Lessons in Chemistry(5)
“Yes. But not fondly.”
“I came to apologize.”
“No need.”
“How about lunch?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“Listen,” Elizabeth said, her large mitts resting on her hipbones, “you should know you’re starting to annoy me.”
Calvin looked away, embarrassed. “I sincerely beg your pardon,” he said. “I’ll go.”
* * *
—
“Was that Calvin Evans?” a lab tech asked as he watched Calvin weave his way through fifteen scientists working elbow to elbow in a space a quarter the size of Calvin’s private lab. “What was he doing down here?”
“Minor beaker ownership issue,” Elizabeth said.
“Beakers?” He hesitated. “Wait.” He picked up one of the new beakers. “That big box of beakers you said you found last week. They were his?”
“I never said I found beakers. I said I acquired beakers.”
“From Calvin Evans?” he said. “Are you crazy?”
“Not technically.”
“Did he say you could take his beakers?”
“Not technically. But I had a form.”
“What form? You know you have to go through me. You know ordering supplies is my job.”
“I understand. But I’ve been waiting for more than three months. I’ve asked you four times, I’ve filled out five requisition orders, I’ve spoken to Dr. Donatti about it. Honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. My research depends on getting these supplies. They’re just beakers.”
The lab tech closed his eyes. “Listen,” he said, slowly reopening them as if to dramatize her stupidity. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you and I know things. You know what Calvin Evans is famous for, don’t you? Besides chemistry?”
“Yes. Having an excess of equipment.”
“No,” he said. “He’s famous for holding a grudge. A grudge!”
“Really?” she said taking interest.
* * *
—
Elizabeth Zott held grudges too. Except her grudges were mainly reserved for a patriarchal society founded on the idea that women were less. Less capable. Less intelligent. Less inventive. A society that believed men went to work and did important things—discovered planets, developed products, created laws—and women stayed at home and raised children. She didn’t want children—she knew this about herself—but she also knew that plenty of other women did want children and a career. And what was wrong with that? Nothing. It was exactly what men got.
She’d recently read about some country where both parents worked and took part in raising the children. Where was that, again? Sweden? She couldn’t remember. But the upshot was, it functioned very well. Productivity was higher; families were stronger. She saw herself living in such a society. A place that didn’t always automatically mistake her for a secretary, a place where, when she presented her findings in a meeting, she didn’t have to brace herself for the men who would invariably talk over her, or worse, take credit for her work. Elizabeth shook her head. When it came to equality, 1952 was a real disappointment.
“You have to apologize to him,” the lab tech was insisting. “When you take the damn beakers back, grovel. You put our entire lab at risk, and you made me look bad.”
“It’ll be fine,” Elizabeth said. “They’re beakers.”
But by the next morning, the beakers were gone, replaced by dirty looks from a few of her fellow chemists who now also believed she’d put them in jeopardy of Calvin Evans’s legendary grudge holding. She tried to talk with them, but each gave her the cold shoulder in their own way, and later, as she was walking by the lounge, she overheard the same few grousing about her—about how she took herself so seriously, how she thought she was better than any of them, how she’d refused dates from all of them, even the single men. And how the only way she could have possibly gotten her master’s from UCLA in organic chemistry was the hard way—the word “hard” being accompanied by rude gestures and tight laughter. Who did she think she was anyway?
“Someone ought to put her in her place,” said one.
“She’s not even that smart,” insisted another.
“She’s a cunt,” declared a familiar voice. Her boss, Donatti.
Elizabeth, accustomed to the first words but stunned by the last, pressed herself against the wall, overcome by a wave of nausea. This was the second time she’d been called that word. The first time—the first horrible time—had been at UCLA.
* * *
—
It had happened nearly two years ago. A master’s candidate with only ten days left before graduation, she was still in the lab at nine p.m., certain she’d found a problem with the test protocol. As she tapped a freshly sharpened number-two pencil against the paper, weighing her hunch, she heard the door open.
“Hello?” she called. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
“You’re still here,” said a voice free of surprise. Her advisor.
“Oh. Hello, Dr. Meyers,” she said, looking up. “Yes. Just going over the test protocol for tomorrow. I think I found a problem.”