“Mad,” Reverend Wakely said as she opened the door. “I’ve been so worried.”
* * *
—
From the television, Elizabeth Zott was explaining how air was being carried along on the rough surfaces of the sugar crystals and then encased by a film of fat, creating a foam. “When I add the eggs,” she said, “their protein will prevent the fat-coated air bubbles from collapsing when heat is applied.” She set down the bowl. “We’ll be back after this station identification.”
“I hope it’s all right that I dropped by,” Wakely said. “I thought I’d be able to find you at home during your mother’s show. Is she really making brownies for dinner?”
“She’s having a bad day.”
“That Life article— I can only imagine. Where’s your sitter?”
“Harriet will be back in a bit.” She hesitated, knowing this was probably the wrong thing to ask. “Wakely. Want to stay for dinner?”
He paused. If bad days dictated dietary menus, he’d be eating brownies at every meal for life. “I would never intrude like that, Mad. I really did just want to make sure you’re okay. I feel terrible that I wasn’t able to help you more with that family tree, although I’m proud of what you did. You’ve defined your family with broad, honest strokes. Family is far more than biology.”
“I know.”
He glanced around the small room crowded with books, his eyes taking in the erg. “There it is,” he said in wonder. “The rowing machine. I saw it in the magazine. Your dad was very handy.”
“My mom is very handy,” she asserted. “My mom turned our kitchen into a—” But before she could show him the lab, from the television Elizabeth announced she was back. “One of the things I like about cooking,” she said as she added flour, “is its inherent usefulness. When we make food, we don’t just create something good to eat—we create something that provides energy to our cells, something that sustains life. It’s very different from what others create. For instance”—she paused, then looked directly into the camera, narrowing her eyes—“magazines.”
“Your poor mother,” Wakely said, shaking his head.
The back door banged open.
“Harriet?” Mad called.
“No honey, it’s me.” The voice was weary. “I’m home early.”
Wakely froze. “Your mother?”
He wasn’t prepared to meet Elizabeth Zott. It was enough just being in the home where Calvin Evans had once lived, but to suddenly meet the woman he’d failed to console at Evans’s funeral? The famous atheist TV show host? The person recently gracing the cover of Life? No. He had to leave immediately—now, before she saw a grown man alone with her young daughter in an otherwise empty house. My god! What had he been thinking? Could this look any worse?
“Bye,” he hissed to Mad, turning to the front door. But before he could open the door, Six-Thirty trotted to his side.
Wakely!
“Mad?” Elizabeth called as she dropped her bags in the lab and wandered into the living room. “Where’s—” She stopped. “Oh.” She frowned, surprised to see a man wearing a clerical collar gripping her front doorknob.
“Hi, Mommy,” Madeline said, attempting to sound casual. “This is Wakely. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Reverend Wakely,” Wakely said, reluctantly letting go of the knob as he extended his hand. “First Presbyterian. I’m so very sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Zott,” he said in a rush. “So, so very sorry. I’m sure you’re tired after your long day, Madeline and I met at the library a while back, and she’s right, we’re friends, we’re— I was just leaving.”
“Wakely helped me with the family tree.”
“Terrible assignment,” he said. “Completely wrongheaded. I very much oppose homework assignments that tread on private family business—but no, I really didn’t help at all. I wish I could have helped. Calvin Evans was a huge influence in my life—his work—well, it may sound odd seeing the line of work I’m in, but I was an admirer, a fan, even; Evans and I were actually—” He stopped. “Again, I’m so very sorry for your loss—I’m sure it hasn’t been—”
Wakely could hear himself running on like a swollen river. The more he babbled the more Elizabeth Zott looked at him in a way that scared him.