by Karma Brown
“Aren’t you going to clean up first?” he asked.
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Alice looked around the kitchen, at the dough‑ crusted bowl
and butter‑ oiled grater, the trails of flour. Chocolate chip bag
open and spilled next to the spice jars, mixer paddles unwashed
and discarded in the sink. Eggshells littering the countertop.
The kitchen was a mess, but what difference did it make if she
cleaned it up tonight or in the morning? “I wasn’t going to.”
Nate’s jaw tensed, and he nodded before taking out the
coffee grinder and beans from the cupboard. But then he made
a big show of trying to find space for them on the countertop
between the eggshells and flour, and Alice let out a frustrated
groan.
She shoved the grinder and beans at him so he was forced to
take a step back with them nestled in his arms. Nate stared at
her, brow furrowed, as she furiously stacked the dishes in the
sink and wet the dishcloth.
He’s overworked, Alice reminded herself. Tired and impatient, and you can easily end this before it goes completely sideways. But she didn’t say anything, pumping liquid soap into the mixing
bowl and running the hot water. Tears pricked at her eyes and she
pressed her lips together.
“Ali.” Nate put the beans and grinder on the table, rested a
hand on her elbow, and tugged gently. “Sorry. I’m just stressed
about . . . It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow is fine.”
Tomorrow is fine? Yes, Alice had made the mess, but in Murray Hill Nate would have been just as likely to clean up as Alice (if
not more so)— back when neither one of them was keeping tabs,
both equal players.
“No, I’m sorry,” Alice said, voice quaking as she spun out of Nate’s touch to put away the chocolate chips, spices, and sugar.
“I’ll do better next time.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Nate murmured, pressing his hands to his
eyes. Alice felt badly— he was working all day and then spending his evenings studying. It wasn’t too much to ask for a clean
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kitchen so he could make a late‑ night coffee without eggshells
and flour and dirty bowls in the way. “What are we even fighting
about?”
“I don’t know,” Alice whispered, losing her battle with the
tears. But she refused to turn around so Nate could see. Unlike
Alice, he had been raised by a stay‑ at‑ home mom who continued
doing her sons’ laundry long after they left home and had
dinner on the table every night by seven. And while he spoke
fondly of his childhood and revered his mother for all she had
done, Alice— perhaps foolishly— never considered that Nate might expect the same of her.
Nate sat at the table, wrapping the cord around the coffee
grinder and closing the bag of beans. “ Ali . . . will you look at
me, please?”
She didn’t turn her head, and he let out a ragged breath.
“It’s fine. I just want to get this done and go to sleep,” she said.
He stayed put for another couple of minutes, watching as
she washed and dried the mixing bowl, continuing to ignore his
presence, then grumbled, “This is bullshit,” and got up and left
the room. Shortly after, Alice, hating herself for letting things
escalate but too tired to fix it, went upstairs, and though she
hadn’t fallen asleep when Nate joined her two hours later, she
kept her eyes tightly closed. In the morning he whispered, “I’m
sorry,” into the softness of her neck, and she apologized too,
though she didn’t feel much better.
“I just miss you,” she said.
He held her, promised to be home for dinner— he could
study afterward— and she promised a great meal “and a clean
kitchen,” which made him laugh softly. They were okay, Alice
told herself. Then Nate got up to shower and she lay alone in
bed, chilly without his body heat, thinking about how a baby
would fit in their current life. Nate was never home and Alice
was always alone. Like a round peg in a square hole.
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. . .
“There’s something I can’t place. Not cinnamon, I don’t think,”
Sally said, taking another nibble of the cookie. “It actually re‑
minds me of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. I haven’t had
one in too many years to count.”
Alice smiled. “You’re tasting the cloves. It’s a recipe from
that old cookbook, the one I found in our basement? It has
Elsie Swann’s name in it, whoever she was.” Alice took a sip
from her mug. Sally made a great cup of coffee. “I’ve cooked a
couple of recipes out of it. It’s been sort of fun. I am not a chef and definitely not a baker, but I sort of see the appeal.”
“Nothing beats homemade, Mom always said.” Sally popped
the last bite of cookie in her mouth and murmured how deli‑
cious it was, adding, “I wonder if Elsie Swann might have been
Nellie’s mother. The name does sound familiar, and cookbooks
used to be passed down from one generation to another, often
as wedding gifts to help the new wives. I’m sure there were
many who married completely unprepared.” She brushed a few
crumbs from her fingers, then peeked into Alice’s near‑ empty
mug. “Can I give you a warm‑ up?”
