TACET I: NIGHT
Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus." CJ POV.
Summary: " Tomorrow she will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think
it's a shame someone died and then go back to their breakfasts."
Tacet: Musical term meaning to remain silent, usually for an entire movement of
a longer work.
***
Tacet I: Night
***
Some forty blocks from where she sits, a man's body is growing cold. Lips that
had brushed hers so tantalizingly, so fleetingly, are hardening and turning
gray-blue like the wings of the pigeons that gather at her feet. They flock to
her in hopes of a handout. Since she has nothing to offer them but salt water
and carbon dioxide they scurry away on their dusty pink toes.
There's only this one chance to let it out before someone finds her and turns
her back into the Press Secretary she's not sure she ever wanted to be, the one
who can spout facts without injecting any of herself into them, the one who can
keep a poker face when the world's going to hell around her. It won't be long
before someone recognizes her or someone is sent to retrieve her. By the time
the police take the pictures - does she have a picture of him, other than what's
in her mind? - and zip him into a plastic bag, she'll be back at the theatre,
back in the motorcade. Back.
You have to go back.
That comes from Ron Butterfield. She doesn't look at him, doesn't want to see
the expression on his face. For him the loss is professional - guys in the
Service don't go down in a convenience store robbery. He is as unprepared as
she. Maybe it's personal for him, too. Maybe he liked Simon's snarky wit, or
maybe the guys who were at Rosslyn that night were like a fraternity. Maybe he's
going to mourn Simon in his own way, or maybe he wants to mourn with her.
CJ shakes her head, doesn't rise from the bench. There may still be a few tears
left, and she will not allow anyone in their party to see them. Tomorrow she
will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think it's a shame someone
died and then go back to their breakfasts. She will always belong to the
President and Leo and all of them. But tonight she belongs only to herself and
her grief.
Ron retreats into the crowd. Tactful. Quiet.
The neon lights are bright on Broadway, and they are changing the colors of her
gown. Black, then blue. Blue, then silver, then turning red and orange and
purple. Simon had seen her trying on the gown, had liked what he'd seen. She
could tell from the way his eyes widened and he started breathing through his
mouth.
Was his mouth frozen in a cry that he'd never finished? Were his eyes still
open, or had some brotherly hand reached down to slide the lids together? Where
was the gun she'd fired at the range, the one that had heated up her slim hands
and sent her reeling backwards, and why hadn't it saved him?
She's not alone on the bench anymore. At first she thinks it's Carol or
Margaret, sent by Butterfield to bring her back into the fold, but the three
women had shared a bottle of jasmine-scented cologne in the ladies' room of the
theatre. This isn't jasmine. It's eau de despair.
CJ turns her head just enough to see the leathery woman on her left. She wears
torn jeans that are two sizes too large, mismatched shoes, and a thin, dirty
t-shirt that says she loves New York. CJ's age, or younger, or older, impossible
to calculate. She'd have to be examined from the inside, like counting the rings
of a tree. The only thing CJ knows is that she's cold.
Simon's cold by now, isn't he? The body's temperature drops quickly after death.
Soft hands turn rigid. Rigor mortis. Stiff and cold, but at least he doesn't
feel anything anymore. God. Simon. Not like this living, breathing woman, whose
thin frame lacks CJ's tone and is just that, thin, too thin to support the unfed
organs within. They gaze at one another for uncounted minutes. The woman
obviously needs money, but CJ carries none with her when she's in the motorcade.
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon. The shawl had been useless against
the wet night so she'd borrowed Margaret's leather jacket to sneak out for some
air before the play, once upon a time when Simon was a possibility and she'd
finally, finally, been able to kiss him.
The woman by her side continues to stare at her. CJ tells her she's sorry by
holding out her empty hands, then she shrugs out of the wrap and puts it softly
around the woman's shoulders. Hopes it'll do more good where it is.
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon, and it's her destiny to leave both
behind.
There's something lucid in the shining blue eyes that says thank you, that
understands CJ has given all she has, then the woman scurries away just as the
pigeons had done. She turns once, cocks her head as if trying to comprehend the
drying tears on CJ's face, then melts into the throng.
She won't cry in front of them, especially not Toby, who sidles up behind her
and puts his hands on her shoulders. He doesn't say anything except that he'd
have come even if Ron hadn't sent him.
Her body responds by sitting up a little straighter and she pushes her shoulders
back. Toby's warm, dry hands remain in place against her chilly skin. He doesn't
say he's sorry, just squeezes a little tighter against the rigid muscles, runs
his thumbs in circles to loosen them a little. CJ breathes as deeply as her
aching lungs will allow, takes in the spring air that she will forever associate
with sorrow.
Can we get rid of spring? she asks Toby.
