Title: Odyssey
Author: N. Y. Smith
Date: November 1, 2000
Email: minismith@aol.com
URL: http://members.aol.com/minismith
Category: Drama, J/D romance, AU
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A quest for the unknown can yield unexpected results.
Their arrival prompted a rash of emails every morning. Arriving in separate cars, they would step across the lintel into the west wing of the White House at precisely the same moment. Then they would separate; she would proceed to the office and begin prioritizing the overnight messages and he would fetch two cups of decaffeinated coffee. He'd stroll back, backpack slung jauntily over one shoulder, with a stop at Sam Seaborn's office, then at Toby Ziegler's before bestowing her cup upon her. It would be, by that time, lukewarm, but she didn't mind for he had brought it to her. She'd flash him a shy grin over the rim of the cup, he'd return the gesture and they'd begin their day with no further show of affection than the occasional tie-straightening. But there was something, a bond, a trust, that radiated from them. And that was what set the email flying among the clerical staff. The Senior Staff was, however, considerably less observant. It was understandable; Congress was in session, the fragile Mid-East peace was crumbling, the heat in the west wing was intermittent during one of the coldest winters on record. They were too busy to notice.
Until today. Leo McGarry stood at his window and watched their arrival, fingers restlessly opening and closing the manila envelope he held in his hand. "Damn," he breathed, then tossed the envelope in his briefcase for later.
"Later" had to wait until after a meeting in the Mural Room with the trade minister from one of the new Baltic Republics, a working luncheon on The Hill with Congressional leadership to strategize their response to a proposed Republican tax credit for medical development, then this seemingly interminable meeting in the Conference Room with the Corn Producers about an emergency increase of the Ethanol Tax Credit. It was stupefying and Josh Lyman shifted uneasily in his seat in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position. So he was relieved when the supplicants requested a late-afternoon recess.
"Is it just me, or is this the same song-and-dance we heard last year?" As had become their custom, Sam Seaborn waited with him while the room cleared.
"Not quite," Josh disagreed between deep breaths. "Their crop was down last year so they're asking for a bigger credit for the next five years."
Seaborn stood and stretched. "I don't know about you, but I've got to get some caffeine or I'll just nod off in the middle of the meeting."
Lyman inhaled several more times. "I'll have to enjoy it by proxy," he said breathlessly, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed once before finding his sea legs and following Seaborn into the corridor.
"Then I'll be drinking for two," Seaborn quipped and stopped in front of a vending area.
"That's what Donna says while she's swilling her sodas," Josh joked while feeding coins into a drink machine. Scowling at the too-few coins in his hand, he fished a dollar bill from his wallet and retrieved the can from the dispenser before noticing that Seaborn had gone dead silent. "What?"
Seaborn retrieved his own drink and pushed his friend down the hall and into his office in the Communications section, closing the door.
"She's drinking caffeine for two?" he asked pointedly, pushing Josh into one desk chair while he perched on the edge of the other.
"Yeah," Lyman confirmed blithely. "She can still eat the desserts and the french fries and . . ."
"Donna's pregnant?" Sam's face wore expressions of shock, outrage and hope.
Josh held his breath for a long beat before exhaling sharply. "No," he said softly, leaning hard against the back of the chair. He cast his eyes down and chewed on his lip before whispering, "No."
Seaborn took a long drink from his soda while Lyman did the same.
"We're," he rubbed his eyes, "we're sweating out the results of my AIDS test."
"AIDS test," Seaborn replied flatly, stupidly.
Lyman smiled ruefully. "Some of the blood they gave me in the hospital may have been contaminated."
Seaborn's shoulders fell. "Why didn't you say something?" he whispered.
Lyman shrugged and strode toward his office. "Donna's waiting on her drink."
Seaborn chased after him, pinning him against a water fountain, waiting silently for a junior staffer to pass. "Josh?"
"Do you know what it's like," anger colored his face, "to have every detail of your physical frailties be grist for the office gossip mill?" He pushed past Sam. Single-handed, he popped the can ring and set the drink on Donna's unoccupied desk
"I was wondering when you'd turn up," Donna Moss said, walking out of his office with an express mailer. Holding the mailer in one hand, she sipped delicately from the can, regarding Josh over the rim.
He perched on the corner of her desk while she worried with the pull tab on the envelope.
"Hi, Sam," she said cheerily then noticed his crestfallen face. "What did you do to him?" she accused her "boss."
"He knows," Josh replied quietly, pulling the can from her hand and taking a sip, ignoring her frowning rebuke.
"Welcome to our nightmare," she said ruefully, retrieving her can and setting it on the opposite end of the desk.
From that instant, time slowed as if each second were ten. Sam stepped back to lean against the doorframe of Josh's office. Josh placed his hand on Donna's arm while she tugged at the pull-tab on the letter-mailer.
Then everything turned red.
Josh felt the concussion, heard the loud pop and caught Donna's slickened hand as she rocked backward. He pulled her to his chest, watching the red soak into her blouse. They toppled to the floor and he scrambled to push them away from the remains of the envelope. He felt himself being tugged away and voices shouting for Security but continued scrambling until he backed into something hard: the door frame of his office. He heard himself call her name, at least twice, then searched for signs of life in her eyes. He saw life, blessedly. And he saw terror. Cradling her, he searched frantically for the source of the stain. "Do you hurt anywhere?"
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
"Are you sure?" Josh continued, ignoring the voices around him, focused only on her. He smeared the stain around on her face in an effort to wipe it away. She shook her head again, but her eyes focused far off.
"Donna?" he called urgently. "Donna?" he shook her.
She looked at him vacantly, as if roused from a nightmare, then locked her arms around his shoulders, burying her faced in his neck, her sobs shaking them both.
"It's okay," he comforted, searching frantically for his friend.
"Help is almost here, Josh," Sam reached out to his friends.
Josh pulled away. "It could be contaminated," he explained.
"I don't care," Sam moved his hand closer.
Josh moved further still. "I do."
The paramedics arrived just behind White House Security and the Secret Service. While the medics tried to extricate Josh and Donna from each other, the law enforcement officers huddled around the envelope.
"Make sure she's okay," Lyman ordered when a paramedic reached for him. She turned around to face the medics, still curled up in the ell between Josh's knees, not a hair's breadth between her back and his chest.
The activity blended into a swirl of motion and sound for Sam Seaborn. He'd been kneeling, but a sudden rush of dizziness toppled him. Hanging his head to regain his senses, he watched while the paramedics loaded Donna onto a gurney, noticing only now that Josh was also soaked in red. He walked beside the stretcher, clinging to Donna's hand.
Not needing a request, Sam grabbed Josh's apartment keys from his jacket pocket, snatched up his own belongings and followed them past the members of the Senior Staff down to the waiting ambulance.
