Lessons in Chemistry
- Автор: Garmus Bonnie
- Год: 2022
- Язык: английский
- Год: Doubleday Canada
- Жанр: Современная русская и зарубежная проза
Электронная книга - «Lessons in Chemistry». Краткое содержание книги:
The bishop didn’t reply. He didn’t like the man, or his fancy clothes, or the way he’d arrived without an appointment. He was a bishop, for god’s sake — where was the respect? He cleared his throat, stalling for time as he stared at the gravestones of all the bullied bishops who’d come before him. He could not let the Parker Foundation with its promise of untold funds get away.
He turned to Wilson. “I have terrible news,” he said. “Calvin Evans is dead.”
—
“By the way, if that annoying minister ever calls here again,” the old bishop continued to instruct his secretary as she cleared his coffee cup, “tell him I died. Or wait, no — tell him,” he said, tapping his fingers together, “that you’d learned there was a Calvin Evans in a different home — somewhere like, I don’t know, Poughkeepsie? But the place burned down and all the records were lost.”
“You want me to make something up?” she worried.
“You wouldn’t be making something up,” he said. “Not really. Buildings burn down all the time. Hardly anyone takes building codes seriously.”
“But—”
“Just do it,” the bishop said. “That minister is wasting our time. Our focus is on fundraising, remember? Money for our living, breathing children. You get a money call, I’m in. But this Calvin Evans nonsense — it’s a dead end.”
—
Wilson looked as if he must have misheard. “What…what did you just say?”
“Calvin recently passed away from pneumonia,” the bishop said simply. “Terrible shock. He was such a favorite here.” As he spun the tale, he mentioned Calvin’s good manners, his Bible class leadership, his love of corn. The more details he gave, the more rigid Wilson became. Fueled by how well the story was going, the bishop went to the filing cabinet to retrieve a photo. “We’re using this one for his memorial fund,” he said, pointing at a black and white of Calvin, his hands perched at his waist, his torso bent forward, his mouth open wide as if telling someone off. “I love that photo. It just says Calvin to me.”
He watched as Wilson stared down at the photograph, silent. The bishop waited for him to ask for some sort of proof. But no — he seemed to be in shock, mournful even.
He’d suddenly wondered if maybe this Mr. Wilson wasn’t a so-called long-lost relative. One thing fit — the height. Was Calvin his nephew, maybe? Or no—his son? Good god. If that was the case, the man had no idea how much trouble he was saving him. He cleared his throat and allowed a few more minutes for the sad news to sink in.
“Of course, we’ll want to endow the memorial fund,” Wilson finally said in an unsteady voice. “The Parker Foundation will want to honor the memory of this young boy.” He exhaled, which seemed to further deflate him, then reached down and pulled out a checkbook.
“Of course,” the bishop said sympathetically. “The Calvin Evans Memorial Fund. A special tribute for a special boy.”
“I’ll be back in touch with the details of how we’ll structure our ongoing contribution, Bishop,” Wilson said, struggling, “but in the meantime, please accept this check on behalf of the Parker Foundation. We thank you for all you…did.”
The bishop had forced himself to take the check without looking at it, but once Wilson was out the door, he laid the slip of paper flat on his desk. Nice chunk of change. And more to come, thanks to his idea to create a memorial fund for someone who wasn’t even dead yet. He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. If anyone needed any further proof of God’s existence, they need look no further. All Saints: the place where God actually did help those who helped themselves.
—
After leaving Madeline in the park, Wakely had returned to his office and reluctantly picked up the phone. The only reason he was calling All Saints yet again was to prove to Mad that she was wrong. Not everybody lied. But talk about irony — first he had to lie himself.
“Good afternoon,” he said, imitating a British accent upon hearing the secretary’s familiar voice. “I’d like to speak to someone in your gifts department. I’m interested in making a sizable donation.”
“Oh!” the secretary said brightly. “Let me put you straight through to our bishop.”
—
“I understand you’d like to make a donation,” the old bishop said to Wakely a few moments later.
“That’s correct,” Wakely lied. “My ministry is dedicated to helping — uh — children,” he said, picturing Mad’s long face. “Orphans, specifically.”
But had Calvin Evans been an orphan? Wakely mused to himself. When they were pen pals, Calvin had made it very clear that he did, indeed, have a living parent. I HATE MY FATHER, I HOPE HE’S DEAD. Wakely could still see the typing in all caps.
“To be even more specific, I’m looking for the place Calvin Evans grew up.”
“Calvin Evans? I’m sorry, but the name doesn’t ring any bells.”
From the other end of the phone, Wakely paused. The man was lying. He listened to liars every day; he knew. But what were the odds that two men of the cloth would lie to each other at the same time?
“Well, that’s too bad,” Wakely said carefully. “Because my donation is earmarked for the home where Calvin Evans spent his youth. I’m sure you do wonderful work, but you know how donors can be. Single-minded.”
On the other end of the line, the bishop pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. Yes, he did know how donors could be. The Parker Foundation had made his life a living hell; first with the science books and rowing silliness, then with their outsized reaction when they discovered their endowment was honoring the life of someone who wasn’t technically, well, dead. And the way they knew this? Because good old Calvin had managed to rise from the not-really-dead and appear on the cover of some no-name magazine called Chemistry Today. And about two seconds later, a woman named Avery Parker was on the phone threatening him with about a hundred different lawsuits.
Who was Avery Parker? The Parker behind the Parker Foundation.
The bishop had never spoken with her before — he’d only ever dealt with Wilson, whom he now gathered was her personal representative and lawyer. But now that he thought about it, he did remember a sloppy signature that sat next to Wilson’s on every single endowment document for the last fifteen years.
“You lied to the Parker Foundation?” she’d shouted on the phone. “You pretended Calvin Evans died from pneumonia at age ten just to get an endowment?”
And he thought, Lady, you have no idea how bad it is here in Iowa.
“Mrs. Parker,” he’d said soothingly. “I understand you’re upset. But I swear the Calvin Evans who was here is very much dead. Whoever appeared on that cover shares his name, nothing more. It’s a very common name.”
“No,” she insisted. “It was Calvin. I recognized him immediately.”
“You’d met Calvin before, then?”
She hesitated. “Well. No.”
“I see,” he said, using a tone that effectively communicated how ridiculous she was being.
She canceled the endowment five seconds later.
—
“Ours is a tough business, isn’t it Reverend Wakely?” the bishop said. “Donors are slippery fish. But I’ve got to be honest — we could really use your donation. Even if this Calvin Evans wasn’t here, we do have other boys who are just as deserving.”
“I’m sure they are,” Wakely agreed. “But my hands are tied. I can only give this donation — did I mention it’s fifty thousand dollars? — to Calvin Evans’s—”