“Please.” While Sally went to fill up Alice’s coffee, she
stretched her legs and looked around the living room. There
was a photo of a young Sally, her wild curls longer and dirty
blond rather than white, standing arm in arm with an older
woman who could have been her twin, save twenty‑ five years or
so. Alice glanced at the other photos adorning the hutch and
fireplace mantel— all of Sally at various stages of her life and
medical career. In one she appeared with a swarm of smiling
children standing on a patch of dusty red earth, a note in the
corner reading Ethiopia, 1985. In another a young Sally held a framed medical school diploma in her hands and wore a deep
blue cap and gown, and in the final one on the mantel she was
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dressed in what appeared to be a flight suit and bottle‑ round
goggles.
“I went skydiving on a whim,” Sally said, coming to stand
beside Alice. “It was in New Zealand, in the seventies, and let’s
just say it was an era of spontaneity.”
Alice smiled, then glanced back at the photos. No signs of a
family, and she couldn’t help her curiosity. “Did you ever have
children?”
Sally shook her head, but there was no sense of melancholy
at Alice’s question. “Never even married,” she said. �
��Not that
you need to be married to have children, but no. My work was
my child.” She pointed to the picture from Ethiopia. “I spent
some time in Africa with Doctors Without Borders in the eighties,
and there were so many children who needed care and love, so
I put any maternal energy I had into them.”
They sat in the upholstered chairs across from the fireplace. “I
might have married if the right man had come along, but I was
committed to medicine, and no one was as fascinating or satis‑
fying as that,” Sally said. “How long have you been married?”
“It will be two years October fifteenth.” Alice thought back
to the unseasonably warm fall day when she became Mrs. Alice
Hale. Remembering as she stood, sweating lightly, in her
strapless sheath gown, hair in soft waves held back by glossy
pearl pins, feeling beautiful under Nate’s adoring gaze. Things
had made a lot more sense back then.
“Do you and Nate hope to have children?”
“Yes. Soon, I think,” Alice said, shrugging. “But the house
is taking a lot of energy. And I’m trying to write a novel. Life
feels high‑ maintenance right now, which is crazy because in
some ways I have nothing but time.”
Sally watched Alice, ever perceptive. “Ah, you’re young,” she
soothed. “Plenty of time for a family. So, tell me about your
writing. Is this your first novel?”
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“It is. I have to say, I’m not making much progress yet.” A
sliver of guilt snaked through Alice. I’ve not written one word, actually. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried; rather, it was proving more difficult than she’d expected. Turns out writing a book
took more than simply wanting to do it.
“A touch of writer’s block?”
“Something like that,” Alice replied. “I’m waiting for a flash
of inspiration. Or maybe a muse to show up on my doorstep.”
“Such an interesting vocation, writing. Being able to create
a whole world with nothing more than your imagination.” The
skin around her eyes crinkled deeply as she smiled. “If I had a
single creative bone in my body, I might have considered it after
I retired. Everyone needs a hobby for their twilight years.”
“You could still do it. I bet you have a ton of stories from all
your years in medicine. Traveling the world. Skydiving on a whim.”
“Ah yes, skydiving. I’m terrified of heights, actually, but I
had some help that day. A different sort of brownie— with a special ingredient, if I remember correctly.” Sally chuckled.
At Alice’s age Sally had been traveling the world, saving
lives, eating pot brownies before jumping out of a plane— things
women typically didn’t do in those days. Shouldn’t Alice be
more like the young Sally rather than arguing with her husband
about cleaning up the kitchen? “Speaking of writing, I should
get back to it. But this has been really nice. Thanks, Sally.”
“Thank you for those delicious cookies. Mine always burn
on the bottom.” Sally opened her front door, and Alice gave her
a hug, which the older woman returned warmly. “Good luck
with your book, Alice. I hope you find your creative muse. Or
perhaps she’ll find you.”
A few hours later a knock at the door made Alice jump from the
couch, where she’d fallen asleep. Elsie Swann’s cookbook was on
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the coffee table, fanned open to a recipe for Pineapple Chicken
Alice was considering for dinner. The pile of Ladies’ Home Journal magazines previously in her lap tumbled to the floor as she stood.
