Lessons in Chemistry (19 page)

“Mr. Pine?” Elizabeth said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ve had a long day. Is there something you wanted?”

“I want to create a cooking show for afternoon TV,” he said in a rush. “And I want you to host. It’s obvious to me that you can cook, Mrs. Zott, but I also think you would have a certain appeal.” He didn’t say it was because she was attractive. Plenty of good-looking people skated by on their looks, but something told him Elizabeth Zott was not one of those people. “This would be a fun show—woman to woman. You’d be singing to your people.” And when she didn’t respond right away, he added, “Housewives?”

From the other end of the phone, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”

The tone. Walter should have understood it and hung up right then. But he didn’t because he was desperate, and desperate people tend to overlook the most obvious signals. Elizabeth Zott belonged in front of a camera—he was sure of it—plus, she was exactly the kind of woman his boss would go nuts for.

“You’re nervous about the audience,” he said, “but there’s no reason. We use cue cards. All you have to do is read and be yourself.” He waited for a response, but when none came, he carried on. “You have presence, Mrs. Zott,” he pressed. “You’re exactly the kind of person people want to see on TV. You’re like a…” He tried hard to think of someone like her, but nothing came to mind.

“I’m a scientist,” she snapped.

“Right!”

“You’re saying the public wants to hear from more scientists.”

“Yes,” he said. “Who doesn’t?” Although he didn’t and he was fairly certain no one else did either. “Although this would be a cooking show, you understand.”

“Cooking
is
science, Mr. Pine. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Uncanny. I was just about to say that.”

From her kitchen table, Elizabeth envisioned her unpaid utility bills. “How much does something like this pay?” she asked.

He named a figure that drew the slightest gasp from her end. Was she offended or astonished?

“The thing is,” he said defensively, “we’d be taking a risk. It’s not like you’ve been on TV before, correct?” Then he outlined the basic pilot-series contract, pointing out that the initial term was six months long. After that, if it wasn’t working, that was it. Finito.

“When would it start?”

“Immediately. We want the cooking show to go live as soon as possible—within the month.”

“You mean a
science
cooking show.”

“You said it yourself—they’re not mutually exclusive.” But a small bit of doubt regarding her viability as a hostess began to creep in. Surely, she understood that a cooking show was not actually science. Didn’t she? “We’re calling it
Supper at Six,
” he added, emphasizing the word “supper.”

On the other end of the line, Elizabeth stared into space. She absolutely hated the idea—making food on TV for housewives—but what choice did she have? She turned to look at Six-Thirty and Mad. They were lying on the floor together. Madeline was telling him about Tommy Dixon. Six-Thirty bared his teeth.

“Mrs. Zott?” Walter said, wary of the silence coming from the other end. “Hello?
Mrs. Zott? Are you still there?
”

The Afternoon Depression Zone

“Completely unwearable,” Elizabeth said to Walter Pine as she emerged from KCTV’s wardrobe room. “Every dress was skintight. When your tailor measured me last week, I thought he’d done an accurate job, but perhaps not. He’s older. He might need reading glasses.”

“Actually,” Walter said, shoving his hands in his pockets in an effort to look casual, “the dresses are meant to be snug. Camera adds ten pounds, so we use tight clothing to take it off. Suck it in, slim it down. You won’t believe how quickly you’ll get used to it.”

“I couldn’t breathe.”

“It’s only for thirty minutes. You can breathe as much as you want after.”

“With each inhale, our bodies initiate the blood purification process; with each exhale, our lungs release redundant carbon and hydrogen. By compressing any portion of the lungs, we put this process at risk. Clots form. Circulation drops.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” said Walter, trying a different tactic. “I know you don’t want to look fat.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On camera—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you’re a heifer.”

Her jaw dropped. “Walter,” she stated. “Let me make something very clear to you. I will not wear that clothing.”

He clenched his teeth. Was this going to work? As he flailed around for some new way to reason with her, the TV station orchestra down the hall launched into a rehearsal of their latest little ditty. It was the
Supper at Six
theme song— a perky little tune he’d commissioned himself. A cross between a modern cha-cha-cha and a three-alarm fire, it was a toe-tapping tour de force that, just yesterday, his boss had enthusiastically described as Lawrence Welk on amphetamines.

“What on earth is
that
?” she said, gritting her teeth.

Phil Lebensmal, his boss and KCTV’s executive producer and station manager, had been very clear when he’d approved the cooking show concept.

“You know what to do,” he’d said after meeting Elizabeth Zott. “Big hair, tight dresses, homey set. The sexy-wife-loving-mother every man wants to see at the end of the day. Make it happen.”

Walter looked at Phil across the expanse of Phil’s ridiculously oversized desk. He didn’t like Phil. He was young and successful and clearly better at everything than Walter, but he was also crass. Walter didn’t like crass people. They made him feel prudish and self-conscious, as if he were the last remaining member of the Polite People, a now-extinct tribe best known for their decorum and good table manners. He passed his hand across his graying fifty-three-year-old head.

