“Are you all right?” Nellie asked.
Richard ignored her, stepping out of the car and opening
Nellie’s door. She took his arm, and they walked side by side
toward the widow Stewart and her sad, nesting‑ doll children on
the church steps.
Nellie clamped her glossy fingernails into her palms through
the service, her breath returning to normal as soon as they
stepped back outside the heavy church doors. She loathed fu‑
nerals. Could barely stomach how trite and predictable those
left behind made grief look. Somber faces, quiet murmurs of
consolation, and silent tears streaking rouged cheeks, dabbed by
linen handkerchiefs balled into fists. Through the entire service,
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Nellie would wait for a tortured wail to burst forth from one of
the front rows, proving the importance of the dead’s life. Oc‑
casionally there would be a gasp or ragged sob, perhaps the odd
swoon, and Nellie would be glad for it. She would appreciate
such an overt display if it were her in that coffin at the front of the church. But funerals were not for the dead; they were for the
living.
After the graveyard service, they drove to the Stewarts’ home
for the luncheon. Nellie glanced at the tray in the back seat, the
cookies meticulously plated in perfect rows. Richard had ques‑
tioned their luncheon contribution, suggesting cookies were not
hearty (or impressive) enough for the occasion. “You’re such a
good cook, Nellie,” he’d said, but she knew what he really meant.
He didn’t think cookies made the right kind of statement for the
Murdochs.
But Richard knew nothing of feeding sadness— that was
women’s work— or how far a simple chocolate chip cookie could
go to lift one’s mood. Besides, Nellie had already dropped off a
chicken casserole for Maude’s freezer the evening before when
she attended the wake, without Richard, who was once again suf‑
fering stomach pains. The fourth time that week. He’d promised
Nellie he would see Dr. Johnson soon, but when she pressed him
again he told her it wasn’t any of her concern. Not her concern!
She was his wife; who else’s concern would it be?
As they drove, Nellie thought about how many casseroles
and cold‑cut trays and jellied salads would adorn Maude’s dining
table and knew the cookies would be welcomed. “Everyone feels
better after eating chocolate,” her mother always said.
Once inside the Stewarts’ house, packed to the eaves with
mourners, Richard stuck beside Nellie, his hand firm on her low
back. They found Maude resting in a wing‑ back chair in the
living room, a large photo of the Stewart family, with amazingly
identical smiles, perched on the table beside her.
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“Oh, Dick. Nellie. Thank you for coming today,” Maude
said, the skin on her face sallow and hanging. “And thank you
again for the chicken casserole, Nellie. We were sorry to miss
you, Dick. Hope you’re feeling better?”
Richard tensed beside Nellie, his fingers pinching the skin at
her waist through the dress. She knew better than to pull away.
“Perfectly well,” Richard replied, his voice louder than nec‑
essary as if to prove it. He smiled warmly at Maude. “Harry was a
great man. Damn, damn shame. Please accept our deepest condo‑
lences to you and your girls. Whatever you need, Maude, don’t
hesitate to ask. Harry was an important part of our Murdoch
family.”
They exchanged polite niceties for a minute longer, as one
does in these situations, before moving on to the dining room
under the guise of fixing a plate of food.
“You were not to tell Maude Stewart about my condition,”
Richard hissed in her ear. Nellie kept the smile on her face as she walked toward the table, where she noticed with great satis‑
faction only half her cookies remained. But that bubble of righ‑
teousness soon popped once they found a quiet corner with
her again. “You were supposed to say there was an emergency at
the plant.”
An emergency at the plant. Richard’s business was chewing
gum— what possible emergency could there have been? Not to
mention, the wake had been full of Richard’s employees, who
knew as well as she did no such emergency had occurred. “I’m
sorry. I forgot.”
“You forgot?” Richard pressed the edge of his plate
sharply into her breast. It hurt, and instinctively she pulled away, unfortunately smacking her elbow on a chairback as she did. Her
plate tilted, and a wobble of jelly salad toppled onto the broadl oom below.
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“Goodness,” Nellie said, putting her plate down and crouching
to wipe up the spill.
“Let their girl get it, Nellie.” Richard’s voice was low, but
there was no mistaking his tone.
Her heart beat faster as she stood, depositing the soiled
napkin on her untouched plate.
“It’s time to go.”
“We can’t leave yet, Richard,” Nellie replied quietly. “We only
just arrived.”
