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Chapter no 23 – KCTV Studios

Lessons in Chemistry

ONE MONTH LATER

Walter Pine had been in television from almost the very beginning. He liked the idea of televisionโ€”the way it promised people an escape from daily life. Thatโ€™s why heโ€™d chosen itโ€”because who didnโ€™t want to escape? He did.

But as the years wore on, he began to feel like he was the prisoner permanently assigned to digging the escape tunnel. At the end of the day, as the other prisoners scrambled over him to freedom, he stayed behind with the spoon.

Still, he kept on for the same reason many people keep on: because he was a parentโ€”the lone parent of daughter Amanda, six years old, kindergartner at Woody Elementary, and light of his life. He would do anything for that child. That included taking his daily browbeating from his boss, who recently threatened heโ€™d be out of a job soon if he didnโ€™t do something about that empty afternoon programming slot.

Walter took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, looking at the cloth right after, as if to see what his insides were made of.

Phlegm. Not a surprise.

A woman had come to see him a few days backโ€”Elizabeth Zott, mother ofโ€ฆhe couldnโ€™t remember the kidโ€™s name. According to Zott, Amanda was causing trouble. No surprise; Mrs. Mudford, her teacher, claimed Amanda was always causing trouble. Which he refused to believe. Yes, Amanda was a bit anxious like he was, a bit overweight like he was, a

bit of a people pleaser like he was, but you know what else Amanda was? A

niceย kid. And nice kids, like nice adults, were rare.

You know what else was rare? A woman like Elizabeth Zott. He could not stop thinking about her.

โ€”

โ€œFinally,โ€ Harriet said, wiping her wet hands on her dress as Elizabeth came in through the back door. โ€œI was starting to worry.โ€

โ€œSorry,โ€ she said, trying to keep the rage out of her voice. โ€œSomething came up at work.โ€ She threw her bag down and collapsed in a chair.

Sheโ€™d been back at Hastings for two months now and the stress of underemployment was killing her. She knew people in high-stress jobs often longed for a simpler positionโ€”something that didnโ€™t require heart or brainpower; something that didnโ€™t prey on their sagging spirits at three in the morning. But she had learned that underemployment was worse. Not only did her paycheck reflect her lowly status, but her brain hurt from inactivity. And yet despite the fact that her colleagues knew she could run intellectual circles around them, she was expected to rah-rah whatever minor accomplishments they churned out.

But todayโ€™s accomplishment was not minor. It was major. The latest edition ofย Science Journalย was out and Donattiโ€™s paper was in it.

โ€”

โ€œNothing earth-shattering.โ€ Thatโ€™s how Donatti had described his article a few months back. But the workย wasย earth-shattering, and she should know. Because it was hers.

She read the article twice just to make sure. The first time, slowly. But the second time she dashed through it until her blood pressure skipped through her veins like an unsecured fire hose. This article was a direct theft from her files. And guess who was listed as a co-contributor.

She lifted her head to see Boryweitz watching her. He turned pale, then hung his head.

โ€œTry to understand!โ€ Boryweitz cried as she slammed the journal down on his desk. โ€œI need this job!โ€

โ€œWe all need our jobs,โ€ Elizabeth seethed. โ€œThe problem is, youโ€™ve never done yours.โ€

Boryweitz peered up at her, his lemur eyes begging for mercy, but all he saw was a rogue wave just beginning to crest, its energy unknown, its true power untested. โ€œIโ€™m sorry,โ€ he pleaded. โ€œI really am. I had no idea Donatti would go this far. He photocopied all your files the first day you were back, but I assumed it was to familiarize himself with our work.โ€

โ€œOurย work?โ€ She managed not to reach out and snap his neck in two. โ€œIโ€™ll deal with you later,โ€ she promised. Then she turned and marched down the hallway toward Donattiโ€™s office, barely breaking stride to shove a meandering microbiologist out of her way.

โ€œYouโ€™re a liar and a cheat, Donatti,โ€ she said, bursting into her bossโ€™s office. โ€œAnd I promise you this: you wonโ€™t get away with it.โ€

Donatti looked up from his desk. โ€œZott!โ€ he cried. โ€œAlways a pleasure!โ€

He sat back, taking in her fury with a kind of joy. This would have been the sort of thing Evans would have quit over for sure. If only he were alive to see thisโ€”but no, he had to ruin this moment by being dead already.

