Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  Her stride was more like a glide as she crossed the floor, her long, thick, black hair hanging in a single braid all the way down her back. Her Native American features were quite evident and always made me think how appropriate it was that finally America had been returned, in at least some sense, to the rightful owners. And government, too, was returned to the people since President Glenarrow founded presidentialpolls.gov, a website that ran public polling on major legislative topics. In addition, new Congressional rules ensured passage of legislation that achieved 75% approval or above. The applause continued as she walked and she raised her hands to silence everyone once she was in position. “Thank you, thank you, everyone for attending this special White House event. And thank you, Francis Maxwell Haughty IV for the informative introduction to today’s culinary treat.” Naturally, the President didn’t refer to Sir Haughty with the honorific. It wasn’t official, and most likely she didn’t even know about it. “Without further ado,” she said, and swung open the doors to the East Room. She ducked out of the way, allowing guests to enter, standing next to a stunned and frozen Sylvia Pendragon.

  The door to the East Room is in the Cross Hall between the stairwell and the Green Room . Along the east wall was a slender table holding White House napkins and a selection of crackers. The cheese was set up at the south end of the room, where a low, rustic, log table supported the huge wheel of cheese. Behind it stood a member of the White House kitchen staff, dressed in a white apron and toque. She was smiling and holding a curved cheese carving knife with a forked end. One end of the table held stacks of saucer-sized plates and disposable take-home containers. Embossed into the top of the biodegradable containers was the White House logo, making them collectibles in their own right. The other side of the table had plates with a serving of cheese already on them for people to take. They disappeared rapidly, and the young server quickly replenished them as people filed past the table, adding thin slices of cheese to preselected crackers as she went in a smooth, practiced dance of slicing and poking. Also on the table were dated souvenir cards with photos of the wheel and a description of the cheese. After passing the table, people returned to the north end of the room and mingled in and out of the entrance hall.

  I stood on tiptoe to see the top of the wheel and saw five bore holes the size of a nickel, four equidistant around the perimeter and one dead center, the core samples used by the inspection team. The inspectors emerged from the Green Room where they had stored their equipment and into the East Room to join the party. Nitro, a vegan, passed on the cheese. I didn’t like cheese to begin with and Billings is lactose intolerant, so the three of us tried hard not to be conspicuous by repeatedly sipping our wine or champagne and munching on empty crackers.

  It was a fine party as ordinary citizens proceeded through the lines politely. I knew that outside, at the gatehouse, guards watched for people leaving the grounds and would let in more people a few at a time. I glanced out the front door as I circulated and saw the long line of people waiting their turn. President Glenarrow stayed in the Entrance Hall, greeting people and posing for photographs, even accepting small gifts from time to time which she handed off to a Security agent. This is another example of how the Big OOPS has changed the world. It used to be that when people got their picture taken, they said “cheese.” No one wanted to say cheese anymore. The photography industry tried other phrases designed to generate smiles, among them “sneeze,” which sometimes made people sneeze, “Sea Breeze,” which came with copyright issues, “Bumble Bees,” until apiary groups complained, and even “Seven Seas,” which had multiple problems. These photographers had opted for the countdown from three and a request to smile.

  I watched from a distance as Sylvia reached the front of the line and accepted a few slices of cheese on her Triscuits and a disposable take-home container. She found me and wandered back, juggling her food to get a bite. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. “Oh my God, Helena, you don’t know what you’re missing! This is delicious!”

  “Sylvia!” Badger came up behind her, tagging her shoulder. “Helena. Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.” He carried a glass of champagne in one hand, with which he pointed across the room. We followed him and I saw that the rest of the team had gathered around a nice looking man with shoulder length blond hair tied into a ponytail. He was wearing a brown suit and a cream shirt opened to the third button over a long slender torso, and black Oxford shoes. He had dark brown eyes, caramel skin, a soul patch and was also holding a glass of champagne. He seemed to be very popular with the team. “Sylvia, Helena, I’d like you to meet Roger Sandoval.”

