drive, but he wouldn’t hear of it. A few minutes later they pulled
up outside the Goldmans’ home and Richard leaned his head
back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply in through his nose
and out through his mouth. Fine droplets of sweat clustered
near his hairline, outlining the dark widow’s peak.
“Are you ready to go in?” Nellie asked.
He didn’t answer, simply got out and came around to
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Nellie’s side to open her door. He offered his arm and she took
it, though if anyone needed help, it was Richard. He swayed as
they started up the Goldmans’ walkway, and Nellie tightened
the muscles in her legs to counteract his wobbling.
“We can leave whenever you like,” Nellie said. “I don’t
mind.” In fact, she’d welcome it. Putting on the charade of
things being well and good between them was unpleasant and
arduous.
“Enough, Nellie!” Richard’s tone was snappish. “And don’t
you breathe a word of this to anyone tonight. Do you under‑
stand?”
Richard rang the bell, and Kitty opened the door, dressed
to the nines and wearing a bright coral lipstick that didn’t suit
her coloring. “Nellie, Richard, welcome!”
They were ushered inside, and Kitty commented on what a
lovely idea the rose caramels were. (“Oh! You made them
yourself? How fancy, though I don’t have much of a sweet
tooth,” Kitty added.) She also initially fawned over the bundled
yellow roses, though she soon dropped them onto the kitchen
table without so much as a second glance. The yellow rose was
a flower of friendship, and while Nellie doubted much could
help Kitty become a more thoughtful friend, she was not one to
doubt a bloom’s prophecy. Though, if she were being frank, a
more suitable flower for tonight’s hostess might have been the
narcissus, but they were harbingers of spring and so were long
gone from the garden by now.
After settling into the living room, Kitty fetched cocktails,
and Nellie’s eyebrows rose when Richard accepted an old‑
fashioned, a grimace painting his sweaty, green‑ tinged face with
his first sip. Stubborn bastard. She only hoped he was ill all over Kitty’s living room rug, which looked new and probably cost
quite a lot— two details Kitty would share shortly, once all her
guests had arrived and she had an audience.
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The mood was gay, the cocktails flowing, and Richard did
perk up, though the gray pallor remained. No one but Nellie
realized he wasn’t well, and as promised, she made no mention
of it. She stuck with the women on one side of the room, dis‑
cussing the next neighborhood‑watch meeting and Kitty’s new
rug and Martha’s baby boy, Bobby, who had been born a few
days earlier.
“She’s still the size of a ship,” Kitty exclaimed. “But the
baby is quite sweet, even though I personally don’t care for the
name Bobby. She’s going to have her hands full with the two of
them, without a live‑ in girl. Better her than me!” Kitty laughed,
and the other women joined in. Except for Nellie, who escaped
with the excuse that she needed to powder her nose.
When she came back to the living room, a shout erupted,
Kitty especially gleeful, like she’d just received the best news.
She squealed as she strode toward Nellie, who was unsure about
what had transpired in the few minutes she’d been gone. Until
she caught Richard’s eye and his triumphant smirk told her ev‑
erything.
“Nellie, you sly fox! Why didn’t you tell us?” Kitty grabbed
her arms, pulled her into a hug. The other women gathered
around and fussed over her, asking how she was feeling, if her
ankles were swelling yet. The men pumped Richard’s hand,
slapped him on the shoulder in congratulations. Nellie fumed but
they wouldn’t make the announcement tonight— Nellie had said
she wanted to let the women know first, at their next meeting
(though she had a different plan in mind) and he’d agreed to wait.
But Nellie shouldn’t have been surprised. Richard would exert his
control wherever he could.
Soon the hubbub died down and they were seated for dinner,
and Nellie found herself beside the widower Norman Woodrow,
a sweet, quiet man whose wife, Kathleen, had died only six
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months earlier. Kathleen had been in their neighborhood‑watch
club and was president of the church knitting circle before she fell ill, the cancer taking her so suddenly she went from vision of
health to deathbed skeleton in mere weeks.
Nellie had always liked Kathleen— she was a good mother
and friend, never gossiping about the other women or their hus‑
bands, and had boundless energy for church fund‑ raisers and
bake sales. She also wore flatties exclusively, most assumed be‑
cause she was quite tall, but she once confessed to Nellie she
found heels excruciating and “life is too short for miserable
shoes!” She had been quite right, especially about the life‑ being‑
too‑ short part.