He listened with half an ear as Zott railed on about his thievery. The investor had called earlier to congratulate Donatti on his workโ€”made some promising noises about sending more money their way. Heโ€™d also asked about Zottโ€”whether heโ€™d played any role in the research. Donatti had said no, not reallyโ€”unfortunately, Mr. Zott had proved to be a bit of a washout; in fact, heโ€™d been demoted. The investor had sighed as if disappointed, then asked about Donattiโ€™s next steps, abiogenesis-wise. Donatti mucked around with some big words heโ€™d gleaned from other parts of Zottโ€™s research, all of which heโ€™d have to ask Zott about later,ย afterย sheโ€™d calmed the fuck down and remembered she worked forย him.ย God, it was hard being a manager. Anyway, whatever he said seemed to satisfy the rich guy.

But then Zott had to go and ruin everything by doing the one thing neither of them could afford for her to do. โ€œHere,โ€ she said, plopping her lab key in his coffee. โ€œKeep your damn job.โ€ Then she threw her ID tag in

the trash, dumped her lab coat in the middle of his desk, and stormed out, taking all those big words with her.

โ€”

โ€œYou got four phone calls,โ€ Harriet was saying. โ€œThe first was about becoming a Nielsen family. The other three were from a Walter Pine. Pine wants you to call him back. Says itโ€™s urgent. Claims you and he had an enjoyable conversation about foodโ€”or no, no, Iโ€™m sorry, aboutย lunch,โ€ she corrected herself, checking her notes again. โ€œSounded anxious,โ€ she said, looking up. โ€œProfessionally anxious. Like a well-mannered person, but on edge.โ€

โ€œWalter Pine,โ€ Elizabeth said, gritting her teeth, โ€œis Amanda Pineโ€™s father. I drove to his office a few days back to talk with him about the lunch issue.โ€

โ€œHow did the talk go?โ€

โ€œIt was more of a confrontation.โ€ โ€œViolent, I hope.โ€

โ€œMom?โ€ a voice said, appearing in the doorway.

โ€œHi, bunny,โ€ Elizabeth said, attempting to sound calm as she encircled her gangly child with one arm. โ€œHow was school?โ€

โ€œI made a clove hitch knot,โ€ Madeline said, holding up a rope. โ€œFor show-and-tell.โ€

โ€œDid everyone enjoy it?โ€ โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s okay,โ€ Elizabeth said, pulling her close. โ€œPeople donโ€™t always like what we like.โ€

โ€œNo one ever likes my show-and-tell stuff.โ€ โ€œLittle bastards,โ€ muttered Harriet.

โ€œThey liked that arrowhead you brought in.โ€ โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œWell, next week why not try the periodic table? Thatโ€™s always a crowd pleaser.โ€

โ€œOr you could try my bowie knife,โ€ Harriet suggested. โ€œLet them know where you stand.โ€

โ€œWhenโ€™s dinner?โ€ Madeline said. โ€œIโ€™m hungry.โ€

โ€œI put one of your casseroles in the oven,โ€ Harriet said to Elizabeth as she heaved herself toward the door. โ€œI need to go feed the beast. Call Pine back.โ€

โ€œYouย calledย Amanda Pine?โ€ Madeline gasped.

โ€œHer father,โ€ Elizabeth said. โ€œI told you. I visited him three days ago and got the entire lunch business straightened out. I think he understood our position, and I am certain Amanda will not be stealing your lunch ever again. Stealing isย wrong,โ€ she snapped, thinking of Donatti and his article.ย โ€œWrong!โ€ย Both Madeline and Harriet jumped.

โ€œSheโ€ฆshe brings a lunch, Mom,โ€ Madeline said carefully. โ€œBut itโ€™s not normal.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s not our problem.โ€

Madeline looked at her mother as if she was missing the point.

