Lessons in Chemistry(52)

She watched as Elizabeth popped Mad up onto her lap, then held her close to the bubbling test tubes. The child’s eyes filled with wonder. What had Elizabeth called her teaching method? Experiential learning?

“Children are sponges,” Elizabeth explained the previous week as Harriet chided her for reading aloud to Madeline from On the Origin of Species. “I’m not about to allow Mad to dry out early.”

“Dry,” Mad shouted. “Dry, dry, dry!”

“But surely she can’t understand a word of what Darwin wrote,” Harriet argued. “At the very least, couldn’t you read her the abridged version?” Harriet only ever read abridged versions. Reader’s Digest was her favorite publication for that very reason—they cut big boring books down to a chewable size like St. Joseph aspirin. She once overheard a woman in the park saying she wished Reader’s Digest would condense the Bible, and Harriet found herself thinking, Yes—and marriages.

“I don’t believe in abridgments,” Elizabeth said. “Anyway, I think Mad and Six-Thirty enjoy it.”

That was the other thing—Elizabeth read to Six-Thirty, too. Harriet was fond of Six-Thirty; in fact, sometimes she felt like she and the dog shared similar worries about Elizabeth’s que será, será approach to parenting.

“I wish you could talk to her,” Harriet told him more than once. “She’d listen to you.”

Six-Thirty looked back at her, exhaling. Elizabeth did listen to him—obviously communication was not limited to conversation. Still, he sensed that most people did not listen to their dogs. This was called ignoring. Or wait, no. Ignorance. He’d just learned that one. By the way and not to brag, but his word count was up to 497.



* * *



—

The only person besides Elizabeth who didn’t seem to underestimate what a dog understood, or what it meant to be a working mother, was Dr. Mason. As threatened, he dropped by her home about a year after the delivery, ostensibly to see how things were going, but more obviously to remind her about his boat.



* * *



—

“Hello, Miss Zott,” he said as she opened the door at seven fifteen a.m., astonished to see him there, in his rowing kit, his crew cut damp from a hard row in the morning fog. “How are things? Not to make this about me, but I had the most godawful row this morning.” He stepped in and walked past her, casually fighting his way upstream through the litter of babyhood until making it to the lab, where he found Mad contemplating her escape from her high chair.

“Well there she is!” he beamed. “All grown up and still alive. Excellent.” He noted a pile of freshly washed diapers, grabbed one, and began to fold. “I can’t stay long, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check in.” He leaned down to take a better look at Mad. “My golly, she’s a big one. I guess we can thank Evans for that. How goes the parenting?” But before Elizabeth could answer, he picked up Dr. Spock’s baby book. “Spock’s a decent source of information. He’s a rower, you know. Won a gold medal in the Olympics in 1924.”

“Dr. Mason,” Elizabeth said, surprised at how glad she was to see him as she took in the smell of ocean on his clothes. “It’s nice of you to drop by, but—”

“Don’t worry, I can’t stay long; I’m on call. I promised my wife I’d watch the kids this morning. Just wanted to see how things are going. You look tired, Miss Zott. What about help? Do you have someone?”

“My neighbor drops by.”

“Excellent. Proximity is critical. And what about you—how are you taking care of yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Still exercising?”

“Well, I—”

“Erging?”

“A lit—”

“Good. Where is it? The erg.” He went to the next room. “Oh my lord,” she heard him say. “Evans was a sadist.”

“Dr. Mason?” she called, drawing him back to the lab. “It’s nice to see you, but I’ve got a meeting here in thirty minutes and I have a lot to—”

“Sorry,” he said, popping back in. “I don’t usually do this—drop in on patients postdelivery. To be honest, I never see any of my patients again unless they decide to swell the ranks.”

“I’m honored,” she said. “But like I said, I’m—”

“Busy,” he finished for her. He went over to the sink and started to wash the dishes. “So,” he said, “you’ve got the baby, the erg, your freelance work, your research.” He ticked off her commitments, lifting his soapy hands as he ran his eyes around the room. “This is a decent lab by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Did Evans—”

“No.”

“Then—”

“I built it. During my pregnancy.”

He shook his head in wonder.

“I had help,” she said, gesturing to Six-Thirty, who stood by Mad’s chair like a sentry waiting for food to drop.

“Ah, yes, there he is. Dogs are enormously helpful. My wife and I found our dog was a sort of a child trial run,” he said, examining a pan. “Brillo pad?”