Lessons in Chemistry (27 page)

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” Harriet said. “And even if I did, I know better.”

“Smart woman,” Walter said. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”

Actually, he thought to himself, he only had one: Elizabeth Zott. And she wasn’t just a friend, she was his best friend. He’d never told her she was, but she was. Yes, there were plenty of people who would argue that a man and woman couldn’t really be friends. They were wrong. He and Elizabeth discussed everything, intimate things—death, sex, and children. Plus, they had each other’s backs like friends do, even laughed together like friends do. Granted, Elizabeth wasn’t a big laugher. Still, despite the show’s growing popularity, she seemed more depressed than ever.

“So,” Walter said, “why don’t we get you out of here before your mom sees us and we all fry in stomach acid.”

“But why do you think my mom’s so popular?” Madeline asked, still wishing she didn’t have to share her.

“Because she says exactly what she thinks,” Walter said. “Which is very rare. But also because the food she makes is very, very good. And because everyone seems to want to learn chemistry. Oddly.”

“But why is saying what you think so rare?”

“Because there are consequences,” Harriet said.

“Huge consequences,” Walter agreed.

From a TV in the corner Elizabeth said, “It looks like we have time today to take a question from our studio audience. Yes—you there, in the lavender dress.”

A woman stood up, beaming. “Yes, hello, my name is Edna Flattistein and I’m from China Lake? I just want to say, I love the show, and I especially loved what you said about being grateful for food, and I just wondered if you have a favorite grace you recite before each meal, to thank our Lord and Savior for the bounty! I’d love to hear it! Thank you!”

Elizabeth shielded her eyes as if to get a better look at Edna.
“Hello, Edna,” she said, “and thanks for your question. The answer is no; I don’t have a favorite grace. In fact, I don’t say grace at all.”

Standing in the office, both Walter and Harriet paled.

“Please,” Walter whispered. “Don’t say it.”

“Because I’m an atheist,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly.

“Thar she blows,” Harriet said.

“In other words, I don’t believe in God,” added Elizabeth as the audience gasped.

“Wait. Is that rare?” Madeline piped up. “Is not believing in God one of those
rare
things?”

“But I do believe in the people who made the food possible,” Elizabeth continued. “The farmers, the pickers, the truckers, the grocery store shelf stockers. But most of all, I believe in you, Edna. Because you made the meal that nourishes your family. Because of you, a new generation flourishes. Because of you, others live.”

She paused, checking the clock, then turned directly to the camera. “That’s all we have time for today. I hope you’ll join me tomorrow as we explore the fascinating world of temperature and how it affects flavor.” Then she cocked her head slightly to the left, almost as if she were considering whether she’d gone too far or not far enough. “Children, set the table,” she said with extra resolution. “Your mother needs a moment to herself.”

And within a few seconds, Walter’s phone began to ring and did not stop.

Faith

In 1960, people did not go on television and say they didn’t believe in God and expect to be on television much longer. As proof, Walter’s phone was soon filled with threats from sponsors and viewers who wanted Elizabeth Zott fired, jailed, and/or stoned to death. The latter came from self-proclaimed people of God—the same God that preached tolerance and forgiveness.

“Goddammit, Elizabeth,” Walter said, having slipped Harriet and Madeline out the side door ten minutes earlier. “Some things are just better left unsaid!” They were sitting in Elizabeth’s dressing room, her yellow-checked apron still wound firmly around her narrow waist. “You have every right to believe what you want to believe, but you shouldn’t force your belief on others, especially not on national television.”

“How did I force my belief on others?” she asked, surprised.

“You know what I mean.”

“Edna Flattistein asked me a direct question and I answered it. I’m glad she feels she can express her belief in God and I welcome her right to do so. But I should be extended the same courtesy. Plenty of people don’t believe in God. Some believe in astrology or tarot cards. Harriet believes if you blow on dice, you’ll get better numbers at Yahtzee.”

“I think we both know,” Walter said through gritted teeth, “that God is just a bit different from Yahtzee.”

“Agreed,” Elizabeth said. “Yahtzee is fun.”

“We’re going to pay for this,” Walter warned.

“Come on, Walter,” she said. “Have a little faith.”

