Madeline took a sudden interest in a scab on her knee.
“And attached to this photo was a family tree,” Elizabeth said gently. “In which you claim to be a direct descendant of”—she paused, consulting a list—“Nefertiti, Sojourner Truth, and Amelia Earhart. Does that sound familiar?”
Madeline looked up innocently. “Not really.”
“And the tree includes an acorn labeled ‘Fairy Godmother.’？”
“Huh.”
“And at the bottom someone wrote, ‘Humans are animals.’ That was underlined three times. And then it says, ‘Inside, humans are genetically ninety-nine percent the same.’？”
Madeline looked up at the ceiling.
“Ninety-nine percent?” Elizabeth said.
“What?” Madeline said.
“That’s inaccurate.”
“But—”
“In science, accuracy matters.”
“But—”
“The fact is, it can be as high as ninety-nine point nine percent. Ninety-nine point nine.” Then she stopped and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “It’s my fault, sweetheart. With the exception of pi, we really haven’t covered decimals yet.”
“Sorry to intrude,” Harriet called as she let herself in the back door. “Phone messages. Forgot to leave them.” She plunked a list down in front of Elizabeth and turned to go.
“Harriet,” Elizabeth said, scanning the list. “Who’s this one? The reverend from First Presbyterian?”
Madeline’s hair rose on her arms.
“It sounded like one of those church drum-up-the-business calls. He asked for Mad. Probably working from a bad list. Anyway, this is the one I wanted to make sure you saw,” she said, tapping the list. “The LA Times.”
“They’ve been calling at work, too,” Elizabeth said. “They want an interview.”
“An interview!”
“You’re gonna be in the newspaper again?” Mad said, worried. Her family had been in the newspaper twice: once when her father died, and once when her father’s gravestone was blown to bits by a stray bullet. Not a great track record.
“No, Mad,” Elizabeth said. “The person who wants to interview me isn’t even a science reporter; he writes for the women’s page. He’s already told me he has no interest in talking about chemistry, just dinner. Clearly, he doesn’t understand you can’t separate the two. And I suspect he also wants to ask questions about our family, even though our family is none of his business.”
“Why not?” Madeline asked. “What’s wrong with our family?”
From under the table, Six-Thirty lifted his head. He hated that Mad thought there might be something wrong with their family. As for Nefertiti and the others, it wasn’t just Mad’s wishful thinking—it was accurate in one critical sense: all humans shared a common ancestor. How could Mudford not know this? He was a dog and even he knew this. By the way and in case anyone was interested, he’d just learned a new word: “diary.” It was a place where one wrote vicious things about one’s family and friends and hoped to god they never saw. With “diary” his word count was now up to 648.
“See you both in the morning,” Harriet called, slamming the door behind her.
“What’s wrong with our family, Mom?” Madeline repeated.
“Nothing,” Elizabeth said sharply, clearing the table. “Six-Thirty, help me with the fume hood. I want to try cleaning the dishes using a hydrocarbon vapor.”
“Tell me about Dad.”
“I’ve told you everything, sweetheart,” she said, her face suddenly lit with affection. “He was a brilliant, honest, loving man. A great rower and gifted chemist. He was tall and gray eyed, like you, and he had very large hands. His parents died in an unfortunate collision with a train, and his aunt hit a tree. He went to live in a boys home, where…” She paused, her blue-and-white-checked dress swaying at her calves as she reconsidered her dishwashing experiment. “Do me a favor, Mad, and put on this oxygen mask. And Six-Thirty, let me help you with your goggles. There,” she said, adjusting everyone’s straps. “Anyway, then your father went on to Cambridge where he—”
“Oys ome,” Mad attempted through the mask.
“We’ve been over this, honey. I don’t know much about the boys home. Your father didn’t like to talk about it. It was private.”
“Pri-ate? Or se-ret?” she attempted through the mask.