Lessons in Chemistry(91)

Elizabeth pressed her forearms down on the armchair. In a steady voice she said, “I would advise you not to get any closer, Phil.”

He looked at her meanly. “You really don’t seem to understand who’s in charge here, do you? But you will.” Then he glanced down, successfully freeing the button and unzipping his pants. Removing himself, he stumbled over to her, his genitals bobbing limply just inches from her face.

She shook her head in wonder. She had no idea why men believed women found male genitalia impressive or scary. She bent over and reached into her bag.

“I know who I am!” he shouted thickly, thrusting himself at her. “The question is, who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m Elizabeth Zott,” she said calmly, withdrawing a freshly sharpened fourteen-inch chef’s knife. But she wasn’t sure he’d heard. He’d fainted dead away.





Chapter 31



The Get-Well Card

It was a heart attack. Not a massive one, but in 1960, most people didn’t survive even minor heart attacks. The man was lucky to be alive. The doctors said he’d remain hospitalized for three weeks, followed by complete home bed rest for at least a year. Work was out of the question.

“You were the one who called the ambulance?” Walter gasped. “You were there?” It was the next day and Walter had just heard the news.

“I was,” Elizabeth said.

“And he was—what? On the floor? Clutching his heart? Gasping?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well then what?” Walter said, spreading his arms in frustration as Elizabeth and the makeup woman exchanged glances. “What happened?”

“Why don’t I come back later,” Rosa said quickly as she packed up her case. Before she left, she gave Elizabeth’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Always an honor, Zott. An absolute honor.”

Walter watched this whole interaction, his eyebrows raised in panic. “You saved Phil’s life,” he said nervously as the door clicked shut, “I get that. But what happened exactly? Don’t leave anything out, start with why you were there in the first place. After seven p.m.? That makes no sense. Tell me. Omit nothing.”

Elizabeth swiveled her chair to face Walter. She reached for her number-two pencil, removing it from her bun and securing it in behind her left ear, then picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “He asked for a meeting,” she said. “Said it couldn’t wait.”

“A meeting?” he said, horrified. “But I’ve said—you know—we’ve talked about this. You are never to meet with Phil on your own. It’s not that I don’t think you can’t handle yourself; it’s just that I’m your producer and I think it’s always better if—” He took out a handkerchief and held it to his forehead. “Elizabeth,” he said, dropping his voice. “Between you and me, Phil Lebensmal is not a good man—do you know what I mean? He’s not trustworthy. He has a way of dealing with problems that—”

“He fired me.”

Walter blanched.

“And you as well.”

“Jesus!”

“He fired everyone who works on the show.”

“No!”

“He said you failed to rein me in.”

Walter turned an ashy gray. “You have to understand,” he said, clenching his handkerchief. “You know how I feel about Phil; you know I don’t agree with everything he says. Have I reined you in? Don’t make me laugh. Have I forced you to wear those ridiculous outfits? Not once. Have I begged you to read the cheery cue cards? Well yes, but only because I wrote them.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Look, Phil gave me two weeks—two weeks to find an appropriate way to make him see that your outrageous way of doing things actually works—that you get more fan mail, more calls, more people lining up for your studio audience than all of the other shows combined, and for those reasons alone, you should stay. But you know I can’t just waltz in there and say, ‘Phil you’re wrong and she’s right.’ That’s suicide. No. Dealing with Phil means stroking his ego, using the angles, saying what he wants to hear. You know what I mean. When you held up that can of soup, I thought we’d cinched it. Until you told everyone it was poison.”

“Because it is.”

“Look,” Walter said. “I live in the real world, and in that world, we say and do things in order to keep our stupid jobs. Do you have any idea how much crap I’ve endured in the last year? Plus, did you even know this? Our sponsors are about to walk.”

“Phil told you that.”

“Yes, and here’s a news flash. It doesn’t matter how many warm and fuzzy letters you get—if the sponsors say, ‘We hate Zott,’ that’s it. And Phil’s research says they hate you.” He shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket, then got up and filled a Dixie Cup with water, awaiting the glug from the gallon jug, an unpleasant sound that always reminded him of his ulcer. “Look,” he said, his hand on his abdomen. “We should keep this between ourselves until I can figure something out. How many people know? Just you and me, right?”

“I told everyone on the show.”

“No.”

“I think it’s safe to say the entire building knows by now.”