by Julie Hyzy
“Glad to hear it.” I retrieved onions and portabella mushrooms from a nearby container. “Were you . . .” I hesitated.
He brought the wet vegetables to the counter and laid them down. His brows arched as he waited for me to finish my question.
“Were you able to talk with your folks about what’s going on at school?”
“I knew that’s what you were going to ask.” His shoulders shifted. Kind of a shrug, kind of a shiver. But as he grabbed a few potatoes to help me peel, he met my eyes. I took that as a good sign. “Yeah. We talked about that, actually a lot. Mom was all ready to call up Seth’s parents and ream them out, but Dad talked her out of it. By the time we got the okay to come back, she’d calmed down. A lot.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I told them what you said about my dad being a good man and a strong leader and that no matter how much he accomplishes, people will disagree with him and how you said that’s okay because it’s how the system works.”
Yikes. Though I didn’t regret a word of what I’d said to Josh, I hadn’t expected him to share it with the president and First Lady, either. “I hope they didn’t mind me poking my nose in on that.”
He shook his head. “They both said it was the best way to look at things and that you are a really good role model.”
His words warmed me. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard.”
He looked up from what he was doing. “I told them what else you said.”
“What’s that?”
“That Seth is a jerk.”
A laugh leaped out of me. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand. “You told them I said that?”
He gave me one of those “You’ve got to be kidding me” stares teens and preteens are supremely capable of pulling off. “People are always acting so polite around my parents. I mean, I get that, but what’s wrong with saying what you really think?” He went back to his potatoes, but glanced up briefly. “They agreed with you, by the way.”
We worked quietly until all the potatoes were peeled and properly sliced. I used my knife to point at the onion and mushrooms waiting to meet their fate. “Breakfast for dinner tonight. You think the veggie egg scramble with a side of home fries will do?”
“Sounds great.” He crossed to a cabinet, opened its door, and looked over to me, puzzled. “What happened to the ingredient bowls?”
“Forgot to tell you, Bucky rearranged the kitchen while we were gone.”
“You were gone, too?”
Clearly, Josh hadn’t been told of the part I played in eliminating the Armustanian threat. “Just for a day,” I said. “Bucky did a complete reorganization.”
“Wow,” he said as he did a brief survey of the room. “This could get confusing.”
“I’m sure it will, for a while. But like with anything, the more you work with it the easier it gets.”
“That’s kind of what Dad said, too.”
I perked up. “You mean about Seth?”
He found the bowls he was looking for and brought two back to the counter, where we began chopping our vegetables. “Dad said that it’s extra tough for me right now because I’m the newest kid and before I could find my bearings, Seth started attacking. He said that it’ll get better, as long as I remember that Seth is the one with the problem, not me.”
“That’s good advice.”
“Doesn’t make it easier to deal with right now, though,” Josh said with an emphatic frown. “I mean, I’m not looking forward to going back tomorrow. I know they’re all going to say that my dad shouldn’t be taking vacation.”
“They don’t realize that it isn’t a vacation,” I said.
He gave a resigned nod. “And I can’t tell them why they’re wrong.”
Once our ingredients were ready, I settled a large skillet on one of the cooktop burners and gestured with my eyes. “You see that grapeseed oil? Let’s have a little here.”
Josh complied. “How much?”
“Look at the potatoes and decide how much you think they need,” I said. Before he could ask, I answered, “Eyeball it. You’ve gotten good at that. Trust yourself.”
He dribbled the oil into the pan, and I set the heat to medium-high.
“That’s another thing both Mom and Dad said this weekend.”
“What?”
“To trust myself. They say I have good instincts.”
“You do.”
His bright-eyed reaction told me that he’d been hoping I’d concur. “I only wish I knew the best way to come back at Seth when he criticizes Dad.”
“That’s a tough one.” When the oil grew shimmery, I had Josh add the potatoes, season them, then toss to coat evenly. We’d have time to work on the eggs while they cooked. I pulled up another skillet and had Josh set us up with oil again.
“It seems to me that people are far more likely to criticize when they don’t have all the facts,” I said.
He gave me a skeptical look.
“Listen,” I began. “Your dad has a lot going on all the time. Running the country is no small feat. And because of security concerns or other confidential situations, the public can’t know every detail behind every decision. Because if the public knows, then our enemies know. You and I both see what goes on behind the scenes because we’re part of it, but even we can’t know the whole story. Your dad could make the best decision possible every single time and things could still go wrong.”
Josh nodded. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Exactly. And it seems to me—from watching the goings-on around here, and even in everyday life—that the more people truly understand situations and the more they remain open to one another’s viewpoint, the closer they come to agreement on how to handle things.”
“You’re not just talking about Seth, are you?”
I shook my head. “Your dad faces harsh criticism from his political foes every single day. He knows that if he fails, they’ll descend on him like vultures ready to rip him to shreds. It isn’t constructive criticism they’re offering. They seek to destroy because they mistakenly believe that that’s the only way to build themselves up.” Pointing to the second skillet, I said, “Let’s add the onions and mushrooms.”
