unpack whatever the real issue might be. After having a bowl of cereal and telling Nate there was a box of macaroni and cheese in the pantry if he got hungry, Alice went up to bed—the newest letter and recipe card hidden inside the magazine under her arm.

  Alice wasn’t sure how Nate’s night went because he was gone by the time she woke up, but she had a restless, fitful sleep. Her mind reeled from the previous afternoon’s discovery, which kept her awake but thankfully gave her something to focus on aside from her crumbling rel
ationships. Along with the drone of exhaustion was the pleasurable buzz that Alice had been right: there was more to Nellie Murdoch than those earlier letters showed. And it had given her what she needed for her book—she knew precisely the story she wanted to tell now.

  She showered and dressed quickly, making a pot of coffee and a piece of toast with butter and jam before sitting in front of her laptop. Alice vibrated with energy, her mind overrun with ideas, her fingers at the ready on her keyboard. Finally, finally, she was inspired and ready to knock off some pages. But as she typed her first words, her phone rang.

  “Hello?” Alice put the call on speaker so she could continue typing, her eyes not leaving her laptop’s screen.

  “Alice?”

  “Yes, who is this?” She was impatient to get back to it. But the voice was familiar, and she glanced at her phone’s screen.

  “It’s Beverly Dixon, your Realtor.”

  “Oh, hi, Beverly. What can I do for you?” Alice rolled her eyes at the interruption—Beverly was probably looking for a testimonial or referrals.

  “Well, I haven’t been able to get ahold of Nate this morning and I need to confirm the copy for the listing. So I thought I’d give you a quick ring to see if you could help.”

  Alice’s fingers stopped. She frowned, then took her phone off speaker and put it to her ear. “What listing?”

  “For the house,” Beverly said. “It needs to go in by Thursday and I couldn’t remember which appliance Nate said you replaced. Was it the oven or the refrigerator?”

  “Neither, actually.” Alice stood, feeling out of breath.

  “Huh. Must have mixed yours up with another listing. Well, that’s fine. I’ll just strike that note . . . there. Done.”

  Alice was light-headed—her breaths too rapid—and she crouched, worried she was going to pass out.

  “Okay, that’s great, Alice. I’m so glad I caught you! Tell Nate not to worry about getting back to me. I’m going to be out at showings for the afternoon and evening, but if he has any other questions, he can leave me a message and I’ll respond lickety-split.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Alice was now lying down, one hand to her forehead, trying to process what was happening.

  “I’ll let you go, but we’ll chat soon about timing for the open houses. I’m sure you have a million things to do before you leave for California. How exciting for Nate, with his new job! For both of you! I’ve always wanted to learn to surf, though now they say with global warming and ocean temperatures rising the sharks are all coming closer to shore, and—”

  “I have to go.” Alice ended the call without saying goodbye. Still on the floor, Alice watched as the ceiling spun overhead, the crack moving in circles like a lazy fan. Closing her eyes, she put a hand to her stomach and took several deep breaths, then sat up quickly and waited for the light-headedness to pass.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Yes, it’s an emergency. Can you please pull him out of the meeting?” Alice nibbled at a ragged cuticle. Tucking her phone between her ear and shoulder, she tapped a cigarette out of the package and set it into the holder, lighting it just as Nate came on the line.

  “Ali, what’s wrong?” He sounded panicked, worried.

  She started to cry, though there were no actual tears.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “The kitchen . . . Nate, oh my God. It was terrifying.” She blubbered some more, then paused to take a drag of the cigarette.

  “Calm down. Take a breath. What about the kitchen?”

  “The oven caught fire! I told you we needed to replace it, like, weeks ago!” Hysterical now.

  “Holy shit . . . oh my God. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay. I burned one of my hands, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

  Nate exhaled shakily. “Do you need to go to the hospital? Is Sally home?”

  “Sally’s in Hartford, visiting a friend.” Alice examined her hand, which was just fine. “But I think it’s okay. I have ice on it.”

  “Good, okay. What about the kitchen? How much damage?”

  “Pretty bad.” Alice whispered now, pausing again to take another drag. “Can you come home? I know you were in a meeting, and I’m sorry to—”

  “I’m on my way. Just need to gather my stuff. Uh . . . I think I can catch the next train, but if not I’ll grab an Uber.”

  “You don’t have to rush. Just wait for the train. I’m okay,” Alice said, sniffling. “I got the fire out with the extinguisher. But the whole wall behind the oven is black.”

