Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

What a nice way to shoo people out.

“No, we’re done here,” Maryann Blanchard said. She settled a high-wattage smile on Bindy, who winked at me.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t wait for them to be gone.

FROM THE FRYING PAN STRAIGHT INTO THE fire.

That’s how I felt at Gene’s wake. I’d been here for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t help but believe I’d inadvertently thrown myself into the flames just by showing up. I hadn’t anticipated the enormous impact my presence might have. Standing next to the casket, I hadn’t expected to be surrounded by Gene’s well-meaning relatives, all asking me what really happened, what I’d seen, what I’d done, and did I think Gene had suffered? With everyone asking at once, it was difficult to know exactly what to say to give each of them the most comfort. Above all, I wanted to be helpful.

Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the family straight. A tall woman rested her hand on my right shoulder, turning me to meet yet another relative. An elderly, suited gentleman. “This is the girl who found Gene,” she said by way of introduction.

She was about to continue when a man to my right tapped my arm. He, too, wore a suit-and the look of a successful businessman. “What was done for him?” he asked. “I mean, on the scene. Did you administer CPR?”

The woman to my right tugged me again, trying to pull my attention back to the elderly fellow, who I now learned was Gene’s older brother. “I’m very sorry,” I said, taking his hand in both of mine.

His eyes sagged under the weight of unshed tears. “Thank you.”

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said. A big hand clamped my left shoulder with solid authority. “Ollie,” he said, “I need to talk with you.”

I turned to see a very welcome and familiar face. His hair had gone almost completely gray, but his customary cheer sparkled from those blue eyes. I started to smile, but remembered where I was and immediately tamped down my reaction. “Henry!” I reached to give him a big hug. Relieved to have an out, I turned back to the family. Again I offered my condolences-and then apologized for having to leave so soon.

“Thank you,” I said as we moved to the lobby. “I didn’t know how to answer them.” I shot a look back into the room as the group clustered together again. Circling the wagons, as it were. “It’s so difficult to know what to say. And what not to say.”

“It’s always hard,” he said, his eyes scanning the large vestibule. “And a situation like this one makes it worse.” He winked at me. “I’ve been waiting for you. I knew that unless there was some emergency, you’d be here tonight.”

Henry had lost some of the weight he’d put on in his last few months as executive chef, and his face looked less flushed. Although his waistline would never be characterized as trim, it was certainly under control. In fact, the suit he wore gave the impression of being almost saggy. “You look good,” I said.

He blushed. “How’s your kitchen?”

“ Our kitchen?” I asked.

That made him smile.

“I’ll tell you all about it, if you want to go for coffee.”

Henry’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a beautiful young lady asking an old man like me out for coffee? I would be a fool to refuse.”

I placed a hand on his arm. “With an attitude like yours, Henry, you will never be old.”

There was a Starbucks half a block away, and though it was cold outside, we walked. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Henry started peppering me with questions. He didn’t disappoint. As soon as we’d settled at a small table, him with a cup of coffee, me with a caramel apple cider, he asked, “So, how are the holiday preparations progressing?”

I told him, then said, “You heard about Sean Baxter?”

His eyes, which had crinkled up at the corners when I’d talked about the menu, now drooped. “How could I not? It’s been on every news station.” He shook his big head. “I’ve often wondered why anyone would choose to be president. You lose all privacy.” Waving a hand in the direction of the funeral home, he said, “Gene Sculka’s family has had to deal with some reporters asking questions, but for the most part, they’re allowed to grieve privately. They can be family to one another. They’re able to hold one another up without worrying about the world staring in on them.”

When he sighed, I picked up his train of thought. “I know. I’ve seen the papers. Any move the president or Mrs. Campbell makes is scrutinized and analyzed ten times over.”

His eyes didn’t hold the twinkle they usually did. “Sometimes the news needs to step back and let people just be.”

We were silent for a long moment. I took a sip of my frothy concoction, and enjoyed the sweet, hot trickle down the back of my throat. “You’ve heard about the bomb scare, too?” I said, knowing he had. In this day and age, one would have to be as hermitlike as the Unabomber to avoid the deluge of news that constantly sluiced over us.

“Were you evacuated?”

I told him about being sequestered in the bunker with the First Lady and Sean. I watched emotion tighten Henry’s eyes, and I shared with him my impression that Mrs. Campbell had intended to set me up with Sean.

Henry patted my hand. “This has been hard on you, too.”

I swallowed, finding it a bit more difficult this time. “Yeah.”

We talked about Bucky’s constant temper tantrums, Cyan’s burgeoning talents, and Marcel’s quiet genius. When I told Henry about Agda, he laughed.

“Bucky was quick to remind me that you would never have hired her with such a language barrier.”

Henry stared up toward the ceiling, as though imagining the kitchen. “He’s wrong about that. We aren’t there to talk. We’re there to create superb food. To make the president of our United States forget his troubles long enough to enjoy a wonderful meal.” He launched into one of his patriotic speeches. I smiled as he waxed poetic on the virtues of a good meal and how national leaders made better decisions when they were well cared for. I’d missed Henry’s pontifications. “We’re there to contribute to our country’s success. We aren’t there to make friends.”

Now I rested my hand on his. “But sometimes we make lifelong friends anyway, don’t we?”

He grabbed my fingers and held them. The twinkle was back in his eyes. “That we do.”

Walking to my car after saying good night, I blew out a long breath, watching the wispy air curl in front of me on this cold night. Partly a reminder that I was alive, partly a sigh of frustration, I realized that, despite being able to visit with Henry, I was happy to be on my way home.

Back at my apartment building I wasn’t terribly surprised to find James napping at the front desk. I tried sneaking past without disturbing him, but he woke up when the elevator dinged.

“Ollie,” he said, getting up.

Politeness thrust my hand forward to hold the elevator doors open. “Hi, James,” I said. “How are things?”

Making his way over, he waved his hand at the open car. “Let that one go. I’ve got some information for you.”

Reluctantly, I let the doors slide shut. “Information?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. Still blinking himself awake, he amended, “Well, I guess I mean Stanley has information for you. He told me to let him know when you got in.”

“Did he say-”

James raised his hand, and looked both ways up and down the elevator corridor. “It’s about that incident the other day. You know, the one where you work?”