Lessons in Chemistry(84)

“Sixty seconds, Zott,” said the cameraman.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of extra fire extinguishers on hand. Again, I’d prefer the nitrogen propellant over the newer water and foam models, but that’s just me; I’m sure either one will do the job. Walter? Are you listening? Respond.” She frowned, then turned back to the stage. “I’ll catch you next break.”

As she made her way back up onstage, Walter turned to watch her mount the steps, her blue trousers—she was wearing trousers—belted high on the waist. Who did she think she was? Katharine Hepburn? Lebensmal would go ballistic. He turned, motioning for the makeup woman.

“Yes, Mr. Pine?” said Rosa, her hands full of small sponges. “Did you need something? Zott’s face was fine, by the way. She wasn’t glistening.”

He sighed. “She never glistens,” he said. “Despite the fact that those lights alone would sear a steak in thirty seconds, she never breaks a sweat. How is that possible?”

“It is unusual,” Rosa agreed.

“And we’re back,” he heard Elizabeth say as she pointed both hands at the camera.

“Please be normal,” whispered Walter.

“Now,” Elizabeth said to her at-home viewers, “I’m confident you used our short break to chop your carrots, celery, and onions into small disparate units, thereby creating the necessary surface area to facilitate the uptake of seasoning, as well as to shorten cooking time. So now things look like this,” she said, tipping a pan at the camera. “Next, apply a liberal amount of sodium chloride—”

“Would it kill her to say salt?” Walter hissed. “Would it?”

“I like how she uses science-y words,” Rosa said. “It makes me feel— I don’t know—capable.”

“Capable?” he said. “Capable? What happened to wanting to feel slim and beautiful? And what the hell is going on with those trousers? Where did those come from?”

“Are you okay, Mr. Pine?” Rosa asked. “Can I get you something?”

“Yes,” he said. “Cyanide.”

Several more minutes passed as Elizabeth led viewers through the chemical makeup of various other ingredients, explaining, as she added each to the pan, which bonds were being created.

“There,” she said, tipping the pan to the camera again. “What do we have now? A mixture, which is a combination of two or more pure substances in which each substance retains its individual chemical properties. In the case of our chicken pot pie, notice how your carrots, peas, onions, and celery are mixed yet remain separate entities. Think about that. A successful chicken pot pie is like a society that functions at a highly efficient level. Call it Sweden. Here every vegetable has its place. No single bit of produce demands to be more important than another. And when you throw in the additional spices—garlic, thyme, pepper, and sodium chloride—you’ve created a flavor that not only enhances each substance’s texture but balances the acidity. Result? Subsidized childcare. Although I’m sure Sweden has its problems, too. Skin cancer at the very least.” She took a cue from the cameraman. “We’ll be right back after this station identification.”

“What was that?” Walter gasped. “What did she say?”

“Subsidized childcare,” Rosa said as she sponged his forehead. “We should get that on the ballot.” She leaned down, taking in a vein pulsing on Walter’s forehead. “Listen, why don’t I go get you some acetylsalicylic acid. It’ll—”

“What did you say?” he hissed, batting her sponge away.

“Subsidized childcare.”

“No, the other—”

“Acetylsalicylic acid?”

“Aspirin,” he demanded hoarsely. “Here at KCTV, we call it aspirin. Bayer aspirin. Want to know why? Because Bayer is one of our sponsors. The people who pay our bills. Ring any bells? Say it. Aspirin.”

“Aspirin,” she said. “Back in a flash.”

“Walter?” Elizabeth’s voice came abruptly from above, causing him to jump.

“Jesus, Elizabeth!” he said. “Must you sneak up on me?”

“I wasn’t sneaking. Your eyes were closed.”

“I was thinking.”

“About the fire extinguishers? So was I. Let’s say three. Two will be sufficient, but three should almost completely eradicate any possibility of tragedy. Up to, or slightly beyond, ninety-nine percent.”

“My god,” he shuddered to himself as he wiped his damp palms on his pants. “Is this a nightmare? Why can’t I wake up?”

“You’re wondering about the other one percent,” Elizabeth said. “Well don’t. That tiny amount is mostly act-of-God stuff—earthquakes, tsunamis—things we can’t possibly anticipate because the science isn’t there yet.” She paused, straightening her belt. “Walter, don’t you find it interesting that people even use that term ‘act of God’? Considering that most want to believe that God is about lambs and love and babies in mangers, and yet this same so-called benevolent being smites innocent people left and right, indicating an anger management problem—maybe even manic depression. In a psychiatric ward, such a patient would be subjected to electroshock therapy. Which I don’t favor. Electroshock therapy is still largely unproven. But isn’t it interesting that acts of God and electroshock therapy share so much in common? In terms of being violent, cruel—”