"There seems to be no injuries to either of you, Mr. Lyman," the Emergency Department doctor recited. "And the preliminary analysis on the red substance indicates that it was not blood but a tinted corn syrup."
"What about infectious materials?" he spoke over the beeping of the ever-present heart monitor.
The doctor shook his head. "There's no evidence of any. We'll run a full series of tests, but, at this point, that's just to be thorough."
"What about Donna?" he tilted his head toward the next curtain area.
"She's fine, Mr. Lyman, just in shock." He profferred a white slip of paper. "I'm sending her home with something to help her relax."
"Thanks." Josh tried to sit up, but the EKG leads constrained him. With a scowl he peeled them off and moved next to Donna's bed, clad only in borrowed hospital scrub pants. "When can we leave?" He sandwiched her trembling hand between his.
"Whenever you're ready," the doctor replied and handed him two more sheets of paper before leaving.
"I want to go home," she whispered. "I don't want to go back to the office."
"Anything you want," Josh promised. "Sam'll take us home when he . . ."
"You can't go home," Sam Seaborn stepped through the gap in the curtain, flanked by two Secret Service agents. "You're going back to the White House as soon as possible."
"What's wrong?" Josh asked, but, before he could receive an answer, the Secret Service agents were hustling them into a waiting SUV.
"What's wrong, Sam?" he clutched Donna.
"When I got to your apartment, I found graffiti on the door, Josh." He glanced downward. "Anti-Semitic symbols and phrases."
"Oh, God," Donna moaned and buried her face in Josh's chest.
"The Secret Service thinks you may be in danger."
Josh sighed heavily. "Where are we going?"
"To the safest place on earth," Sam smiled wanly.
C. J. Cregg took a deep breath and adjusted her glasses before swinging open the door and walking into the Press Room. Voices shouted at her and her breathing quickened until, amidst the din, she spotted the placid face of Danny Concannon. Almost imperceptibly he nodded to her and she calmed enough to read her prepared statement.
"The White House is confirming that, at 4:02 p.m., a very weak explosive device detonated near the office of Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman. Neither Lyman nor his assistant, Donna Moss, were injured and both are expected to be released from George Washington University Hospital momentarily. Since the incident is under investigation, we are releasing no information about the device, its origin or its target. Questions?"
Phil Jacobsen won the shouting match. "C. J., can you tell us how an explosive device got into the White House?"
Cregg's color heightened. "As I said, Phil, we're not releasing any information about the device, its origins or its target."
"Was the President in any danger from this device?" Millicent Miller's millinery bobbed as she spoke.
"No, Millicent, the President was in no danger."
"Is it true," Willem Kassner shouted, "that both victims appeared to be covered in blood when they were loaded into the ambulance?"
"As I said before, Willem," Cregg's impatience showed, "neither victim was injured."
"When will you be releasing further information?" Danny Concannon's voice rose above the din.
Cregg almost smiled at the "softball" he'd tossed her. "The agencies involved have informed us not to expect any more information until at least tomorrow morning. Thank you."
Cregg bolted through the door and nearly slammed it on Concannon. "Are they okay? Really?" he asked.
"Yeah," C. J. smiled. "Just shaken up."
"How about you?" Concannon's hand brushed hers.
"Shaken up." She smiled wanly. "Thanks for the save in there."
"You're welcome," Concannon replied. He looked up and down the hall and, seeing they were alone, brushed an errant sprig of hair from her face. "I'm just glad you're okay."
"They're staying in the spare bedroom, Jed."
Bartlet followed his wife into the aforementioned bedroom, helped her turn down the coverlet. "Abby, I know you're trying to be kind, and heaven knows Josh and Donna have become part of our extended family, and if this were our own house I wouldn't think twice, but to allow two unmarried individuals to share a bedroom in the official residence maintained by the people of the United States would offend certain constituencies . . ."
Jed Bartlet stopped short when his wife slowly turned around, her voice deadly quiet and controlled. "The only people it would offend are the same idiots who would be outraged that a Jew is sullying some poor Gentile girl. Those are the same idiots who are outraged that a black man is dating a white girl. Those are the same idiots who shot you, Jed. Those are the same idiots who shot Josh."
Through the open door to the hall he could see them, Josh and Donna followed by Sam, approaching, faces crestfallen. Donna stumbled and Josh swept her into his arms, carrying her across the threshold and setting her gently on the bed. "It's very kind of you," he said while removing her coat to reveal to hospital scrubs she also wore, "to do this, Mrs. Bartlet."
Abby Bartlet motioned toward the adjoining bathroom. "I know you'll want to wash off . . ."
"They put us through the decontamination routine at the hospital." Josh's voice was flat, vacant as he pushed Donna beneath the bedclothes. She curled up tightly, clutching his hand between hers. She mewled when he retrieved it long enough to remove his own coat, laying both garments over the bedside chair.
Sam hooked the garment bags he carried over the closet rod. "The Secret Service wants to speak to you."
Josh tenderly stroked a strand of flaxen hair from Donna's face. "It can wait."
"It's important, Josh," the President emphasized.
With only a moment's hesitation, he walked to the far side of the bed, lifted the bedclothes and crawled beneath them. Instantly, Donna moved into his embrace, each molded perfectly to the other. She began to shiver and he wrapped her tighter, whispering while stroking her hair. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
Abby Bartlet gently pushed her husband into the hall. Sam Seaborn remained but a moment, "If you need anything . . ."
Josh nodded thankfully, then buried his face in her hair, too late to hide the tears filling his eyes.
Sam closed the door quietly behind him, breathing a silent prayer of comfort for them both.
"Explain to me again how an explosive device made it through all of our security onto the desk of the White House Deputy Chief of Staff," Leo McGarry demanded.
"It wasn't an explosive device, per se, Mr. McGarry," Secret Service Special Agent in Charge Ron Butterfield explained. "The noise was made by a party popper, triggered when the pull tab was removed."
"I don't give a damn what is was," Toby Ziegler snarled. "How did it get into the White House?"
"Everything that comes into the White House by mail or courier is examined, x-rayed, and passed by the bomb dog. This thing had to walk in with somebody."
"Who?" McGarry demanded.
"We're processing the envelope now."
Ziegler worried with his ever-present notepad. "Do you think the pictures are related to this?"
"What pictures?" Josh Lyman knocked on the door frame before sitting wearily at the end of the sofa.
"How's Donna?" McGarry queried.
"Finally asleep," Lyman answered. His white shirt and loosened tie only accentuated the dark circles beneath his eyes. "What pictures?"
McGarry and Ziegler shot glances at Butterfield who held out a sheaf of photos in plastic sleeves.
Josh looked at each slowly, disbelief growing on his face. "Where did you get these?"
"Are they real?" Ziegler asked.