  Sylvia and I both shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  It was clear to the others that I hadn’t made the connection. Sir Haughty said, “It’s Roger, Helena. Badger’s Roger.”

  Finally, the light bulb went off. This was Roger, Badger’s boyfriend. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “De nada,” he said. “I get that all the time.” He had a light Spanish accent that was pleasing to my ear. Badger had taken up a position next to Roger and the two were now holding hands. “Jerry has told me so many things about all of you. He talks for hours about his team.”

  “Really?” I asked, passing a glance at Badger. It always seems to be that way. When someone says that a mutual friend has told them all about you, you find yourself unable to reciprocate. It can be very embarrassing, but it’s hard to avoid. If you haven’t been told, you haven’t been told.

  Perceptive enough to read my response, Roger added, “No worries, Ms. Montana. It’s all good things.” Badger pretended to be jostled and lightly bumped one shoulder into Roger. “Jerry, stop it. You are too modest. It’s not just your opinion. The reputation of CURDS team A is well known. You captured Rennet Butler. You took down the great Papa Pappardelle. You even rescued the famous Clara the Raccoon.” He raised his glass. Sylvia and Roxy obligingly clinked glasses with him. “To the end of Uber,” said Roger. “El queso malo no mas.” The men, somewhat reluctantly, joined in the toast, repeating the last two words of Spanish with him. It was odd hearing Badger referred to as Jerry. His real name is Gerrold Collins, but he’s always been Badger to us. “It is not surprising that Jerry has told you little of me. There is only little to tell. I am no one special.”

  Badger bumped him again. The liquid in Roger’s glass sloshed from side to side. They exchanged a look I really couldn’t interpret.

  Roger spoke to Badger in a brief spurt of Spanish and Badger responded just as briefly, also in Spanish. I do know some Spanish, but not enough to follow even the simplest conversation. My vocabulary is limited to a few memorized, disjointed phrases like, Where is the bathroom? (a phrase I’ve learned in most common languages), The bus is coming in five minutes, and The monkey in the tree has a banana. Don’t learn a foreign language in one semester of high school and expect it to be useful. “Con permiso,” Roger said. “I haven’t yet tried the cheese.” He stepped backwards before turning to walk toward the East Room.

  “Oh, Badger, he’s not mad at you, is he?” asked Nitro.

  Badger sipped his champagne. “Not at all.” He glanced behind him to make sure Roger was out of earshot. “He thought you guys were a figment of my imagination until just now.”

  “Well,” said Sir Haughty, feigning hurt. “What’s Spanish for ‘says you?’”

  “Great comeback,” muttered Badger. “I’ll ask him.” He grinned and walked away in the direction Roger had taken.

  Sir Haughty raised one hand, “Hold on, there!” and followed. For one thing, it would have been against character for Badger to follow through on the threat to humiliate Sir Haughty. Secondly, being beyond fluent in Spanish, he hardly had to ask Roger for a translation. I wasn’t sure if Sir Haughty was clear on those facts or if the alcohol was already clouding his judgement, so I casually followed as well. One by one we entered the East Room. Roger was at the cracker table assembling a small plate in preparation for the ch
eese. After selecting three different kinds of crackers he proceeded over to the giant wheel on the wooden slab table. He helped himself to one of the collectible cards and held the plate up to the server so she could put slices on each cracker as he read it. A slice went on the Ritz. Another slice went on the saltine, leaving an empty Triscuit. Roger flipped the card over, but the only thing on the other side was an image of the White House.

  The server cut into the wheel again. She seemed to have some trouble making the cut. Suddenly, her face paled and she seemed to stop breathing entirely. Her serving knife dropped with a thud to the table and she froze in place, staring at the spot she had cut.

  Although Roger was right there, he didn’t seem to notice her reaction. He was still intent on reading the card and looking at the empty Triscuit. The others in the room were milling about, undisturbed by the low tone thud her cheese knife had made. And the Secret Service personnel were monitoring the crowd for suspicious activity. Quickly, but without running, I stepped over to the server and whispered, “What is it?”