Josh did, then stirred them around with a wooden spoon.
“The thing is,” I said, “trying and failing is part of life. And failing, for all the bad rap it gets, is a good thing. It’s where we do our best learning.”
“You really believe that? About failing being good, I mean?”
“Absolutely,” I said, turning the heat down a little bit. “Those who aren’t afraid to fail are the ones who change the world because they’re the ones who create. They dream. They grow. Those who are content to criticize from the sidelines bring nothing to the table. You won’t see their names in history books or on marquees. They’re afraid to create, and so they criticize those who do.”
When the onions and mushrooms began to brown, I had Josh add the zucchini and squash. “I’ll bet you’re wondering what all this has to do with your situation with Seth,” I said with a self-effacing chuckle. “I really went off on a rant, didn’t I?”
“I kind of get it,” he said. “You’re trying to tell me that I’m a creator and Seth’s a destroyer and that in the long run, I’m going to win.”
Simply put, but accurate. “That about sums it up,” I said.
“That’s pretty close to what my parents tried to tell me, too,” he said. “I know they’re right, and you’re right.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s just tough waiting for the day when everybody else knows it, too.”
CHAPTER 26
I sent dinner—and Josh—up to the residence shortly before five o’clock and turned my efforts toward restoring order in the kitchen. Josh had offered to stay back and help clean, but I’d shooed him upstairs so he could enjoy dinner—such that it was—with his family. I was very glad to have been able to connect with him and find out that he’d talked about
Seth with his parents. The advice I’d given him about how to deal with the bully had been the same tactics I’d employed when I’d had difficulties with Margaret.
I glanced up at the clock and wrinkled my nose, redoubling my efforts to get the place spruced up so that I could leave in enough time to make an appearance at her wake. While she was alive, I’d been holding out, trying my best to take the high road, convinced that the “long run win” I’d talked about with Josh would eventually come to pass and that Margaret and I—though we might never have been friends—would at least come to an understanding and achieve a level of mutual respect. That was the “win” I’d been hoping for.
But now there would never be a win. For either of us. Kern’s men had stolen that from us and had stolen far more than that from her.
I had to stop myself from recleaning and double-checking every single spot in the kitchen. It was time to retrieve my tote so that I could change clothes. I knew that my subconscious was slowing me down.
I didn’t want to go to Margaret’s wake tonight—not from any sort of selfishness, but because I didn’t want it to be true. There was no disputing facts, however, so I lugged the bag to the ladies’ washroom and made the quick change from comfortable work clothes to dressier slacks, jacket, and top.
From talking with other staff members, I knew that few others planned to attend the wake. Peter Sargeant and Neville Walker would make an effort to stop by, but Margaret hadn’t developed any close friendships at the White House. Or, perhaps more accurately, Margaret had kept everyone at arm’s length.
When I stepped outside the White House gates a little while later, sunset was still an hour off. The late-day sunshine warmed me more than I would have expected as I made my way to the Metro Center station. I needed to board a red line train to Glenmont, switch to a bus, and then walk less than a half mile to the Altergott Funeral Home that boasted on its website to have been in business for more than thirty years.
From the photos on the site, the stately establishment gave off a warm and welcoming air, but I suppose that would be a minimum requirement in that line of business.
Dusk began to settle as I walked the final few blocks to Altergott’s funeral home. I felt myself dragging, reluctant to face Margaret’s family and fearful that I might break down. I wasn’t a woman who cried very often, but once the tears started I found myself unable to rein them in. I hoped I’d be able to keep my composure.
As I rounded the final turn, I caught sight of the funeral home ahead of me. It looked exactly like its photograph. Two-story redbrick, it was an imposing structure, with white pillars running its length and a solemn brick sign out front with ALTERGOTT in tasteful illumination.
I approached from the east, crossing in front of the property’s expansive parking lot and its adjacent covered drive. No doubt that was where the hearse would pull up in the morning, allowing the funeral cortege to assemble in line behind it. Right now, the wide driveway was quiet, the glass doors beyond it dark.
Maintaining a brisk pace on my way to the building’s front doors, I thought about my cell phone. I’d be morose if I missed a call from Gav, but having it ring while attending a wake would be a mortifying breach of etiquette.
I started to reach for my back pocket, belatedly remembering that when I changed clothes I’d stuffed the device into my purse so I wouldn’t accidentally leave it behind. I finger-walked through the contents of my cross-body bag before encountering the cell’s smooth case. Pulling it up, I switched it to silent and returned it to my purse.
There weren’t many cars in the lot, but maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Sargeant had explained that Margaret came from a relatively small family and that she didn’t belong to any community or social groups that he knew of. Even so, I would have anticipated more than the half-dozen vehicles that sat there.