"Yeah," Lyman's voice reflected his rising alarm as he dealt out photos. "This one was taken at the Kennedy Center last month. This one, around Christmas; we'd spent the day shopping for her family. This one, could be almost any morning in the last six months. Where did you get these?"
"They came in the mail this morning, Josh."
"Did you have any idea someone was following you?" Ron Butterfield asked.
Josh shook his head. "Who was it?"
Butterfield handed him a bagged piece of paper.
"'Will the filthy pigs in the White House ever stop defiling our innocent white girls?'" he turned it over. "It's unsigned."
"The postmark is DC," Butterfield said. "The photos were developed at a drugstore on Lafayette Circle."
"I thought they were after Charlie and Zoey." Confusion clouded Lyman's face.
"Apparently," Butterfield explained, "you've attracted their attention, too."
"This isn't happening," Josh muttered, staring at the pictures and the note.
"What is it, Margaret?" Leo McGarry responded to the timid face that appeared in the doorway.
"Donna's awake," she announced then scurried back to her desk.
"We need to talk to her, Josh," Butterfield insisted.
Lyman thought for a moment, then blinked and swallowed hard. He stood, then tossed the pictures and note on the table before turning to the door.
"Josh," Leo McGarry's voice stopped him in the doorway.
Lyman didn't turn, spoke roughly over his shoulder. "Ten minutes."
"I don't think I've ever seen him that angry," Leo McGarry observed.
"I don't think I've ever seen him that scared," Toby Ziegler corrected.
Ron Butterfield leaned over and retrieved the evidence from the table. "He should be."
It started as it always did, his heart pounding, followed by a rushing sound in his ears, then sparkly things dancing in front of his eyes. Desperately he rolled over and patted around on the bedside table for the pill bottle he'd set there before finally retiring only thirty minutes ago. He tried deepening his breathing, but the tightness began. He felt Donna startle beside him, then her light flashed on. He felt her arm reach over him for the now-revealed bottle. He lay back, arms crossed over his chest, and allowed her to place one of the tablets under his tongue. He could hear her cooing, felt her hand stroking his arms, as the pain crushed him before slowly subsiding.
"Better?" she said quietly, wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his pyjama top she'd gotten in the habit of wearing.
He nodded and, after resting a bit more, swung his legs to the floor and padded shakily to the bathroom. She followed, grabbing handsful of the crew shirt he was wearing to steady him. He bent down in front of the sink and splashed cold water on his face while she stood silently, towel in one hand, the other hand hooked through the waistband of his pyjama bottoms-which matched the top she was wearing.
"That one didn't sneak up on you," she slid her arms around his waist while he toweled the water from his face.
"It's been," he captured on her hands in his and staggered back to the bed, "coming on since the letterbomb," as they seemed to have decided to call the day's incident. They crawled beneath the heavy coverlet, clinging to each other like storm-tossed sailors to the mast of the ship.
"Ron Butterfield says we should find another place to live," he began, "something in a more secure building." He turned his head downward. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "You've really worked hard to turn the apartment into a home and . . ."
"'Whither thou goest,'" she lifted his chin with her long, slender fingers until his eyes met hers. "It'll be fine, Josh," she promised.
The fear in his eyes brightened to hope and he pulled her even closer before breathing thankfully, "From your mouth to God's ear."
Ainsley Haynes peered timidly into Josh Lyman's office.
"He's not here," Sam Seaborn said sharply. "What do you want?"
"I, um," she licked her lips nervously, "I just came to see if they were okay."
"That's very nice," Seaborn said sarcastically. "It would have been nicer if you'd thought of it on Monday-before you brought that letterbomb back from the Hill."
"I know, Sam, I know, and I'm so sorry," tears rolled down her face. "I had no idea that Congressional page was an impostor," she snuffled.
"Turn off the waterworks, Ainsley," he snarled. "That may work for you in North Carolina, but here it just points out how truly clueless you are."
The rental agent pasted on a smile while proffering the keys. "I'm sure you'll find the security adequate, Mr. Lyman, without feeling like you're in a golden prison."
"It's still a prison," Josh Lyman groused, balancing a box marked "Kitchen" on his hip while stuffing the keyring into the front pocket of his jeans.
"Josh," Donna pulled him toward the sunshine, "look at all these windows . . ."
"Those are bullet-resistant," the agent supplied helpfully, cringing at Lyman's withering glance.
"And there's a balcony, with a nice view of the National Cathedral," she balanced a box market "Bathroom" on her hip, pulling him through the glass-paned door to the rail with her now-freed hand. "Think of coffee on the balcony . . ."
"I can't have coffee any more." He strode back into the musty apartment and set the box on the kitchen counter.
"Stop grouching." Her reprimand from the bathroom prompted a sheepish smile. "It's nice, homey, not sterile like the others." She stepped around the stacks of boxes crammed in and around the furniture.
"And the fireplace . . ."
"Why don't we," Lyman cut off the rental agent's obsequious interruption, "call you in the rental office if we need anything?"
"So?" she asked when they were finally alone.
"It's okay," he replied flatly. "What about you?"
"I think," she moved a box off the hearth and perched on it, "we should have waited until you got back from your little job-hunting expedition to New Haven."
"What do you mean?" His best poker face was comical, at best. "I'm just going up to lecture for a couple of Government classes."
She chuckled and pulled on his arm until he was seated beside her. "I know you've been talking to your friend Jake Weisenmann at Yale Law. I'm assuming it's about a faculty position which, of course, is yours for the asking. When," she turned to face him, "were you planning on telling me, Josh?"
"I wasn't."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Bastard," she spat and bolted for the bedroom. "I should have known you didn't . . . that I'm not . . ."
He jumped up and followed her. "It's not like that, Donna."
"Then what is it?" Tears rolled down her face. "How could I have been so stupid? Again?"
"Stop it," he ordered. Gently he took her hands in his, pulling her onto the edge of the bare mattress with him. "The people I care about are not safe when I'm around." He laid her left hand directly over his scar. "Next time we may not be so lucky."
"Donna, this is the third time you've had me move this same box," Josh Lyman half-whined. "Are you sure this is the stack for it?"
"For now," Donna Moss said merrily while smoothing the coverlet on the now-made bed.
"An island of calm in this chaos," Lyman turned surveyed the room-furniture in place, clothes hung, bed made. "How do you do it?"
"Bathrooms, bedroom, kitchen," Donna chanted while moving a box into the living room. "I had a friend who was military who moved around a lot and her mother always set up their houses in that order . . ."
"Bathrooms, bedroom, kitchen," Josh supplied admiringly. "Speaking of kitchen . . ."
"I know, I know," Donna peered into the refrigerator, "it'll have to be cold cuts . . ."
Josh groaned, but his comeback was interrupted by the buzzer. He leaned against the door facing while answering, "Yeah?"
"It's me, Josh," Leo McGarry's voice crackled over the speaker.