Nellie hadn’t seen Norman since the funeral but had heard
he was keeping to himself, busy caring for their two young
children with the help of Kathleen’s mother, who had moved in.
She thought Norman looked well; better rested and not as grief‑
thin as the last time she had seen him.
They chatted through the meal, and she found Norman to
have a lovely sense of humor. She laughed at the few jokes he
shared during the lulls in the larger group conversations and he
seemed delighted by the attention. Richard, however, was dis‑
pleased with Nellie’s interest in Norman, which only made her
want to give him more. At one point, she put a hand on Nor‑
man’s arm, gushing about how wonderful it was that he was
doing “so very well these days,” which was the moment Richard
snapped.
It was a quiet jealousy— no one else at the table would see
it— but Nellie felt it rolling off him. She raised her eyes to Rich‑
ard’s but didn’t remove her hand from Norman’s arm.
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Richard hissed. Kitty
was clearing the dinner plates, and drinks were being refreshed,
so Richard’s mumbled comment went mostly unnoticed. Except
by Nellie, for whom it was intended. The other guests were
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focused on the iced chocolate cake
Kitty presented, and even
Norman, seated beside Nellie and certainly within range to hear
what Richard had said, seemed distracted by the dessert’s pomp
and circumstance.
Nellie— her voice at full volume— calmly retorted, “It takes
one to know one, Richard.” She picked up her dessert fork, lav‑
ished Kitty with an appreciative smile as the hostess set a piece
of cake in front of her. “This looks absolutely delicious, Kitty.”
In truth, it looked dry, had obviously been baked too long.
“Why, thank you, Nellie. Coming from you, our master
baker, that’s high praise!” She continued slicing and plating an‑
other piece. “It’s a new recipe from— ”
“Eleanor,” Richard said, interrupting Kitty. Everyone looked
at him in surprise— Richard Murdoch had impeccable manners,
would never be so rude at a party, nor speak to his wife in such
a tone. “You would do well to be quiet. Now is not the time.”
The other guests detected it then, the taut band of tension be‑
tween husband and wife perilously close to snapping, and were
perplexed. What on earth is going on with Richard and Nellie?
“No, it isn’t.” Nellie licked the chocolate crumbs from her
fork. “So perhaps you should be quiet, Richard.”
A small gasp came from one of the women— Kitty? Judith? —
Nellie wasn’t sure, but it sent a surge of power through her. She
smiled at Kitty. “Dinner was excellent, as always.” She pushed
back her chair and the men politely followed suit. Except for
Richard, who was statue still in his seat. “But I’m sorry we have
to be leaving now. I find myself exhausted.” She laid a hand to
her stomach. “You all understand, surely.”
Kitty was about to say something in response, but every ‑
one had turned to Richard as a strange, choking noise erupted
from his throat. His face was no longer pale but poppy red, as
though he had been holding his breath for too long.
“Richard? Are you quite well?” Kitty, seated at the head of
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the table and nearest to Richard, put a hand on his arm, which
trembled violently against the tablecloth. She frowned at her
husband. “Charles, perhaps you should take Richard outside for
some air?”
“Let’s take a walk, Dick.” Charles Goldman set his napkin
on the table and came to stand behind Richard, who opened his
mouth seemingly to respond. But it wasn’t a flurry of words that
spewed forth— rather, it was a loud belch, followed by an ejection of the old‑ fashioned and Pepto‑ Bismol and the small amount of
food he’d managed at dinner. As Richard’s stomach contents
splattered across Kitty’s arm, covering the beautiful tablecloth
and the remainder of the cake, everyone jumped back, gasping
with shock at the frothy pink mess. Kitty looked as though she
might faint, and for a moment no one knew quite what to do.
Before Nellie endured the put‑ on role of caring wife, getting
Richard cleaned up and into the car, she turned to Norman and
said, “It was lovely talking with you tonight. I do hope we see
each other again soon.” He nodded, though he remained startled
by what had happened, much like the rest of the guests at the
table. Nellie resisted the triumphant smile that threatened to
betray her as she took in Richard’s livid, sick‑ covered face.
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32
q
Don’t mope and cry because you are ill, and don’t get any fun;
the man goes out to get all the fun, and your laugh comes in
when he gets home again and tells you about it— some of it. As
for being ill, women should never be ill.
