Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

Slowly we all backed away, giving the team a wide berth. The sickening scent of cooked flesh hung in the air around us; I wondered if I’d ever be able to forget that smell. The Secret Service agents worked their crowd-dispersal magic, and I sent Cyan and Bucky back to the kitchen.

As the corridor cleared, I caught sight of Manny. His wide, lined face was pale gray, like the underbelly of a dead fish. “What happened?” he asked. Nobody answered him, so I made my way over.

“Where were you?”

He swallowed. “Me and Vince were outside.” He pointed south. “We had to get some wiring set up.”

“It’s raining.”

“Not anymore. Stopped about an hour ago. That’s why we got out there. We were waiting all morning for the big storm to clear up.” Behind us the medical personnel spoke in low tones as they ministered to Gene, preparing him for transport. Manny asked again, “What happened?”

“Gene had an accident.”

Manny shoved a hand through his thick hair, holding it there for an extended period of time. The medical team raised the stretcher, taking a moment to be sure they had everything they needed. I thought Manny might be going into shock.

“Where’s Vince?” I asked, just to snap him out of it.

Staring at Gene’s unmoving form, Manny could only shake his head.

As though summoned, Vince came around the corner, moving at his customary loping pace. About twenty-eight years old, he had a chiseled look, from his solid muscularity to his narrow face, so perfectly structured it looked to be carved of pure ebony. His smile dropped the moment he caught sight of the corridor’s activity.

“Make way, folks,” one of the technicians said. We moved out of the way, allowing them a clear path out the White House’s south entrance.

“Was that Gene?” Vince asked.

I nodded. Manny remained speechless.

In his haste to get out of the stretcher’s way, Vince nearly tripped. “Is he going to be okay?”

That was the one question I was wondering myself.

JUST AFTER SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, the assistant usher showed up at the kitchen. I had already sent Agda home, but Cyan, Bucky, and I were still hard at work, trying our best to catch up.

The first thing out of my mouth was, “How’s Gene?”

Bradley hesitated.

There’s a sorrow people get in their eyes when news is very, very bad. I’ve seen it often enough to recognize the look even before I hear the words. Bradley’s eyes held that look now.

“Gene didn’t…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

I dropped the knife I was holding, and steadied myself against the stainless steel counter. Staring down, I was vaguely aware of Cyan’s gasp-and of Bucky backing up to sit on a nearby stool.

Cyan snuffled, but I couldn’t look at her just now. I forced myself to focus on Bradley. “Electrocuted?” I asked.

“The hospital said the damage was incredible. They were surprised he hadn’t died on the scene… that he lasted as long as he did.”

In unspeakable pain, no doubt. The little I knew about electrocution was enough to realize it was a ghastly way to go.

We were silent for a long moment, until I had to ask. “There’s no connection between Gene’s… death… and the bomb scare today, is there?”

Bradley grimaced, taking his time before answering. “We don’t believe so. There will be a full investigation into the electrical system. In fact, that’s going on right now. The Secret Service can’t overlook any possibility of a correlation, of course, but preliminary findings suggest this is just a terrible coincidence.”

I stared down at the diced mushrooms before me and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember what I’d planned to do with them. I cleared my throat. “Thanks for letting us know, Bradley.”

“We’ll be sure to keep everyone informed about arrangements.”

I nodded.

“Go home,” I said to Bucky and Cyan as soon as Bradley was gone.

Cyan’s eyes were red. “But…”

“We aren’t going to get anything done tonight,” I said. “Not after this. I’ll clean up. It’ll give me a chance to clear my head. You guys go home now. We’ll just work harder tomorrow.”

For once Bucky didn’t fight me.

When they were gone, I stood in the silent kitchen, reliving Gene’s final minutes in the White House. Could I have reached him sooner? Would it have mattered? Fragmented recollections raced through my brain, out of order and seemingly without purpose. Why had I noticed that the laundry lady’s hairnet made her ears stick out? Why did it matter that the drill Gene had been holding cracked the marble floor when it fell? Why did I notice that salt was the top jar in the bowl that Cyan had erroneously carried out to us?

Instead of noticing these unrelated, irrelevant details, why hadn’t I done more for Gene?

I closed my eyes, pressing fingers into my eye sockets, as though that could wipe the visions of his stricken body from my memory. Maybe, if I pressed hard enough, I could wake myself up and discover this terrible day had been a figment of my imagination. Maybe-

“Ollie?”

Startled, I jumped. Sparkles from the sudden release of eye pressure danced before me, but I recovered. “Mrs. Campbell,” I said, ready to jump into action. “What can I do for you?”

Waving away my concerns, she made her way around the stainless steel worktable. “How are you doing?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I bit my lip.

By then she’d reached my side and placed a warm hand over mine. “I wanted to see you because…”

Words didn’t often fail the First Lady. She looked away.

When she faced me again, her eyes were shiny. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again. “I want to share something with you-something not a lot of people know.” She took another deep breath and I got the impression she was steeling herself. “A very long time ago, when I was a teenager, a friend of mine drowned. We weren’t twenty feet apart, Ollie, not twenty feet. We were in a public pool being watched over by lifeguards, and Donna was a good swimmer. But when I looked for her, she wasn’t there.” When she took a breath this time, it was labored. “She was at the bottom of the pool and…” Mrs. Campbell stared up at the ceiling, wrinkling her nose as though to dispel the emotion. “By the time we got her out, there was nothing any of us could do for her.”

I didn’t know what to say.

She gave me a wry smile. “Everyone told me that I wasn’t to blame. But I didn’t believe them. I was seventeen, you understand, and I knew , I just knew, that she’d died because I hadn’t been more careful. It was my fault.”

Politeness urged me to contradict her, but good sense warned me not to.

“I lived with the guilt for a long time.” She sighed. “A very long time. It wasn’t until years later that I found out Donna had suffered a heart seizure that afternoon. It didn’t matter that we were in a pool; she would’ve died at home in bed that day.” Swallowing, Mrs. Campbell gave a resigned shrug. “Her parents never told me because they didn’t know the guilt I was carrying. They were carrying their own. They believed they should have seen it coming, and that they could have prevented her death.” She shook her head. “I’m telling you this because you were the first person to reach Gene. I know you feel responsible.” She squeezed my hand. “Take it from someone who’s been there. I’m here to tell you that when it’s truly a person’s time to go, there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”