Lessons in Chemistry(72)

“It is my experience that far too many people do not appreciate the work and sacrifice that goes into being a wife, a mother, a woman. Well, I am not one of them. At the end of our thirty minutes together, we will have done something worth doing. We will have created something that will not go unnoticed. We will have made supper. And it will matter.”

“What’s this?” Petey’s mother said.

“Dunno,” said Petey.

“Now, let’s get started,” Elizabeth said.



* * *



—

Later, in her dressing room, Rosa, the hairdresser and makeup woman, stopped by to say goodbye. “For the record, I liked the hair pencil.”

“For the record?”

“Lebensmal’s been screaming at Walter for the last twenty minutes.”

“Because of a pencil?”

“Because you didn’t follow the script.”

“Well, yes. But only because the cue cards were unreadable.”

“Oh,” Rosa said, visibly relieved. “That was it? The type wasn’t big enough?”

“No, no,” Elizabeth said. “I meant the cards were misleading.”

“Elizabeth,” Walter said, appearing at her dressing room door, his face red.

“Anyway,” she whispered, “goodbye forever.” She gave Elizabeth’s arm a little squeeze.

“Hello, Walter,” Elizabeth said. “I was just making up a list of a few things we’ll need to change right away.”

“Don’t hello me,” he shot back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Why there’s nothing wrong with me. I actually thought it went rather well. I admit I stumbled at the beginning, but only because I was in shock. It won’t happen again, not after we fix the set.”

He stomped across the room and threw himself into a chair. “Elizabeth,” he said. “This is a job. You have two duties: to smile and read cue cards. That’s it. You don’t get to have an opinion about the set or the cards.”

“I think I do.”

“No!”

“Anyway, I couldn’t read the cards.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “We practiced different type sizes, remember? So I know you can read the damn cards. Jesus, Elizabeth, Lebensmal’s ready to cancel the whole thing. Do you realize you’ve put both of our jobs in jeopardy?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll go speak with him right now.”

“Oh no,” Walter said quickly. “Not you.”

“Why?” she said. “I want to clarify a few things, especially about the set. And as for the cue cards—again, I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean I couldn’t read them; I meant my conscience wouldn’t let me read them. Because they were awful. Who wrote the script?”

He pursed his lips. “I did.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “But those words. They didn’t sound like me at all.”

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “That was intentional.”

She looked surprised. “I thought you told me to be me.”

“Not that you,” he said. “Not the ‘this is going to be really, really complicated’ you. Not the ‘far too many people do not appreciate the work and sacrifice that goes into being a wife, a mother, a woman’ you. No one wants to hear that stuff, Elizabeth. You have to be positive, happy, upbeat!”

“But that’s not me.”

“But it could be you.”

Elizabeth reviewed her life to date. “Not a chance.”

“Could we not argue about this,” Walter said, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. “I’m the afternoon programming expert and I’ve already explained how this all works.”

“And I’m the woman,” she snapped, “speaking to an all-woman audience.”

A secretary appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Pine,” she said. “We’re getting calls about the show. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Jesus mother of god,” he said. “Complaints already.”

“It’s about the shopping list. Some confusion about tomorrow’s ingredients. Specifically, CH3COOH.”

“Acetic acid,” Elizabeth supplied. “Vinegar—it’s four percent acetic acid. I’m sorry— I probably should have written the list in layman’s terms.”

“You think?” Walter said.

“Thanks much,” the secretary said, disappearing.

“Where’d the shopping list idea come from anyway?” he demanded. “We never discussed a shopping list—especially not one written in chemical form.”

“I know,” she said, “it came to me as I was about to walk out on set. I think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”

Walter sank his head into his hands. It was a good idea; he just wasn’t willing to admit it. “You can’t do this,” he said in a muffled voice. “You can’t do whatever the hell you want.”

“I’m not doing whatever the hell I want,” Elizabeth nipped. “If I was doing whatever the hell I wanted, I’d be in a research lab. Look,” she said. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re experiencing a rise in corticosterone levels—what you call the Afternoon Depression Zone. You should probably eat something.”