โ€œYou need to eat your own lunch, bunny,โ€ Elizabeth said more quietly. โ€œTo grow up tall.โ€

โ€œBut Iโ€™mย alreadyย tall,โ€ Madeline complained. โ€œToo tall.โ€ โ€œOne can never be too tall,โ€ Harriet said.

โ€œRobert Wadlowย diedย from being too tall,โ€ Madeline said, tapping the cover ofย The Guinness Book of Records.

โ€œBut that was a pituitary gland disorder, Mad,โ€ Elizabeth said. โ€œNine feet tall!โ€ Madeline emphasized.

โ€œPoor man,โ€ Harriet said. โ€œWhere does someone like that shop?โ€ โ€œHeightย kills,โ€ Madeline said.

โ€œYes, but everything kills eventually,โ€ Harriet said. โ€œThatโ€™s why everyone ends up dead, sweetheart.โ€ But when she noticed Elizabethโ€™s mouth drop and Madeline slump, she instantly regretted her words. She opened the back door. โ€œIโ€™ll see you tomorrow morning before rowing,โ€ she said to Elizabeth. โ€œAnd Iโ€™ll see you, Mad,โ€ she said to the little girl, โ€œwhen you get up.โ€

This was the schedule she and Elizabeth had worked out ever since Elizabeth had returned to work. Harriet took Mad to school, Six-Thirty picked Mad up from school, Harriet watched her until Elizabeth got home. โ€œOh, I almost forgot.โ€ She extracted a slip of paper from her pocket. โ€œYou got another note.โ€ She gave Elizabeth a meaningful look. โ€œFrom you-know-who.โ€

โ€”

Mrs. Mudford.

Elizabeth already knew Mudford didnโ€™t approve of Madeline. She did not approve of the way Mad could read, or the way she could kick a ball, or the way she knew a complicated series of nautical knotsโ€” a skill she practiced frequently, including in the dark, in the rain, without help, just in case.

โ€œJust in case of what, Mad?โ€ Elizabeth had asked her once, finding the child huddled outside at night covered in a tarp, rain coming in from every direction, a piece of rope in her hands.

Mad had looked up at her mother, surprised. Wasnโ€™t it obvious that โ€œjust in caseโ€ wasnโ€™t an option but rather theย onlyย option? Life required preparedness; just ask her dead father.

Although, honestly, if sheโ€™d been able to ask her dead father anything it would have been how heโ€™d felt the first time he saw her mother. Was it love at first sight?

โ€”

His ex-colleagues too still had questions for Calvinโ€”like how he managed to win so many awards when he never seemed to be doing anything. And what about sex with Elizabeth Zott? She seemed like sheโ€™d be frigidโ€”was she? Even Madelineโ€™s teacher, Mrs. Mudford, had questions for the long-gone Calvin Evans. But obviously asking Madelineโ€™s father anything was out of the question, not just because he was dead, but because in 1959, fathers had nothing to do with their childrenโ€™s education.

Amanda Pineโ€™s father was the exception, but that was only because there was no longer a Mrs. Pine. Sheโ€™d left him (and quite rightly, Mudford believed), followed by a loud and public divorce where she claimed the much older Walter Pine was not fit to be a father, much less a husband. Thereโ€™d been an embarrassing sexual connotation to the whole thing; Mrs. Mudford didnโ€™t like to think of the specifics. But because of it, Mrs. Walter Pine ended up with everything Walter Pine had, including Amanda, whom, as it turned out, she hadnโ€™t actually wanted. And who could blame her? Amanda wasnโ€™t the easiest child. Thus Amanda went back to Walter, and Walter came to school, where Mrs. Mudford was forced to listen to his poor excuses regarding the contents of Amandaโ€™s highly unusual lunch boxes.

Still, while conferences with Walter Pine were irritating, they paled in comparison to the sessions she had with Zott. Wasnโ€™t it just her luck that the two parents she liked least she saw the most? Although admittedly, thatโ€™s how it always was. Child behavior problems started at home. Still, if she had to choose between Amanda Pine, lunch thief, and Madeline Zott, inappropriate question asker, sheโ€™d take Amanda any day.

โ€”

โ€œMadeline asks inappropriate questions?โ€ Elizabeth said, alarmed, during their last meeting.

