a fitness convention. She had been an aerobics instructor for
years and Steve ran a successful string of fitness centers in Cali‑
fornia. Six months later she packed them up and moved them
across the country to Steve’s sprawling ranch‑ style house in San
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Diego. Alice found California too hot, too predictable without
the change of seasons, and so when she turned seventeen she
hopped on a plane back to New York for college. Alice loved her
mother but longed for a more straightforward relationship, like
the one Nate had with his parents. It wasn’t easy being a single
mother, Alice understood, but it also wasn’t easy being raised by
someone juggling so many priorities.
“Jaclyn, where’s the charger?” Steve popped his head into
the bedroom.
“In my carry‑ on. Side pocket.”
“Okeydokey.” Steve turned to Alice. “Morning, kiddo. How
was your sleep?” Like her mom, Steve was superfit, especially for
sixty, his tanned biceps bulging in his T‑ shirt.
“Good, thanks,” Alice replied, getting up to hug him.
“How about you?”
“Fantastic,” he said. “I’m here for work gloves. Nate said
you had a set for me?”
“Right. Let me grab them.” Nate and Steve were working
on restabilizing the stone walkway and prepping the driveway
for repairing. Alice and Nate had been in the house now for a
week, and the list of what needed to happen was growing daily
and at an alarming rate. “Here you go.” Alice handed Steve the
gloves from the hardware store bag in the corner of the room,
pulling off the price tag as she did.
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“Sure thing. Mom— I’m going to go grab the drop sheets.
Be right back.”
Her mother hummed lightly, still lunging, and nodded with
her eyes closed. Steve reached over and gave Jaclyn’s butt a light
slap with the gloves and her eyes popped open.
“Steve!”
He laughed and kissed her deeply, and Alice left them to it.
Shortly after Nate proposed, Alice went to San Diego for a
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long weekend to visit and had asked her mom— both of them
tipsy on crisp white wine, which was the reason Alice had opened
up to her mother— what the secret was to her still‑ happy rela‑
tionship with Steve.
“Twice‑ a‑ week sex, minimum,” her mother had said without
hesitation, which made Alice wish she had never asked, followed
by, “And choosing the right person.” Alice had nodded, feeling
thoroughly confident and slightly smug that, unlike her mother,
she had gotten that part right the first time.
“Nate, where did you put the drop cloths?” Alice leaned out the
front door, the warmth of the day a welcome contrast to the
chilliness inside.
“Basement. Left‑ hand corner, by the bikes,” Nate replied,
swiping his arm over his forehead, already slick with sweat. He
had a shovel in hand, and Steve was carrying a large square of
stone over the grass like it weighed next to nothing. “Want me
to get them?”
Yes, please, she thought, but then shook her head. Though
the dank, dark basement freaked her out, she would have to go
down sooner or later— the laundry hamper was overstuffed.
“You guys need anything? More coffee? Water?”
“We’re good,” Nate said, pointing to the small cooler to the
left of the steps. The two were back to work before Alice had
even shut the front door.
She flicked on the basement light and peered down the rickety
stairs with trepidation. The single bulb cast barely enough light
mustiness filling her nose as she stepped gingerly, the plank
wooden steps groaning with age. As her feet hit the rough con‑
crete floor, her phone’s flashlight beam picked up a scurry of some‑
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as it searched for the safety of the shadows, finding solace under
the washing machine. “Gross,” Alice muttered, a shiver moving
through her.
The plastic sheets were stacked in the corner as promised, and
Alice grabbed the packages, tucking them under her arm, eager
to leave the damp chill and silverfish and whatever else hid in the basement of this old house. Her heart beat fast and her underarms
were fear dampened, and in such a rush to get back upstairs, she
didn’t see the wooden skid until she’d tripped over it.
Winded, she gasped and gulped on the ground. Otherwise
she was okay, though she would have an impressive bruise on her
shin by the next morning. She sat on the floor until she caught
her breath, shining the flashlight over to what had tripped her.
Three boxes were stacked in a pyramid atop the small wooden
skid. Alice could tell by the sagging cardboard walls, the corners
soft and losing their angular shape, that the boxes had been
there a while. She kneeled and read the writing on the top one.
Kitchen, someone had written in thick, flowing black‑ inked cursive.
They must have belonged to the previous owner. Alice con‑
sidered leaving them as they were, letting Beverly know in case
someone ever came looking for the boxes, and whatever they
contained. But curiosity overruled, and Alice tucked her phone
under her chin and gently lifted the flaps.
