Lessons in Chemistry(100)

“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.”

“Lost a child?” Wakely said. “But Evans was an adult when he died.”

“Y-y-yes,” the bishop stammered. “Correct. It’s just that we still refer to our past residents as children. Because that’s when we knew them best—as children. Calvin Evans was a wonderful kid, too. Smart as a whip. Very tall. Now about that donation.”