โ€œYes, she does,โ€ Mrs. Mudford said sharply, plucking lint from her sleeve like a spider attacking its prey. โ€œFor instance, yesterday during circle time, we were discussing Ralphโ€™s pet turtle, and Madeline interrupted to ask how she might become a freedom fighter in Nashville.โ€

Elizabeth paused as if trying to understand the underlying issue. โ€œShe shouldnโ€™t have interrupted,โ€ she finally said. โ€œIโ€™ll speak to her.โ€

Mrs. Mudford clicked her teeth. โ€œYou misunderstand me, Mrs. Zott. Children interrupt; that I can deal with. What I canโ€™t deal with is a child who wants to change the discussion to civil rights. This is kindergarten, notย The Huntley-Brinkley Report.ย Furthermore,โ€ she added, โ€œyour daughter recently complained to our librarian that she was unable to find any

Norman Mailer on our bookshelves. Apparently, she tried to put in a request forย The Naked and the Dead.โ€ The teacher raised one eyebrow, her eyes zeroing in on the E.Z. machine-stitched above the breast pocket in a slutty-looking cursive.

โ€œSheโ€™s an early reader,โ€ Elizabeth said. โ€œI may have forgotten to mention that.โ€

The teacher folded her hands together, then leaned forward threateningly.ย โ€œNorman. Mailer.โ€

โ€”

Back in the kitchen, Elizabeth unfolded the note Harriet had given her. On it screamed two words in Mudfordโ€™s handwriting.

VLADIMIR. NABOKOV.

โ€”

She placed a serving of baked spaghetti Bolognese on Madelineโ€™s plate. โ€œOther than show-and-tell, did you have a good day?โ€ Sheโ€™d stopped asking Mad if sheโ€™d learned anything at school. There was no point.

โ€œI donโ€™t like school.โ€ โ€œWhy?โ€

Madeline looked up from her plate suspiciously. โ€œNo one likes school.โ€

From his position beneath the table, Six-Thirty exhaled. Well, there it was: the creature didnโ€™t like school, and since he and the creature agreed on everything, now he didnโ€™t like school either.

โ€œDid you like school, Mom?โ€ Mad asked.

โ€œWell,โ€ said Elizabeth, โ€œwe moved a lot, so sometimes there werenโ€™t schools for me to go to. But I went to the library. Still, I always believed going to a real school could be lots of fun.โ€

โ€œLike when you went to UCLA?โ€

A sudden sharp vision of Dr. Meyers floated in front of her. โ€œNo.โ€ Madeline cocked her head to the side. โ€œAre you okay, Mom?โ€

Without realizing it, Elizabeth had covered her face with her hands. โ€œIโ€™m just tired, bunny,โ€ she said as the words slipped out between her fingers.

Madeline laid down her fork and studied her motherโ€™s stricken posture. โ€œDid something happen, Mom?โ€ she asked. โ€œAt work?โ€

From behind her fingers, Elizabeth considered her young daughterโ€™s question.

โ€œAre we poor?โ€ Madeline asked, as if that question naturally followed the former.

Elizabeth took her hands away. โ€œWhat makes you say that, honey?โ€ โ€œTommy Dixon says weโ€™re poor.โ€

โ€œWhoโ€™s Tommy Dixon?โ€ she asked sharply. โ€œA boy at school.โ€

โ€œWhatย elseย did this Tommy Dixonโ€”โ€ โ€œWas Dad poor?โ€

Elizabeth flinched.

โ€”

The answer to Madโ€™s question lay in one of the boxes she and Frask had stolen from Hastings. At the very bottom of box number three lay an accordion folder labeled โ€œRowing.โ€ When she first spied it, Elizabeth naturally assumed it would be filled with newspaper clippings recording the glorious wins of his Cambridge boat. But no; it was stuffed with Calvinโ€™s post-Cambridge employment offers.

Sheโ€™d skimmed the offers jealouslyโ€”chairs at major universities, directorships at pharmaceutical companies, major stakes in privately held concerns. Sheโ€™d sifted through the stack until she found the Hastings offer. There it was: the promise of a private labโ€”although all the other places had guaranteed that, too. The only thing that made the Hastings offer stand out from the others? A salary so low it was insulting. She glanced down at the signature. Donatti.