“Here’s an interesting twist, Phil. Did I tell you that Mrs. Zott can cook? I mean,
really
cook. She’s an actual chemist. Works in a lab with test tubes and things. Even has a master’s in chemistry, if you can imagine that. I was thinking we could play up her credentials; give housewives someone to relate to.”

“What?” Phil said, surprised. “No, Walter, Zott is not relatable,
which is good. People don’t want to see themselves on TV, they want to see the people they’ll never be on TV. Pretty people, sexy people. You know how this works.” He looked at Walter, perturbed.

“Of course, of course,” Walter said, “it’s just that I thought we might shake things up a bit. Give this show more of a professional feel.”

“Professional? This is afternoon TV. You used to run a clown show in this same time slot.”

“Yes, that’s the unexpected part. Instead of clowns, we’ll do something meaningful: Mrs. Zott will teach homemakers how to make a nutritious dinner.”

“Meaningful?” Phil snapped. “What are you? Amish? As for nutritious: no. You’re killing the show before it even gets started. Look, Walter, it’s easy. Tight dresses, suggestive movements—maybe like the way she dons the potholders just so,” he demonstrated, as if he were pulling on a pair of satin gloves. “And then there’s the cocktail she mixes at the end of every show.”

“Cocktail?”

“Isn’t that a great idea? I just thought of it.”

“I really don’t think Mrs. Zott will go for—”

“By the way. What was that thing she said last week—about being unable to solidify helium at absolute zero. Was that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it—”

“Well it wasn’t funny.”

Phil was right, it hadn’t been funny, and worse, Elizabeth hadn’t meant it to be funny. She had meant it to be one of the things she might talk about on her show. Which was a problem because no matter how often he explained the show’s concept to her, she didn’t seem to get it. “These are just normal housewives you’ll be talking to,” Walter told her. “Just your average Janes.” Elizabeth had looked back in a way that scared him.

“There’s nothing average about the average housewife,” she corrected.

“Walter,” Elizabeth was saying after the song had finally finished. “Are you listening? I think I can solve our wardrobe problem in two words. Lab coat.”

“No.”

“It would give the show a more professional feel.”

“No,”
he said again, thinking of Lebensmal’s very clear expectations. “Believe me. No.”

“Why not approach this scientifically? I’ll wear it for the first week, then we’ll review the results.”

“This isn’t a lab,” he explained for the billionth time. “This is a
kitchen
.”

“Speaking of the kitchen, how’s the set going?”

“It’s not quite ready. We’re still working on the lighting.”

But that wasn’t true: the set had been ready for days. From the eyelet curtains at the fake window to the various knickknacks that clogged the counters, it was the ultimate Good Housekeeping kitchen. She would hate it.

“Were you able to get the specialized instruments I need?” she asked. “The Bunsen burner? The oscilloscope?”

“About that,” he said. “The thing is, most home cooks won’t have that sort of thing. But I was able to round up nearly everything else on your list: utensils, the mixer—”

“Gas stove?”

“Yes.”

“Eye wash station, of course.”

“Y-yes,” he said, thinking of the sink.

“I guess we can always add the Bunsen burner later. It’s quite useful.”

“I bet.”

“What about the work surfaces?”

“The stainless steel you requested was unaffordable.”

“Well that’s odd,” she said. “Nonreactive surfaces are usually quite inexpensive.”

Walter nodded as if he were surprised too, but he wasn’t. He’d picked out the Formica countertops himself: a fun-filled laminate flecked with shiny gold confetti.

“Look,” he said. “I know our goal is about making food that matters—good-tasting, nutritious food. But we want to be careful not to alienate people. We have to make cooking look inviting. You know. Fun.”

“Fun?”

“Because otherwise people won’t watch us.”

“But cooking isn’t fun,” she explained. “It’s serious business.”

“Right,” he said. “But it could be a little fun, couldn’t it?”

Elizabeth frowned. “Not really.”

“Right,” he said, “but maybe just a little fun. A smidge fun,” he said, holding up his forefinger and squeezing it next to his thumb to show just how little. “The thing is, Elizabeth, and you probably already know this, TV is governed by three hard and fast rules.”

“You mean rules of decency,” she said. “Standards.”

“Decency? Standards?” He thought of Lebensmal. “No. I meant actual rules.” He used his fingers to count. “Rule one: entertain. Rule two: entertain. Rule three: entertain.”

“But I’m not an entertainer. I’m a chemist.”

“Right,” he said, “but on TV, we need you to be an
entertaining
chemist. And do you know why? I can sum it up in one word. Afternoon.”

“Afternoon.”

“
Afternoon.
Just saying the word makes me sleepy. Does it make you sleepy?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you’re a scientist. You already know about circadian rhythms.”

“Everyone knows about circadian rhythms, Walter. My four-year-old knows about circadian—”

“You mean your five-year-old,” he interrupted. “Madeline has to be at least five to be in kindergarten.”

Elizabeth waved her hand as if to move on. “You were saying about circadian rhythms.”

