Lessons in Chemistry(89)

“The great thing about poisonous mushrooms,” she continued, “is how easily they adapt to different forms. If not a casserole, why not try a stuffed mushroom? Something you can share with your next-door neighbor—the one who goes out of his way to make life miserable for his wife. He’s already got one foot in the grave. Why not help him with the other?”

At this, someone in the audience let out a whoop of unexpected laughter and a clap. Meanwhile, the camera also managed to capture several pair of hands carefully writing down the words “Amanita phalloides.”

“Of course, I’m only kidding about poisoning your loved ones,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure your husbands and children are all wonderful human beings who always go out of their way to tell you how much they appreciate your hard work. Or, in the unlikely event that you work outside the home, that your fair-minded boss ensures you’re paid the same wage as your male counterpart.” This also got even more laughs and claps, all of which followed her as she walked back behind the counter. “It’s broccoli-mushroom casserole night,” she said, holding up a basket of—maybe?—straw mushrooms. “Let’s get started.”

It’s fair to say no one in California touched their dinners that night.



* * *



—

“Zott,” Rosa, the makeup woman, said on her way out. “Lebensmal wants to see you at seven.”

“Seven?” Elizabeth blanched. “Obviously the man has no children. By the way, have you seen Walter? I think he’s mad at me.”

“He left early,” Rosa said. “Look, I don’t think you should go see Lebensmal by yourself. I’ll come with you.”

“I’m fine, Rosa.”

“Maybe you should call Walter first. He never lets any of us meet with Lebensmal alone.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t worry.”

Rosa hesitated, looking at the clock.

“Go home. It’s not a big deal.”

“At least call Walter first,” Rosa said. “Let him know.” She turned to gather her things. “By the way, I loved tonight’s show. It was funny.”

Elizabeth looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Funny?”



* * *



—

A few minutes before seven, after finishing her notes for tomorrow’s show, Elizabeth hefted her large bag to her shoulder and walked the empty hallways of KCTV to Lebensmal’s office. She knocked twice, then let herself in. “You wanted to see me, Phil?”

Lebensmal was sitting behind an enormous desk covered with stacks of papers and half-eaten food, four huge televisions broadcasting loud reruns in a ghostly black and white, the air stale with cigarette smoke. One set was airing a soap opera; another, Jack LaLanne; still another a kids’ program; and the fourth, Supper at Six. She’d never watched her own show before, never once experienced the sound of her own voice coming through a speaker. It was horrible.

“It’s about time,” Lebensmal said irritably, as he stubbed a cigarette into a decorative cut-glass bowl. He pointed to a chair indicating that Elizabeth should sit, then huffed to the door and slammed it shut, pressing the lock button.

“I was told seven,” she said.

“Did I tell you to speak?” he snapped.

From the left she heard herself explain the interaction of heat and fructose. She cocked her head toward the set. Had she gotten the pH right? Yes, she had.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded from across the room. But the blaring TVs muddled his words.

“Do I know about…yams?”

“I said,” he spoke louder this time, as he returned to his desk, “do you know who I am?”

“You are Phil LEBENSMAL,” Elizabeth said loudly. “Would you mind if I turned the TVs off? It’s hard to hear.”

“Don’t sass me!” he said. “When I say do you know who I am, I mean do you know who I am?”

For a moment she looked confused. “Again, you are Phil Lebensmal. But if you like, we could double-check your driver’s license.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Waist bends!” shouted Jack LaLanne.

“Dance party!” laughed a clown.

“I never loved you,” confessed a nurse.

“Acidic pH levels,” she heard herself say.

“I am Mister Lebensmal, executive producer of—”

“I’m sorry, Phil,” she said, gesturing at the television speaker closest to her, “but I really can’t—” She reached for the volume control.

“DO NOT,” he boomed, “TOUCH MY TELEVISONS!”

He rose, picking up a stack of file folders, and marched across the room, planting himself in front of her, his legs spread wide like a tripod.

“You know what these are?” he said, wagging the folders in her face.

“File folders.”

“Don’t get smart with me. They’re Supper at Six audience viewer questionnaires. Ad sales figures. Nielsen ratings.”

“Really?” she said. “I’d love to take—” But before she could take a look, he snatched them away.

“As if you’d even know how to interpret the findings,” he said sharply. “As if you have any idea what any of this means.” He slapped the folders against his thigh, then strode back to his desk. “I’ve let this nonsense go on far too long. Walter has failed to rein you in but I won’t. If you want to keep your job, you will wear what I choose, mix the cocktails I want, and make dinner using normal words. You will also—”