As she jammed the letters back in, she wondered why heโ€™d even labeled this folder โ€œRowingโ€โ€”there wasnโ€™t anything rowing-like about it. Until she noticed two quick penciled notations at the top of each offer: distance to a rowing club and area precipitation. She returned to the Hastings offer letter

โ€”yes, the computations were there, too. But there was one other thing: a big, thick circle drawn around the return address.

Commons, California.

โ€”

โ€œIf Dad was famous, then he must have been rich, right?โ€ Mad said, twirling her spaghetti around her fork.

โ€œNo, honey. Not all famous people are rich.โ€ โ€œWhy not? Did they mess up?โ€

She thought back to the offers. Calvin had accepted the lowest one.

Who does that?

โ€œTommy Dixon says itโ€™s easy to get rich. You paint rocks yellow, then say itโ€™s gold.โ€

โ€œTommy Dixon is what we call a flimflam man,โ€ Elizabeth said. โ€œSomeone who schemes to get what they want through illegal means.โ€ Like Donatti, she thought, her jaw locking in place.

She thought back to another folder sheโ€™d found in Calvinโ€™s boxes, this one full of letters from people just like Tommy Dixonโ€”wackos, get-rich-quick investorsโ€”but also a wide assortment of fake family members, each of whom desperately wanted Calvinโ€™s help: a half sister, a long-lost uncle, a sad mother, a cousin twice removed.

Sheโ€™d skimmed the fake family letters quickly, surprised at how similar they were. Each claimed a biological connection, each provided a memory from an age he wouldnโ€™t be able to remember, each wanted money. The only exception was Sad Mother. While she, too, claimed a biological connection, instead of asking for money, she insisted she wanted to give it.ย To help your research,ย she claimed. Sad Mother had written to Calvin at least five times, imploring him to respond. It was really rather heartless,

Elizabeth thought, the way Sad Mother persisted. Even Long-Lost Uncle had called it quits after two.ย They told me you were dead,ย Sad Mother had written over and over again. Really? Then why had she, like all the others, only written to Calvinย afterย heโ€™d become famous? Elizabeth assumed her ploy was to hook him, then steal his research. And why did she think this? Because it had just happened to her.

โ€”

โ€œI donโ€™t get it,โ€ Mad said, shoving a mushroom to the side of her plate. โ€œIf youโ€™re smart and you work hard, doesnโ€™t that mean you make more money?โ€

โ€œNot always. Still, Iโ€™m sure your dad could have earned more money,โ€ Elizabeth said. โ€œItโ€™s just that he made a different choice. Money isnโ€™t everything.โ€

Mad looked back, dubious.

โ€”

What Elizabeth didnโ€™t tell Mad was that she knew very well why Calvin had eagerly accepted Donattiโ€™s ridiculous offer. But his reason was so short-sightedโ€”soย dumbโ€”she hesitated to share it. She wanted Mad to think of her father as a rational man who made smart decisions. This proved just the opposite.

She found it in a folder labeled โ€œWakely,โ€ which contained a series of letters between Calvin and a would-be theologian. The two men were pen pals; it was clear theyโ€™d never met face-to-face. But their typed exchanges were fascinating and numerous, and lucky for her, the folder included Calvinโ€™s carbon copy replies. This was something she knew about Calvin: he made copies of everything.

Wakely, who was attending Harvard Divinity School at the same time Calvin was at Cambridge, seemed to be struggling with his faith based on science in general, and on Calvinโ€™s research in particular. According to his

letters, heโ€™d attended a symposium where Calvin had spoken briefly and, based on that, had decided to write to him.

โ€œDear Mr. Evans, I wanted to get in touch with you after your brief appearance at the science symposium in Boston last week. Iโ€™d hoped to speak with you about your recent article, โ€˜The Spontaneous Generation of Complex Organic Molecules,โ€™ โ€ Wakely had written in the first letter. โ€œSpecifically, I wanted to ask: Donโ€™t you think itโ€™s possible to believe in both Godย andย science?โ€

โ€œSure,โ€ Calvin had written back. โ€œItโ€™s called intellectual dishonesty.โ€

Although Calvinโ€™s flippancy had a tendency to annoy a lot of people, it didnโ€™t seem to faze the young Wakely. He wrote back immediately.

