Lessons in Chemistry(119)
“Who was it?” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. For the last two and a half years, she’d been waiting for Hastings to notice Calvin’s boxes were missing.
“The head of Personnel. But don’t worry. I told her to go to hell.”
“Her?”
Harriet shuffled through the messages. “Here it is. A Miss Frask.”
“Frask isn’t at Hastings,” Elizabeth said, relieved. “She was fired years ago. She types sermons for Wakely.”
“Interesting,” Harriet said. “Well, she claimed she’s head of Personnel at Hastings.”
Elizabeth frowned. “She likes to kid.”
* * *
—
After Harriet’s car pulled out of the driveway, Elizabeth poured herself a cup of coffee, then reached for the phone.
“Miss Frask’s office, Miss Finch speaking,” said the voice.
“Miss Frask’s office?” Elizabeth scoffed.
“Excuse me?” came the voice.
Elizabeth hesitated. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but who is this?”
“Who is this?” demanded the voice.
“Okay, okay,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll play along. Elizabeth Zott calling for Miss Frask.”
“Elizabeth Zott,” the person on the other end said. “Good one.”
“Is there a problem?” Elizabeth asked.
It was the tone. The woman on the other end recognized it immediately. “Oh,” she breathed. “It is you. I’m so sorry, Miss Zott. I’m such a fan. It’s an honor to connect you. Please hold.”
“Zott,” came a voice a moment later. “About fucking time!”
“Hello, Frask,” Elizabeth said. “Head of Personnel at Hastings? Does Wakely know you’re making crank calls?”
“Three things, Zott,” Frask said briskly. “One: loved the article. I always knew I’d see you back on the cover of something, but there? Stroke of genius. If you want to reach the choir, it only makes sense to go where they worship.”
“What?”
“Two, I love that housekeeper of yours—”
“Harriet is not a housekeeper—”
“—the second I told her I was calling from Hastings, she told me to go to hell. Made my day.”
“Frask—”
“Third, I need you to come in as soon as possible—as in today—in the next hour or so if you can swing it. Remember that fat-cat investor? He’s back.”
“Frask,” Elizabeth sighed, “you know I love a good joke, but—”
Frask laughed. “You love a joke? Is that supposed to be a joke? No, Zott, listen. I’m back at Hastings—in fact I’m top of the heap. That investor of yours saw the letter I wrote to Life and contacted me. I’ll fill you in on the details later; I don’t have time now. I’m cleaning house. God, I love to clean! Can you come or not? Also, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can you bring the damn dog? The investor wants to meet him.”
* * *
—
Harriet entered the law offices of Hanson & Hanson, her hands shaking. For the last thirty years, she’d confessed to her priest that her husband drank and cursed and never himself attended Mass, that he treated her as his own personal slave, that he called her names. And for the last thirty years, the priest had nodded, then explained that while divorce was out of the question, she still had lots of options. For example, she could pray to find ways to become a better wife, she could take a good look at herself and try to understand how she upset him, she could take more care with her appearance.
That’s why she’d subscribed to all those women’s magazines—because they were bibles of self-improvement and they would show her what to do. But no matter what advice she followed, things between her and Mr. Sloane did not improve. Worse, sometimes the advice backfired—like the time she’d gotten a perm, something the magazine claimed would “make him sit up and take notice,” but instead resulted in endless complaints about how terrible she smelled. But then Elizabeth Zott came into her life and she finally realized that maybe what she needed wasn’t new clothes or a different hairdo. Maybe what she needed was a career. In magazines.
Was there anyone in the world who knew more about magazines than she did? It wasn’t possible. And to prove this point, she knew exactly where to start. With Roth’s still unpublished article.
In Harriet’s opinion, Roth had made the classic error of article placement—he’d assumed only science magazines would be interested in a piece on women in science. Harriet knew that was wrong. She called him, prepared to present her case, but his answering service relayed that Roth was still in—what was it? Vietnam. So she submitted his article without his permission. Why not? If it was accepted, he’d thank her, and if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t be any worse off than he was now.
She took the package to the post office to weigh it, added a self-addressed, stamped envelope to ensure a speedy reply, then performed three Hail Marys, two signs of the cross, took one deep breath, and dropped it in the slot.
After two weeks without any response, she felt a twinge of worry. After four months, the burn of rejection. She tried to face facts. Maybe she didn’t know magazines as well as she thought she did. Maybe no one wanted Harriet and her Roth article, just like no one wanted Elizabeth and her abiogenesis.