Julie Hyzy - Eggsecutive Orders

Mrs. Wentworth chewed, then swallowed, as Nana poured hot water over a new teabag. “Why don’t I let your mother tell you?”

“Mom?”

With her back to me, my mom shook her head. Her voice was a playful scold. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

How could I have told them? I’d been debriefed in meetings all morning. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen it on the news. “Tell you?” I asked. “You mean about the dead guest?”

The three of them stopped. My mom turned. “What dead guest?”

“The one at the-” I stopped myself. Living with my mom and nana as I had for years before striking out on my own had prepared me for such disjointed conversations. But it had been a long time and I was out of practice. With my fist against my forehead and the other hand raised to halt further talk until my brain could catch up, I grabbed the floor before anyone else could beat me to it. “First things first. Tell me how you got here, and how you got in.”

The alarm in their eyes at my “dead guest” comment hovered a moment, but they read my anxiety and decided to let the matter drop, for now. Their faces relaxed into tiny, conspiratorial smiles.

My mom set a plate of food in front of me, but I didn’t even notice what she’d prepared because her eyes met mine and held tight. “Tom,” she said.

“Tom?” I felt slow and stupid. My mother and nana had never met Tom. I’d mentioned him a few times, sure, but I’d held back on waxing too poetic on our relationship. I’d had serious boyfriends before and sometimes I thought Mom took the breakups harder than I did. I wasn’t about to put her through another one, although I held out hope that this particular relationship would continue to evolve. “Tom let you in?”

Nana settled herself in the chair to my left. She reached over and clasped my forearm. “Why didn’t you tell us he was so tall? And so handsome?” She laughed. “Tommy is a serious beau, isn’t he?”

Heat shot up my face. “Tommy?”

My mom laughed. “Nana started calling him that on the ride over here. I think he likes it.”

“The ride over here?” Again, I tried to stop my mind from reeling. “Start at the beginning,” I asked again. “Please.”

Nana pointed. “Eat.”

I dug my fork into the heaping food on my plate. Homemade meat loaf. Whipped potatoes with a pat of butter swimming in the crater’s center. I used to pretend my mashed potatoes were a volcano and the butter its lava. Green beans. Standard fare in homes around the world, this meal offered a savory taste of memory in every bite. My mom watched me from across my kitchen, beaming.

I forked off another small portion of meat loaf and watched the tender ooze before I took a bite. “Okay,” I said, almost unable to contain my joy at eating favorite homemade foods that I hadn’t prepared myself, “I’m eating. Now, all of you, tell me what’s been happening here.”

Mom set a glass of Pepsi in front of me, and the chilled can next to it. I was usually a water fanatic, but today I needed the treat. I took a long swallow and thanked her.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Just sit down, please,” I asked. “And talk to me.”

As my mom took the chair to my right, I again noticed the group’s conspiratorial air. It was disconcerting to sit in one’s own kitchen and to be the only one not in on the whole story. I waited, firmly committed to staying mum until I got the answers that, despite their attempts to be coy, the three of them were clearly bursting to tell me.

“Our plane touched down right on time,” my mom began.

Nana added, “You know we were scheduled for eight fifty.”

I nodded.

Mom took up the story again. “We tried to call you while we were waiting for the plane to unload, but there was no answer. We tried again-quite a few times.”

“My fault,” I said. “I got called in early and forgot my cell phone at home.” Putting my hand up to forestall further conversation, I ran over to my bedroom and rescued the little gadget, noting on my way back that I had seven missed calls and two messages. Undoubtedly all from Mom.

Back in my seat, I dug into my meal again. “Go on.”

She exchanged a glance with Nana before continuing. “We were making our way to the baggage claim when we saw this really handsome young man-”

“In a suit,” Nana added.

“Tom?” I asked.

Mom nodded. “Tom.”

My heart swelled. When I told him my dilemma, he’d gone down to Dulles himself to meet my family. And after being on duty for so long. He must have been exhausted, and yet he still did this for me. What a sweetheart. I bit my lip. What a guy.

“In a suit,” Mom continued, “holding a big white card that read ‘Paras Family.’ As soon as we saw it, we headed his way. It was funny, because even though we saw the sign, it seemed like he’d picked us out of the crowd and he was headed right for us.”

“I must have described you both very well.”

“Or we were the only two women ‘of a certain age’ disembarking together,” Nana said with a wink. “Looking lost.”

“Tom brought you here?”

“He did. Drove us the whole way in a big black car that had a phone and a TV in the back seat.”

Almost finished eating, I sighed, feeling relief settle over me. “I’m so glad.”

Nana tapped my forearm. “I noticed he had keys to your apartment.”

I chanced a look at Mrs. Wentworth, who had grabbed another biscotti and seemed to be in her own little world.

My face flushed again. Having my mother and grandmother know that my boyfriend had keys to my apartment was a small price to pay when that little fact had saved them from being stuck at the airport for several long, boring hours. Mom and Nana had always been go-to-church-every-Sunday-and-sometimes-more-often Catholics. They attended rosary meetings, baked for fund-raisers, and brought casseroles to grieving families. The church-and in particular, our parish-fed their need to be needed. I expected them to chastise me-sharply-for what those shared keys represented. “As a matter of fact…” I began.

Nana stopped tapping and now gripped my forearm, hard. “Good,” she said. “I worry about you alone out here. It’s a big city and there are dangers everywhere. I’m glad you have Tom to keep an eye on you.”

I turned to Mom, who gave me “the look.” “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure he keeps a very close eye on you.”

Blood flushed upward into my face, again. “He and I are-”

I couldn’t say we were just friends, because that was patently false. But we were more than just lovers. We’d reached a level of comfort and intimacy that I wasn’t quite ready to share, but felt compelled to defend.

“Ollie,” my mom said, mercifully stopping me, “he’s a very nice young man.”

“You think so?”

Mrs. Wentworth saw fit to chime in. “He knocked on my door and asked if I would mind spending a little bit of time here. He said something about having to get back because of a situation.” She glared at me. “He wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

I rose to his defense. “You know he’s really not supposed to talk about anything that goes on at the White House.”

Nana hadn’t let go of my arm. “Is he really in the Secret Service?”

I nodded.

“Are they all as handsome as he is?”

I grinned. “Just about. And they’re all really, really nice.” I remembered my recent interrogation with Craig, then I thought about the recalcitrant Guzy brothers before amending, “Well, most of them, at least.”

“Any of them my age?”

“I want to know about the dead guest,” Mrs. Wentworth said, interrupting. “I haven’t had the TV on today, and I haven’t been online either.”