“Right,” he said, “As you well know, humans are biologically programmed to sleep twice a day— a siesta in the afternoon, then eight hours of sleep at night.”

She nodded.

“Except most of us skip the siesta because our jobs demand it. And when I say most of us, I really just mean Americans. Mexico doesn’t have this problem, nor does France or Italy or any of those other countries that drink even more than we do at lunch. Still, the fact remains: human productivity naturally drops in the afternoon. In TV, this is referred to as the Afternoon Depression Zone. Too late to get anything meaningful done; too early to go home. Doesn’t matter if you’re a homemaker, a fourth grader, a bricklayer, a businessman—no one is immune. Between the hours of one thirty-one and four forty-four p.m., productive life as we know it ceases to exist. It’s a virtual death zone.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“And although I said it affects everyone,” he continued, “it’s an especially dangerous time for the homemaker. Because unlike a fourth grader who can put off her homework, or a businessman who can pretend to be listening, the homemaker must force herself to keep going. She has to get the kids down for a nap because if she doesn’t, the evening will be hell. She has to mop the floor because if she doesn’t, someone could slip on the spilled milk. She has to run to the store because if she doesn’t, there will be nothing to eat. By the way,” he said, pausing, “have you ever noticed how women always say they need to
run
to the store? Not walk, not go, not stop by.
Run.
That’s what I mean. The homemaker is operating at an insane level of hyperproductivity. And even though she’s in way over her head, she
still
has to make dinner. It’s not sustainable, Elizabeth. She’s going to have a heart attack or a stroke, or at the very least be in a foul mood. And it’s all because she can’t procrastinate like her fourth grader or pretend to be doing something like her husband. She’s forced to be productive
despite the fact that she’s in a potentially fatal time zone—the Afternoon Depression Zone.”

“It’s classic neurogenic deprivation,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “The brain doesn’t get the rest it needs, resulting in a drop in executive function and accompanied by an increase in corticosterone levels. Fascinating. But what does this have to do with TV?”

“Everything,” he said. “Because the cure for this neuro, uh, deprivation as you call it, is afternoon programming. Unlike morning or evening programming, afternoon programming is designed to let the brain rest. Study the lineup and you’ll see it’s true: from one thirty p.m. to five p.m., TV is stuffed with kid shows, soap operas, and game shows. Nothing that requires actual brain activity. And it’s all by design: because TV executives recognize that between these hours, people are half dead.”

Elizabeth envisioned her ex-colleagues at Hastings. They were half dead.

“In a way,” Walter continued, “what we’re offering is a public service. We’re giving people—specifically the overworked housewife—the rest she needs. The children’s shows are key here: they’re designed to electronically babysit children so the mother has a chance to recuperate before her next act.”

“And by act you mean—”

“Making dinner,” he said, “which is where you come in. Your program will air at four thirty—exactly the time your audience will be emerging from the Afternoon Depression Zone. It’s a tricky time slot. Studies show that most housewives feel the greatest amount of pressure at this time of day. They have much to accomplish in a very short window of time: make dinner, set the table, locate their children—the list is long. But they’re still groggy and depressed. That is why this particular time slot comes with such great responsibility. Because whoever speaks to them now must
energize
them. That’s why when I tell you that your job is to entertain, I mean it sincerely. You must bring these people back to life, Elizabeth. You must wake them back up.”

“But—”

“Remember that day you stormed into my office? It was afternoon. And yet despite the fact that I was in the Afternoon Depression Zone, you woke me up, and I can assure you that is nearly statistically impossible because all I
do
is afternoon programming. But that’s how I knew: if you had the power to make me sit up and listen, there is no doubt you can do the same for others. I believe in you, Elizabeth Zott, and I believe in your mission of food that matters—but that’s
not
just making dinner. Understand this: you must make it look at least
a little
fun. If I wanted you to put viewers to sleep, I would have slotted you and your hot pads in at two thirty.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I guess I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“It’s TV science,” Walter said. “Hardly anyone knows about it.”

She stood silently, weighing his words. “But I’m not entertaining,” she said after a few moments. “I’m a scientist.”

“Scientists can be entertaining.”

“Name one.”

“Einstein,” Walter shot back. “Who doesn’t love Einstein?”

Elizabeth considered his example. “Well. His theory of relativity is riveting.”

“See? Exactly!”

“Although it’s
also
true that his wife, who was
also
a physicist, was never given credit for—”

“There you go, nailing our audience again. Wives! And how would you wake up these Einsteinian wives? Using TV’s time-tested waker-uppers: jokes, clothes, authority—and, of course, food. For instance, when you throw a dinner party, I bet everyone wants to come.”

“I’ve never thrown a dinner party.”

“Sure, you have,” he said. “I bet you and Mr. Zott throw them all the—”

“There is no Mr. Zott, Walter,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I’m unmarried. The truth is, I’ve never been married.”

“Oh,” Walter gasped, visibly taken aback. “Well. That is certainly
interesting. But would you mind? I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind never mentioning that to anyone? Specifically to Lebensmal, my boss? Or really—anyone?”