Lessons in Chemistry(77)

“I know them all already,” Mad said.

“Can you do them with your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“But what about behind your back? Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

Harriet pretended to be supportive of Mad’s odd hobbies, but the truth was, she wasn’t. The child didn’t like Barbies or playing jacks—she liked knots, books on war, natural disasters. Yesterday she’d overheard Madeline quizzing the downtown librarian about Krakatoa—when did she think it might next erupt? How would they warn the residents? Approximately how many people would die?

Harriet turned to watch as Madeline stared at the family tree, her large gray eyes taking in the empty branches, her teeth gnawing steadily at the bottom of her lip. Calvin had been a big lip chewer. Could that sort of thing be passed down genetically? She wasn’t sure. Harriet had produced four children, each one completely different from the others and wholly different from herself. And now? They were all strangers, each living in a far-off city with lives and children of their own. She wanted to think there was some iron-clad bond that connected her to them for life, but that’s not how it worked. Families required constant maintenance.

“Are you hungry?” Harriet asked. “Would you like some cheese?” She reached to the back of the refrigerator as Madeline withdrew a book from her schoolbag. Five Years with the Congo Cannibals.

Harriet looked back over her shoulder. “Sweetie, does your teacher know you’re reading that?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way.”

This was another area where she and Elizabeth still did not see eye to eye: reading. Fifteen months ago, Harriet assumed Madeline was just pretending she could read. Children love to imitate their parents. But it was soon obvious that Elizabeth had not only taught Madeline to read but to read highly complex things: newspapers, novels, Popular Mechanics.

Harriet considered the possibility that the child was a genius. Her father had been. But no. It was just that Mad was well taught and that was because of Elizabeth. Elizabeth simply refused to accept limits, not just for herself, but for others. About a year after Mr. Evans had died, Harriet had run across some notes on Elizabeth’s desk that appeared to suggest she was trying to teach Six-Thirty a ridiculous number of words. At the time, Harriet chalked it up to temporary insanity—that’s what grief is. But then, when Mad was three, she had asked if anyone had seen her yo-yo, and a minute later Six-Thirty dropped it in her lap.

Supper at Six had that same element of impossibility. Elizabeth opened every show by insisting that cooking wasn’t easy and that the next thirty minutes might very well be torturous.

“Cooking is not an exact science,” Elizabeth had said just yesterday. “The tomato I hold in my hand is different from the one you hold in yours. That’s why you must involve yourself with your ingredients. Experiment: taste, touch, smell, look, listen, test, assess.” Then she led her viewers through an elaborate description of chemical breakdowns, which, when induced by combining disparate ingredients in heat-specific ways, would result in a complicated mix of enzymatic interactions that would lead to something good to eat. There was a lot of talk about acids and bases and hydrogen ions, some of which, after weeks of hearing it, Harriet was, oddly, beginning to understand.

Throughout the process, Elizabeth, her face serious, told her viewers that they were up for this difficult challenge, that she knew they were capable, resourceful people, and that she believed in them. It was a very strange show. Not exactly entertaining. More like climbing a mountain. Something you felt good about, but only after it was over.

Nevertheless, she and Madeline watched Supper at Six together every day, holding their breath, certain each new episode would be the last.



* * *



—

Madeline had opened her book and was now studying an engraving of one man gnawing on the femur of another. “Do people taste good?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet said as she set a few cubes of cheese down in front of her. “I’m sure it’s all in the preparation. Your mother could probably make anyone taste good.” Except for Mr. Sloane, she thought. Because he was rotten.

Madeline nodded her head. “Everybody likes what Mom makes.”

“Who’s everybody?”

“Kids,” Madeline said. “Some of them bring the same lunch as me now.”

“Really,” Harriet said, surprised. “Leftovers? From the previous night’s dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Their mothers watch your mom’s show?”

“I guess.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Madeline emphasized, as if Harriet was slow on the uptake.

Harriet had assumed Supper at Six had very few viewers, and Elizabeth had confirmed this by confiding that her six-month trial period was almost up; it had been a battle the entire time; she was fairly certain she would not be renewed.

“But surely you could meet them halfway?” Harriet had asked her, trying not to sound desperate. She loved watching Elizabeth on TV. “Maybe just try to smile.”

“Smile?” Elizabeth had said. “Do surgeons smile during appendectomies? No. Would you want them to? No. Cooking, like surgery, requires concentration. Anyway, Phil Lebensmal wants me to act as if the people I’m speaking to are dolts. I won’t do it, Harriet, I won’t perpetuate the myth that women are incompetent. If they cancel me, so be it. I’ll do something else.”