Lessons in Chemistry(76)

“I thought diplomacy meant being nice.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Even if she’s telling us wrong stuff.”

“Yes.”

Madeline chewed her lower lip.

“You make mistakes sometimes, don’t you? And you wouldn’t want someone to correct you in front of a lot of people, would you? Mrs. Mudford was probably just embarrassed.”

“She didn’t look embarrassed. And this isn’t the first time she’s given us bad information. Last week she said God created the earth.”

“Many people believe that,” Harriet said. “There’s nothing wrong with believing that.”

“You believe that?”

“Why don’t we take a look at this note,” she said quickly, unpinning the paper from Madeline’s sweater.

“It’s a family tree project,” Madeline said, clunking her lunch box on the counter. “Mom has to fill it in.”

“I don’t like these things,” Harriet muttered as she studied the badly drawn oak, its branches demanding names of relatives—living, lost, dead—one related to the other by marriage, birth, or bad luck. “Nosy little sapsucker. Did it come with a subpoena, too?”

“Should it have?” Madeline asked, awed.

“You know what I think?” Harriet said, folding the note back up. “I think these trees are a poor attempt to feel like you’re somebody based on somebody else. Usually comes with an invasion of privacy. Your mother is going to hit the roof. If I were you, I wouldn’t show this to her.”

“But I don’t know any of the answers. I don’t know anything about my dad.” She thought about the note her mother had left in her lunch box that morning. The librarian is the most important educator in school. What she doesn’t know, she can find out. This is not an opinion; it’s a fact. Do not share this fact with Mrs. Mudford.

But when Madeline had asked her school’s librarian if she could point her toward some yearbooks from Cambridge, the librarian frowned, then handed her last month’s copy of Highlights magazine.

“You know plenty about your father,” Harriet said. “For instance, you know that your father’s parents—your grandparents—were killed by a train when he was young. And that he went to live with his aunt until she hit a tree. And then he went to live in a boys home— I forget the name but it sounded girlish. And that your father had a godmother of sorts, although godmothers aren’t family tree material.”



* * *



—

As soon as she’d mentioned the godmother, Harriet wished she’d hadn’t. She only knew about the godmother because she was a snoop, and even then, it was obvious she hadn’t been a real godmother, but more of a fairy godmother. And she knew all this because one day, long before he’d even met Elizabeth, Calvin had left for work in a hurry, leaving his front door open, and Harriet, being a good neighbor, had gone over to shut it.

Naturally, because she was the kind of person who always went above and beyond, she’d gone inside to make sure the home hadn’t been burglarized. A comprehensive self-guided tour told her that absolutely nothing had happened in the forty-six seconds that had elapsed since Calvin’s departure.

Once inside, though, she discovered several things. One, Calvin Evans was some sort of big-deal scientist—he’d been on the cover of a magazine. Two, he was a slob. Three, he’d grown up in Sioux City in a seedy-sounding boys home with religious overtones. She only knew about the boys home because she’d seen a piece of paper wadded up in his trash— a piece of paper that she retrieved because who doesn’t, on occasion, accidentally throw away the very thing they actually mean to keep? According to the letter, the home needed money. They’d lost their main donor—someone who’d once ensured the boys were given “scientific educational opportunities and healthy outdoor activities.” The home was now reaching out to past residents. Could Calvin Evans help? Say yes! Donate to the All Saints Boys Home today! His response was in the trash can, too. Basically, it said how dare you, fuck you, you should all be in jail.



* * *



—

“What’s a godmother?” Madeline asked.

“A close friend of the family or a relative,” Harriet said, pushing the memory away. “Someone who’s supposed to look after your spiritual life.”

“Do I have one?”

“A godmother?”

“A spiritual life.”

“Oh,” Harriet said. “I don’t know. Do you believe in things you can’t see?”

“I like magic tricks.”

“I don’t,” said Harriet. “I don’t like being fooled.”

“But you believe in God.”

“Well. Yes.”

“Why?”

“I just do. Most people do.”

“My mom doesn’t.”

“I know,” Harriet said, trying to hide her disapproval.

Harriet thought it was wrong not to believe in God. It lacked humility. In her opinion, believing in God was required, like brushing teeth or wearing underwear. Certainly, all decent people believed in God—even indecent people, like her husband, believed in God. God is why they were still married and why their marriage was her burden to bear—because it was given to her by God. God was big on burdens, and He made sure everyone got one. Besides, if you didn’t believe in God, you also didn’t get to believe in heaven or hell, and she very much wanted to believe in hell because she very much wanted to believe that Mr. Sloane was going there. She stood up. “Where’s your rope? I think it’s time to work on your knots.”