Lessons in Chemistry (24 page)

“Go on.”

“Well, if my leg edema might not be a by-product of faulty hydraulic conductivity combined with an irregular osmotic reflection coefficient of plasma proteins. What do you think?”

“A very detailed diagnosis, Mrs. Fillis,” Elizabeth said. “What kind of medicine do you practice?”

“Oh,” the woman stumbled, “no, I’m not a doctor. I’m just a housewife.”

“There isn’t a woman in the world who is
just
a housewife,” Elizabeth said. “What else do you do?”

“Nothing. A few hobbies. I like to read medical journals.”

“Interesting. What else?”

“Sewing.”

“Clothes?”

“Bodies.”

“Wound closures?”

“Yes. I have five boys. They’re always tearing holes in themselves.”

“And when you were their age you envisioned yourself becoming—”

“A loving wife and mother.”

“No, seriously—”

“An open-heart surgeon,” the woman said before she could stop herself.

The room filled with a thick silence, the weight of her ridiculous dream hanging like too-wet laundry on a windless day. Open-heart surgery? For a moment it seemed as if the entire world was waiting for the laughter that should follow. But then from one end of the audience came a single unexpected clap—immediately followed by another—and then another—and then ten more—and then twenty more—and soon everyone in the audience was on their feet and someone called out, “Dr. Fillis, heart surgeon,” and the clapping became thunderous.

“No, no,” the woman insisted above the noise. “I was only kidding. I can’t actually do that. Anyway, it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Elizabeth insisted.

“But I couldn’t. Can’t.”

“Why.”

“Because it’s hard.”

“And raising five boys isn’t?”

The woman touched her fingertips to the small beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “But where would someone like me even start?”

“The public library,” Elizabeth said. “Followed by the MCATs, school, and residency.”

The woman suddenly seemed to realize that Elizabeth took her seriously. “You
really
think I could do it?” she said, her voice trembling.

“What’s the molecular weight of barium chloride?”

“208.23.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“But my husband—”

“Is a lucky man. By the way, it’s Free Day, Mrs. Fillis,” Elizabeth said, “something my producer just invented. To show our support for your fearless future, you’ll be taking home my chicken pot pie. Come on up and get it.”

Amid roaring applause, Elizabeth handed the now-determined-looking Mrs. Fillis the foil-covered pie. “We’re officially out of time,” Elizabeth said. “But I hope you’ll tune in tomorrow as we explore the world of kitchen conflagrations.”

Then she looked right through the camera lens, and almost as if she divined it, directly into the astonished faces of Mrs. George Fillis’s five children sprawled in front of the TV in Kernville, their eyes open wide, their mouths agape, as if they had just seen their mother for the very first time.

“Boys, set the table,” Elizabeth commanded. “Your mother needs a moment to herself.”

99 Percent

“Mad,” Elizabeth began carefully a week later, “Mrs. Mudford called me at work today. Something about an inappropriate family photo?”

Madeline took a sudden interest in a scab on her knee.

“And attached to this photo was a family tree,” Elizabeth said gently. “In which you claim to be a direct descendant of”—she paused, consulting a list—“Nefertiti, Sojourner Truth, and Amelia Earhart. Does that sound familiar?”

Madeline looked up innocently. “Not really.”

“And the tree includes an acorn labeled ‘Fairy Godmother.’ ”

“Huh.”

“And at the bottom someone wrote, ‘Humans are animals.’ That was underlined three times. And then it says, ‘Inside, humans are genetically ninety-nine percent the same.’ ”

Madeline looked up at the ceiling.

“Ninety-nine percent?” Elizabeth said.

“What?” Madeline said.

“That’s inaccurate.”

“But—”

“In science, accuracy matters.”

“But—”

“The fact is, it can be as high as ninety-nine point nine percent.
Ninety-nine
point nine
.” Then she stopped and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “It’s my fault, sweetheart. With the exception of pi, we really haven’t covered decimals yet.”

“Sorry to intrude,” Harriet called as she let herself in the back door. “Phone messages. Forgot to leave them.” She plunked a list down in front of Elizabeth and turned to go.

“Harriet,” Elizabeth said, scanning the list. “Who’s this one? The reverend from First Presbyterian?”

Madeline’s hair rose on her arms.

“It sounded like one of those church drum-up-the-business calls. He asked for Mad. Probably working from a bad list. Anyway, this is the one I wanted to make sure you saw,” she said, tapping the list. “The
LA Times.
”

“They’ve been calling at work, too,” Elizabeth said. “They want an interview.”

“An interview!”

“You’re gonna be in the newspaper again?” Mad said, worried. Her family had been in the newspaper twice: once when her father died, and once when her father’s gravestone was blown to bits by a stray bullet. Not a great track record.

“No, Mad,” Elizabeth said. “The person who wants to interview me isn’t even a science reporter; he writes for the women’s page. He’s already told me he has no interest in talking about chemistry, just dinner. Clearly, he doesn’t understand you can’t separate the two. And I suspect he also wants to ask questions about our family, even though our family is none of his business.”