She never wants to live through another one. Rosslyn, a drunk driver, and
tonight some punks have rendered the season unbearable. Josh had been along for
the ride and the President had spoken brilliantly. Mrs. Landingham had bought a
shiny new car. Simon had craved a piece of candy. They'd found it by his side,
Ron had said, and roses were scattered around him, red and white, blood and
purity, and now they were all painted red by his blood.
There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow down. Toby's hands move to
the back of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, but that makes it worse.
It loosens the dam when she can't afford to let one drop spill. Not while he's
watching her. CJ pulls away, leaning over with her face in her hands,
controlling each breath.
He gets it, just as he has always done, but before he walks away he drapes his
tuxedo jacket over her. She can hear his dress shoes shuffling a few steps away.
She can also hear him unwrap a piece of gum - he's trying to give up cigars.
He's taken a few steps away but he'll be there when she's done.
It's sweet agony to be, for just this brief time, an Ordinary Woman instead of
Claudia Jean Cregg, Press Secretary. Simon, Simon, I'm so sorry, she keens in
her own head as she rocks back and forth with her arms crossed over her belly.
Tears stain her gown, the one she'd worn in defiance of her stalker and Simon.
Her stalker is alive, protected from harm, but Simon is gone forever. It's not
right, it's not right, it's not right.
Her stalker is in a warm prison cell, with three meals a day and free legal
representation, but Simon is on a metal slab somewhere, naked and helpless. And
cold. Simon's so cold.
That ends it for her, freezes the blood and tears and lets her stand up even
though her ankles wobble. She looks around for Toby, indicating with a nod of
her head that she's ready for him. He comes back to her, his hands in his
pockets, looking at her with such compassion that her knees and her resolve
weaken and she has to sit down again. She lets him sit beside her, good, solid
Toby who's not going to ever, ever leave her.
Toby doesn't always speak in words, so tonight he reminds her with gentle
strokes of her windblown hair that it won't always feel like this. She clutches
his jacket around her and tries to steel her body so it won't collapse when Leo
cups her cheek or the President says something kind, so that her tears won't
boil over as Sam puts his arms around her and tells her, callow, kind boy that
he is, that it's going to be all right.
Toby's hand moves to her shoulder, squeezes with warm gentleness. They have to
go in a minute but he'll be at her side, won't leave her alone with her grief
and her desperation. Won't let the others practice their clumsy sympathy on her,
won't let the motorcade pass the place where Simon died.
Sirens and lights will herald their departure. They will herald Simon's
departure, too, some forty blocks from where she sits.
***
END
***
Thanks, Ria, for the commentary and the late-night chats. :)
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .
Back to West Wing .
Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus." CJ POV.
Summary: " Tomorrow she will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think
it's a shame someone died and then go back to their breakfasts."
Tacet: Musical term meaning to remain silent, usually for an entire movement of
a longer work.
***
Tacet I: Night
***
Some forty blocks from where she sits, a man's body is growing cold. Lips that
had brushed hers so tantalizingly, so fleetingly, are hardening and turning
gray-blue like the wings of the pigeons that gather at her feet. They flock to
her in hopes of a handout. Since she has nothing to offer them but salt water
and carbon dioxide they scurry away on their dusty pink toes.
There's only this one chance to let it out before someone finds her and turns
her back into the Press Secretary she's not sure she ever wanted to be, the one
who can spout facts without injecting any of herself into them, the one who can
keep a poker face when the world's going to hell around her. It won't be long
before someone recognizes her or someone is sent to retrieve her. By the time
the police take the pictures - does she have a picture of him, other than what's
in her mind? - and zip him into a plastic bag, she'll be back at the theatre,
back in the motorcade. Back.
You have to go back.
That comes from Ron Butterfield. She doesn't look at him, doesn't want to see
the expression on his face. For him the loss is professional - guys in the
Service don't go down in a convenience store robbery. He is as unprepared as
she. Maybe it's personal for him, too. Maybe he liked Simon's snarky wit, or
maybe the guys who were at Rosslyn that night were like a fraternity. Maybe he's
going to mourn Simon in his own way, or maybe he wants to mourn with her.
CJ shakes her head, doesn't rise from the bench. There may still be a few tears
left, and she will not allow anyone in their party to see them. Tomorrow she
will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think it's a shame someone
died and then go back to their breakfasts. She will always belong to the
President and Leo and all of them. But tonight she belongs only to herself and
her grief.
Ron retreats into the crowd. Tactful. Quiet.
The neon lights are bright on Broadway, and they are changing the colors of her
gown. Black, then blue. Blue, then silver, then turning red and orange and
purple. Simon had seen her trying on the gown, had liked what he'd seen. She
could tell from the way his eyes widened and he started breathing through his
mouth.
Was his mouth frozen in a cry that he'd never finished? Were his eyes still
open, or had some brotherly hand reached down to slide the lids together? Where
was the gun she'd fired at the range, the one that had heated up her slim hands
and sent her reeling backwards, and why hadn't it saved him?