  She wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer. She and the block of cheese might just as well have been a museum display. I stepped around the edge of the table to see the block from her angle, then pulled her back toward the wall. She stood there staring into the middle distance. I tapped the nearest Secret Service agent. “Agent, clear the room. Clear the freaking White House, right now.”

  “Ma’am?” With a nod of my head I pointed to the cheese. From his height and distance, he could see the problem immediately. His face also paled, but not as drastically as the server’s had. Immediately, he tilted his head to speak into his shoulder-mounted walkie talkie, then added to me, “I’m on it.” He loudly announced an intermission and asked everyone to clear the East Room. With a minimum of confusion, people began to turn and walk back to the Cross Hall. Roger was objecting, asking what the problem was, but the agent wouldn’t listen. Roger and Sir Haughty were hustled out along with all the others.

  Once her eyes were torn away from the open end of the cheese wheel, the server seemed to come to as if from a long sleep. “What’s your name?” I asked her. She was looking at me, but she wasn’t yet seeing me. I asked her again, “What’s your name?”

  “Ca-Camille.”

  “Look at me, Camille,” I said, pointing to her eyes and then at mine. “You with me?” She nodded very slightly. “We’re going to go into the Green Room and you’re going to wait there until someone comes and gets you. Okay? Can you do that?”

  She was numb and malleable. She probably would have attempted to fly if I’d asked her to. I saw a discarded and mostly full glass of wine and took it. I opened the door and led her into the Green Room, which held a small utility table piled with the supplies from the inspection team. I pulled over a chair and had her sit down. “Now stay here. Someone will be along soon to take you home. You understand?”

  “Yeah. Sure. There’s a –“

  “I know. Don’t think about it.” Holding out the glass of wine, I added, “drink this.”

  Her eyes flitted over the wine glass. No smiley face. “I’m not allowed.”

  “Today, you’re allowed,” I said, thrusting it at her again. “Drink it. Drink all of it as fast as you can.”

  Her hands were shaking, so she took the glass in both of them and put it to her lips. I nodded encouragement, and she downed it rapidly and began coughing. I took the glass before she could drop it and set it aside. “Good. That’ll help.” Camille had the back of one hand over her mouth as she coughed and I waited until the spasm passed. “Now wait here, Camille. Don’t worry. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She nodded numbly and I went back into the East Room, closing the door softly behind me. The room was empty now except for one Secret Service agent who stood guarding the wheel of cheese. He and I exchanged a glance, then I moved onward through the now empty Cross Hall and into the Entrance Hall. The Service had quickly cleared those areas as well. My team, Roger, and the President stood waiting for an explanation. “What’s going on, Helena?” asked President Sequoia Glenarrow.

  I went to the front doors to make sure no one was hanging around near the stairs. Both inflatable tube men had been trampled to death by the mass exodus, their yellow swiss cheese bodies ground into the grass. I motioned to a Service agent who quickly closed the doors. As he did so, I told him. “The server, Camille, is in the Green Room. Please see that she is escorted home. Instruct her to speak to no one about what happened here.” The Service agent looked at the President to confirm the order and President Glenarrow, still not knowing what was going on but having confidence in my judgement, nodded affirmation. “Have Dr. Clyde take her. Explain what happened.”

  Dr. Clyde Conrad is the White House psychiatrist. After the fiasco with President Trump, it was mandated that the White House have an on-site, independent staff psychiatrist. He was appointed by a vote of four to two by a committee of six, one each Republican, Democratic and Independent from each House of Congress. A tie would have taken the decision to the Supreme Court, but that hadn’t been necessary. He has the power to declare any member of the government unfit and can only be removed via the same confirmation process. One of the Service agents nodded and went off to find Dr. Clyde.

  I turned back to the others. “We have a problem.”

  Moments later we all stood around the back side of the cheese, where Camille had been earlier. “Oh my God,” said President Glenarrow.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Avis.