Shining the light into the open box, Alice ran her eyes along
the spines of a slew of magazines, maybe two dozen— all Ladies’
Home Journal, with dates ranging from 1954 to 1957. Lifting one out, Alice sat on the edge of the skid and flipped through
its pages, her basement fears forgotten for the moment.
There were advertisements for cigarettes, stockings, refrig‑
erators, beer (“Don’t worry, honey, at least you didn’t burn the
beer!”), all the colors muted, the ink matte, unlike the glossy
magazines of today. She cringed when she got to an ad for
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Velveeta cheese, a picture of a casserole where corners of grilled
cheese sandwich popped up through an orange soup like
cresting icebergs. “That’s disgusting,” she muttered, flipping a
few more pages.
Setting the magazine to the side, Alice looked back in the
box. Some sort of book lay flat at one end, half‑ hidden by the
stack of magazines. She pulled the book out and flipped it over
so she could read the cover.
COOKBOOK FOR
THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE
The cover was red with a subtle crosshatch pattern and dis‑
tressed, the book’s title stamped in black ink— all of it faded with age. Bordering the cookbook’s cover were hints of what could be
found inside. Alice tilted her head as she read across, down,
across, and up the cover’s edges. Rolls. Pies. Luncheon. Drinks.
Jams. Jellies. Poultry. Soup. Pickles. 725 Tested Recipes.
Resting the spine on her bent knees, the cookbook dense yet
fragile in her hands, Alice opened it carefully. There was an in‑
scription on the inside cover. Elsie Swann, 1940. Going through the first few, age‑ yellowed pages, Alice glanced at charts for what constituted a balanced diet in those days: milk products, citrus
fruits, green and yellow vegetables, breads and cereals, meat and
eggs, the addition of a fish liver oil, particularly for children.
Across from it, a page of tips for housewives to avoid being over‑
whelmed and advice for hosting successful dinner parties. Opening
to a page near the back, Alice found another chart, this one titled Standard Retail Beef Cutting Chart, a picture of a cow divided by type of meat, mini drawings of everything from a porterhouse‑
steak cut to the disgusting‑ sounding “rolled neck.”
Through the middle were recipes for Pork Pie, Jellied Tongue,
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Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, and something called Porcupines—
ground beef and rice balls, simmered for an hour in tomato soup
and definitely something Alice never wanted to try— and plenty
of notes written in faded cursive beside some of the recipes. Com‑
ments like Eleanor’s 13th birthday— delicious! and Good for digestion and Add extra butter. Whoever this Elsie Swann was, she had clearly used the cookbook regularly. The pages were polka‑
dotted in browned splatters and drips, evidence it had not sat
forgotten on a shelf the way cookbooks would in Alice’s kitchen.
“Alice?” Her mom was at the basement door, calling down
the stairs. “Did you find the drop cloths?”
“Yes. On my way up,” Alice called back, placing the maga‑
zines inside the box and grabbing the drop sheets. She turned to
go upstairs but stopped, deciding to take the cookbook with her.
Maybe she could give cooking a try, like her mom had said.
Tucking it under her arm, she maneuvered carefully back up the
rickety stairs, relief coursing through her as she left the base‑
ment’s gloom. Setting the cookbook on the kitchen table, she
took a last look at its cover, curious if this Elsie Swann was also the woman she had to thank for the many layers of wallpaper she
was about to spend the next few days removing.
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10
q
Nellie
october 14, 1955
Chicken à la King
6 tablespoons butter
1⁄ 2 cup minced green pepper
1 cup diced mushrooms
2 tablespoons flour
1⁄ 2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon paprika
11⁄ 2 cups rich milk, scalded
1 cup chicken broth
3 cups diced cooked chicken
1 cup cooked peas
1 teaspoon onion juice
1⁄ 4 cup slivered pimento
2 tablespoons sherry
Toasted bread for serving
Melt butter and cook green pepper and mushrooms until tender.
Blend in the flour, salt, and paprika over low heat until smooth and 60
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bubbly. Add milk and chicken broth gradually, stirring constantly over low heat until sauce thickens. Gently stir in cooked chicken, peas, and onion juice. Just before serving, add pimento and sherry. Serve with buttered toast points.
I think we should reschedule.” Richard sat at the kitchen
table with a glass of stomach‑ settling albumen drink in front of
him. His stomach was “off” yet again, but it wasn’t for this he
thought they should cancel the dinner party. Nellie lifted the lid
on the pot of chicken simmering in the lemon and parsley water,
happy to see it was nearly cooked.