  “Oh my God . . .” Nate was hoarse, perhaps just at that moment thinking about how the house—her house—was supposed to list on Thursday. The tiniest part of Alice felt guilty for feigning the scenario, but then she remembered her conversation with Beverly and the fact that Nate had taken a job—in California!—that he had not mentioned. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Everything else can be fixed.”

  “Yes, it can,” Alice said, taking a final pull on the cigarette.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Nate came racing through the house an hour and a half later, Alice was in the garden, patting earth around three newly planted flowers. “Alice! Where are you?” he shouted.

  “Out here!” she replied loudly, having left the back door open so he would hear her from the yard. She finished the planting, then stood, wiping deep brown earth from her knees. A moment later Nate came flying out the door and down the back steps.

  “The kitchen looks fine,” he said, sounding both perplexed and relieved. She noted he’d gone into the kitchen first, before coming to check on her. His messenger bag was still across his chest, and it bounced against his hip as he ran the few steps across the lawn to reach her. “Let me see your hand.”

  She took off her gardening gloves and let him take one hand, flipping it over to see her palm. Then he grabbed the other hand, did the same. “Where’s the burn?” he asked, continuing to flip her hands over, searching for the injury. He looked up at her, his forehead creasing with confusion.

  Alice took her hands back and slid them into the gloves. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

  Nate stood there for a moment, mouth open. “What the hell is going on, Alice?” He rarely used her full name, and it sounded formal and odd.

  “I was doing some late-summer planting,” she said, gesturing to the new flowers, which stood tall like soldiers guarding the hostas. “The deer have been treating our garden like a buffet.” Nate took in the plants, the tube-shaped flowers hanging from the green stalks, trying to place why they looked familiar . . .

  “It’s foxglove.” Alice picked up the spade and rake, then stood back and admired her handiwork. “I went to the garden center this morning and picked them out. I would have preferred something brighter, but the guy said this Camelot Cream—that’s its name—could flower until November, which is amazing.”

  “But . . . you said foxglove is toxic. We pulled it all out.” Nate was bewildered. “Why would you plant more?”

  “I told you,” Alice said, voice calm. “The deer are eating all our hostas.”

  Nate grunted with anger and struggled to get his messenger bag from around his neck, before throwing it to the ground forcefully. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

  “Beverly called.”

  At that Nate became still, his face going from angry red to ashen pale, though the small apples of his cheeks remained rosy. “What?”

  “Beverly Dixon? Our Realtor?” Alice put the rake and spade into the shed, closing the door and sliding the bolt into the lock to keep it shut. “She was working on the listing and wasn’t sure if we had replaced the fridge or the stove, but not to worry. I straightened things out for her.”

  Nate hung his head, hands on his hips, and took a deep breath. “Let me explain.�
�

  “I figured, the deer are ruining the garden and I’m not pregnant and we’re apparently moving to California soon, so even if there was a baby it won’t be eating any of these flowers or leaves, so might as well plant the foxglove again. We can leave a note for whoever buys the house that it’s poisonous but a great deer repellent.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Nate muttered, his tone thick with guilt. “This is not how you were supposed to find out.”

  A sharp laugh exploded from Alice. “You think?” she said. “Fuck you, Nate. I’m not going anywhere.” And with that she took off her gloves and threw them at him, then strode into the house.

  42

  Nagging is a devastating emotional disease. If you are in doubt about having it, ask your husband. If he should tell you that you are a nag, don’t react by violent denial—that only proves he is right.

  —Mrs. Dale Carnegie, How to Help Your Husband Get Ahead in His Social and Business Life (1953)

  Alice

  SEPTEMBER 27, 2018

  Nate and Alice didn’t speak for three full days, even though he tried more than once. They slept in separate rooms, shared no meals together, stayed out of each other’s way. It was awkward and unnerving, but from Alice’s perspective, quite necessary.

  Then on Thursday morning Alice was at her laptop writing when an email popped up. It was from Beverly, and it was the listing for their house. Wanted to send this along, Beverly wrote. Already getting some interest, so we’ll chat soon about an agents’ open house.

  Alice stared at the email, at the listing, for a long while. There were pictures of the house that had obviously been taken recently—the walls paper-free, the freshly painted front door and improved walkway, the beige office (previously the nursery)—and Alice wondered how Nate had managed that without her knowing. Her fury grew, until she was consumed. She called Nate, and to his credit, he answered right away.