"Come on up," Lyman replied then joined Donna as she dashed to clear off any place to sit beyond the hearth and a pasteboard box.
"I thought you might enjoy a hot meal," Leo McGarry held out a bag marked "Ruth's Chris." He proffered the other hand, "And a little something to wash it down."
"Wow," was the only utterance that emerged from Josh's stunned face, but Donna stepped in, picked up the food and disappeared into the kitchen.
"How're you holding up?" McGarry's brow crinkled as he slid off his coat and draped it over a box.
Lyman shrugged. "Going through the motions."
"Sometimes that's what it takes to get you through." McGarry tilted his head toward the fireplace. "Nice place. Jimmy Stringer, my chief of staff when I was at State, used to live in this building."
"Really?" Josh replied, then scanned the room. "Donna seems to," he paused, "feel safe here. That's all that matters."
"Yeah," McGarry nodded. "One bedroom?"
"Two, actually," Josh stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. "One for Donna's family, when they come down."
"Very domestic," McGarry commented.
"Leo," Lyman rubbed his palms together slowly. "It's nobody's business if Donna and I . . ."
"You and Donna, is it the real thing?"
Lyman glanced toward the kitchen while dragging his hand down his doleful face. "Yeah, Leo."
"Privacy is a very hard thing to find in the fishbowl we live in, Josh," McGarry warned. "But not impossible. You keep it private and so will I."
"Anybody hungry?" Donna balanced three plates on her arms when she emerged from the kitchen.
"Thanks, Leo," Lyman whispered, jumping to grab a plate before disaster struck.
Yale Law School
"Let me reiterate," Lyman took a sip from the nearly-empty glass on the podium, "that it is the responsibility of government to act in the best interest of the people, even when the people don't realize what is their best interest."
A hand shot up in the back. "But isn't that contrary to the ideals set forth in the American Revolution?" Josh searched the crowd for the face that belonged to the voice-a face that was supposed to have remained behind in Washington. "Didn't the colonists rebel against a government that acted as if they were not capable of managing their own destiny?"
For a moment he bridled at the challenge, but the expression on her face was of genuine curiosity.
"The colonists did rebel against that type of government. But the failure of the Confederation of States showed us that the simple democracy they designed was a lot easier to envision than to implement. The Founding Fathers designed a Republic by which the elected representatives of the people would be free to act in the best interest of the people, even when that best interest might be contrary to the people's wishes. For all of its faults, I think it's still the best form of government in the world." He colored, realizing he was nearly shouting, "Last question?"
A fresh-faced young man, one who looked much like Charlie, stood. "Mr. Lyman, has you changed any of your policy positions since you were . . ." the young man jittered his hand in an effort to dig up the right words.
"Shot?" Josh supplied bluntly. He glanced at Donna, who offered a smile and a nod. "Well," he stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "I guess it would come as no surprise that I'm a lot harder on gun control than I used to be." Nervous laughter rippled across the audience. "I'm trying to spend my time and energy on the things that are important," his eyes locked on Donna's, "rather than the things that other people think are important." He clasped his hands together. "I want to thank Professor Weisenmann for inviting me here today, and for not telling you all of the embarrassing things about me he could have told you."
Weisenmann shook Josh's outstretched hand, "Don't be so sure," he warned and the audience, on cue, began waving multicolored dance tights.
He mock-glared at Weisenmann, then began applauding the crowd. "Pink," he shouted over the laughter, "my favorite color was pink."
By the time Donna cozied up to him, tears were running down his face and he'd locked his arms across his chest, gasping for breath between the gales of laughter. He waved at the crowd and applause followed him off the stage. Another handshake detained his exit to the waiting car.
"I suppose there's a story behind the hosiery," she said when he'd finally stopped laughing, which prompted him to smirk again. "Anything you'd care to share?"
"Not a chance," he puffed.
"You'd better come clean, Lyman," Weisenmann weighed in from the driver's seat. "The pantyhose escapade is nothing compared with what she's gonna find out tonight."
Josh leaned forward. "What's happening tonight?" he asked suspiciously.
Weisenmann grinned evilly. "Just a few college buddies getting together to kick around old times."
Josh slumped in the seat with a mock groan.
"Chickens coming home to roost?" Donna asked with mock innocence.
"Funny you should mention chickens . . ." Weisenmann eyed them in the rear-view mirror.
"Gee, look at that snowman in that yard with a hockey stick!" Josh exclaimed, prompting a laugh from the other passengers.
New Haven Train Station
"You're going to Wheeling," she said flatly, her hands resting on the window ledge of the rental car as she leaned in the open window. "That's why you didn't want me to come."
Josh made a show of adjusting his hands on the steering wheel and staring ahead mutely. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, making powdery places on the parking lot.
"I'm coming with you." She walked around the car and tugged on the passenger door.
He shook his head. "Please don't," he whispered raggedly when she'd settled into the seat. "Please."
"Why not?" she challenged angrily, snowflakes clinging to her hair.
"It's too dangerous."
"Josh, if it's too dangerous for me, then it's too dangerous for you."
The thwapping of the windshield wipers nearly drowned out his mournful response. "I have to go, Donna. I don't know why, but I have to."
"Then I have to, too." Her normally ivory cheeks flushed and her eyes danced defiantly.
"I'm not going to talk you out of it, am I?"
"Nope."
Resignedly, he slipped the vehicle into gear, murmuring, "Stubborn," as the snow crunched beneath the tires.
"Leo, have you seen Josh?" Toby Ziegler's moonish head appeared in the doorway. "Wasn't he supposed to be back from Yale today?"
McGarry checked his watch. "It's after noon. He's not back yet?"
"Not in his office," Ziegler moved in front of the desk. "Donna's not in, either."
"Where in the . . . Margaret!" McGarry roared. "Do you know where Josh is?" he asked of the jittery face that appeared in the door.
"He's not here," the assistant replied.
"I know that, Margaret," McGarry's voice exhibited exasperation. "Do you know where he is?"
"He sent you an email," she explained with exaggerated patience.
"Oh," McGarry said hurriedly while clicking up the appropriate message. "Says he's taking a few days. Doesn't mention Donna, though."
Margaret rolled her eyes. "Her message is four lines down."
"Oh. Thank you, Margaret." He adjusted his glasses then turned to face Ziegler. "What did you need?"
Ziegler shrugged. "He wasn't in his office; not even Sam seemed to know where he was."
Sam Seaborn sat at his desk, looking at Josh Lyman's email message for the hundredth time. He didn't need to read it, for he knew what it said: Josh was going to Wheeling; if he wasn't back by Monday, call the Secret Service; make sure Donna was taken care of. Seaborn swallowed back the bitter taste of fear. "Be careful, my friend," he murmured. "Be careful."
