Two Truths
the stylus
DISCLAIMER: If they had been mine, there would have been even more pathos in their lives.
SUMMARY: Two people, both alike in dignity. Or, "It is the truth. He appreciates that, even now. Especially now."
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Two Truths
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This is quite possibly the last thing he would like to be doing with his evening, he thinks. Another State Dinner, listening to other people say his words and wincing when they stumble or the prosody is off, even slightly. He thinks that Tahiti is probably nice this time of year. As far as he knows, it's nice any time of year- that's why it's Tahiti. Not Washington fucking D.C. where it's raining and humid and the wind is blowing wet leaves against the long windows and the leaves striking sound like children clapping.
That's why he is over here, in the darkest corner of the room at the end of the bar. Not the leaves, exactly. But the fact that his bow tie is too tight and his beard is inexplicably itchy and C.J. is laughing with her head thrown back and her mouth open at a joke told by a very young looking congressman. Something rustles slightly behind him and he thinks, maybe not the very end of the bar after all.
It is Abbey. Mrs. Bartlet. Dr. Bartlet. Whatever. It's the President's wife. He has not seen her since the two of them went live on national television two weeks ago. She was not at the press conference, has been out of town. Came back for this dinner. And is sitting in what must be the darkest corner of the room at the very end of the bar in a dress that is very blue and much too fine to be sat in.
Toby can't tell if she has noticed him or not. They sit side by side in silence for a space of time, each contemplating something in the middle distance. He notices that when she orders another drink, it is the best scotch the bar stocks and she pronounces it exactly right. He would have thought of her more as the red wine type. He notices, because he is drinking the same scotch, only more quickly.
"You don't like me much, do you?" he asks, without looking up from his glass.
He feels her turn, feels her dark eyes move over him in that way that doctors have of noting things you don't want known just by looking. She sighs almost inaudibly and shifts in her chair, her dress rustling hoarsely. "No." It is the truth. He appreciates that, even now. Especially now.
"Why not?" And suddenly, although he did not even know that was the question, he has to know the answer. As though, knowing, he could change it or would want to.
He turns to look at her. Her mouth has pursed slightly in consideration. He's pretty sure there are more lines on her face than there were a month ago.
"My bow tie is too tight," he interjects, again surprised by what comes out of his mouth. She nods solemnly and goes back to considering his question.
He danced with her once, at the Inauguration, and he remembers that she was very, very light in his arms. Dance lessons, probably. Cotillion. He danced with C.J. that night- a lot. Stalky, lovely C.J. with the laugh that starts at her knees. Probably he will dance with her later tonight, when the guests who do not live or work here begin to go home. But he has never danced with the President's wife again.
Her hand on his arm brings him back from his thoughts. Drink more slowly, he admonishes himself. "I don't really like anybody right now." Something like a smile shudders over her face, so thin it makes him wince. "You're a good man, Toby. You do a good job at what you do. But I'm tired of having to trust you with my life. I'm tired of him-" she lifts her hand from his arms and gestures at her husband who is deeply engrossed in a conversation, surrounded by a circle of attentive listeners craning forward "trusting his life to other people."
He does not know what to say to that. He is not sure that he has ever trusted anyone with his life, or needed to, not really. And yes, he can understand how their positions necessitate it. But he cannot imagine doing it voluntarily. His marriage wasn't like that.
"Ma'am, I just want to say I'm sorry..." and he stops himself. He was going to apologize. For what? For doing his job? For doing his job really well? He has never apologized for the truth. "I'm sorry about Indiana."
It takes her a few moments to remember; he can watch them on her face. Indiana, all of the senior staff on the campaign sprawled out on the double beds in someone's room and the door to the connecting room open. People coming and going.
C.J. was going on about reception. About not talking over people's heads or sounding patronizing; she had started making videotapes, by this time, of speeches and they were watching them. Speeches to corn farmers and teamsters' unions and teachers' groups. She kept looking at him pointedly, talking about the right tone, and he was silently resenting it. Josh and Leo were policy wonking in the back of the room and looking at him pointedly when they talked about coverage for certain issues in the speeches that were being given. And he was resenting that, too, only a bit more loudly.
So when Governor Bartlet came in the room and looked at him pointedly when he talked about wanting to sound more like the "common man" and less like an "ivory tower academic," he began to fume. And when the Governor asked about the female vote, he began to resent everything in a very loud voice.
"Well, pardon me, Sir, but you are an 'ivory tower academic.' And you're smart and I'm smart so unless you want to fire me we're going to keep giving smart speeches, Hoynes be damned.
"And another thing, if we want to be totally honest, why don't we at least address some of the real underlying problems? Like the fact that we're not pulling down but half of the female vote that we should have, especially in the South and the Midwest. And no else has the cojones to say it, Sir, but I will. Part of the problem is your wife. She scares a lot of women off- men, too. She's independent and her high heels are too high and she dresses too well and she's got opinions of her own. No matter how you look at it, our numbers say that scares more than half the people in this country, either because they're afraid she'll run the show or afraid she'll run you or afraid she'll run the Boston Marathon. I don't know why they're afraid! But they are. We have to get to the White House before we have a prayer of changing their minds and to do that, we have got to change our image."
What Toby saw in Indiana, what no one else saw because they were on the other side of the room, was Abbey standing just on the other side of the door in the connecting room, leaning one hip against the low dresser. He saw her when he turned from yelling at the Governor to sit back down on the bed. She was still, like a statue, and she held his gaze for a long time, evaluating, before she walked quietly out the door and disappeared back to the room with the king-sized bed where she and her husband were sleeping.
He sees that look on her face again now. Idly, he notices almost for the first time that she is beautiful. In Washington he has become accustomed to pretty women: they are like pigeons on the Mall. But she is beautiful, even tired and pale and hiding from a State Dinner; it is something about good bones and good breeding and the set of her shoulders. C.J. would have a word for this, he thinks. He is the speechwriter, though, so he tries elegant- and decides, just this once, to settle for a word that is good enough.
"You were just doing your job," she says. "I could like you if your job didn't mean that I had to compete with you for my husband. For my life."
"Yeah," he says, wondering when Josh's language invaded his body. "I understand." And maybe he is beginning to. After Indiana, they started referring to her as Mrs. Bartlet in all the press releases and interviews and speeches. She never said anything to him, but sometimes he caught her giving him that long, appraising look that made him think she could read his mind. He thinks that she started to wear higher heels after that night.
They lapse back into silence, until the President comes over, glowing with health and success, having charmed the room. "May I have this dance?" Toby hears him ask, holding out his hand and sweeping a little bow, like something from a fairy tale or an Elizabethan ball.
"You may," she accepts, placing her hand in his. The smile still doesn't quite make it all the way to her eyes. Toby notices.
President Bartlet turns and says to Toby, "Thanks for taking care of her." And they move off into the crowd. He watches the first few measures of the dance: how his hand fits on the small of her back, how they move like stiff twin compasses finally brought back together. After a few bars, he looks around for C.J., sees her sitting at a table with Donna and a woman he does not recognize and thinks that in a song or two he will go over and ask her to dance.
It is a lot of responsibility that this presidency has placed on him. But he has broad shoulders and a tall girl to dance with and an elegant she-lion guarding his president better than he ever can. He admires her for that, like he admires her for a lot of other things. He thinks maybe tomorrow he will tell her that, even though he knows it won't change anything. Because he should. Because it's the truth and he appreciates that, even now. Especially now.
Fin