“He sounds misinformed,” Mad said, examining a scab. “Like he’s never read Oliver Twist.”
Mad had a point. But still, Wakely had dedicated a lot of time to this and he’d expected she might be a little more excited. Or at least grateful. Although why did he think that? No one ever expressed gratitude for his work. He was out in the trenches every day comforting people going through their various trials and tribulations, and all he ever heard was the same old tired line: “Why is God punishing me?” Jesus. How the hell should he know?
“Anyway,” he said, trying not to sound dejected. “That’s the story.”
Madeline crossed her arms in disappointment. “Wakely,” she said. “Was that supposed to be the good news or the bad news?”
“That was the good news,” he said pointedly. He had very little experience with children and he was beginning to think he wanted even less. “The only bad news is that while I have an address for Wilson at the Parker Foundation, it’s only a post office box.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Rich people use post office boxes to shield themselves from unwanted correspondence. It’s like a garbage can for mail.” He reached down to his satchel and after some riffling, came up with a slip of paper. Handing it to her he said, “Here it is, the box number. But please, Mad, don’t get your hopes up.”
“I don’t have hopes,” Mad explained, studying the address. “I have faith.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Well, that’s a funny word to hear coming from you.”
“How come?”
“Because,” he said, “well, you know. Religion is based on faith.”
“But you realize,” she said carefully, as if not to embarrass him further, “that faith isn’t based on religion. Right?”
Chapter 35
The Smell of Failure
On Monday morning at four thirty a.m., Elizabeth left her house as she usually did, in the dark, in warm clothes, headed for the boathouse. But as she pulled into the normally empty parking lot, she noticed nearly every space was already taken. She also noticed one other thing. Women. A lot of women. Trudging toward the building in the dark.
“Oh god,” she whispered as she pulled her hood over her head and slipped past the small throng, hoping to find Dr. Mason in time to explain. But it was too late. He was sitting at a long table handing out registration forms. He looked up at her, unsmiling.
“Zott.”
“You may be wondering what this is all about,” she said in a low voice.
“Not really.”
“I think what happened,” Elizabeth said, “was that one of my viewers asked for a diet tip, and I suggested she start exercising. I may have mentioned rowing.”
“May have.”
“Possibly.”
A woman in line turned to her friend. “The thing I like about rowing already,” she said, pointing at a photograph of eight men in a shell, “is that it’s all done sitting down.”
“See if this jogs your memory,” Mason said, handing the next woman in line a pen. “First you described rowing as the worst form of punishment, then you suggested that women all over the nation give it a whirl.”
“Well. I don’t think those were my exact words—”
“They were. I know because I saw your show while I was waiting for a patient to dilate. So did my wife. She never misses.”
“I’m sorry, Mason, truly. I never expected—”
“Really?” he snapped. “Because two weeks ago, one of my patients refused to push until you finished explaining the Maillard reaction.”
She looked up surprised, then reconsidered. “Well. It is a complicated reaction.”
“I’ve been calling you about this since Friday,” he said pointedly.
Elizabeth started. He had. He’d called both the studio and home and in her avalanche of things to do she’d neglected to call him back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been so busy.”
“Could have used your help in getting this organized.”
“Yes.”
“Obviously we won’t be getting on the water today.”
“Again, sorry.”
“You know what really kills me?” he said, gesturing at a woman doing jumping jacks. “I’ve been trying to get my wife to row for years. As you know, I believe women have a higher threshold for pain. Still nothing I could say could convince her. But one word from Elizabeth Zott—”