She was confused, adrenaline from her sudden wake‑ up making
her heart pump furiously. Shaking off the dizziness, she stepped
over the magazines and went to answer the door.
Sally stood on the front stoop, two stacks of envelopes held
together with elastic bands in her hands.
“Hi,” Alice said, smoothing down her hair; she hoped she
didn’t look too awful. “Come in. Just doing a bit of research.
Uh, for my book.”
“Thank you, but I’m on my way to a tennis lesson.” Sally was
dressed in tennis whites, a racket in a carrying bag over her
shoulder and a sun visor nestled into her white hair. “But after we chatted about that cookbook you found, I went through some of
my mom’s things because the name Elsie Swann sounded so fa‑
miliar. I thought perhaps she had lived in the house before the
Murdochs moved in and that Mother might have had an old
picture. It was a very social neighborhood in those days.”
Alice took the stacks from Sally. The envelopes were yel‑
lowed with age and flimsy. “I found these on my hunt in the
basement. They’re all addressed to Elsie Swann but unopened.
The return address is your house, to an E.M., who I’m guessing might have been Eleanor Murdoch?” Alice tilted her head to
read the address on the top letter, the cursive writing slanted
sharply to the right.
“I’m not sure how Mother ended up with these but thought
they might be of interest to you. Might answer some questions
about the history of your house.”
The letters all appeared sealed, curiously missing postmarks
showing they had been through the mail system. “Thank you,
this is great.”
“You’re most welcome,” Sally said.
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Alice ran a finger over the address on the top envelope, an
unexpected thrill coursing through her. “Are you sure? They
were your mom’s . . .” Her voice trailed because she really didn’t
want to give them back, suddenly desperate to know what was
inside the dozen or so envelopes.
“I certainly have no use for them, dear. They’re yours now.”
Alice smiled. “Maybe there’s a story in here. For my book.
Old letters that were mysteriously never mailed?”
“Well, perhaps a muse did show up on your doorstep today,”
Sally said. A taxi pulled up to the end of the driveway. “Oh,
there’s my ride. I’m off. Happy writing, Miss Alice.”
A few minutes later Alice sat back on the sofa and unwrapped
the brittle elastic, which had no stretch left in it, taking the top letter off the first stack. She hesitated briefly, feeling a hint of guilt at reading someone else’s private thoughts— even if that
person would never know— but intrigue won out, and she slid
her finger under the flap. It released easily, the glue long desic‑
cated. Alice unfolded the two pages of delicate cream paper and
began to read.
From the desk of Eleanor Murdoch
October 14, 1955
Dearest Mother,
I hope you are well and enjoying this lovely patch of
weather we
’ve been having. The birds are singing like
it’s the middle of July, and it has been so warm my
dahlias continue blooming! I’ll be sure to bring you
some next time I visit. Things are fine here. I’ve been
spending much of my time in the garden, preparing it
for its winter rest. With so much early rain, the slugs
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were horrendous this year, and my poor hostas are full
of holes as a result. I tried vinegar spray and sugar
trails, but neither were particularly successful, and I
may have to accept these pests as one of a gardener’s
many challenges.
This evening I hosted a dinner party, which went
splendidly. I had Chicken à la King and Baked
Alaska on the menu, and my guests were quite
impressed that ice cream could go in the oven. I’ll
surely be writing down the recipe for a few of them.
Richard is keeping busy with the plant, though he
has been under quite a strain. One of his sales
managers passed recently, which was a terrible shock
for everyone. I’ve done what I can to help soothe the
pressures, but I fear it isn’t always enough. His
stomach ulcer has also been acting up, though the
albumen drink seems to provide some relief. I do wish
he’d see a doctor about it, but you know how stubborn
men can be. Speaking of, I should finish up and head
to bed. It’s late and Richard is waiting up for me, so I
don’t want to keep him too long. I have learned that
patience is not one of his virtues!
There have been some disappointments of late, but I
expect to have excellent news to share soon! However,
I will stay mum for now so it can be a wonderful
surprise. I will visit soon, Mother. Please don’t worry
after me, for I am well and taking good care.
Your loving daughter, Nellie xx
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18
q
Nellie
July 2, 1956
T he garden was bursting because Nellie hadn’t been culling the flowers, or pulling the weeds, as frequently as she needed to.
There had been nearly a week of heavy rain, which had made it
difficult to spend time outdoors and turned the garden beds into