Faith—that was supposed to be Reverend Wakely’s area of expertise, but today he was having trouble finding his. After spending hours consoling a whiney congregant who blamed everyone for everything, he returned to his office, wanting to be alone. But instead, he found his part-time typist, Miss Frask, at his desk, using his typewriter, plodding along at thirty words per minute, her eyes glued to his office’s television set.

“Take a good look at this tomato,” he heard a vaguely familiar-looking woman on the television say, a pencil sticking out from behind her head. “You might not believe you have anything in common with this fruit, but you do. DNA. Up to sixty percent. Now turn and look at the person next to you. Does she look familiar? She may or may not. Still, you and she share even more: ninety-nine point nine percent of your DNA—as you each do with every other human on earth.” She set the tomato down and held up a photograph of Rosa Parks. “That’s why I stand with our leaders of the civil rights movement, including the very brave Rosa Parks. Discrimination based on skin color is not only scientifically ludicrous, it’s also a sign of profound ignorance.”

“Miss Frask?” Wakely said.

“Hold on, Rev,” she said, holding up a finger. “It’s almost over. Here’s your sermon.” She yanked a sheet out of the typewriter.

“One would think the ignorant would die off sooner,” Elizabeth continued. “But Darwin overlooked the fact that the ignorant rarely forget to eat.”

“What
is
this?”

“
Supper at Six.
You’ve never heard of
Supper at Six
?”

“I have time for a question,” Elizabeth was saying, “Yes, you there in the—”

“Hello, my name is Francine Luftson and I’m from San Diego! And I just want to say, I’m such a fan even if you don’t believe in God! I was just wondering: Is there some sort of diet you recommend? I know I need to lose weight, but I really don’t want to feel hungry. I do take diet pills every day. Thank you!”

“Thanks, Francine,” Elizabeth said. “But I can clearly see that you are not overweight. Therefore, I have to assume you’ve been unduly influenced by the relentless imagery of the too-thin women that now fill our magazines, destroying your morale and submerging your self-worth. Instead of dieting and taking pills—” She paused. “Can I ask?” she said. “How many people in this audience take diet pills?”

A few nervous hands went up.

Elizabeth waited.

Most of the other hands went up.

“Stop taking those pills,” she demanded. “They’re amphetamines. They can lead to psychosis.”

“But I don’t like to exercise,” Francine said.

“Maybe you haven’t found the right exercise.”

“I watch Jack LaLanne.”

At the mention of Jack’s name, Elizabeth closed her eyes. “What about rowing?” she said, suddenly tired.

“Rowing?”

“Rowing,”
she repeated, opening her eyes. “It’s a brutal form of recreation designed to test every muscle in your body and mind. It takes place before dawn, too often in the rain. It results in thick calluses. It broadens the arms, chest, and thighs. Ribs crack; hands blister. Rowers sometimes ask themselves, ‘Why am I doing this?’ ”

“Jeepers,” Francine said, worried. “Rowing sounds awful!”

Elizabeth looked confused. “My point is rowing precludes the need for both diet and pills. It’s also good for your soul.”

“But I thought you didn’t believe in souls.”

Elizabeth sighed. She closed her eyes again. Calvin.
Are you actually saying women can’t row?

“I used to work with her,” Frask said, switching off the television. “At Hastings, until we both got fired. Seriously—you’ve never heard of her? Elizabeth Zott. She’s syndicated.”

“She’s a rower, too?” Wakely said, amazed.

“What do you mean, ‘too’?” Frask asked. “You know other rowers?”

“Mad,” Wakely said, as he took in the enormous dog Madeline had brought with her to the park, “why didn’t you tell me your mother was on television?”

“I thought you knew. Everyone knows. Especially now that she doesn’t believe in God.”

“It’s all right not to believe in God,” Wakely said. “That’s one of the things we mean when we say it’s a free country. People are welcome to believe whatever they want as long as their beliefs don’t hurt others. Besides, I happen to think science is a form of religion.”

Madeline raised one eyebrow.

“Who’s this, by the way?” he asked, reaching his hand out for the dog to sniff.

“Six-Thirty,” she said as two women walked by chatting loudly.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sheila,” one of the women was asking, “but didn’t she say cast iron requires zero-point-one-one calories of heat to raise the temperature of a single gram of atomic mass by one degree Celsius?”

“That’s right, Elaine,” the other said. “That’s why I’m buying a new skillet.”

“I remember him now,” Wakely continued after the women had passed. “From your family photograph. What a handsome dog.”

