“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.
Chapter 21
E.Z.
The Chemistry Department celebrated Elizabeth’s return with a new lab coat.
“It’s from all of us,” Donatti said. “To show how much we’ve missed you.” Surprised by the gesture, she eagerly accepted it, donning the white jacket amid scattered applause followed by a few loud guffaws. She glanced down at the stitching above the pocket. Where it had once read “E. Zott,” it now read only “E.Z.”
“Like it?” Dr. Donatti said, winking. “By the way”—he crooked his finger, indicating she should follow him to his office—“a little bird told me you’re still pursuing abiogenesis.”
Elizabeth drew back. She hadn’t told anyone about her research. The only person who might possibly know was Boryweitz, and that was only because the last time he’d been over Mad had woken from a nap, and when she’d returned, she’d found Boryweitz sitting at her desk, going through her files. “What are you doing?” she’d asked, shocked.
“Nothing, Miss Zott,” he’d said, obviously wounded by her tone.
* * *
—
“I have something coming out myself,” said Donatti, settling behind his desk. “It’ll be in Science Journal soon.”