โ€œBut surely youโ€™d agree that the field of chemistry could not exist unless and until it was created by a chemistโ€” aย masterย chemist,โ€ Wakely argued in his next letter. โ€œIn the same way that a painting cannot exist until it is created by an artist.โ€

โ€œI deal in evidence-based truths, not conjecture,โ€ Calvin replied just as quickly. โ€œSo no, your master chemist theory is bullshit. By the way, I notice youโ€™re at Harvard. Are you a rower? I row for Cambridge. Full-ride rowing scholarship.โ€

โ€œNot a rower,โ€ Wakely wrote back. โ€œAlthough I love the water. Iโ€™m a surfer. I grew up in Commons, California. Ever been to California? If not, you should go. Commons is beautiful. Best weather in the world. They row there, too.โ€

โ€”

Elizabeth sat back on her heels. She remembered how vigorously Calvin had circled Hastingsโ€™s return address in the offer letter.ย Commons, California.ย So heโ€™d accepted Donattiโ€™s insulting offer, not to further his career, but to row? Thanks to a one-line weather report from a religious surfer?ย Best weather in the world.ย Really? She moved on to the next letter.

โ€”

โ€œDid you always want to be a minister?โ€ Calvin asked.

โ€œI come from a long line of ministers,โ€ Wakely answered back. โ€œItโ€™s in my blood.โ€

โ€œBlood doesnโ€™t work that way,โ€ Calvin corrected. โ€œBy the way, Iโ€™ve been meaning to ask: Why do you think so many people believe in texts written thousands of years ago? And why does it seem the more supernatural, unprovable, improbable, and ancient the source of these texts, the more people believe them?โ€

โ€œHumans need reassurance,โ€ Wakely wrote back. โ€œThey need to know others survived the hard times. And, unlike other species, which do a better job of learning from their mistakes, humans require constant threats and reminders to be nice. You know how we say, โ€˜People never learn?โ€™ Itโ€™s because they never do. But religious texts try to keep them on track.โ€

โ€œBut isnโ€™t there more solace in science?โ€ Calvin responded. โ€œIn things we can prove and therefore work toย improve? I just donโ€™t understand how anyone thinks anything written ages ago by drunk people is even remotely believable. And Iโ€™m not making a moral judgment here: those people had to drink, the water was bad. Still, I ask myself how their wild storiesโ€”bushes burning, bread dropping from heavenโ€”seem reasonable, especially when compared to evidence-based science. There isnโ€™t a person alive who would opt for Rasputinโ€™s bloodletting techniques over the cutting-edge therapies at Sloan Kettering. And yet so many insist we believe these stories and then have the audacity to insist others believe them, too.โ€

โ€œYou make a fair point, Evans,โ€ Wakely wrote back. โ€œBut people need to believe in something bigger than themselves.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€ Calvin pressed. โ€œWhatโ€™s wrong with believing in ourselves? Anyway, if stories must be used, why not rely on a fable or fairy tale? Arenโ€™t they just as valid a vehicle for teaching morality? Except maybe better? Because no one has to pretend to believe that the fables and tales are true?โ€

Although he didnโ€™t admit to it, Wakely found himself agreeing. No one had to pray to Snow White or fear the wrath of Rumpelstiltskin to understand the message. The stories were short, memorable, and covered all

the bases of love, pride, folly, and forgiveness. Their rules were bite-sized: Donโ€™t be a jerk. Donโ€™t hurt other people or animals. Share what you have with others less fortunate. In other words, be nice. He decided to change the topic.