“Say you’re unwell. That’s expected in your condition.”
“Fine.” She started toward Maude but stopped when Richard
didn’t follow. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m going to get the car.” He held his lips tight against his
teeth, the way he did when he was angry. A look Nellie had
become all too familiar with in recent months, as the Richard
she’d met at the supper club vanished, an ill‑ tempered and fickle one taking his place. She was about to apologize again for re‑
vealing his illness to Maude, but one of Richard’s plant managers
clapped a hand on his shoulder and he turned away from Nellie
with a ready smile and confident handshake. It still surprised her, the ease with which he turned it on and off.
Nellie took this opportunity to go back to Maude and offer
her excuse: “a bit woozy from being on my feet for so long, so
Richard’s insisting I get to bed.” Maude was kindly concerned,
suggested a mug of scalded milk and nutmeg and a pillow under
her feet once she got home.
“That sounds perfect.” Nellie gave her a warm smile. “Please
let me know if you need anything, Maude. I’m only a short
drive away.”
“You’re very kind, Nellie.” Maude held her hands and glanced
around. “Where has Dick gone?”
“To get the car.”
“He’s a good man,” Maude said, wistfulness and envy
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ecipe for a Perfect Wife
coloring her words. She wiped a few tears. “You’re very lucky
to . . .” Her voice broke, and Nellie gently squeezed Maude’s
clasped hands. “You hang on to him, you hear?”
Nellie assured Maude she would and made her exit, taking a
deep breath once she was outside the Stewarts’ house. But her
lungs filled less easily as Richard parked at the curb outside the
house. The doting husband, the good man she was lucky to
have. You hang on to him, you hear?
Richard made a show of coming to retrieve Nellie, and she
played into it, as she knew he expected. Leaning on him to prove
her wooziness as he led her gently back to the car, his arm tight
with concern around her shoulders. Such loving care surely no‑
ticed by a few curious eyes from inside the house. This was the
Richard she’d first met, the one she missed, and she let herself
enjoy his comfort if only for a moment.
Once he’d settled Nellie into her seat and started driving, his
mood went black again. Nellie sensed the shift, like a cool breeze
you know is coming but still shiver from when it hits your skin.
Richard didn’t speak or look in her direction, and Nellie knew
he’d likely brood all evening, berate her again, and after a
whiskey or two find his way to forgiveness and the good husband
he believed he was. She wished to rewind time to first thing that
morning, when she awoke to Richard gently kissing her on the
forehead, his palm caressing the gentle hill of her growing
stomach. A man with two faces, her Richard.
Nellie stared out the window, was thinking about dinner and
whether she could thaw the pork chops in time, when Richard
reached over and dug his fingers into her thigh.
“Oh!” She was shocked by his sudden, painful grab. “Richard.
Please. You’re hurting me.”
He didn’t look her way, his fingers clamped around her thin
leg. “I can’t have my workers thinking I’m ill, Nellie.”
“I told you I was sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any problems.
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Now, please, let go of my leg.” But his fingers dug deeper,
squeezing as though trying to pop the bones right out of her skin.
Nellie knew there would be a bruise tomorrow, though tucked
well under her skirts and dungarees so no one else would see it.
Richard had never outright hit her, but this would not be the first bruise Nellie had endured in their marriage. However, he hadn’t
touched her in anger since he found out she was pregnant— she
naively believed his prior angry outbursts, and rough fingers, had
everything to do with his frustrations. Richard wanted a child
more than anything else, and Nellie’s inability to conceive during
their first year of marriage had been a great source of tension.
“I can barely stand to look at you right now. Maybe I should
make you get out of the car, walk home. What do you think
about that, Eleanor?”
Nel ie’s shoes were already pinching, her feet swol en with preg‑
nancy. “I’m sorry, Richard. Please don’t make me walk.” Nel ‑
lie’s father had once, four miles from home, brought the car to a
screeching halt and demanded a then five‑ year‑ old Nellie and her mother get out of the car. He was belligerent, having drunk too
much at dinner, and Nellie had moments earlier kicked the back of
her father’s seat, her little legs bored and restless. Nellie and her mother were forced to walk home in the dark, Elsie snapping the
heel on her only good pair of shoes when she picked up her half‑
asleep daughter and carried her the last mile. Nellie’s father had
been a cruel man, but she couldn’t believe Richard, no matter what
she’d done, would leave her on the side of the road— especially in her condition.