The building itself was beautifully landscaped. Set back from the street, its evergreens and trees softened the brick façade. The long row of waist-high hedges to my right blocked the street view of the wide asphalt parking lot.
A dark-haired man wearing a gray pea coat stood about ten feet outside the building’s verandah smoking a cigarette. He leaned against one of two facing stone benches. If he noticed my approach, he made no show of it.
I turned at the sound of a car door slam, hoping to see either Sargeant or Neville, but was disappointed when the newcomer turned out to be a stranger. Even though we were in the middle of an upscale residential neighborhood and another human—taking a smoke break—hovered nearby, I felt my pulse quicken. There was no doubt the man was simply another mourner coming to pay his respects, but events of late made me hyperaware of my surroundings.
The man who emerged from the car had wavy white hair that came to the nape of his neck. He carried a messenger bag and although he walked hunched over the way aged people sometimes do, he moved quickly along the far side of the hedge. It was clear he and I were headed in the same direction.
I slowed my pace to allow him to keep a few feet in front of me, but he seemed not to pay me any attention. In fact, when he was forced to survey the area to find the path through the bushes to the sidewalk, he straightened as though surprised to see anyone else around.
“Hello,” he said, regaining his composure. “Are you here for Margaret?”
“I am,” I said a second too slowly. The forthright question hadn’t startled me; his clerical collar had. Likewise, the priest’s white hair had thrown me off; I realized he was younger than I’d first assumed. Close to my age. “I take it you are, too?”
His pale hair and ashen complexion gave him a sickly appearance. Lines around his eyes could have come from sun damage or pain.
“May I walk with you?” he asked.
With no polite way to decline, I nodded. He fell into step next to me as we made our way the final fifty or so yards to the front door.
“Margaret was one of my parishioners,” he said. He had an odd accent. I’d describe it as a cross between South African and Italian. “Even after she moved away, we remained friends. The world has lost a good woman.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I asked, “Will you be saying mass for her tomorrow?”
The priest shook his head. “No, unfortunately. The family called in someone else. An uncle or cousin, I am told. I am simply here to pay my respects.”
We turned right onto the walkway that led to the funeral home’s front doors. Ahead of us, the building glowed in the rapidly descending dusk. Low evergreens lined the wide walkway.
The man in gray by the bench shook out a fresh cigarette and lighted it. As we approached, I got a better look at him. Mid-thirties, he had a jerky, unsettled air. He held his cigarette with the tips of his fingers and drew deeply with each drag. As we approached, he huffed loudly then strode off down the walkway.
The priest nodded at the man’s departing figure and whispered. “Somebody is having a bad day.”
The man made a right at the sidewalk and disappeared behind the trees.
“Margaret’s death may be hitting him especially hard,” I said, “and we interrupted his time alone.”
“That’s a very compassionate way to look at it. I am Father Waters, by the way,” the priest said. “But you can call me Greg.”
“I’m . . . Olivia,” I said.
He stopped walking. Faced me. “Olivia Paras? The chef of the White House?”
After the week I’d had, the question sent alarm bells clanging in my heart and sounding in my ears. I took a step back. But Father Waters made no aggressive moves. He didn’t suddenly adopt a threatening air. No, he simply stood patiently and waited for my answer.
I gauged the distance to the funeral home’s front doors. Less than fifteen yards. I inched farther away from him. “How would you know that?”
He gave a sad smile. “Margaret talked about you.”
“She did? I’m surprised.” I started for the door.
Father Waters didn’t move. “Margaret said
you were compassionate.”
I stopped in my tracks, weighing my words before responding. “Margaret wouldn’t have said that about me.”
The priest smiled gently, arms folded across his chest. “But she did.”
“You don’t understand. She didn’t like me very much.”
“You would be surprised by how often your name came up in our conversations.”
Torn between wanting to get into the building to pay my respects and go home, and knowing more of Margaret’s thoughts on our relationship, I hesitated. Could this Father Waters help provide the closure I’d been seeking?
As though answering my unasked question, he said, “She felt very guilty.”
“About what?”
We were facing each other between the stone benches. My view was east over the parking lot, his was west, toward the neighborhood. He seemed to be weighing his words as he stared off into the distance. “There are some details I’m not comfortable divulging,” he said.
“Because she shared her thoughts during confession?”
The question seemed to take him aback. Instead of answering, he said, “She wronged you. I know that if she were here, she’d ask forgiveness.”
“Margaret?” I nearly choked her name out. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that doesn’t fit her personality in the least.”
One of the home’s double doors opened and a large man stepped outside. Six feet tall and at least three hundred pounds, he wore a perfectly tailored black suit, navy tie, and a look of impatience. I recognized him from the website as Mr. Altergott, the funeral director.
Spotting us on the walkway, he lumbered down the two steps to the walkway. “Father, I’m so glad you’re here. We’re waiting inside for you to lead prayers.”
Father Waters blinked, looking puzzled. “I believe you have me confused with the family priest,” he said.