“Why not?” Madeline asked. “What’s
wrong
with our family?”

From under the table, Six-Thirty lifted his head. He hated that Mad thought there might be something wrong with their family. As for Nefertiti and the others, it wasn’t just Mad’s wishful thinking—it was accurate in one critical sense: all humans shared a common ancestor. How could Mudford not know this? He was a dog and even
he
knew this. By the way and in case anyone was interested, he’d just learned a new word: “diary.” It was a place
where one wrote vicious things about one’s family and friends and hoped to god they never saw. With “diary” his word count was now up to 648.

“See you both in the morning,” Harriet called, slamming the door behind her.

“What’s wrong with our family, Mom?” Madeline repeated.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth said sharply, clearing the table. “Six-Thirty, help me with the fume hood. I want to try cleaning the dishes using a hydrocarbon vapor.”

“Tell me about Dad.”

“I’ve told you everything, sweetheart,” she said, her face suddenly lit with affection. “He was a brilliant, honest, loving man. A great rower and gifted chemist. He was tall and gray eyed, like you, and he had very large hands. His parents died in an unfortunate collision with a train, and his aunt hit a tree. He went to live in a boys home, where…” She paused, her blue-and-white-checked dress swaying at her calves as she reconsidered her dishwashing experiment. “Do me a favor, Mad, and put on this oxygen mask. And Six-Thirty, let me help you with your goggles. There,” she said, adjusting everyone’s straps. “Anyway, then your father went on to Cambridge where he—”

“Oys ome,” Mad attempted through the mask.

“We’ve been over this, honey. I don’t know much about the boys home. Your father didn’t like to talk about it. It was private.”

“Pri-ate? Or se-ret?” she attempted through the mask.

“Private,” her mother said firmly. “Sometimes bad things happen. This is a fact of life. In terms of the boys home, your father did not talk about it because I suspect he knew dwelling on it would not change it. He was raised without a family, without parents he could count on, without the protection and love every child is entitled to. But he persevered. Often the best way to deal with the bad,” she said, feeling for her pencil, “is to turn it on end—use it as a strength, refuse to allow the bad thing to define you.
Fight
it.”

The way she said it—like a warrior—made Madeline worry. “Have bad things happened to you too, Mom?” she tried to ask. “Besides dad dying?” But the dish cleaning experiment was in full swing, and her question was lost in the cocoon of the mask and the ringing of the phone.

“Yes, Walter,” Elizabeth said a moment later.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything—”

“Not at all,” she said, despite an unusual humming in the background. “How can I help?”

“Well, I was calling about two things. The first is the family tree assignment. I was just wondering—”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “We’re in trouble.”

“Us too,” he said miserably. “She seemed to know the names I put on the branches were complete fabrications. Is that what you did, too?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Mad made a math error.”

He paused, not understanding.

“I have to see Mudford tomorrow,” she continued. “By the way, I wasn’t sure if you’d heard, but both girls have been assigned to her classroom again in the fall. She’s teaching first grade, and when I say ‘teaching’ of course I’m being ironic. I’ve already registered a complaint.”

“Lord,” Walter sighed.

“What’s the second thing, Walter?”

“It’s Phil,” he said. “He’s, uh…he’s not…happy.”

“Nor am I,” Elizabeth said. “How did he ever become executive producer? He lacks vision, leadership, and manners. And the way he treats the women at the station is contemptible.”

“Well,” Walter said, thinking how, when discussing Elizabeth a few weeks back, Lebensmal had actually spat at him. “I agree that he can be a bit of a character.”

“That’s not character, Walter. That’s degradation. I’m going to register a complaint with the board.”

Walter shook his head.
Again with the complaints.
“Elizabeth, Phil’s
on
the board.”

“Well, someone needs to be made aware of his behavior.”

“Surely,” Walter said with a sigh, “surely you know by now that the world is filled with Phils. Our best bet is to try and get along. Make the best of a bad situation. Why can’t you just do that?”

She tried to think of a good reason to make the best of Phil Lebensmal. No—she couldn’t come up with a single thing.

“Look, I have an idea,” he continued. “Phil’s been courting a new potential sponsor— a soup manufacturer. He wants you to use the soup on your show, like in a casserole. Do that—attract a big sponsor—and I think he’ll cut us some slack.”

“A soup manufacturer? I only work with fresh ingredients.”

“Can you at least
try
to meet me halfway?” he begged. “It’s one can of soup. Think of the others—all the people who work on your show. We all have families to feed, Elizabeth; we all need to keep our jobs.”

From her end of the phone came silence, as if she were weighing his words. “I’d like to meet with Phil face-to-face,” she said. “Clear the air.”

“No,”
Walter emphasized. “Not that. Never that.”

She exhaled sharply. “Fine. Today is Monday. Bring the can in on Thursday. I’ll see what I can do.”

But the week steadily got worse. The next day—Tuesday—Mudford’s tree assignment revelations were the talk of the school: Madeline had been born out of wedlock; Amanda didn’t have a mother; Tommy Dixon’s father was an alcoholic. Not that any of the children themselves cared about these facts, but Mudford, her mean eyes wet with excitement, ate up the data like a hungry virus, then fed it to the other mothers, who spread it around school like frosting.

