Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

I didn’t feel like explaining, so I pointed west. “Busy.”

“The senator’s wife, Maryann Blanchard, is upstairs,” she said. “She wants to meet you.”

“Me?” My hand instinctively brushed hair out of my eyes, and I was disappointed to discover I was still perspiring. “Why?”

Cheeks flushed, Bindy appeared a good deal more frazzled than she had yesterday. Although she was again super-snazzily dressed, she lacked the polish from the day before. “I was supposed to introduce you hours ago. Treyton insisted on it.” Her eyes were restless-as though she were afraid that he would suddenly swoop down and scold her for taking too long. She giggled, which I recognized as Bindy’s unusual expression of nervousness. We were all put in uncomfortable situations all too often. Her method of release didn’t speak well of her professionalism. “Mrs. Blanchard wants you to meet the children.”

“Now?” I glanced at my watch. The Mothers’ Luncheon should be over. Guides should be taking groups of moms and tots on tours of the open rooms of the White House, and then everyone would gather in the East Room for a final discussion of the day’s events. “Where’s the First Lady?”

Bindy tilted her head, as though the question surprised her. “Upstairs with Mrs. Blanchard and a few others.”

“How’s she holding up?”

Finally, the light dawned. “Oh, of course. Yes. That’s right. She lost her nephew yesterday.”

My God, how could she have forgotten?

Bindy glanced away again. Maybe this job was too much for her. “I mean, we feel terrible about the First Family’s loss,” she said.

Too little, too late.

“But, Ollie, if you could just come upstairs for a little bit…”

“Does this have to do with the placement of her kids’ gingerbread men in the Red Room?” I asked.

Bindy blushed more deeply. “Just five minutes, okay?”

I shook my head. “I can’t. I haven’t been back to the kitchen in over an hour and there are a million things to be done. Sorry.” I started to move away, but she cut me off.

“Please,” she said. “I promised her she’d get the chance to meet you.”

“I told you I’d take a look at the gingerbread men the kids made. Isn’t that enough? Tell her I’m busy. It’s the truth.”

“You have to do this, Ollie,” Bindy said. Her voice had changed. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

I stared at her but she averted her eyes. “I don’t understand what what’s like?”

She bit her lip, wrinkling her nose. When she looked at me again, I thought she might cry. “Look at you. You’ve made it. You’re at the top. You’ve gotten there.”

I had an idea of where she was going, and though I didn’t really want to travel down this track, I couldn’t think of a way to stop the train.

“This is my chance,” she said. “This is a dream job. This is what I’ve been working for all my life.” She jabbed a finger into her own chest so hard it had to hurt. “But I’m still new. And I’m still trying to prove myself. What’s it going to look like if I can’t do something simple like make an introduction that Mrs. Blanchard requested?”

“You shouldn’t have promised-”

“I know. You’re right. I shouldn’t have.” Bindy looked as miserable as a person could, despite the trim suit and snazzy shoes, and she held out her hands, abdicating all power.

I had to ask. “Why are you so keen on keeping a job that makes you unhappy?”

For the first time since we started talking, Bindy smiled. “I love my job.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“It’s just the pressure,” she said. “I’m not used to it yet. But I’m getting better. And Treyton has plans. Big plans. If I’m good at what I do, he’ll keep me around. That’s all I want.”

Big plans. Like a run for the presidency? He was the same party as President Campbell. I doubted he’d make a primary bid against an incumbent, but I didn’t doubt he fantasized about it.

I felt for Bindy, but I was sticky, tired, and not in the mood to meet anyone-especially one with a “choose my kids’ artwork” agenda on her mind.

“Please,” she said again.

I rubbed my eyesockets. “I’m a mess.”

“Nobody will care.”

And that was how I came to meet Mrs. Blanchard upstairs in the Entrance Hall. She was a dark-haired, petite beauty. Bindy introduced me. “Call me Maryann,” Mrs. Blanchard said.

I knew I could never do that, but I smiled and said hello to the three young children hanging on her. “And what’s your name?” I asked the oldest.

He squirmed and smiled. “Trey,” he said. “Are you the cook?”

“I sure am,” I said.

“The food was good,” he said, ever so politely. “Except Leah didn’t like the banana pudding. She smashed it on the floor.”

His mother shushed him, and shrugged. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said as I turned to the other two little ones. Leah was about three and John was five. They all looked like they couldn’t wait to get home and out of their dressy clothes. Leah wrapped herself around her mother’s leg and whimpered.

Behind us, small groups wandered in and out of the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, and State Dining Room. Tour guides kept them moving. I was amazed at how well-relatively speaking-all the children behaved. I heard an occasional outburst and an accompanying reprimand, but the groups were more sedate than I’d expected, especially after Jackson’s and Red’s descriptions. I really wished Mrs. Blanchard had taken the tour.

Mrs. Campbell stood a few feet away, watching us. She maintained a serene smile, but from the look in her eyes, I knew she wanted to be away from all these people-to be alone to grieve for Sean. I marveled at the woman’s strength in light of all that had happened.

“Are they touring the West Wing, too?” I asked at a lull in the conversation.

“They’re almost everywhere,” Bindy answered. “But we wanted a chance to talk with Mrs. Campbell alone. It’s probably our only opportunity, isn’t it?” she asked.

Mrs. Campbell nodded, without expression.

Couldn’t they leave the poor woman alone?

Above the soft conversation and sounds of people moving around, we heard a speedy click-clack of two sets of high heels on the hard floor. A moment later, the social secretary, Marguerite, and her assistant joined us. Marguerite apologized for interrupting. “Mrs. Campbell,” she said quietly, “you’re needed upstairs.”

The First Lady offered regrets for being called away. She thanked Mrs. Blanchard for attending the day’s festivities and then procured a promise from the assistant secretary that everyone on the tours would be looked after properly.

Once the First Lady and Marguerite departed, I started to move away myself. “It was nice to meet you,” I said. To the children, I added, “I hope you enjoyed your gingerbread man project.”

Little Trey gave me a solemn look. “I didn’t have fun making those,” he said.

Bindy piped in. “This is the lady who will put your gingerbread men up for everybody to see. Right, Ollie?”

I didn’t have any idea how to answer. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

Trey’s mother gave his arm a tug. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Blanchard smiled at me. An embarrassed smile. “We didn’t turn them in with the rest. Bindy didn’t want them to get lost in the confusion. She knows where they are.”

“I’ll make sure to get them into your hands directly,” Bindy said.

“The tours are winding down now,” the assistant secretary interjected, effectively ending this uncomfortable line of conversation. “Is there anything else you wanted to see before we return you to your car?”