Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

Stanley kept his hand over his mouth and his gaze on the floor. He was quiet so long I worried he’d fallen asleep. James finished his phone call and must have had the same impression because after a long, silent interval, he said, “ Stanley? You got any ideas?”

His head came up and he pointed at me as he spoke. “A guy with that much experience knows not to take chances. If he was using a drill that wasn’t insulated, he had to be pretty damn sure he wasn’t puncturing anything hot. You with me?”

I nodded.

“Was he wet? Perspiring?”

I thought about it. “Yeah. A lot.”

“I gotta tell you-he would have known better. Mind you, we all take risks, try for the shortcut. And I don’t know this fellow, but if he was a master electrician-”

“He was.”

“Then I have to think he knew exactly what he was doing. If he’s been with the White House for all those years, then he knew that place inside and out. He wouldn’t have taken that risk with the drill unless…”

Stanley ’s gaze dropped, and the hand came back to rub his chin.

“Unless?” I prompted.

He made a thoughtful sound. “We had a big storm today, didn’t we?”

James and I nodded.

“Tell you what, Ollie. Let me think about this one. I’ll get back to you.”

BY THE NEXT MORNING, A GREAT PALL HAD settled on the White House. As I shredded sharp white Cheddar for our baked farfalle, I tried without success to fight the sadness. Today hardly felt like the day before a holiday. Although Cyan, Bucky, and I went through the motions of preparing this year’s Thanksgiving meal, we did so with little of the joy that usually accompanied our planning. There was no banter, no chitchat. Conversations were brief, and even our more fun-loving assistants kept to themselves when stopping in to pick up or drop off necessary items. Agda, of course, remained unaffected by the situation’s gravity, but as she kneaded dough that would later become tiny rolls, she must have sensed our collective sadness because she gave us sympathetic glances whenever she looked up from her work.

“We have another SBA chef coming in today,” I told the group.

Bucky had been adding chunks of pork roast to an open pan on the stove. We always prepared the meat filling the day before assembling tamales. He turned. “Did you bother with an interview this time?” he asked with a pointed look at Agda.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” I said. “We were able to get Rafe.”

“Rafe!” Cyan said, exhibiting the first cheer this kitchen had seen all day. “That’s perfect. He’s a genius with sauces.”

“Hmph,” Bucky said, which I took as his version of support. Without an opening to badger me, he returned to his task, covering the pork with water and setting the flame below the pan to medium. Before long the kitchen would be filled with the succulent, roasty smell of the simmering meat. Keeping his back to me, Bucky asked, “Did you talk to Henry? About Gene, that is.”

“I called him last night before I left here,” I said. “Henry’s planning to come to the wake.”

“I figured he’d want to know.” Despite Bucky’s persistent crankiness and his singular ambition to prove himself right in all instances, he wasn’t a bad fellow. His shoulders and arms moved around a lot as he worked-as though in an animated conversation with himself. The back of his bobbing head, freckled in the small patch where he’d begun to lose his hair, looked suddenly vulnerable and weak. He shrugged to no one, talking softly. “Hell of a way to go.”

I was about to agree, when I thought about my conversation with Henry. He’d been shocked and saddened by the news of Gene’s death, but then what he’d said next struck a chord with me. “I’ve had friends at the White House pass away before, but never like this. Never had to deal with an accident of that magnitude. I give you credit, Ollie. I don’t know how I would cope.”

I’d demurred, knowing full well that Henry always found ways to deal with new situations. He’d have certainly found a way to cope.

I stopped shredding the Cheddar to take a look around my kitchen. Agda kneaded her dough at one corner of the center workstation, humming softly. Cyan slumped before the computer, an open cookbook on her lap. Bucky moved as though by rote.

“Before Rafe gets here,” I said, clearing my throat, “I think we all need to-”

“Talk?” Bucky asked. “Share our feelings? Should we stand around the countertop, hold hands, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?” He blew out a breath, raspberry style. “This is a kitchen, not a grief support group.”

Cyan looked taken aback. So did Agda, whether she understood or not.

But I’d caught the look in Bucky’s eyes before he’d masked it with sarcasm. I realized our resident curmudgeon was afraid we’d see that he was hurting, too. If Henry had been here, male camaraderie might have allowed him to pat Bucky sympathetically on the back. Maybe that would’ve started the healing process. I didn’t know. All I knew for certain was that I wasn’t Henry. So I’d have to do what I felt was best, given the circumstances.

“I think we all need to recognize something.” I wiped my hands and came around to his side of the kitchen. Cyan rounded in, too. Bucky took a step back, looking as though he expected bodily harm. I continued. “Gene was where he wanted to be when he died. He loved the White House more than he even loved his own home. Ever since his wife died, Gene’s been more than a fixture here; he’s been the embodiment of the White House itself.” Cyan stared downward. Bucky’s mouth twitched and he looked away. “If anyone else had just gone through knee surgery, they would’ve been slow coming back. But Gene wanted to be here for the Christmas preparations.”

Cyan nodded. Bucky worked his jaw.

I lowered my voice. “And he was here. Doing what he loved most.”

Arms folded, Bucky finally met my eyes. “I don’t believe he was being careless.”

For once he and I agreed. “Neither do I.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?”

At that moment, Special Agent-in-Charge Gavin stepped into the kitchen, stopping just as he entered, holding his hands behind his back, surveying us. “Good morning,” he said.

I started to make introductions, but he held up an index finger. His other hand swung around, holding a leather portfolio. “As you were,” Gavin said. He eased over to where Agda was working, smiling as though engrossed in what she was doing. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Oh, sure. Like that was possible. I focused my attention back on Bucky and spoke quietly. “Who’s saying Gene was careless?”

Bucky lasered his gaze on Special Agent Gavin. “His guys.”

Realizing our “Kumbaya” moment was over, I sent Cyan and Bucky back to their stations and returned to my shredding, my attention taken not by the hunk of cheese in my hand, but by the chunk of agent in my kitchen.

Agda offered Gavin a tentative smile. He smiled back. This happened several times while he stood next to her. She may not have known who he was, or what a man in a suit was doing in our kitchen, but she was clearly uncomfortable. She inched away. The two were close in height, and every time she looked at him, he nodded encouragingly. Whether he was trying to ingratiate himself here because he was on a get-to-know-the-staff mission, or because he wanted to ask my new assistant chef out on a date, I didn’t know.

I was about to break up this little meeting of the eyes when he spoke. “That smells delicious. What is it you’re making?”