She's not alone on the bench anymore. At first she thinks it's Carol or
Margaret, sent by Butterfield to bring her back into the fold, but the three
women had shared a bottle of jasmine-scented cologne in the ladies' room of the
theatre. This isn't jasmine. It's eau de despair.
CJ turns her head just enough to see the leathery woman on her left. She wears
torn jeans that are two sizes too large, mismatched shoes, and a thin, dirty
t-shirt that says she loves New York. CJ's age, or younger, or older, impossible
to calculate. She'd have to be examined from the inside, like counting the rings
of a tree. The only thing CJ knows is that she's cold.
Simon's cold by now, isn't he? The body's temperature drops quickly after death.
Soft hands turn rigid. Rigor mortis. Stiff and cold, but at least he doesn't
feel anything anymore. God. Simon. Not like this living, breathing woman, whose
thin frame lacks CJ's tone and is just that, thin, too thin to support the unfed
organs within. They gaze at one another for uncounted minutes. The woman
obviously needs money, but CJ carries none with her when she's in the motorcade.
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon. The shawl had been useless against
the wet night so she'd borrowed Margaret's leather jacket to sneak out for some
air before the play, once upon a time when Simon was a possibility and she'd
finally, finally, been able to kiss him.
The woman by her side continues to stare at her. CJ tells her she's sorry by
holding out her empty hands, then she shrugs out of the wrap and puts it softly
around the woman's shoulders. Hopes it'll do more good where it is.
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon, and it's her destiny to leave both
behind.
There's something lucid in the shining blue eyes that says thank you, that
understands CJ has given all she has, then the woman scurries away just as the
pigeons had done. She turns once, cocks her head as if trying to comprehend the
drying tears on CJ's face, then melts into the throng.
She won't cry in front of them, especially not Toby, who sidles up behind her
and puts his hands on her shoulders. He doesn't say anything except that he'd
have come even if Ron hadn't sent him.
Her body responds by sitting up a little straighter and she pushes her shoulders
back. Toby's warm, dry hands remain in place against her chilly skin. He doesn't
say he's sorry, just squeezes a little tighter against the rigid muscles, runs
his thumbs in circles to loosen them a little. CJ breathes as deeply as her
aching lungs will allow, takes in the spring air that she will forever associate
with sorrow.
Can we get rid of spring? she asks Toby.
She never wants to live through another one. Rosslyn, a drunk driver, and
tonight some punks have rendered the season unbearable. Josh had been along for
the ride and the President had spoken brilliantly. Mrs. Landingham had bought a
shiny new car. Simon had craved a piece of candy. They'd found it by his side,
Ron had said, and roses were scattered around him, red and white, blood and
purity, and now they were all painted red by his blood.
There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow down. Toby's hands move to
the back of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, but that makes it worse.
It loosens the dam when she can't afford to let one drop spill. Not while he's
watching her. CJ pulls away, leaning over with her face in her hands,
controlling each breath.
He gets it, just as he has always done, but before he walks away he drapes his
tuxedo jacket over her. She can hear his dress shoes shuffling a few steps away.
She can also hear him unwrap a piece of gum - he's trying to give up cigars.
He's taken a few steps away but he'll be there when she's done.
It's sweet agony to be, for just this brief time, an Ordinary Woman instead of
Claudia Jean Cregg, Press Secretary. Simon, Simon, I'm so sorry, she keens in
her own head as she rocks back and forth with her arms crossed over her belly.
Tears stain her gown, the one she'd worn in defiance of her stalker and Simon.
Her stalker is alive, protected from harm, but Simon is gone forever. It's not
right, it's not right, it's not right.
Her stalker is in a warm prison cell, with three meals a day and free legal
representation, but Simon is on a metal slab somewhere, naked and helpless. And
cold. Simon's so cold.
That ends it for her, freezes the blood and tears and lets her stand up even
though her ankles wobble. She looks around for Toby, indicating with a nod of
her head that she's ready for him. He comes back to her, his hands in his
pockets, looking at her with such compassion that her knees and her resolve
weaken and she has to sit down again. She lets him sit beside her, good, solid
Toby who's not going to ever, ever leave her.
Toby doesn't always speak in words, so tonight he reminds her with gentle
strokes of her windblown hair that it won't always feel like this. She clutches
his jacket around her and tries to steel her body so it won't collapse when Leo
cups her cheek or the President says something kind, so that her tears won't
boil over as Sam puts his arms around her and tells her, callow, kind boy that
he is, that it's going to be all right.
Toby's hand moves to her shoulder, squeezes with warm gentleness. They have to
go in a minute but he'll be at her side, won't leave her alone with her grief
and her desperation. Won't let the others practice their clumsy sympathy on her,
won't let the motorcade pass the place where Simon died.
Sirens and lights will herald their departure. They will herald Simon's
departure, too, some forty blocks from where she sits.
***
END
***
Thanks, Ria, for the commentary and the late-night chats. :)
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .
Back to West Wing .