East of Wheeling, WV
"Do you need for me to drive?" Donna asked after the rented SUV strayed onto the emergency lane.
"No," Josh Lyman replied quickly. "I'm okay." He glanced at her. "It was just a little ice on the road. Besides, we're almost there."
Donna peered into the hastening darkness. "Do we have reservations anywhere?"
"Nah," Josh replied. "I thought we'd just . . . ah, man . . ."
"What?" A blue light flashed in response.
Gravel crunched as the tires stopped in the emergency lane. "Damn," Josh breathed, releasing the seat belt and reaching for his wallet.
"What did you do?" Donna's face was bathed in the headlights of the squad car.
"I have no idea," Josh murmured, rolling down the window while watching the advancing silhouette in the rear-view mirror.
"License and registration," the officer stooped and a granite-like face appeared in the window.
Josh handed him the requested documentation and sat silently.
"Would you step out of the car, Mr., uh," the officer shined the light on the identification, "Lyman?"
"Is something wrong, officer?" Josh asked warily.
"I observed you weaving in your lane back there," the officer replied.
"I hit a patch of black ice . . ."
"Just step out of the vehicle, sir," the officer replied, stepping to the front corner of the car.
"Be careful, Josh," Donna warned quietly.
"Yeah," he breathed warily, jamming the cell phone into her hand with a quick squeeze. He yanked on the door handle and bounded two steps toward the bearish officer before he swayed.
"Josh!" Donna called and yanked on the door handle.
Josh crumpled against the fender with a heavy thunk before disappearing behind the vehicle.
"Josh," Donna shrilled, rifling through her purse for his pill bottle before scurrying around the front into the snowflakes dancing merrily in the headlights. Gravel crunched beneath her foot and the officer wheeled, pinning her in the sight of his drawn pistol.
"Freeze!" he ordered and she stopped, the sound of Josh's wheezing louder than her own panting.
"He has a heart condition!" she shouted.
"Freeze!" The officer shook his weapon for emphasis.
"He has a heart condition!" she said again. "He could need his medicine!" she said, holding out the pill bottle.
The officer eyed it, and her, for a moment until a moan from the figure on the ground seemed to awaken him. "Check him out," he ordered, "slowly. Very slowly."
Donna moved beside Josh who was curled on his side, breathlessly holding his arms across his chest.
"Do you need your medicine?" she asked while counting the pulsebeats beneath the fingers pressed against the artery in his neck. "Is it your heart?"
He shook his head. "Ribs," he panted. "Like after the operation."
"D-does he need an ambulance?" the officer's voice, previously churlish, now shook as badly as his weapon-which remained trained on them both.
"No ambulance," Josh croaked, pushing himself to a sitting position.
"Be still," Donna ordered.
"Help me up," Josh ignored her instruction and held out a hand. He blanched as she tugged him to his feet. His breathing had deepened --and slowed--slightly.
"You sure he doesn't need an ambulance?" the officer said doubtfully, eyeing the driver's unsteady form inching its way to the passenger side of the SUV. He sat heavily, wincing, uncrossing his arms only enough for Donna to thread the seat belt over his chest. He turned sideways, toward the driver's seat, resting his snowy temple against the headrest. She slid behind the wheel, the officer's wide face once again filling the window.
"Where's the nearest hospital with a cardiac unit?" she asked sharply.
"I thought it wasn't his heart . . ." the officer protested.
"It isn't," Josh muttered.
"Have you become a doctor recently?" she rebuked.
Josh smiled weakly. "Not since the last time you asked."
"Then be quiet," she ordered, then turned her face to the window. "Can you lead us there?"
Refusal danced across the officer's face but his mouth uttered, "Yes, ma'm," before he trotted off to his cruiser.
Donna turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. "And officer," she called and the cop turned to face her, "no sirens."
The White House
Candles flickered, crystal glittered and silver gleamed in the dining room of the Residence, but nothing could brighten the frosty silence between the President and the First Lady. The server presented the soup, a light consomme, then retreated to the warmer environs of the pantry. Spoons tinged against bone china while the diners maintained their silence.
A spoon clanked against its cup. "I can't believe the Secret Service still hasn't found who sent that bomb."
The President set his spoon very carefully upon the rim of the soup shell. "Abby, Ron Butterfield is running a very thorough investigation. He'll find them."
"Before they find another new employee so dumb she'll deliver for them?" The First Lady's face was crimson.
"Ainsley Hayes is a very bright girl, Abigail. She knows she made a potentially tragic mistake and regrets it immensely."
"I'm sure," the First Lady replied sharply.
Sam Seaborn followed the strains of the music from HMS Pinafore to the Steam Pipe Distribution Venue in the dungeon of the Executive Mansion. A tiny head of flaxen hair was barely visible over the laptop computer screen.
"Ainsley?" he shouted over the music.
The flaxen head jumped what seemed like six feet while emitting a terrified squeal.
"Hey," he walked around the desk and swatted the CD player into silence before putting a hand on the trembling shoulder, "it's just me."
"Oh, that's a comfort," she recoiled and it was then he could see her-face an ashy gray despite demure attempts at cosmetic camouflage, reddened eyes sunk deep into darkened sockets, terror and exhaustion and shame etching furrows into the youthful skin.
"You look like hell," leapt from his lips, unbidden.
"Oh, thank you, Sam," she moved to a file cabinet across the room, climbed onto a step-stool and tugged on the top drawer. "Remind me to call you the next time I need an ego boot." She turned her back as she rifled through the files.
"That's boost," he corrected gently.
"Thank you again, Mr. Assistant Communications Director. Is there anything else about me you'd like to critique? My accent, my gender, my intelligence-or lack thereof since I, the most naïve person on the planet, was ignorant enough to hand-carry into the home of the leader of our great nation and, even more significant, the workplace of over a thousand people, a terrorist bomb that could have effectuated havoc and devastation on innocent lives and brought down the current administration?" She'd been speaking over her shoulder but, upon finishing, turned and slammed the drawer shut, dislodging her foothold until she teetered precariously, fear replacing the anger in her eyes.
Sam lurched toward her, outstretched arms catching her around the waist, her momentum pushing him backwards until he slammed into the floor and she into, rather on top of, him. His head hit last, a skoosh rather than a crack. "They put your carpet down," he moaned, rolling to his side and dumping her into the floor. He drew his knees up with his fingers interlaced at the back of his head.
"Lucky for you," she was already on her knees in front of him, prying his hands apart, fingers brushing gently over the now-rising spot on the back of his head. "Otherwise, you'd be looking at stitches."
"Lucky me."
She scooted back until she was peering directly into his face. "How many of me do you see?"
"Only the one," he growled. "I'm okay."
"Let's make sure," she held him down. "Do you have any dizziness, nausea, neck or back pain?"
"No."
"Do you feel like you could sit up?"