Six-Thirty pressed his head into the man’s palm.
Good man.

“Anyway, I bet you think I forgot all about this—so much
time has passed—but I did finally follow up with All Saints. The truth is, I’d called several times after we first spoke, but the bishop was never in. Today, though, I reached his secretary and she said there’s no record of a Calvin Evans. Looks like we have the wrong home.”

“No,” Madeline said. “That’s the one. I’m
positive.
”

“Mad, I doubt a church secretary would lie.”

“Wakely,” she said. “Everybody lies.”

All Saints

“What’s it called again? All Saints?” the bishop repeated in shock. It was 1933, and although he’d been hoping for a new assignment in a wealthy parish soaked in scotch, instead he’d netted a ratty boys home in the middle of Iowa where more than a hundred boys of varying ages in training to become future criminals served as a constant reminder that the next time he made fun of an archbishop he would try not to do it to his face.

“All Saints,” the archbishop had said. “The place needs discipline. Just like you.”

“The truth is, I’m not good with children,” he’d told the archbishop. “Widows, prostitutes—that’s where I really shine. What about Chicago?”

“In addition to discipline,” the archbishop said, ignoring his plea, “the place needs money. Part of your work there will be to secure long-term funding. Do that and maybe I’ll find something better for you in the future.”

But the future never seemed to arrive. By the time 1937 rolled around, the bishop still hadn’t solved the cash-flow problem. The only productive thing he’d done? Edit his ten-page list of “I hate this place” fury down to five central problems: third-rate priests, starchy food, mildew, pedophiles, and a steady trickle of boys deemed too wild or too hungry to be part of a normal family. They were the kids no one wanted, and the
bishop completely understood because he didn’t want them either.

They’d been limping along via the usual Catholic means: sherry sales, Bible bookmarks, begging, brownnosing. But what they really needed was exactly what the archbishop had suggested—an endowment. The problem was, rich people tended to endow things the boys home didn’t have. Chairs. Scholarships. Memorials. No matter how often he tried to sell the endowment idea, potential donors could identify the fatal flaws right off the bat: “Scholarships?” they’d scoff. The boys home wasn’t really a school in the same way a prison isn’t really a place to rehabilitate— no one tries to get in. Funding a chair? Same problem—the home didn’t have departments, much less department chairs. Memorials? Their wards were too young to die, and anyway, who wanted to memorialize the very children everyone was trying to forget?

So here he was, four years later, still stuck in the middle of cornfields with a bunch of castaway kids. It seemed pretty clear no amount of prayer was going to change that. To pass the time he sometimes ranked the boys by who caused the most trouble, but even that was a waste of time because the same kid always topped the list. Calvin Evans.

“That minister from California called about Calvin Evans again,” the secretary said to the now-much-older white-haired bishop, dropping some files on his desk. “I’d already done what you’d said— I told him I’d checked the records and no one by that name had ever been here.”

“Good god. Why can’t he let us alone?” the bishop said, shoving the files off to the side. “Protestants. They never know when to quit!”

“Who was Calvin Evans anyway?” she asked curiously. “A priest?”

“No,” the bishop said, envisioning the boy who was the reason he was
still
in Iowa decades later. “A curse.”

After she left, the bishop shook his head, remembering how often Calvin had stood in his office, guilty of yet another infraction—breaking a window, stealing a book, giving a black eye to a priest who was only trying to make him feel loved. Well-meaning couples occasionally came to the boys home to adopt one of the boys, but no one ever showed interest in Calvin. Could you blame them?

But then one day that man, Wilson, had appeared out of thin air. Said he was from the Parker Foundation, a filthy-rich Catholic fund. When the bishop heard someone from the Parker Foundation was in the building, he was certain his ship had finally come in. His heart beat fast as he imagined the size of the donation this man Wilson might propose. He would listen to the offer, then, in a dignified way, push for more.

“Hello, Bishop,” Mr. Wilson said, as if he had no time to waste. “I’m looking for a young boy, ten years old, probably tall, blondish hair.” He went on to explain that this boy had lost his family via a series of accidents about four years earlier. He had reason to believe the boy was there, at All Saints. The boy had living relatives who’d recently learned of his existence; they wanted him back. “His name is Calvin Evans,” he finished, glancing at his watch as if he had another appointment to make. “If a boy of that description is here, I’d like to meet him. Actually, my plan is to take him back with me.”

