The queasiness started in act 1, but by the end of act 2, it had escalated to a roiling boil. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but I don’t feel well. I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean?” she said suspiciously. “You look fine to me.”
“Sick to my stomach,” he murmured.
“Well, excuse me, but I bought this dress special for tonight,” she said, “and I’m not leaving till I’ve worn it the full four hours.”
Calvin thrust some cab money in the general direction of her astonished face, then rushed himself out to the lobby, one hand on his abdomen as he headed straight toward the bathroom, careful not to jounce his hair-trigger stomach.
As luck would also have it, Elizabeth had reached the lobby at the same moment, and like Calvin, she too was making her way to the bathroom. But when she saw the long line, she whirled away in frustration, and in doing so, slammed directly into Calvin, who instantly vomited on her.
“Oh god,” he said, between retches, “oh Jesus.”
Stunned at first, Elizabeth gathered herself and, ignoring the mess he’d just made of her dress, put a comforting hand on the bent torso. “This man is sick,” Elizabeth called to the bathroom line, not yet realizing who it was. “Could someone call a doctor?”
But no one did. All the theater bathroom goers, reacting to the stench and the sound of violent illness, vacated the area immediately.
“Oh my god,” Calvin said over and over again, holding his stomach, “oh my god.”
“I’ll get you a paper towel,” Elizabeth said gently. “And a cab.” And then she took a good look at his face and said, “Say, don’t I know you?”
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, she was helping him into his house. “I think we can rule out the aerosol dispersion of diphenylaminearsine,” she said. “Since no one else was affected.”
“Chemical warfare?” he gasped, holding his stomach. “I hope so.”
“It was probably just something you ate,” she said. “Food poisoning.”
“Oh,” he moaned. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry. Your dress. I’ll pay for the cleaning.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s only a splatter.” She helped him onto his sofa, where he collapsed into a large heap.
“I…I can’t remember the last time I vomited. Much less in public.”
“It happens.”
“I was on a date,” he said. “Can you imagine? I left her there.”
“No,” she said, trying to remember the last time she’d even had a date.
They were silent for a few minutes, then he closed his eyes. She took this as her cue to leave.
“Again, so sorry,” he whispered, as he heard her make her way to the door.
“Please. There’s no need to apologize. It was a reaction, a chemical incompatibility. We’re scientists. We understand these things.”
“No, no,” he said weakly, wanting to clarify. “I mean about assuming you were a secretary that day—about telling you to have your boss call me,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
To this she had no response.
“We’ve never been formally introduced,” he said. “I’m Calvin Evans.”
“Elizabeth Zott,” she answered, gathering her things.
“Well, Elizabeth Zott,” he said, managing a small smile, “you’re a lifesaver.”
But it was clear she hadn’t heard.
* * *
—
“My DNA research focused on polyphosphoric acids as condensing agents,” she told Calvin over coffee in the cafeteria the following week. “And it’s been going well up until now. As of last month, I’ve been reassigned. To an amino acid study.”
“But why?”
“Donatti—don’t you work for him, too? Anyway, he decided my work was unnecessary.”
“But condensing agent research is critical to further understanding of DNA—”
“Yes, I know, I know,” she agreed. “It was what I’d planned to pursue in my doctorate. Although what I’m really interested in is abiogenesis.”
“Abiogenesis? The theory that life arose from simplistic, nonlife forms? Fascinating. But you’re not a PhD.”
“No.”
“But abiogenesis is PhD territory.”
“I have a master’s in chemistry. From UCLA.”
“Academia,” he nodded sympathetically. “It got old. You wanted out.”