"That's what I've been trying to do," he grumbled, allowing her to assist him until he was propped against the side of her desk, his head laid on his arms which rested on his drawn up knees. She scurried across her office and returned with a bag of ice. "You keep ice in your office?"
"Sam, the temperature in this room never goes below seventy-five. Yes, I keep ice in a refrigerator in my office." Her face had gained a little color. "Apart from first aid, what can I do for you?"
"Huh?"
Kneeling, her face was level with his. "You came to see me, remember?"
"Yeah," he tried to nod, but stopped in mid-grimace. "I came to make sure you're okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah, after the letterbomb thing."
She shifted from her knees to her bottom, knees curled around her. "Now, wait a minute. The last time you spoke to me you told me how stupid . . ."
"Clueless . . ."
"Clueless I was and now you're coming to see about me?" Confusion further colored her face.
"Yeah," he replied sheepishly, "I kinda felt bad about that."
"I deserved it. I mean, what idiot carries a package into the White House without having it scanned?"
"One who doesn't understand the stakes of the game."
"But they weren't after Josh, they were after Charlie."
"At first. But Josh is a Jew, and they're right after blacks on the West Virginia White Pride hit parade." He rubbed the back of his head. "Charlie is too protected right now, so Josh would make a good secondary target. At least that's what Ron Butterfield thinks." He motioned and she tugged him to a standing position.
"Are they okay? Josh and Donna?" She smoothed her skirt with trembling hands.
"Physically, yeah. The rest will take a while." Seaborn tossed the ice bag into the trash. "Now. I'm going to take you home. While you take a scalding hot shower, I will fix you some warm milk and cookies then tuck you into your nice warm bed."
"Sam," she admonished.
"Then I'm going to my apartment and do the same for myself," he explained, almost too quickly, leading her to the stairs and home.
Sheraton River Mark
Wheeling, WV
"I hate hospitals," Josh Lyman groused breathlessly as he lowered himself, slowly, into the hotel chair.
"And I don't?" Donna Moss dropped their baggage into the closet space before depositing her purse and keys on the dresser and collapsing onto the king-sized bed.
He flinched while trying to stretch the hospital bracelet over his hand.
Wordlessly, she padded over to her purse and returned with a small pair of scissors.
"You know, some people collect salt-and-pepper shakers," he jibed as she folded the bracelet with the patient copies of the night's treatment records and filed them in a folder in her suitcase. "I can't believe you carry around my medical file."
"I can't believe you don't," she replied quietly. "Or at least wear some sort of medical alert bracelet."
"Saying what? 'Bum ticker?'"
"No," she said with more patience than she felt, "it would say 'vascular reconstruction pulmonary artery and chronic stable angina.'"
"Donna, that wouldn't fit on a bracelet. I'd have to wear a belt," he chided fondly.
"At least," she defended, "you wouldn't scare the ER doctors every time you take off your shirt."
"Why shouldn't I? I scare me," he confessed. "And I know I scare you." He gasped in pain as he pushed himself up from his chair.
"No, you don't," Donna denied, following him to the bathroom mirror, then helping him slide off his shirts.
"Yes, I do," he leaned heavily against the vanity while gazing into the mirror. A fist-sized purplish contusion had developed in the center of the now-whitening scar that bisected his chest. "Cracked sternum, huh?" He leaned against the wall.
"Yup," she confirmed, walking to the shower and twisting the knobs. "You could have bruised your heart. It's taken enough abuse in the last year."
His face colored at the sight of the blue sign on the bathroom door. "Did you have to ask for a handicapped room?"
"The shower is extra-large and has handrails in case you lose your balance," she replied plainly, busily placing their soap and shampoo in the shower.
He caught her hand as she passed by. "This isn't how I wanted this evening to turn out." A tear slid down his cheek. "This isn't how I wanted our lives to turn out." He winced as he tried to lift his hand to wipe away the tear. "Sorry."
Her fingers felt cool on his hot face. "Demerol makes you weepy."
"Weepy? You make me sound like some old man." Anger flashed in his eyes. "Some sick, weak old man. Is that how it's going to be? You treating me like a poor, sick old man for the rest of your life?"
She stepped back. "Is that how you think I treat you now?" she asked incredulously.
He quailed at the pain in her eyes. "No," he whispered. "I guess you can add 'paranoid' to the things Demerol makes me."
She nodded, then pressed a gentle kiss in the center of the darkening bruise. He slid his arms around her waist while she draped hers around his shoulders.
"You don't scare me at all," she whispered.
The White House
"Mr. President?"
"Um," the President rolled over to face the familiar face. "Yeah, Charlie, what is it?"
"Mr. President, the National Security Advisor is on the phone."
Jed Bartlet arranged the pillows against the headboard. "The Mid-East?"
"She didn't say, sir."
His hand hovered over the phone. "Charlie, would you have them send up some coffee, please?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Would you like breakfast in here, too?"
The President shook his head. "Thanks, Charlie," he said to the closing door. He punched a button and barked into the mouthpiece, "Nancy, what's going on?"
Wheeling, WV
"I thought you said we were going for breakfast," Donna Moss admonished.
"We are," Josh Lyman answered absently, peering at numbers on the scruffy houses, yards not yet greening from winter.
"My dorm room at Wisconsin was bigger than some of these," Donna nodded at a dinky ranch-style house.
"No kidding," Josh replied. "I don't think we'll see any Ferraris in these driveways." He parked the SUV against a crumbling curb and turned off the engine. "Here it is."
"Here what is?"
Josh stared at the neat, but rundown, house. "The kid who was the lookout at Rosslyn. This is his house. His parents house, I mean."
"It looks pretty normal."
"Yeah," Josh admitted. "No swastikas or anything."
They sat in silence for a while until Donna asked, "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
"I don't know," Josh shook his head. "I don't know."
They sat a while longer until Donna's stomach rumbled.
"Is that a hint?" he grinned.
"You did promise me breakfast . . ."
He smiled, started the car, and rumbled to the main road, passing several fast-food places before pausing in front of a diner. "You ever heard of the four-pickup-truck rule?"
"You mean if there's four pickup trucks at a restaurant, the food should at least be edible?"
"Yeah."
"What would your cardiologist say?"
"I can't hear him from Washington." He pulled into a space. "It's one meal, Donna. Please don't make this an issue every time I eat."
"One meal," she capitulated and followed him into the eatery. It smelled of coffee and bacon and hot biscuits with honey.
"Oh, man," Josh sniffed appreciatively, sliding into the opposite bench of the only remaining booth.
"I can feel my arteries hardening," Donna replied.
A waitress slid water and coffee in front of them with a curt, but friendly, "What can I getcha?"
Donna grimaced while mentally tabulating the fat grams on the breakfast her companion was ordering, before saying simply, "Make it two."