“You’re not up to this, Nellie.”
“I told you, the doctor said I’m fine to get back to things.”
She tied her apron tighter around her narrow waist, puttered
around the kitchen, organizing bowls and platters and checking
off items on her list as she hummed to the radio. Plated canapés.
Shrimp cocktail. Hollywood Dunk. Lettuce salad with Roquefort
dressing. Chicken à la King. Baked Alaska. Canceling was not an
option: they were expecting three couples, and the dinner had
been planned for well over a month now. Before Harry Stewart
died, before the car incident where Richard’s angry fingers had
left a deeper bruise than Nellie expected. Before Nellie miscarried the baby.
It had happened while Richard was dining in the city with
some bigwigs who boasted they could get Murdoch’s gum in
every soda shop from New Jersey to California. It was only one
day after the funeral, and while Richard had been hesitant to
leave her, he eventually conceded when she assured him she
was fine. His dinner had gone quite late, and he’d ended up
staying the night at the hotel, so he wasn’t there when Nellie
lost their baby.
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When Richard arrived home the following morning and
learned about the miscarriage, he had raged at Nellie. For going
to the funeral, when he explicitly asked her not to, for not
calling someone to take her to the hospital, for her general care‑
lessness. Until he caught a glimpse of the bloodied towels balled
up in the bathtub. There had been much blood, and it was so
sudden and painful that Nellie had curled up on the towels in
the bathtub, sobbing until sleep overtook her. She awoke near
dawn still in the bathtub, shivering and heartsick, and had
meant to clean up the towels before Richard came home.
“Oh my God, Nellie.” Richard blanched as he took in the
scene, put one hand to his heart and the other to the bath‑
room’s doorframe. Was he thinking back to the car and perhaps
blaming himself, remembering his forceful grip, the cramp that
doubled her over? Nellie hoped so; it offered some solace to her
heartbreak.
Later, Nellie would bleach the bloodstained towels white,
except for one she would wrap up with satin ribbon and bury in
the garden, under her pale blue forget‑ me‑ nots. “True and un‑
dying love, Nell‑ girl. Forget‑ me‑ nots are the flower of remem‑
brance,” Elsie had said one late afternoon as they weeded side
by side, singing church hymns in harmony (Elsie an alto, Nellie
a soprano). She pulled back some heavy foliage, showed her
daughter the darker, damper parts of the garden th
e delicate
blooms liked best. “They thrive beneath the shadow of these
more handsome flowers,” Elsie had said, fingering the joyful
tulips perched above. Then she swept a hand across the blanket
of miniature blue‑ skied blooms underneath. “Forget‑ me‑ nots may be small, but they are mighty.”
It was the truth the doctor had said she was fine to get back to
things. Dr. Johnson was on vacation, so she’d seen a colleague of
his, the ancient Dr. Wood, who wore a tufted toupee and seemed
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unable to remember her name. She’d made the appoint ment two
days after the miscarriage, and while Richard insisted he was
going too, Nellie— wanting to be alone— suggested his employees
needed him more than she did. “I’m fine,” she’d said. “I promise
I’ll tell you word for word what the doctor says.” So, while
Richard caught the train to Brooklyn, believing she was being
examined, Nellie instead consulted Dr. Wood about a barely‑ a‑
bother rash on her hand. After glancing at the mild rash, he sug‑
gested picking up some Mexsana powder at the pharmacy.
“That redness and itching should be gone in a couple of days,
Mrs. Murray,” Dr. Wood said, eyes on his prescription pad.
“Murdoch,” Nellie said. “Mrs. Murdoch.”
The doctor glanced up, his toupee slightly askew. “Isn’t that
what I said?”
“Oh, I must have misheard you.”
“Ah, well, that’s fine.” The doctor finished writing out the
medical powder’s name, the pen wobbly in his shaky hand.
“Mexsana is great for diaper rash, too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The doctor, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting together as he
handed her the note, asked, “How old are you again, Mrs.
Murray?” She didn’t bother correcting him this time, tucking
the paper she planned to dispose of later into her handbag. He
knew precisely how old she was, all her pertinent information in
the file in his hands. But being childless at her age, two plus
years into her marriage, Nellie understood the prying; she was
an enigma in her sewing circle and church groups, at the
Tupperware parties full of women in various stages of preg‑
nancy, young children hanging off their mothers’ skirts.