  “Nope,” I replied, “just a finger.”

  Chapter Three

  With the skin stained by the pigments in the cheese, it could almost have been a calcified lump of durrus except for the fingernail and a few short black hairs between the first and second knuckle. Roger stepped forward for a closer look, but was careful not to touch it. He took out his phone. “I’m texting Dr. Zumperfeld. He’ll assemble the CSI team and be over here in,” he stopped to do some math in his head, then continued, “ten minutes, tops.”

  “Any chance it’s just a severed finger?” asked President Glenarrow.

  Roger gave her an honest response. “There’s a chance. But I don’t think that’s likely. Could also be just a hand, or an arm, but I think there’s a body in there, most likely male from the looks of the finger, but it’s too early to be sure of anything.”

  “Oh dear. I have to make a statement,” said President Glenarrow. “This is going to ruin Big Block of Cheese Day.”

  “You think?” groaned Badger under his breath. I responded with a glare.

  The President was too worried to notice. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Madam President,” I said. “It would be better to wait until we have more information.”

  “But I promised transparency. I can’t hide this. People ate this cheese. They took it home!”

  Sir Haughty tapped Nitro’s shoulder. “Do we have a public health problem here?”

  Nitro was also taking a close look at the finger. “Sir Haughty, you said this wheel was aged 12 days?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “The body, if there is one, would have to have been inside the cheese the whole time. There’s not much decomp. The surrounding cheese isn’t showing any sign of mold or fungal growth. The wax coating and refrigeration significantly slowed the rate of decay. In addition, the low ph, salt content, and low moisture would all preserve the body. So, no public health problem, but anyone who has eaten it is likely to disagree. I agree with Helena. For now, say nothing.”

  Agnes, angling her neck to get a view, said, “But people will want to know why the White House was evacuated. There will be rampant speculation. She has to say something. And it has to be something that would cancel rather than postpone Big Block of Cheese Day. You’re definitely not going to reschedule.”

  President Glenarrow was uncomfortable. “I don’t like lying.”

  “You complimented the Prime Minister of Brunei on her hairstyle,” mentioned Rox
y. The Prime Minister of Brunei was well known for her neon green beehive.

  Staring at the protruding finger, President Glenarrow said nothing at first. “Chemical spill?” she asked vaguely, then shook her head. “No. I’m telling them the truth. I’ll simply explain that experts do not expect any problems with the cheese that was consumed or taken home. People should use their own discretion and the White House is very sorry for the inconvenience.” She motioned to one of the Service personnel, this time a very serious looking woman appearing very ambitious in her Service gear. “Tabby, assemble the media in the Press Room. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Tabby nodded curtly and left the room.

  Another Service man came up. “Ma’am. The CSI team is here.”

  “Show them in. Excuse me, please.” She exited into the Cross Hall as Dr. Zumperfeld and his team entered the East Room.

  Dr. Zumperfeld is about 65 years-old, his short bushy hair the color of early storm clouds. He’s tall and slender, his arms and legs darting in all directions like an insect in distress. He wore black eyeglasses, a white lab coat over a gray seersucker suit and a pair of well-worn black Reeboks. Although I couldn’t see it, there was a recording device somewhere on his person, for he narrated as he went. “Scene is located in the East Room of the White House. Arrived at,” here he gave the precise date and time without even consulting his watch, “Air temperature 71.3 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 37 percent.” He was accompanied by two women and a man also in white lab coats. They all wore visitor badges on lanyards around their necks. The CURDS team moved out of the way to give the CSI team room to work. One of the men was already taking pictures from different angles, while a woman secured a small plastic bag over the exposed finger to preserve evidence. Dr. Zumperfeld adjusted his eyeglasses down his nose and looked through the bottom of the lenses as he leaned over the finger. “Exposed remains appear to be the distal and proximal interphalangeal joints of the digitus secundus manus of a Caucasian male.” He straightened up. “We’ll need to move this to the lab.”