Josh merely grinned before slumping against the wall with a wince.
"How's your chest?"
"Ask me when the pain medication wears off."
"Self-pity has never been one of your most endearing traits, Josh," she replied quietly.
His mouth flew open to retaliate, but closed before murmuring, "I know."
While she stirred her coffee he gazed around the dining room. Blue jeans and flannel shirts, clean but well-worn, seemed to be the order of the day. Cowboy boots or work boots were the most common footwear. Conversations were mixed but eventually worked their way around to which company was laying off and which was hiring.
"Penny for your thoughts," Donna said, finally.
The waitress appeared with their food and he waited for her to dispense it and leave. "Must be rough, not knowing if you'll have a job from day to day." At her frown he replaced the salt shaker, unused, before plopping a forkful of eggs in his mouth.
"Welcome to the life of the Average American."
"Is it like this for your family?" he asked with such innocence that she couldn't be angry.
"Josh," she replied after swallowing her bacon, "your education cost more than some families make in ten years."
"Oh," he replied but she knew he was listening, observing, processing everything happening around them. She left him to his reflection until, meal paid for, they were again in their vehicle.
"Ron Butterfield is on the line for you, Leo." Margaret's jittery voice interrupted Leo McGarry's second reading of the overnight security briefing. "Yeah, Ron," he barked into the handset.
"Just thought you'd want to know, Mr. McGarry, that the overnight operator received a call trying to confirm Josh Lyman's employment at the White House."
"The overnight operator?" McGarry laid down the report. "Who called?"
There was a moment of silence before the reply, "First off, I want you to know that he's okay. According to the doctors he was treated and released."
"Who, man? Josh?"
"Yes, sir. He was treated last night at a hospital in Wheeling, West Virginia, for a cracked sternum. Said he slipped on some ice."
"Wheeling, West Virginia?" McGarry nearly whispered.
"Leo, I want to emphasize that this injury seemed to have been relatively minor and that Josh . . ."
"He's in Wheeling, Butterfield. Do you know what's in Wheeling?" McGarry asked angrily.
"Yes, sir, I do. Don't you think he's too smart to try something so stupid as confronting his assailants?"
Leo McGarry, thought for an instant, a thousand confrontations flashing through his mind before replying, "No." He banged down the receiver and bellowed, "Margaret, I'm going to find Sam. Now."
Wheeling, WV
"Where to now, Lone Ranger?"
He grinned and handed her a map marked with x's and numbers. "Location two, one of the shooters," he said simply and she directed him there. In the driveway was a beat-up sedan with a bumper sticker proclaiming white supremacy. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"
She shook her head and directed him to the third location. "The other shooter?"
He nodded. The house they were watching was neat, well-kept, but tiny. In the driveway was a minuscule American sedan inviting the public to ask the driver about an honor student. "It even has a white picket fence," he commented as he turned off the engine.
"It could be anybody's house," Donna noted.
Josh swallowed hard. "Yeah, but somebody in this house drove a couple of hundred miles to kill Charlie and Zoey."
Donna put her hand on his forearm, "And you."
He shook his head, "I was just (what did Butterfield call it?) collateral damage." He spat out the last. "What made them, Donna? What about this environment created human beings who wanted to destroy another just because of the color of his skin?"
"Is that why you're here? To make sense of it, of them?"
Before he could answer a voice boomed from the yard beside them. "Can I help you folks?" The sound emanated from a giant of a man holding the leash of what looked like a Hound from Hell. He approached their vehicle, leaning into Donna's window while the hound rested its paws and its tongue on the glass. "You folks have some business with that fine lady?"
"No," Josh replied quickly, "we were just driving around."
"Driving around here?" the giant retorted, "with Connecticut plates?"
"We were just curious," Donna explained.
"Then go away," the giant responded. "That lady never had an ill word for nobody, white or black. She worked night and day to give her boy what he needed. She raised him better than to do what he did. Leave her to her grief."
Lyman responded by starting the car and driving off.
"What's next?" Donna asked when the canine, and its handler, were safely in the rear-view mirror.
Washington, DC
"Okay, Spanky," CJ Cregg leaned against Sam Seaborn's open door facing, "spill it."
"Excuse me?" Seaborn stalled.
"The dirt," CJ answered, "the sordid details. Everything."
Sam's eyes widened with confusion. "Everything about what?"
"Josh and Donna!"
"What about Josh and Donna?"
Cregg plopped in his desk chair and crossed her arms. "You know, dates, living arrangements, videotapes of them having raucous sex . . ."
"Videotapes of who having raucous sex?" Toby Ziegler assumed CJ's previous position.
"Josh and Donna," CJ replied.
"Now there's a mental picture I could have done without," Ziegler retorted and ensconced himself in the other desk chair.
CJ pressed on. "Since I have, by virtue of work load, seemingly taken a vow of chastity . . ."
"Who's taken a vow of chastity?" Leo McGarry leaned against the door facing.
"CJ," Sam and Toby chorused while Cregg turned scarlet.
"Well, I'm glad somebody has," McGarry replied. "Lately, I've been thinking about having saltpeter added to the water supply." He waited for their uneasy expressions to register before grinning wickedly.
"As I was saying, Spanky," Cregg continued, "since I don't have a life of my own, at least I could live vicariously through theirs."
Sam felt three sets of eyes pinning him. "Guys, I know only marginally more than you."
"But you knew it was going on," Cregg prompted and Seaborn nodded. "How long?"
"I found out at Christmas," Seaborn didn't tell them the other thing he'd found out at Christmas.
"And?" Cregg pressured.
Seaborn looked to Ziegler for relief, who merely held up his hands, helplessly. "And, that's all."
Cregg looked exasperated. "You're not going to sit there and tell me that God's gift to women, Josh Lyman, doesn't regale you, his faithful sidekick, with his nightly adventures?"
"No," Seaborn said quietly. "Not this time." He shuffled a stack of papers. "It's different with Donna."
Cregg lapsed into a silence like Ziegler and McGarry. "You could tell by the way they looked at each other," she said slowly, finally.
"Since the first day they met," Seaborn agreed.
"They waited a long time," CJ offered, "to do anything about it, I mean."
"Yeah," Ziegler stood, "there's nothing like a near-death experience to make you want to make up for all the missed chances in your life."
CJ nodded, then stared pensively through the still-opened blinds into the glittering night.
"Can you reach him, Sam?" Leo McGarry's voice was quiet but seemed to boom in the silence.
"What's wrong, Leo?" Sam replied.
"The Mid-East," Cregg hinted.
"The cease-fire fell apart," Ziegler guessed.
"Not yet, but soon," McGarry nodded. "Can you reach him?"
"He didn't take his computer and he's not answering his cellphone," Sam hung his head. "I've been trying for hours."
"That's not like Josh," worry clouded CJ's face.
