Although she was only almost four, Mad was already bigger than most five-year-olds and could read better than many sixth graders. But despite these physical and intellectual strides, just like her antisocial mother and grudge-holding father, she had few friends.
“I’m worried it could be a gene mutation,” Elizabeth confided to Harriet. “Calvin and I could both be carriers.”
“The I-hate-people gene?” Harriet said. “There is one?”
“Shyness,” corrected Elizabeth. “Introversion. So guess what: I’ve enrolled her in kindergarten. The new school year starts Monday and suddenly it made so much sense. Mad needs to be around children—you’ve said so yourself.”
It was true. Harriet had voiced that opinion at least a hundred times in the last few years. Madeline was a precocious child with extraordinary verbal and comprehension abilities, but Harriet wasn’t convinced she was gaining in average areas—how to tie shoes, how to play with dolls. The other day she’d suggested they make mud pies and Mad frowned, then wrote 3.1415 with a stick in the dirt. “Done,” she’d said.
Besides, if Mad went off to school, what was she, Harriet, supposed to do with her day? She’d grown accustomed to being necessary.
“She’s too young,” Harriet insisted. “She has to be at least five years old. Better, six.”
“They mentioned that,” Elizabeth said. “Nevertheless, she’s in.”
What Elizabeth neglected to say was that it wasn’t because Madeline was bright, but rather because Elizabeth had determined the chemical composition of ballpoint pen ink and found a way to alter Madeline’s birth certificate. Technically, Mad was far too young to be in kindergarten, but Elizabeth didn’t see what a technicality had to do with her daughter’s education.
“Woody Elementary,” she said, handing Harriet a sheet of paper. “Mrs. Mudford. Room six. I realize she might be a little more advanced than some of the other children, but I doubt she’ll be the only one reading Zane Grey, don’t you?”
Six-Thirty lifted his head in concern. He wasn’t so thrilled to hear this news either. Mad in school? What about his job? How could he protect the creature if she was in a classroom?
Elizabeth gathered the coffee cups and took them to the sink. This sudden school enrollment idea wasn’t all that sudden. She’d been to the bank several weeks ago to take out a reverse mortgage on the bungalow. They were broke. If Calvin hadn’t stuck her name on the deed, a fact she’d only discovered after he died, they’d be on welfare.
The bank manager was grim in his assessment of her situation. “Things will only get worse,” he warned. “As soon as your child is old enough, get her in school. Then find a job that actually pays. Or marry rich.”
She got back in her car and reviewed her options.
Rob a bank.
Rob a jewelry store.
Or here was a loathsome idea—go back to the place that had robbed her.
Twenty-five minutes later she walked into the Hastings lobby, hands shaking, skin clammy, the body’s warning system sounding all alarms. She inhaled, trying to draw in strength. “Dr. Donatti, please,” she said to the receptionist.
“Will I like school?” Mad asked, appearing out of nowhere.
“Absolutely,” Elizabeth said unconvincingly. “What’s that there?” She pointed to a large sheet of black construction paper Madeline was clutching in her right hand.
“My picture,” she said, placing it on the table in front of her mother as she leaned up against her. It was another chalk drawing—Madeline preferred chalk over crayons—but because chalk smudged so easily, her drawings often looked blurry, as if her subjects were trying to get off the page. Elizabeth looked down to see a few stick figures, a dog, a lawn mower, a sun, a moon, possibly a car, flowers, a long box. Fire appeared to be destroying the south; rain dominated the north. And there was one other thing: a big swirly white mass right in the middle.
“Well,” Elizabeth said, “this is really something. I can tell you’ve put a lot of work into this.”
Mad puffed her cheeks as if her mother didn’t know the half of it.
Elizabeth studied the drawing again. She’d been reading Madeline a book about how the Egyptians used the surfaces of sarcophagi to tell the tale of a life lived—its ups, its downs, its ins, its outs—all of it laid out in precise symbology. But as she read, she’d found herself wondering—did the artist ever get distracted? Ink an asp instead of a goat? And if so, did he have to let it stand? Probably. On the other hand, wasn’t that the very definition of life? Constant adaptations brought about by a series of never-ending mistakes? Yes, and she should know.
Dr. Donatti had appeared in the lobby ten minutes later. Oddly, he seemed almost relieved to see her. “Miss Zott!” he’d said, giving her a hug as she held her breath, revulsed. “I was just thinking about you!”
