Lessons in Chemistry(87)

“Why not?” Madeline asked. “What’s wrong with our family?”

From under the table, Six-Thirty lifted his head. He hated that Mad thought there might be something wrong with their family. As for Nefertiti and the others, it wasn’t just Mad’s wishful thinking—it was accurate in one critical sense: all humans shared a common ancestor. How could Mudford not know this? He was a dog and even he knew this. By the way and in case anyone was interested, he’d just learned a new word: “diary.” It was a place where one wrote vicious things about one’s family and friends and hoped to god they never saw. With “diary” his word count was now up to 648.

“See you both in the morning,” Harriet called, slamming the door behind her.

“What’s wrong with our family, Mom?” Madeline repeated.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth said sharply, clearing the table. “Six-Thirty, help me with the fume hood. I want to try cleaning the dishes using a hydrocarbon vapor.”

“Tell me about Dad.”

“I’ve told you everything, sweetheart,” she said, her face suddenly lit with affection. “He was a brilliant, honest, loving man. A great rower and gifted chemist. He was tall and gray eyed, like you, and he had very large hands. His parents died in an unfortunate collision with a train, and his aunt hit a tree. He went to live in a boys home, where…” She paused, her blue-and-white-checked dress swaying at her calves as she reconsidered her dishwashing experiment. “Do me a favor, Mad, and put on this oxygen mask. And Six-Thirty, let me help you with your goggles. There,” she said, adjusting everyone’s straps. “Anyway, then your father went on to Cambridge where he—”

“Oys ome,” Mad attempted through the mask.

“We’ve been over this, honey. I don’t know much about the boys home. Your father didn’t like to talk about it. It was private.”

“Pri-ate? Or se-ret?” she attempted through the mask.

“Private,” her mother said firmly. “Sometimes bad things happen. This is a fact of life. In terms of the boys home, your father did not talk about it because I suspect he knew dwelling on it would not change it. He was raised without a family, without parents he could count on, without the protection and love every child is entitled to. But he persevered. Often the best way to deal with the bad,” she said, feeling for her pencil, “is to turn it on end—use it as a strength, refuse to allow the bad thing to define you. Fight it.”

The way she said it—like a warrior—made Madeline worry. “Have bad things happened to you too, Mom?” she tried to ask. “Besides dad dying?” But the dish cleaning experiment was in full swing, and her question was lost in the cocoon of the mask and the ringing of the phone.



* * *



—

“Yes, Walter,” Elizabeth said a moment later.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything—”

“Not at all,” she said, despite an unusual humming in the background. “How can I help?”

“Well, I was calling about two things. The first is the family tree assignment. I was just wondering—”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “We’re in trouble.”

“Us too,” he said miserably. “She seemed to know the names I put on the branches were complete fabrications. Is that what you did, too?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Mad made a math error.”

He paused, not understanding.

“I have to see Mudford tomorrow,” she continued. “By the way, I wasn’t sure if you’d heard, but both girls have been assigned to her classroom again in the fall. She’s teaching first grade, and when I say ‘teaching’ of course I’m being ironic. I’ve already registered a complaint.”

“Lord,” Walter sighed.

“What’s the second thing, Walter?”

“It’s Phil,” he said. “He’s, uh…he’s not…happy.”

“Nor am I,” Elizabeth said. “How did he ever become executive producer? He lacks vision, leadership, and manners. And the way he treats the women at the station is contemptible.”

“Well,” Walter said, thinking how, when discussing Elizabeth a few weeks back, Lebensmal had actually spat at him. “I agree that he can be a bit of a character.”

“That’s not character, Walter. That’s degradation. I’m going to register a complaint with the board.”

Walter shook his head. Again with the complaints. “Elizabeth, Phil’s on the board.”

“Well, someone needs to be made aware of his behavior.”

“Surely,” Walter said with a sigh, “surely you know by now that the world is filled with Phils. Our best bet is to try and get along. Make the best of a bad situation. Why can’t you just do that?”

She tried to think of a good reason to make the best of Phil Lebensmal. No—she couldn’t come up with a single thing.

“Look, I have an idea,” he continued. “Phil’s been courting a new potential sponsor— a soup manufacturer. He wants you to use the soup on your show, like in a casserole. Do that—attract a big sponsor—and I think he’ll cut us some slack.”