โ€œOkay, Evans,โ€ he wrote, referring to a previous letter, โ€œI take your veryย literalย point about how ministering canโ€™t, technically, be in my blood, but we Wakelys become ministers just like cobblersโ€™ sons become shoemakers. Iโ€™ll confess: Iโ€™ve always been attracted to biology, but that would never fly in my family. Maybe Iโ€™m just trying to please my father. Isnโ€™t that what we all do in the end? What about you? Was your father a scientist? Are you trying to please him? If so, Iโ€™d say you succeeded.โ€

โ€œI HATE MY FATHER,โ€ Calvin typed in all capital letters in what would prove to be their final exchange. โ€œI HOPE HEโ€™S DEAD.โ€

โ€”

I hate my father; I hope heโ€™s dead.ย Elizabeth read it again, stunned. But Calvinโ€™s fatherย wasย deadโ€”hit by a train at least two decades earlier. Why would he have written such a thing? And why had Calvin and Wakely stopped corresponding? The last letter was dated nearly ten years ago.

โ€”

โ€œMom,โ€ Mad said. โ€œMom! Are you listening? Are we poor?โ€

โ€œHoney,โ€ Elizabeth said, trying to stave off a nervous breakdownโ€”had she really quit her job?ย โ€œIโ€™ve had a long day,โ€ she said. โ€œPlease. Just eat your dinner.โ€

โ€œBut, Momโ€”โ€

They were interrupted by the jangle of the telephone. Mad jumped from her chair.

โ€œDonโ€™t answer it, Mad.โ€ โ€œMight be important.โ€ย โ€œWeโ€™re eating dinner.โ€

โ€œHello?โ€ Mad said. โ€œMad Zott speaking.โ€

โ€œHoney,โ€ Elizabeth said, taking the phone. โ€œWe donโ€™t give out private information on the telephone, remember? Hello?โ€ she said into the mouthpiece. โ€œWith whom am I speaking?โ€

โ€œMrs. Zott?โ€ a voice said. โ€œMrs. Elizabeth Zott? Itโ€™s Walter Pine, Mrs.

Zott. We met earlier this week.โ€

Elizabeth sighed. โ€œOh. Yes, Mr. Pine.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ve been trying to reach you all day. Perhaps your housekeeper neglected to give you my messages.โ€

โ€œShe is not a housekeeper and she did not neglect to give me your messages.โ€

โ€œOh,โ€ he said, embarrassed. โ€œI see. Iโ€™m sorry. I hope Iโ€™m not disturbing you. Do you have a moment? Is this a good time?โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll be quick, then,โ€ he said, not wanting to lose her. โ€œAnd again, Mrs. Zott, Iโ€™ve rectified the lunch situation. Itโ€™s all fixed; Amanda will only be eating her own lunch from now on, again my apologies. But now Iโ€™m calling for another reasonโ€” a business reason.โ€

He went on to remind her he was a producer of local afternoon TV programming. โ€œKCTV,โ€ he said proudly, even though he wasnโ€™t. โ€œAnd Iโ€™ve been thinking of changing my lineup a bitโ€”adding a cooking show. Trying to spice things up, you might say,โ€ he continued, taking a stab at humor, something he normally didnโ€™t do but did now because Elizabeth Zott made him nervous. As he waited for the polite chuckle that should have come from the other end but didnโ€™t, he grew even more anxious. โ€œAs aย seasonedย television producer, I feel the time isย ripeย for such a show.โ€

Again, nothing.

โ€œIโ€™ve been doing research,โ€ he blathered on, โ€œand based on some very interesting trends, and combined with my personal knowledge of successful afternoon programming, I believe cooking is poised to become a force in afternoon TV.โ€

Elizabeth still offered no reaction, and even if she had, it wouldnโ€™t have mattered because none of what Walter said was true.

The truth was, Walter Pine did not conduct research, nor was he aware of any trends. Factually speaking, he had very little personal knowledge of what made afternoon TV successful. As proof, his channel usually hovered near the bottom, ratings-wise. The real situation was this: Walter had an empty programming slot to fill and the advertisers were breathing down his neck to get it filled immediately. A childrenโ€™s clown show had previously filled the now-empty slot, but in the first place, it hadnโ€™t been very good, and in the second place, its clown star had been killed in a bar fight, making the show completely dead in the truest sense.

For the last three weeks, heโ€™d been scrambling to find something else to take its place. Heโ€™d spent eight hours a day screening promo reels from countless would-be starsโ€”magicians, advice givers, comedians, music instructors, science experts, etiquette mavens, puppeteers. Wading through it all, Walter couldnโ€™t believe the drivel other people produced, nor could he believe they had the gall to commit it to film, put it in the mail, and send it to him. Had they no shame? Still, he had to find something fast: his career depended on it. His boss had made that abundantly clear.