Actually, he’d been thinking of nothing but Zott.
“Tell me about these people,” she said to Mad, pointing at the stick figures.
“That’s you and me and Harriet,” Mad said. “And Six-Thirty. And that’s you rowing,” she said, pointing to the boxlike thing, “and that’s our lawn mower. And this is fire over here. And these are some more people. That’s our car. And the sun comes out, then the moon comes out, and then flowers. Get it?”
“I think so,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a seasonal story.”
“No,” Mad said. “It’s my life story.”
Elizabeth nodded in pretend understanding. A lawn mower?
“And what’s this part?” Elizabeth asked, pointing at the swirl that dominated the picture.
“That’s the pit of death,” Mad said.
Elizabeth eyes widened in worry. “And this?” She pointed at a series of slanty lines. “Rain?”
“Tears,” Mad said.
Elizabeth knelt down, her eyes level with Mad’s. “Are you sad, honey?”
Mad placed her small, chalky hands on either side of her mother’s face. “No. But you are.”
After Mad went outside to play, Harriet said something about “out of the mouths of babes,” but Elizabeth pretended not to hear. She was already aware that her daughter could read her like a book. She’d noted this before—how Mad could sense exactly those things everyone wanted to hide. “Harriet has never been in love,” she’d said out of the blue during dinner last week. “Six-Thirty still feels responsible,” she’d sighed at breakfast. “Dr. Mason is sick of vaginas,” she’d mentioned at bedtime.
“I’m not sad, Harriet,” she lied. “In fact, I have great news. Hastings offered me a job.”
“A job?” Harriet said. “But you have a job—one that lets you work, raise Mad, walk Six-Thirty, conduct your research, and row. How many women can say that?”
None, thought Elizabeth, including herself. Her nonstop schedule was killing her, her lack of income threatened her family, her self-esteem had plunged to an all-new low.
“I don’t like it,” Harriet said, unhappy about the school situation, which would rob her of her purpose. “After the way they treated you and Mr. Evans? It’s bad enough that you kowtow to all those idiots who drop by here.”
“Science is like anything else,” Elizabeth said. “Some are better at it than others.”
“That’s my point,” Harriet said. “Of all disciplines, shouldn’t science be able to weed out its own intellectual zeroes? Wasn’t that Darwin’s deal? That the weak eventually bite the dust?” But she could tell Elizabeth wasn’t listening.
“How’s the baby?” Donatti had asked, taking her by the arm and leading her to his office. He’d glanced down, surprised to see her fingers were bandaged just as they had been when she’d left.
Zott said something in return, but he was too busy calculating his next move to pay attention. For the last few glorious years, he’d been Zott-Evans-free, and because of it, things had been better. Not in terms of actual breakthroughs, but things were humming along. Even that idiot, Boryweitz, seemed to have acquired a bigger brain. It was almost as if it had taken Evans to die and Zott to leave to allow his other chemists to bloom.
However, there was one major thorn in his side. The fat-cat investor. He was back. Wanted to know what the hell Mr. Zott had been doing with his money all this time. Where were the papers? The findings? The results?
He gazed out the window as Zott nattered on about an unexpected positive ion reaction. God, science was dull. He coughed, trying to disguise his inattention. It was nearly cocktail hour; he could leave soon. He remembered long ago at college—someone had complimented him on his extra-dry martinis. And suddenly it hit him—why not be a bartender? He loved to drink; he was good at it. His libations made other people happy, meaning drunk. Plus, mixology had a ring of science to it. Where was the downside? The paycheck?
Speaking of paychecks, he had no room in his budget to hire Zott—zero. But he had to: he needed her because the investor needed her—or rather the investor needed him, Mr. Zott, and his fucking abiogenesis. Seemed to be getting a little frothy about the whole thing, truth be told. He’d been ducking the man’s calls for months. Had finally gotten so desperate, he’d asked his team if anyone had done any work that came within ten feet of the topic. Guess who raised his hand? Boryweitz.
The only problem was, Boryweitz couldn’t explain his research. That’s when Donatti had gotten suspicious and Boryweitz revealed he’d run into Zott and they’d discussed abiogenesis and—how odd was this? They had similar results.
“I want to go on record saying taking a job at Hastings is a big mistake,” Harriet said, drying the coffee cups.
“Second time’s the charm,” Elizabeth insisted.
Off by one, thought Six-Thirty.