The bishop stared at Wilson, his lips parted in disappointment. Between the time he’d heard that the rich man was in the building and their introductory handshake, he’d already crafted an acceptance speech.

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Wilson asked. “I hate to push, but I have a flight in two hours.”

Not a single mention of money. The bishop could feel Chicago
slipping away. He took a good long look at Wilson. The man was tall and arrogant. Just like Calvin.

“Perhaps I could go out and walk among the boys. See if I can’t recognize him on my own.”

The bishop turned to the window. Just that morning he’d caught Calvin washing his hands in the baptismal font. “There’s nothing holy about this water,” Calvin informed him. “It’s straight from the tap.”

But as eager as he was to get rid of Calvin, his bigger problem—money—remained. He stared out at the dozen or so wilted gravestones that littered the courtyard.
In Memoriam,
they claimed.

“Bishop?” Wilson was standing. His briefcase was already dangling from one hand.

The bishop didn’t reply. He didn’t like the man, or his fancy clothes, or the way he’d arrived without an appointment. He was a bishop, for god’s sake—where was the respect? He cleared his throat, stalling for time as he stared at the gravestones of all the bullied bishops who’d come before him. He could not let the Parker Foundation with its promise of untold funds get away.

He turned to Wilson. “I have terrible news,” he said. “Calvin Evans is dead.”

“By the way, if that annoying minister ever calls here again,” the old bishop continued to instruct his secretary as she cleared his coffee cup, “tell him I died. Or wait, no—tell him,” he said, tapping his fingers together, “that you’d learned there was a Calvin Evans in a different home—somewhere like, I don’t know, Poughkeepsie? But the place burned down and all the records were lost.”

“You want me to make something up?” she worried.

“You wouldn’t be making something up,” he said. “Not really. Buildings burn down all the time. Hardly anyone takes building codes seriously.”

“But—”

“Just do it,” the bishop said. “That minister is wasting our time. Our focus is on fundraising, remember? Money for
our living, breathing
children. You get a money call, I’m in. But this Calvin Evans nonsense—it’s a dead end.”

Wilson looked as if he must have misheard. “What…what did you just say?”

“Calvin recently passed away from pneumonia,” the bishop said simply. “Terrible shock. He was such a favorite here.” As he spun the tale, he mentioned Calvin’s good manners, his Bible class leadership, his love of corn. The more details he gave, the more rigid Wilson became. Fueled by how well the story was going, the bishop went to the filing cabinet to retrieve a photo. “We’re using this one for his memorial fund,” he said, pointing at a black and white of Calvin, his hands perched at his waist, his torso bent forward, his mouth open wide as if telling someone off. “I love that photo. It just says Calvin to me.”

He watched as Wilson stared down at the photograph, silent. The bishop waited for him to ask for some sort of proof. But no—he seemed to be in shock, mournful even.

He’d suddenly wondered if maybe this Mr. Wilson wasn’t a so-called long-lost relative. One thing fit—the height. Was Calvin his nephew, maybe? Or no—
his son
? Good god. If that was the case, the man had no idea how much trouble he was saving him. He cleared his throat and allowed a few more minutes for the sad news to sink in.

“Of course, we’ll want to endow the memorial fund,” Wilson finally said in an unsteady voice. “The Parker Foundation will want to honor the memory of this young boy.” He exhaled, which seemed to further deflate him, then reached down and pulled out a checkbook.

“Of course,” the bishop said sympathetically. “The Calvin Evans Memorial Fund. A special tribute for a special boy.”

“I’ll be back in touch with the details of how we’ll structure
our ongoing contribution, Bishop,” Wilson said, struggling, “but in the meantime, please accept this check on behalf of the Parker Foundation. We thank you for all you…did.”

The bishop had forced himself to take the check without looking at it, but once Wilson was out the door, he laid the slip of paper flat on his desk. Nice chunk of change. And more to come, thanks to his idea to create a memorial fund for someone who wasn’t even dead yet. He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. If anyone needed any further proof of God’s existence, they need look no further. All Saints: the place where God actually did help those who helped themselves.

After leaving Madeline in the park, Wakely had returned to his office and reluctantly picked up the phone. The only reason he was calling All Saints yet again was to prove to Mad that she was wrong. Not everybody lied. But talk about irony—first he had to lie himself.

