Lessons in Chemistry(70)
“Ah—”
“There were times,” she explained matter-of-factly, “that I would wake up in the middle of the night filled with desire—I’m sure that’s happened to you—but Calvin was in the middle of a REM cycle, so I didn’t disturb him. But then I mentioned it later and he was practically apoplectic. ‘No, Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘always wake me up. REM cycle or no REM cycle. Do not hesitate.’ It wasn’t until I did more reading on testosterone that I better understood the male sex drive—”
“Speaking of drive,” Walter interrupted, his face scarlet. “I wanted to remind you to park in the north lot.”
“The north lot,” she said, her hands on her hips. “That’s the one off to the left as I pull in?”
“Exactly.”
“Anyway,” she continued. “I’m sorry that Mudford has implied you’re anything other than a loving father. I very much doubt she’s read the Kinsey Reports.”
“The Kinsey—”
“Because if she had, she’d actually understand that you and I are the opposite of sexual deviants. You and I are—”
“Normal parents?” he rushed.
“Loving role models.”
“Guardians.”
“Kin,” she finished.
It was that last word that cemented their odd, tell-all friendship, the kind that only arises when a wronged person meets someone who has been similarly wronged and discovers that while it may be the only thing they share, it is more than enough.
“Look,” Walter said, marveling that he’d never had such a frank discussion about sex or biology with anyone, including himself. “About the wardrobe. If the tailor can’t make those dresses more breathable, choose something from your closet for now.”
“You won’t consider the lab coat idea.”
“It’s more that I want you to be you,” he said. “Not a scientist.”
She tucked a few stray hairs behind her ears. “But I am a scientist,” she argued. “It’s who I am.”
“That may be, Elizabeth Zott,” he said, not knowing how true this would turn out to be. “But it’s only a start.”
Chapter 25
The Average Jane
In retrospect, he probably should have let her see the set.
As the music started to play—that charming little ditty Walter had paid far too much for and that she already hated—Elizabeth strode out on the stage. He took a short, sharp breath in. She was wearing a drab dress featuring small buttons that ran all the way down to the hem, a stark white multipocketed apron cinched tightly at the waist, and a Timex wristwatch that ticked so loudly, he swore he could hear it over the band’s drumbeat. On her head sat a pair of goggles. Just over her left ear, a number-two pencil. In one hand she carried a notebook; in the other, three test tubes. She looked like a cross between a hotel maid and a bomb squad expert.
He watched as she waited for the song to finish, her eyes traveling around the set from one corner to another, lips pressed together, and shoulders tensed in a way that signaled dissatisfaction. As the last note played, she turned toward the cue card, scanned it, then turned away. Setting her notebook and test tubes on the counter, she walked to the sink, her back to the camera, and leaned into the fake window to take in the fake view.
“This is revolting,” she said directly into the microphone.
The cameraman turned to look at Walter, his eyes wide.
“Remind her we’re live,” Walter hissed at him.
LIVE!!! the cameraman’s assistant hastily scribbled on a large board, holding it up for her to see.
Elizabeth read the reminder, and then holding up one finger as if to signal that this would only take another second, continued her self-guided tour, stopping to take in the kitchen’s carefully curated wall art— a Bless This House needlepoint, a depressed Jesus kneeling in prayer, an amateur painting of ships sailing on a sea—before moving on to crowded countertops, her brows arching in dismay at a sewing basket riddled with safety pins, a Mason jar filled with unwanted buttons, a ball of brown yarn, a chipped candy dish filled with peppermints, and a bread box across which Our Daily Bread was scrawled in religious script.
Just yesterday, Walter had given the set designer an A+ for his taste. “I especially love the knickknacks,” he’d told him. “They’re just right.” But today, next to her, they looked like junk. He watched as she paced to the other side of the counter, visibly blanching at the sight of hen and rooster salt and pepper shakers, hostilely eyeing the toaster’s knitted pink cozy, recoiling from a strange little ball made entirely of rubber bands. To the left of the ball was a cookie jar molded to look like a fat German woman making pretzels. She stopped abruptly, looking above her head at the large clock hanging on wires, its hands permanently fixed in the six o’clock position. supper at six was printed across its face in glittery type.
“Walter,” Elizabeth said, shielding her eyes as she looked out past the bright lights. “Walter, a word, please.”
“Commercial, commercial!” Walter hissed to the cameraman as she started to pick her way off the set down to where he was sitting. “Do it now! Now!”
“Elizabeth,” he said, launching himself out of his chair toward her. “You can’t do this! Get back up there! We’re live!”