Despite his threat, Richard didn’t slow the car, but he also
didn’t let go of her thigh, no matter how many times she apolo‑
gized. Suddenly a jagged pain tore through her stomach, and
with a gasp she doubled over and cried out.
“What is it?” Richard’s hand popped off her thigh and her leg
tingled as blood pulsed to the capillaries no longer under strain.
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“I’m . . . I’m not sure.” She could no longer hold the tears
back. The pain was dreadful.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.” Richard made a move to
turn the car around.
“No! Please, we don’t need the hospital.” The only place Nellie
wanted to go was home. “It’s easing. Only a cramp. I overdid it
yesterday in the garden and didn’t sleep very well last night.”
He glanced between Nellie and the road, foot hovering be‑
tween brake and gas pedals. “Are you certain? You look quite pale.”
Nellie nodded and pinched her cheeks, straightening as best
she could. She still pressed her hands to her stomach, which
continued to roll with bands of cramping, but forced the tension
to fall from her face. “It’s better now.”
The car lurched forward as Richard stepped on the gas
pedal. “Well, let’s get you home and to bed.”
“Thank you, Richard,” Nellie managed. He didn’t deserve
her decency, but he expected it. Even in pain, Nellie understood
her role— the wife who bowed to her husband, who apologized
for things out of her control, who made his life easier even if it
made hers harder. The perfect wife.
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8
q
Nothing destroys the happiness of married life more than the
lazy, slovenly wife.
— Mrs. Dobbin Crawford, Bath Chronicle (1930)
Alice
MAy 27, 2018
O n Sunday Nate ran errands and Alice wandered the house,
trying to get a feel for it. In the city, they could grab sundries at the nearby bodega, only twenty paces or so from their building.
Here in Greenville picking up milk and bread and other neces‑
sities required a plan and a car, which Alice was nervous about.
She wasn’t the most confident driver (she hadn’t driven in a
decade, since moving to New York), but out here she was
trapped without a car. The only thing twenty paces from their
house was the street corner.
Alice puffed out her cheeks as she stood in the living room,
hands on her hips. She released her breath in one long hiss,
shaking out her shoulders. Trying to relax. The dim, cavernous
room overwhelmed her, and the floorboards creaked under her
feet as she walked, the sound rattling her nerves. Alice texted
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Nate to find out how much longer he would be. I’m freaked out
bei
ng alone in the house, is what she wanted to write, but instead she typed out, Don’t forget the bleach.
She should have gone with Nate, as he’d suggested. “To get
the lay of the land,” he’d said, tapping the car fob against the
grocery list in his palm. “Come Monday you’re going to be the
one doing all this. Don’t you want to know how to get every‑
where?” This was part of their deal— Nate was taking care of
their expenses by commuting into work every day, and Alice
would take care of things at home. The split sounded simple,
even if Alice didn’t fully grasp what “take care of things at home”
meant.
In her mind, she remained the woman she used to be: alarm
at 5:00 A.M., fully caffeinated and at her desk by seven. Man‑
aging clients and putting out fires, then picking up takeout and
meeting Nate at home later in the evening. Never once worrying
about whether the fridge was full or the bathroom clean or the
bed made.
Alice walked into the kitchen, which by comparison to the
rest of the house was bright and cheerful and made her feel in‑
stantly better. She donned a pair of rubber gloves and started
cleaning. Her efforts were halted by the discovery of two dead
mice behind the rattling fridge, decomposed nearly to their skel‑
etons. Shuddering, she lay the delicate remains on a paper towel
and googled whether dead mice should go into the compost or
garbage in Greenville.
After disposing of the mice, Alice got to work on the kitchen
surfaces, scrubbing off a year’s plus worth of grime. She’d only
gotten as far as scouring the countertops and inside a few of the
drawers— which were off‑ center and screeched when she opened
them— by the time Nate returned.
After setting the paper grocery bags on the table and giving
her a kiss on the top of her head— the only part of her she said
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didn’t feel covered in kitchen grime— he opened the refrigerator
door, then looked at her over his shoulder. “Didn’t get to this
yet, huh?” It needed a good scrub, with soap and water (he
had forgotten the bleach), but that wouldn’t happen before the
per ishables had to be unpacked.