Julie Hyzy - Eggsecutive Orders

“And that big Egg Roll the day after,” Nana added. “How are you going to boil all those eggs in time if you can’t get back into the kitchen?”

Good question, I thought. Too bad I didn’t have an answer.

I GUESS I SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED BY the headlines the next morning: MINKUS DEAD AT WHITE HOUSE, followed by an in-depth examination of his life from his boyhood home in rural Maryland to his exalted position as a Special Agent with the NSA, where he excoriated terrorists like St. George slew dragons.

As I read, I wondered how they gathered all this information so quickly. It occurred to me that newspapers and television networks must keep fat dossiers on every public figure in anticipation of the day that figure’s obituary comes due. There was a lot here about Minkus. More than any normal person would care to know. His whole life, starting on page one and continuing on pages eight and nine. Complete with pictures.

My mom came in from her shower, poured herself a cup of coffee, and helped herself to one of my still-warm honey-almond scones. “Why are you putting yourself through all that?” she asked, gesturing toward the newspaper.

“Can’t help myself, I guess.” I pointed to the picture of Carl Minkus as a prodigious ten-year-old. “He was kind of cute as a little kid.” I looked at the most recent shot they published. “I wonder what happened.”

“Good morning,” Nana said, then looking at us, asked, “What’s with all the glum faces? I figure that we should look at Ollie’s mandatory time off as a vacation. Maybe we can do something today.”

Leave it to Nana to find the silver lining.

She came over to stand behind me, reading the newspaper over my shoulder. “He was an angry man,” she said. “You can see it here.” She pointed to the small space between his eyes. “He made a lot of people angry, too.” As she took a seat at the table, she made a tsk ing noise. “They compared him to Joe McCarthy. He died young, too.” She fixed me with a look that said he deserved it. While I appreciated the support, I didn’t feel as though that was an appropriate outlook, particularly today.

“He was trying to combat terrorism,” Mom said as she poured a mug of coffee for Nana. “Minkus, that is. I don’t really remember McCarthy.”

“ Pffft. A poor excuse to invade a person’s privacy if you ask me.”

Mom and I made eye contact. I wondered what had caused this outburst. As though I’d asked the question aloud, Nana licked her lips and leaned toward me. “Look, I’m sorry this Minkus guy is dead. Not for his sake, mind you, but because of how it’s affecting you. I saw what Joe McCarthy did to this country, and this Minkus guy was doing the same thing-all in the name of national security. He was making a name for himself by making other people’s lives miserable. That’s a hell of a thing.” She reached out to grab another section of the newspaper as she gestured to mine. “I’ll take that when you’re done.”

“Gladly.” I started to close the paper when I caught sight of another article on page two. This one by Howard Liss in his Liss Is More daily column. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” Mom asked.

To me, Howard Liss always looked like an aging hippie. His picture stared up at me, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled tight into a ponytail, which draped forward over his right shoulder. Whatever that signified. He wore one hoop earring, and a cocksure grin. “Liss,” the caption read, “is always more.”

“This guy.” I snapped my finger against his face. “He’s covering the Minkus story. And if I’m right, he’s going to blame it on some right-wing conspiracy group.”

I was wrong. He blamed it on me.

I’m not suggesting the president hire a professional taster, as monarchs did in the olden days to prevent assassination by poisoning, but I am asking the question: How safe is the food we serve to our administration? What real safeguards are in place? Who watches the chefs? Is our president’s security really left up to the woman who has made a name for herself by allegedly saving the president’s bacon, not once, but twice? Could our current executive chef, Ms. Olivia Paras (whose name you will recognize from prior action-packed features), be getting bored with her day-to-day cooking responsibilities? Could her taste for excitement have pushed her over the edge to take unnecessary chances with Sunday night’s dinner?

How dare he!

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

“This… this…” I couldn’t find the words to express my fury. “He thinks I did this. He thinks I did this on purpose!”

Carl Minkus’s untimely demise may serve as a valuable wakeup call. If we act now, we have a chance to save others from preventable disasters. Let’s not be so quick to assume that Minkus was targeted by someone he was planning to investigate. Let’s take a closer look at our own house first-the president’s house. Maybe a little negligence? Maybe a strong need for attention? Maybe things just got out of hand? Perhaps someone added more than an extra teaspoon of salt to the soup.

“This is ridiculous!” I said, standing up. “What is he thinking? I’ll sue him for libel. Or slander. Or whatever it is you sue for when people make up lies.”

My mom read where I pointed. “He puts it all in question format,” she said. “He isn’t saying you’re guilty. He’s asking, ‘What if?’ ”

I headed to the phone to call Paul, then belatedly realized I’d unplugged it. “Aaah!” I said when I picked up the dead receiver. Mom and Nana stared at me with twin looks of pained confusion. They didn’t know what to do. Neither did I.

“How do I fight something like this?” I asked.

Nana picked up the paper. “This guy is a nutcase.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

Mom shrugged. “No one will pay his article any attention.”

“I thought this guy was a liberal,” Nana said.

“I thought so, too. Why do you ask?”

She pointed. “Here, further down he talks about what a great guy Minkus was and what a blow this is to the country. He says Minkus was respected by heroes and criminals alike.”

I came to stand behind her. “What an odd thing to say. I would have thought someone like Liss would never support someone like Minkus.”

“I’m telling you, honey, that’s why nobody will even remember this come tomorrow.”

My cell phone vibrated and I looked at the number. Tom. “Hello?” I said. I caught myself smiling. Mom and Nana exchanged knowing glances.

“How are things?” he asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“Did you read today’s paper?” he asked.

“How could I miss it?”

“I’m sorry you have to go through this, Ollie.” After a moment he asked, “How’s the family settling in?”

I walked into the living room. “Pretty well. Things aren’t going quite the way I’d hoped. Did you get my message?” I’d left him an effusive voicemail the night before, thanking him for taking care of my mom and nana and bringing them safely to my apartment. “I really appreciate all you did for me yesterday. If you hadn’t picked them up…”

“Ah,” he said, deflecting. “I was happy to do it. Hey, what do you have planned today?”

“My mom and nana want to go to Arlington.”

“Visit your dad’s grave?”

“They haven’t been here since he died, and now that I happen to have so much free time on my hands-”

“Do you have any time this morning?”

“What did you have in mind?”

I could almost see him shrug. “I don’t have to be back until noon, so I figured maybe, if you wanted to go for coffee or something…”