"Do you know where he is?" Ziegler's expression was gloomier.
Sam didn't answer.
"Sam, do you know where he is?" McGarry's voice betrayed concern amplified by his conversation with Butterfield.
"Maybe," Sam answered, slowly. "Give me a couple of hours, Leo."
McGarry stepped behind Cregg. "Is he in trouble?"
Sam shrugged. "If I can't find him in a couple of hours, I'll let you know."
"It's a small congregation," Josh Lyman said from the passenger seat, where he slumped against the door. "Somehow, I thought it'd be bigger." He shifted, then grimaced.
Donna winced at his discomfort but resisted asking the obvious question, instead asking, "Do you want to stay for temple?"
Lyman took several slow breaths before responding. "No." He took a few more soughs. "It's not here."
"What's not here?"
"The reason," he said quietly, "the reason they did it."
"Josh, only they know the reason they did it." She circled her thumb on his knee. "Did you really think you'd find it? The reason?"
He smiled ruefully. "My grandfather searched all his life and never did. I was stupid to think I would."
"No, you weren't, Josh . . ."
"When I was a young man, sometime after my bar mitzvah my grandfather took me to Birkenau. He'd told me about it, about the things that occurred there, but it never really hit me until I saw the actual place where it happened."
He covered her hand with his. "He kept a stone face the whole time we were there until we were about to leave, when we passed by this rock, this stone next to a fence, and he began to sob until we were out of the camp. When he'd stopped, I asked him why he returned, why he came back to such a terrible place time after time. You know what he said?"
"No," she answered softly.
"He said he came back to remember why he survived." He dragged his hand across an errant tear. "Then I was really confused. I mean, this was my grandfather, the one who taught me about the Holocaust, the one who made me who I am and he was telling me he sometimes forgot why he survived. You know what he said?"
A passing car illuminated her face. "What?"
"He said that he survived not so he could explain it, after all, who can explain evil? He survived to bear witness and by bearing witness prevent it from happening again."
"And you?" she stroked his arm. "What have you found?"
"Not the reason," he answered. "That wasn't here to be found."
"So what did you find here, Joshua?"
His face brightened. "Purpose."
She nodded toward the synagogue, "Do you want to stay for temple?"
He shook his head. "I want to go home."
Sam Seaborn dialed Josh Lyman's home number for the thousandth time. He'd already found their hotel in Wheeling, but they'd checked out. He'd dialed Josh's cell phone, but there was no answer. So now, for the millionth time, it seemed, he prayed and dialed again.
"Hello?" the weary voice of Josh Lyman answered.
"It's about damn time," Seaborn said, angrily.
"We just got home," Lyman explained.
"Are you okay? The hospital called and . . ."
"Oh, God," Lyman moaned. "Who knows?"
"Everybody. CJ, Toby, Leo . . ."
"Leo knows? I'd better call him . . ."
"I've been trying to reach you all day. The cease fire is falling apart. They want you back at eight in the morning."
"Alright," Josh sighed. "What else?"
Sam hesitated. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Kinda." Josh paused for a moment. "Good night, Sam."
"Welcome home."
"With all due respect, Mr. President, I'm not qualified for this job. My specialty is domestic matters; I'm not up on international relations." Usually animated, Lyman's arms remained locked across his still-aching chest.
"Josh," the President reached down and retied his moccasin, "you are eminently qualified. All I'm looking for is a set of eyes and ears-someone who'll tell me the unvarnished truth."
"The truth," Lyman repeated and Sam Seaborn, who knew what was coming, shot him a warning glance. "The truth, Mr. President, is that we have quite enough to deal with domestically without ever looking across the water."
The President's face registered shock at the dissent.
"Josh," McGarry warned.
Lyman's eyes fixed on a staff photograph on the credenza, the fire of comprehension lighting his face. "When we ran for office, we promised to represent all the people. We promised to be color-blind and we've not lived up to our promise. That's why West Virginia White Pride had the nerve to drive down here and ambush Charlie. We gave them permission."
Jed Bartlet's face turned scarlet, "Of all people, Josh, you should know that we certainly did not give them permission to . . ."
"Of course we did," Lyman continued, "Mr. President, this White House is too white. Look at a Senior Staff picture. Even Toby and I look like we could have just taken off our sheets."
The President protested, "But Charlie . . ."
"Charlie is your Personal Assistant, Mr. President. Your butler."
The silence was foreboding but Josh continued.
"I've spent the past year racking my brain, trying to figure out why this happened to Charlie, to me. I even went to Wheeling, but I didn't find it there. I found it . . ." he swallowed hard. "It was something Ainsley Hayes said. We don't like the people. We don't know them. We don't trust them. And they don't trust us-government- and that's why we have to do better. It's not a Republican issue, or a Democratic issue, it's a human issue. We have to find a way to make them part of the process again. And then, maybe then, they'll respond to their anger and frustration by pulling a lever rather than pulling a trigger."
The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the Oval Office, like the timer of a bomb ticking off the seconds until the detonation of the famous Bartlet temper. Tick, tick, tick, until, "Pack your things, Josh," the President said quietly.
Lyman swallowed hard. He'd gone way, way too far. "Yes, Mr. President." He cast his eyes around the room, the dismay registering on each face. "May I say," he held out his hand, "it's been an honor to serve you . . ."
"Leo will get you on the first plane to Cairo." The President smiled and each face registered even more shock.
"I don't understand," Josh stammered.
"It's a human issue, Josh," the President explained, "be it Israel or West Virginia. It always has been." He shook Lyman's hand then stepped behind the comfort of his desk. "Don't you have some packing to do?" he asked over the rim of his glasses.
"Thank you, Mr. President," Josh backed out of the room, Leo McGarry steering, shaking the hands with very-relieved CJ, Sam and Toby as they left.
Josh Lyman stood side-by-side with his mentor. "I almost did it, didn't I? I almost pissed off the President."
"Ah," McGarry chucked protege's arm, "he likes smart people who disagree with him."
"I'm not right for this, Leo. You should be going."
"Why do you say that?"
Josh studied his shoes. "It's your job to be the statesman, Leo. It's my job to be the politician."
"I don't know," McGarry stuffed his hands into his pockets, "you sounded an awful lot like a statesman to me. Margaret?" he bellowed, continuing after she appeared in the door, "Josh needs airlift to Cairo. ASAP."
"Leo, I, uh," Lyman stammered.
"Oh, and Margaret?"
"Yes, Leo."
McGarry smiled proudly at this son of an old friend. "Make it for two."
Lyman stood, flabbergasted, while McGarry grinned.
"L'chaim, Josh."
His reply was steady, stronger than it had been since Rosslyn. It felt so good to finally be able to say it and mean it that his face shone. Finally, able to live again, Joshua Lyman breathed, "L'chaim."
End Odyssey
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