Lessons in Chemistry(64)

“Humans need reassurance,” Wakely wrote back. “They need to know others survived the hard times. And, unlike other species, which do a better job of learning from their mistakes, humans require constant threats and reminders to be nice. You know how we say, ‘People never learn?’ It’s because they never do. But religious texts try to keep them on track.”

“But isn’t there more solace in science?” Calvin responded. “In things we can prove and therefore work to improve? I just don’t understand how anyone thinks anything written ages ago by drunk people is even remotely believable. And I’m not making a moral judgment here: those people had to drink, the water was bad. Still, I ask myself how their wild stories—bushes burning, bread dropping from heaven—seem reasonable, especially when compared to evidence-based science. There isn’t a person alive who would opt for Rasputin’s bloodletting techniques over the cutting-edge therapies at Sloan Kettering. And yet so many insist we believe these stories and then have the audacity to insist others believe them, too.”

“You make a fair point, Evans,” Wakely wrote back. “But people need to believe in something bigger than themselves.”

“Why?” Calvin pressed. “What’s wrong with believing in ourselves? Anyway, if stories must be used, why not rely on a fable or fairy tale? Aren’t they just as valid a vehicle for teaching morality? Except maybe better? Because no one has to pretend to believe that the fables and tales are true?”

Although he didn’t admit to it, Wakely found himself agreeing. No one had to pray to Snow White or fear the wrath of Rumpelstiltskin to understand the message. The stories were short, memorable, and covered all the bases of love, pride, folly, and forgiveness. Their rules were bite-sized: Don’t be a jerk. Don’t hurt other people or animals. Share what you have with others less fortunate. In other words, be nice. He decided to change the topic.

“Okay, Evans,” he wrote, referring to a previous letter, “I take your very literal point about how ministering can’t, technically, be in my blood, but we Wakelys become ministers just like cobblers’ sons become shoemakers. I’ll confess: I’ve always been attracted to biology, but that would never fly in my family. Maybe I’m just trying to please my father. Isn’t that what we all do in the end? What about you? Was your father a scientist? Are you trying to please him? If so, I’d say you succeeded.”

“I HATE MY FATHER,” Calvin typed in all capital letters in what would prove to be their final exchange. “I HOPE HE’S DEAD.”



* * *



—

I hate my father; I hope he’s dead. Elizabeth read it again, stunned. But Calvin’s father was dead—hit by a train at least two decades earlier. Why would he have written such a thing? And why had Calvin and Wakely stopped corresponding? The last letter was dated nearly ten years ago.



* * *



—

“Mom,” Mad said. “Mom! Are you listening? Are we poor?”

“Honey,” Elizabeth said, trying to stave off a nervous breakdown—had she really quit her job? “I’ve had a long day,” she said. “Please. Just eat your dinner.”

“But, Mom—”

They were interrupted by the jangle of the telephone. Mad jumped from her chair.

“Don’t answer it, Mad.”

“Might be important.”

“We’re eating dinner.”

“Hello?” Mad said. “Mad Zott speaking.”

“Honey,” Elizabeth said, taking the phone. “We don’t give out private information on the telephone, remember? Hello?” she said into the mouthpiece. “With whom am I speaking?”

“Mrs. Zott?” a voice said. “Mrs. Elizabeth Zott? It’s Walter Pine, Mrs. Zott. We met earlier this week.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Oh. Yes, Mr. Pine.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Perhaps your housekeeper neglected to give you my messages.”

“She is not a housekeeper and she did not neglect to give me your messages.”

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. “I see. I’m sorry. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you have a moment? Is this a good time?”

“No.”

“I’ll be quick, then,” he said, not wanting to lose her. “And again, Mrs. Zott, I’ve rectified the lunch situation. It’s all fixed; Amanda will only be eating her own lunch from now on, again my apologies. But now I’m calling for another reason— a business reason.”

He went on to remind her he was a producer of local afternoon TV programming. “KCTV,” he said proudly, even though he wasn’t. “And I’ve been thinking of changing my lineup a bit—adding a cooking show. Trying to spice things up, you might say,” he continued, taking a stab at humor, something he normally didn’t do but did now because Elizabeth Zott made him nervous. As he waited for the polite chuckle that should have come from the other end but didn’t, he grew even more anxious. “As a seasoned television producer, I feel the time is ripe for such a show.”

Again, nothing.

“I’ve been doing research,” he blathered on, “and based on some very interesting trends, and combined with my personal knowledge of successful afternoon programming, I believe cooking is poised to become a force in afternoon TV.”