Lessons in Chemistry

LIVE!!! the cameraman’s assistant hastily scribbled on a large board, holding it up for her to see.

Elizabeth read the reminder, and then holding up one finger as if to signal that this would only take another second, continued her self-guided tour, stopping to take in the kitchen’s carefully curated wall art— a Bless This House needlepoint, a depressed Jesus kneeling in prayer, an amateur painting of ships sailing on a sea — before moving on to crowded countertops, her brows arching in dismay at a sewing basket riddled with safety pins, a Mason jar filled with unwanted buttons, a ball of brown yarn, a chipped candy dish filled with peppermints, and a bread box across which Our Daily Bread was scrawled in religious script.

Just yesterday, Walter had given the set designer an A+ for his taste. “I especially love the knickknacks,” he’d told him. “They’re just right.” But today, next to her, they looked like junk. He watched as she paced to the other side of the counter, visibly blanching at the sight of hen and rooster salt and pepper shakers, hostilely eyeing the toaster’s knitted pink cozy, recoiling from a strange little ball made entirely of rubber bands. To the left of the ball was a cookie jar molded to look like a fat German woman making pretzels. She stopped abruptly, looking above her head at the large clock hanging on wires, its hands permanently fixed in the six o’clock position. supper at six was printed across its face in glittery type.

“Walter,” Elizabeth said, shielding her eyes as she looked out past the bright lights. “Walter, a word, please.”

“Commercial, commercial!” Walter hissed to the cameraman as she started to pick her way off the set down to where he was sitting. “Do it now! Now!”

“Elizabeth,” he said, launching himself out of his chair toward her. “You can’t do this! Get back up there! We’re live!”

“We are? Well, we can’t be. The set doesn’t work.”

“Everything works, the stove, the sink, it’s all been tested, now get back up there,” he said, shooing her back with his hands.

“I meant it doesn’t work for me.”

“Look,” he said. “You’re nervous. That’s why we’re taping without a live audience today — to give you a chance to settle in. But you’re still on—as in on the air—and you have a job to do. This is our pilot; things can be tweaked later.”

“So, you’re saying changes are possible,” she said, putting her hands back on her hips as she surveyed the set again. “We’ll need to make a lot of changes.”

“Okay, wait, no,” he said, worried. “To be clear, set changes are not possible. What you see represents weeks of solid research by our set designer. This kitchen is exactly what today’s woman wants.”

“Well I’m a woman, and I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Walter said. “I meant the average Jane.”

“Average.”

“You know what I mean. The normal housewife.”

She made a sound like a whale spouting.

“Okay,” Walter said in a lower voice, his hand waving fruitlessly at his side. “Okay, okay, look, I understand, but remember, this isn’t just our show, Elizabeth, it’s also the station’s show, and since they pay us, it’s usually considered good form to do what they ask. You know how this works; you’ve had a job before.”

“But ultimately,” she argued, “it’s the audience for whom we all work.”

“Right,” he pleaded. “Sort of. No wait — not really. It’s our job to give people what they want even if they don’t know they want it. I explained this: it’s the afternoon programming model. Half dead, now awake, you know!”

“Another ad?” the cameraman whispered.

“Unnecessary,” she said quickly. “Sorry everyone. I’m ready now.”

“We are on the same page, aren’t we?” Walter called as she made her way back onstage.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “You want me to speak to the average Jane. The normal housewife.”

He didn’t like the way she said it.

“In five—” the cameraman said.

“Elizabeth,” he warned.

“Four—”

“It’s all written out for you.”

“Three—”

“Just read the cue cards.”

“Two—”

“Please,” he begged. “It’s a great script!”

“One…and action!”