“Good afternoon,” he said, imitating a British accent upon hearing the secretary’s familiar voice. “I’d like to speak to someone in your gifts department. I’m interested in making a sizable donation.”

“Oh!” the secretary said brightly. “Let me put you straight through to our bishop.”

“I understand you’d like to make a donation,” the old bishop said to Wakely a few moments later.

“That’s correct,” Wakely lied. “My ministry is dedicated to helping—uh—children,” he said, picturing Mad’s long face. “Orphans, specifically.”

But had Calvin Evans been an orphan?
Wakely mused to himself. When they were pen pals, Calvin had made it very clear that he did, indeed, have a living parent.
I HATE MY FATHER, I HOPE HE’S DEAD.
Wakely could still see the typing in all caps.

“To be even more specific, I’m looking for the place Calvin Evans grew up.”

“Calvin Evans? I’m sorry, but the name doesn’t ring any bells.”

From the other end of the phone, Wakely paused. The man was lying. He listened to liars every day; he knew. But what were the odds that two men of the cloth would lie to each other at the same time?

“Well, that’s too bad,” Wakely said carefully. “Because my donation is earmarked for the home where Calvin Evans spent his youth. I’m sure you do wonderful work, but you know how donors can be. Single-minded.”

On the other end of the line, the bishop pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. Yes, he did know how donors could be. The Parker Foundation had made his life a living hell; first with the science books and rowing silliness, then with their outsized reaction when they discovered their endowment was honoring the life of someone who wasn’t technically, well, dead
.
And the way they knew this? Because good old Calvin had managed to rise from the not-really-dead and appear on the cover of some no-name magazine called
Chemistry Today.
And about two seconds later, a woman named Avery Parker was on the phone threatening him with about a hundred different lawsuits.

Who was Avery Parker? The Parker behind the Parker Foundation.

The bishop had never spoken with her before—he’d only ever dealt with Wilson, whom he now gathered was her personal representative and lawyer. But now that he thought about it, he did remember a sloppy signature that sat next to Wilson’s on every single endowment document for the last fifteen years.

“You
lied
to the Parker Foundation?” she’d shouted on the phone. “You pretended Calvin Evans died from pneumonia at age ten just to get an endowment?”

And he thought,
Lady, you have no idea how bad it is here in Iowa.

“Mrs. Parker,” he’d said soothingly. “I understand you’re upset. But I swear the Calvin Evans who was here
is
very much
dead. Whoever appeared on that cover shares his name, nothing more. It’s a very common name.”

“No,” she insisted. “It was Calvin. I recognized him immediately.”

“You’d met Calvin before, then?”

She hesitated. “Well. No.”

“I see,” he said, using a tone that effectively communicated how ridiculous she was being.

She canceled the endowment five seconds later.

“Ours is a tough business, isn’t it Reverend Wakely?” the bishop said. “Donors are slippery fish. But I’ve got to be honest—we could really use your donation. Even if this Calvin Evans wasn’t here, we do have other boys who are just as deserving.”

“I’m sure they are,” Wakely agreed. “But my hands are tied. I can only give this donation—did I mention it’s fifty thousand dollars?—to Calvin Evans’s—”

“Wait,”
the bishop said, his heart beating fast at the mention of such a large sum. “Please try to understand: it’s a privacy issue. We don’t talk about individuals. Even if that boy had been here, we’re really not allowed to say.”

“Right,” said Wakely. “Still…”

The bishop glanced up at the clock. It was almost time for his favorite show,
Supper at Six.
“No, now
wait,
” he barked, not wanting to lose the donation or miss his show. “You’ve really forced my hand on this one. Between you and me and the wall, yes, this
is
where Calvin Evans grew up.”

“Really?” Wakely said, sitting up tall. “You have proof of this?”

“
Of course,
I have proof,” the bishop said, affronted, touching his fingertips to all the wrinkles Calvin had given him over the years. “Would we be home to the Calvin Evans Memorial Fund if he hadn’t been here?”

Wakely was taken aback. “Excuse me?
”

“The Calvin Evans Memorial Fund. We set it up years ago to honor that precious boy who went on to become an amazing young chemist. Any decent library will have tax documents proving its existence. But the Parker Foundation—they endowed it—insisted we never advertise it, and you can probably guess why. It’s not like they could afford to fund every home that lost a child.”