— “Advice to Wives,” The Isle of Man Times (October 12, 1895) Alice
August 14, 2018
P lease, talk to me,” Alice said for what must have been the tenth time since they’d arrived home from the hospital an hour
earlier. Nate didn’t respond. “So, what . . . are you planning to
ignore me indefinitely?”
He threw his phone onto the coffee table, hard enough that
it slid off and to the ground. Alice reached over from her re‑
clined position on the sofa to pick it up.
“Stop,” Nate said, his voice taut with exhaustion and frus‑
tration. “Would you just fucking lie there and rest, please?”
Chastened, Alice retreated to her prior position, a pillow
tucked behind her head, a soft blanket covering the rest of her
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curled‑ up form. The balls of T‑ shirt fabric she’d woven into sec‑
tions of her hair remained, and they pulled on her scalp with
uncomfortable pressure.
Nate had helped her settle in the living room, in part be‑
cause she didn’t think she could manage the stairs and in part
because there was still a mess to be cleaned up in their bedroom.
He was furious, but he also wouldn’t leave her alone in this con‑
dition, hence the cold shoulder.
She watched Nate pace the living room, took in his outfit
and tried not to laugh, for she knew how poorly that would go
over. Plus, she was in no position to be laughing right now. But
he did look ridiculous— still wearing the sweatpants he’d
quickly tugged on after calling 911 along with one of his work
shirts, the fabrics and patterns and buttons as mismatched as
though he’d chosen the clothes in the dark.
As it turned out, her pain, and the quite dramatic ambu‑
lance ride, was the result of a large ovarian cyst rupturing. “Can
happen with intercourse,” the emergency room resident had
said. “You’re the second one in as many days, actually.”
At first all seemed okay. Alice wasn’t dying, as a terrified
Nate first thought, and it appeared her ovary was going to make
it, too. When the resident said pregnancy shouldn’t be a
problem, Nate became emotional, until the possible reason for
the cyst’s existence was revealed. The doctor suspected Alice’s
hormone‑ delivering IUD could be the culprit. An IUD that,
until that moment, Nate had no clue existed inside Alice’s
uterus.
Nate had looked confused at first and started protesting the
resident’s assessment. Alice doesn’t have an IUD . . . we’ve been trying to get pregnant, was on the tip of his tongue. But then he looked at her— a look she wouldn’t soon forget, full of hurt and
disbelief because he suddenly knew it had to be true. He had
pressed his lips tightly together and nodded, as though none
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of this was news to him. After which he promptly walked out of
the room.
“Should we wait for your husband?” the doctor had asked.
“I have a few things to go over before we spring you.”
Alice shook her head, holding back tears. The resident went
through the discharge instructions, repeating that she might
want to have the IUD removed as a precaution, as she was
slightly more at risk now for developing further cysts. Alice said
she would, feeling ashamed and embarrassed, finally admitting
to herself the magnitude of keeping this secret from her
husband. What a mess she’d made of things.
While Alice lay on the sofa, Nate rummaged around the
kitchen. The fridge door opened and closed with unnecessary
force. Next came the slamming of a cupboard, the echo of
something glass set too heavily on the countertop, the pinging
of a bottle cap into the depths of the stainless steel sink. A
drawn‑ out sigh ( the house, uneasy with all his banging around) reached Alice’s ears, and she sighed in response. Nate finally re‑
appeared, a foamy glass of beer in one hand and a bottle of San
Pellegrino in the other. She didn’t remark on the beer, though
it was only seven in the morning.
“You can still make it to the office,” she said evenly. “I’ll be
fine on my own.”
Nate ignored the comment. “How’s the pain?” He reached
into Alice’s purse and pulled out two pill bottles, frowning as he
read the labels. Still he wouldn’t look at her, and she began to
feel desperate for him to do so. Why couldn’t this have hap‑
pened while he was at work? He might have never known what
she’d done, and she could have undone it without consequence.
“It’s not bad,” Alice replied, her syllables drawn out from
exhaustion and morphine. “So, are you not going in today
at all?”
Nate gave her a look suggesting she should leave it alone.
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Popping the lid off one bottle, he shook out two small blue pills
and handed them to her with the sparkling water. “Here.”
Alice didn’t protest, set the pills on her tongue, and took a
sip of the water, bubbles erupting in her throat. “Why did you
leave it out for me?”
“Leave what out?” Nate asked, snapping the lid back onto