Lessons in Chemistry(93)

“I asked our graphic artist to create this get-well greeting,” he said, holding up a gigantic card featuring a caricature of Phil making a winning touchdown. But instead of clutching a normal football, Phil was clutching his heart, which now that Walter thought about it, maybe wasn’t the best choice. “Please take the time to sign your name,” Walter said. “And if you’d like, add a personal note.”

Later that day, when the card was delivered to him for his own signature, he glanced at the well-wishes. Most were the standard “Feel better!” but a few were a bit darker.

Fuck you, Lebensmal.

I wouldn’t have called an ambulance.

Die already.

He recognized the handwriting on the last one—one of Phil’s secretaries.

Even though he knew he couldn’t possibly be the only one who’d hated the boss, he’d had no idea what a large club he belonged to. It was validating, sure, but also gut-wrenching. Because as a producer, he was part of Phil’s management team, and that meant he was responsible for pushing Phil’s agenda while ignoring those who ultimately paid the price for it. He reached for a pen and, for the fourth time that day, followed Elizabeth Zott’s simple advice: do what was right.

MAY YOU NEVER RECOVER, he wrote in huge letters across the middle. Then he stuffed the card in an enormous envelope, put it in the out basket, and made a solemn promise. Things had to change. He would start with himself.





Chapter 32



Medium Rare

“Does Mom know?” Mad asked as Harriet bustled her into her Chrysler. It was well into the new school year, and as promised, she’d gotten Mudford for her teacher again. That’s why Harriet thought she could miss a day. Or twenty.

“Good gravy, no!” Harriet said as she adjusted the rearview mirror. “If she knew, would we be doing this?”

“But won’t she be mad?”

“Only if she finds out.”

“You did a pretty good job on her signature,” Mad said, examining the note Harriet had written to get Mad out of school. “Except for the E and the Z.”

“Well,” Harriet said, irritated, “aren’t I lucky the school doesn’t employ forensic handwriting experts.”

“You really are,” Mad agreed.

“Here’s the plan,” Harriet said, ignoring her. “We stand in line like everybody else, and once in, make a beeline for the back row. No one ever goes for the back row. We want to sit there because should something go wrong, we’ll be right next to the emergency exit.”

“But the emergency exit is only to be used for emergencies,” Mad said.

“Yes, well, if your mother spies us, that qualifies as an emergency.”

“But the doors will be armed.”

“Yes—another bonus. Should we have to make a quick exit, the noise will distract her.”

“Are you sure we should be doing this, Harriet?” Mad said. “Mom says a TV studio isn’t safe.”

“Nonsense.”

“She says it’s—

“Mad, it’s safe. It’s an environment for learning. Your mother teaches cooking on TV, doesn’t she?”

“She teaches chemistry,” Madeline corrected.

“What kind of danger could we possibly encounter?”

Madeline looked out the window. “Excess radioactivity,” she said.

Harriet exhaled loudly. The child was turning into her mother. Normally this sort of thing happened later in life, but Mad was way ahead of schedule. She thought about Mad being all grown up. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, she’d shout at her own child. Never leave a Bunsen burner unattended!

“We’re here!” Mad suddenly erupted as the studio parking lot came into view. “KCTV! Oh boy!” And then her face fell. “But, Harriet, look at the line.”

“I’ll be damned,” Harriet swore as she took in the mass of humanity snaking around the parking lot. There were hundreds of people, mostly women with purses sitting heavily on sweaty forearms, but also a few dozen men with suit jackets dangling from two fingers. Everyone used a makeshift fan—maps, hats, newspapers.

“Are they all here for Mom’s show?” Madeline said, awestruck.

“No, honey, they tape lots of shows here.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a parking lot attendant said, signaling Harriet to stop. He leaned in on Madeline’s side, “but didn’t you see the sign? Lot’s full.”

“All right, then, where should I park?”

“Are you here for Supper at Six?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to hafta tell you, then—you won’t get in,” he said, gesturing at the long line. “These people, most of them are here for nothing. People start lining up at four a.m. Most of the studio audience has been selected already.”

“What?” Harriet exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

“Show’s popular,” the man said.

Harriet hesitated. “But I took this child out of school for this.”

“Sorry, grandma,” he said. Then he leaned farther into the car. “Sorry to you too, kid. I turn away a lot of people every day. Not a fun job, believe me. People yell at me all the time.”