On Wednesday, someone surreptitiously shoved a sheet of paper listing the compensation of every KCTV employee under Elizabeth’s door. Elizabeth stared at the figures. She made a third of what the sports guy did? A guy who was on the air less than three minutes a day and whose only skill involved reading scores? Worse, apparently there was something called “profit-sharing” at KCTV. But only the male employees had been invited to take part.

But it was the way Harriet looked when she arrived on Thursday morning that made Elizabeth rage.

She’d just finished tucking a note into Madeline’s lunch box—
Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, but it can be rearranged. In other words, don’t sit next to Tommy Dixon
—when Harriet sat down at the table, and despite the darkness of the morning, did not remove her sunglasses.

“Harriet?” Elizabeth said, instantly alarmed.

In a voice that was trying very hard to make it seem like it was no big deal, Harriet explained that Mr. Sloane had been out of sorts last night. She’d tossed some of his girlie magazines, the Dodgers had lost, he didn’t approve of the way Elizabeth encouraged that woman to be a heart surgeon. He winged an empty beer bottle at her and she’d fallen back like a target at a shooting range.

“I’m calling the police,” Elizabeth said, reaching for the phone.

“No,” Harriet said, resting her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “They won’t do anything and I refuse to give him that satisfaction. Besides, I belted him with my purse.”

“I’m going over there right now,” Elizabeth said. “He needs to understand this sort of behavior will not be tolerated.” She stood up. “I’ll get my baseball bat.”

“No. If you attack him, the police will be all over you, not him.”

Elizabeth thought about this. Harriet was right. Her jaw
tensed and she felt the too-familiar rage from her own police encounter years ago.
No statement of regret, then?
She reached back and felt for her pencil.

“I can take care of myself. He doesn’t scare me, Elizabeth; he disgusts me. There’s a difference.”

Elizabeth knew this feeling exactly. She bent down and put her arms around Harriet. Despite their friendship, the two women rarely touched. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Elizabeth said, pulling her close. “You
know
that, don’t you?”

Harriet, surprised, looked up at Elizabeth, tears forming. “Well me, too. Ditto.” Then the older woman finally pulled away. “It’ll be okay,” Harriet promised, wiping her face. “Just let it go.”

But Elizabeth was not the type of person who let things go. When she pulled out of the driveway five minutes later, she’d already formulated a plan.

“Hello, viewers,” Elizabeth said three hours later. “And welcome back. See this?” She held a soup can close to the camera. “It’s a real time-saver.”

From his producer’s chair, Walter gasped in gratitude. She was using the soup!

“That’s because it’s full of chemicals,” she said, tossing it with a clunk into a nearby garbage can. “Feed enough of it to your loved ones and they’ll eventually die off, saving you tons of time since you won’t have to feed them anymore.”

The cameraman turned to look at Walter, confused. Walter glanced down at his watch as if he’d forgotten an important appointment, then got up and walked out, making his way directly to the parking lot, where he got in his car and drove home.

“Luckily, there are much faster ways to kill off your loved ones,” she continued, walking to her easel, where a selection of mushroom drawings was on display, “and mushrooms are an excellent place to start. If it were me, I’d opt for the
Amanita phalloides,
” she said, tapping one of the drawings, “also known
as the death cap mushroom. Not only does its poison withstand high heat, making it a go-to ingredient for a benign-looking casserole, but it very much resembles its nontoxic cousin, the straw mushroom. So if someone dies and there’s an inquiry, you can easily play the dumb housewife and plead mistaken mushroom identity.”

Phil Lebensmal looked up from his desk at one of the screens in his TV-littered office. What did she just say?

“The great thing about poisonous mushrooms,” she continued, “is how easily they adapt to different forms. If not a casserole, why not try a stuffed mushroom? Something you can share with your next-door neighbor—the one who goes out of his way to make life miserable for his wife. He’s already got one foot in the grave. Why not help him with the other?”

At this, someone in the audience let out a whoop of unexpected laughter and a clap. Meanwhile, the camera also managed to capture several pair of hands carefully writing down the words
“Amanita phalloides.”

“Of course, I’m only kidding about poisoning your loved ones,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure your husbands and children are all wonderful human beings who always go out of their way to tell you how much they appreciate your hard work. Or, in the unlikely event that you work outside the home, that your fair-minded boss ensures you’re paid the same wage as your male counterpart.” This also got even more laughs and claps, all of which followed her as she walked back behind the counter. “It’s broccoli-
mushroom
casserole night,” she said, holding up a basket of—maybe?—straw mushrooms. “Let’s get started.”

It’s fair to say no one in California touched their dinners that night.

“Zott,” Rosa, the makeup woman, said on her way out. “Lebensmal wants to see you at seven.”

“
Seven?” Elizabeth blanched. “Obviously the man has no
children. By the way, have you seen Walter? I think he’s mad at me.”

“He left early,” Rosa said. “Look, I don’t think you should go see Lebensmal by yourself. I’ll come with you.”