Lessons in Chemistry(92)

“No,” he repeated, planting his palm to his forehead. “Dammit, Elizabeth, what were you thinking? Don’t you know how being fired works? Step one: never tell anyone the truth—claim you won the lottery, inherited a cattle ranch in Wyoming, got a huge offer in New York, that sort of thing. Step two: drink to excess until you figure out what to do. Jesus. It’s like you’re not familiar with TV’s tribal ways!”

Elizabeth took another sip of coffee. “Do you want to hear what happened or not?”

“There’s more?” he said anxiously. “What? He’s going to repossess our cars, too?”

She looked at him straight on, her normally lineless forehead slightly furrowed, and just like that his attention turned from himself to her. He felt uneasy. He’d completely overlooked the most critical component of her meeting with Phil. She’d met with him alone.

“Tell me,” he said, feeling as if he might vomit. “Please tell me.”

Were most men like Phil? In Walter’s opinion, no. But did most men do anything about men like Phil, himself included? No. Sure, maybe that seemed shameful or cowardly, but, honestly, what could anyone actually do? You didn’t pick a fight with a man like Phil. To avoid these outcomes, you simply did what you were told. Everyone knew it and everyone did it. But Elizabeth wasn’t everyone. He put a trembling hand to his forehead, hating every bone in his spineless body. “Did he try something? Did you have to fight him off?” he whispered.

She sat up in her chair, the light of her makeup mirror providing an extra aura of fortitude. He studied her face with fear, thinking this was probably the same way Joan of Arc looked right before they lit the match.

“He tried.”

“God!” Walter shouted, crushing his Dixie Cup in one hand. “God, no!”

“Walter, relax. He failed.”

Walter hesitated. “Because of the heart attack,” he said, relieved. “Of course! What uncanny timing. The heart attack. Thank the Lord!”

She looked at him quizzically, then reached down into her bag, the same bag she’d taken to Phil’s office the previous night.

“I wouldn’t thank the Lord,” she said, pulling that same fourteen-inch chef’s knife out of her bag.

He gasped. Like most cooks, Elizabeth insisted on using her own knives. She brought them in each morning and took them home each evening. Everyone knew this. Everyone except Phil.

“I didn’t touch him,” she explained. “He just keeled over.”

“Jesus—” Walter whispered.

“I called an ambulance, but you know how traffic is at that time of day. Took forever. So while I waited, I made good use of my time. Here. Take a look.” She handed him the folders Lebensmal had waved at her. “Syndication offers,” she said as he registered obvious surprise at the contents. “Did you know that we’ve been syndicated in the state of New York for the last three months? Also, some interesting new sponsorship offers. Despite what Phil told you, sponsors are falling all over themselves to be part of our show. Like this one,” she said, tapping an ad for the RCA Victor company.

Walter kept his eyes down, staring at the stack. He motioned for Elizabeth to hand him her coffee cup, and when she did, he downed it.

“Sorry,” he finally managed. “It’s just that it’s all so overwhelming.”

She glanced impatiently at the wall clock.

“I can’t believe we’re fired,” he continued. “I mean, we have a hit show on our hands and we’re fired?”

Elizabeth looked at him with concern. “No, Walter,” she said slowly. “We’re not fired. We’re in charge.”



* * *



—

Four days later, Walter sat behind Phil’s old desk, the room swept clean of ashtrays, the Persian rug gone, the phone buttons ablaze with important calls.

“Walter, just make the changes you know need to be made,” she said, reminding him that he was acting executive producer. And when he balked at the responsibility, she simplified the job description. “Just do what you know is right, Walter. It’s not that hard, is it? Then tell others to do the same.”

It wasn’t quite as easy as she made it sound—the only management style he knew was intimidation and manipulation; that’s how he’d always been managed. But she seemed to believe—god, she was so na?ve!—that employees were more productive when they felt respected.



* * *



—

“Stop flailing, Walter,” she said as they stood outside Woody Elementary awaiting yet another conference with Mudford. “Take the helm. Steer. When in doubt, pretend.”



* * *



—

Pretend. That he could do. Within days, he’d made a series of deals, syndicating Supper at Six from one coast to the other. Then he negotiated a new set of sponsorships that could double KCTV’s bottom line. Finally, before he could chicken out, he called a station-wide meeting to update everyone on Phil’s cardiovascular condition, including Elizabeth’s role in saving his life, and how, despite the “incident,” he very much hoped everyone would continue to enjoy their meaningful work at KCTV. Out of all those things, Phil’s heart attack got the loudest applause.