On top of work woes, four times this month heโ€™d been summoned in to see Mrs. Mudford, Amandaโ€™s kindergarten teacher, who most recently had threatened to report him simply because, in a cloud of exhaustion and depression, heโ€™d inadvertently packed his gin flask where Amandaโ€™s milk thermos was supposed to go. Heโ€™d also sent a stapler instead of a sandwich, a script instead of a napkin, and some champagne truffles that time they were out of bread.

โ€”

โ€œMr. Pine?โ€ Elizabeth said, interrupting his thoughts. โ€œIโ€™ve had a long day. Is there something you wanted?โ€

โ€œI want to create a cooking show for afternoon TV,โ€ he said in a rush. โ€œAnd I want you to host. Itโ€™s obvious to me that you can cook, Mrs. Zott, but I also think you would have a certain appeal.โ€ He didnโ€™t say it was because she was attractive. Plenty of good-looking people skated by on

their looks, but something told him Elizabeth Zott was not one of those people. โ€œThis would be a fun showโ€”woman to woman. Youโ€™d be singing to your people.โ€ And when she didnโ€™t respond right away, he added, โ€œHousewives?โ€

From the other end of the phone, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.ย โ€œI beg your pardon?โ€

The tone. Walter should have understood it and hung up right then. But he didnโ€™t because he was desperate, and desperate people tend to overlook the most obvious signals. Elizabeth Zott belonged in front of a cameraโ€”he was sure of itโ€”plus, she was exactly the kind of woman his boss would go nuts for.

โ€œYouโ€™re nervous about the audience,โ€ he said, โ€œbut thereโ€™s no reason. We use cue cards. All you have to do is read and be yourself.โ€ He waited for a response, but when none came, he carried on. โ€œYou have presence, Mrs. Zott,โ€ he pressed. โ€œYouโ€™re exactly the kind of person people want to see on TV. Youโ€™re like aโ€ฆโ€ He tried hard to think of someone like her, but nothing came to mind.

โ€œIโ€™m a scientist,โ€ she snapped. โ€œRight!โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re saying the public wants to hear from more scientists.โ€

โ€œYes,โ€ he said. โ€œWho doesnโ€™t?โ€ Although he didnโ€™t and he was fairly certain no one else did either. โ€œAlthough this would be a cooking show, you understand.โ€

โ€œCookingย isย science, Mr. Pine. Theyโ€™re not mutually exclusive.โ€ โ€œUncanny. I was just about to say that.โ€

From her kitchen table, Elizabeth envisioned her unpaid utility bills. โ€œHow much does something like this pay?โ€ she asked.

He named a figure that drew the slightest gasp from her end. Was she offended or astonished?

โ€œThe thing is,โ€ he said defensively, โ€œweโ€™d be taking a risk. Itโ€™s not like youโ€™ve been on TV before, correct?โ€ Then he outlined the basic pilot-series contract, pointing out that the initial term was six months long. After that, if it wasnโ€™t working, that was it. Finito.

โ€œWhen would it start?โ€

โ€œImmediately. We want the cooking show to go live as soon as possible

โ€”within the month.โ€

โ€œYou mean aย scienceย cooking show.โ€

โ€œYou said it yourselfโ€”theyโ€™re not mutually exclusive.โ€ But a small bit of doubt regarding her viability as a hostess began to creep in. Surely, she understood that a cooking show was not actually science. Didnโ€™t she? โ€œWeโ€™re calling itย Supper at Six,โ€ he added, emphasizing the word โ€œsupper.โ€

On the other end of the line, Elizabeth stared into space. She absolutely hated the ideaโ€”making food on TV for housewivesโ€”but what choice did she have? She turned to look at Six-Thirty and Mad. They were lying on the floor together. Madeline was telling him about Tommy Dixon. Six-Thirty bared his teeth.

โ€œMrs. Zott?โ€ Walter said, wary of the silence coming from the other end. โ€œHello?ย Mrs. Zott? Are you still there?โ€

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