Lessons in Chemistry(55)
“You mean flips.”
“Flip-outs,” he insisted, getting in his car. “Yesterday one of my kids hit the other with a shovel.”
Chapter 20
Life Story
Although she was only almost four, Mad was already bigger than most five-year-olds and could read better than many sixth graders. But despite these physical and intellectual strides, just like her antisocial mother and grudge-holding father, she had few friends.
“I’m worried it could be a gene mutation,” Elizabeth confided to Harriet. “Calvin and I could both be carriers.”
“The I-hate-people gene?” Harriet said. “There is one?”
“Shyness,” corrected Elizabeth. “Introversion. So guess what: I’ve enrolled her in kindergarten. The new school year starts Monday and suddenly it made so much sense. Mad needs to be around children—you’ve said so yourself.”
It was true. Harriet had voiced that opinion at least a hundred times in the last few years. Madeline was a precocious child with extraordinary verbal and comprehension abilities, but Harriet wasn’t convinced she was gaining in average areas—how to tie shoes, how to play with dolls. The other day she’d suggested they make mud pies and Mad frowned, then wrote 3.1415 with a stick in the dirt. “Done,” she’d said.
Besides, if Mad went off to school, what was she, Harriet, supposed to do with her day? She’d grown accustomed to being necessary.
“She’s too young,” Harriet insisted. “She has to be at least five years old. Better, six.”
“They mentioned that,” Elizabeth said. “Nevertheless, she’s in.”
What Elizabeth neglected to say was that it wasn’t because Madeline was bright, but rather because Elizabeth had determined the chemical composition of ballpoint pen ink and found a way to alter Madeline’s birth certificate. Technically, Mad was far too young to be in kindergarten, but Elizabeth didn’t see what a technicality had to do with her daughter’s education.
“Woody Elementary,” she said, handing Harriet a sheet of paper. “Mrs. Mudford. Room six. I realize she might be a little more advanced than some of the other children, but I doubt she’ll be the only one reading Zane Grey, don’t you?”
Six-Thirty lifted his head in concern. He wasn’t so thrilled to hear this news either. Mad in school? What about his job? How could he protect the creature if she was in a classroom?
Elizabeth gathered the coffee cups and took them to the sink. This sudden school enrollment idea wasn’t all that sudden. She’d been to the bank several weeks ago to take out a reverse mortgage on the bungalow. They were broke. If Calvin hadn’t stuck her name on the deed, a fact she’d only discovered after he died, they’d be on welfare.
The bank manager was grim in his assessment of her situation. “Things will only get worse,” he warned. “As soon as your child is old enough, get her in school. Then find a job that actually pays. Or marry rich.”
She got back in her car and reviewed her options.
Rob a bank.
Rob a jewelry store.
Or here was a loathsome idea—go back to the place that had robbed her.
* * *
—
Twenty-five minutes later she walked into the Hastings lobby, hands shaking, skin clammy, the body’s warning system sounding all alarms. She inhaled, trying to draw in strength. “Dr. Donatti, please,” she said to the receptionist.
* * *
—
“Will I like school?” Mad asked, appearing out of nowhere.
“Absolutely,” Elizabeth said unconvincingly. “What’s that there?” She pointed to a large sheet of black construction paper Madeline was clutching in her right hand.
“My picture,” she said, placing it on the table in front of her mother as she leaned up against her. It was another chalk drawing—Madeline preferred chalk over crayons—but because chalk smudged so easily, her drawings often looked blurry, as if her subjects were trying to get off the page. Elizabeth looked down to see a few stick figures, a dog, a lawn mower, a sun, a moon, possibly a car, flowers, a long box. Fire appeared to be destroying the south; rain dominated the north. And there was one other thing: a big swirly white mass right in the middle.
“Well,” Elizabeth said, “this is really something. I can tell you’ve put a lot of work into this.”
Mad puffed her cheeks as if her mother didn’t know the half of it.
Elizabeth studied the drawing again. She’d been reading Madeline a book about how the Egyptians used the surfaces of sarcophagi to tell the tale of a life lived—its ups, its downs, its ins, its outs—all of it laid out in precise symbology. But as she read, she’d found herself wondering—did the artist ever get distracted? Ink an asp instead of a goat? And if so, did he have to let it stand? Probably. On the other hand, wasn’t that the very definition of life? Constant adaptations brought about by a series of never-ending mistakes? Yes, and she should know.
* * *
—
Dr. Donatti had appeared in the lobby ten minutes later. Oddly, he seemed almost relieved to see her. “Miss Zott!” he’d said, giving her a hug as she held her breath, revulsed. “I was just thinking about you!”