Title: Red - Part 6
Jacobs
Jed Bartlet is now sleeping soundly, oxygen still being given to him.
It's 9:37 am.
Mrs. Bartlet is out.
I stand silently by the door.
It was a little while before he woke.
He opens his eyes and looks at me.
"Good morning, sir," I say.
"Hello Lee…" he replies, slowly sitting up, feeling the oxygen mask.
He takes it off.
"Do you need anything sir?" I ask, watching him flip the switch for the oxygen off.
"You know, could you have someone bring up some of that mail?" he asks.
"Certainly sir," I reply, then talk into my radio.
"They are bringing some up sir," I answer.
He is quiet, and I can't help but wonder what he is thinking.
He looks at me, as if wondering the same thing about me.
I decide to say something.
"You know, I have had a few of them too…" I whisper, and at first I am unsure if he heard me.
"That one was my worst…" he finally tells me.
We don't utter a word of what exactly we are talking about; we don't need to.
"It was like I was back there again," I tell him.
I don't know why I am telling him this, but I am.
"Me too…"
There is then a knock at the door and I open it. An agent carries the mail in and places it next to the President's bed, giving him a nod; the President gives a smile in return.
We are then once again alone in the room.
Jed reaches over and picks one of the letters.
He looks up at me after placing his glasses on his face.
"Are you going to stand there? Or would you like to open some of these letters with me? Come on; take up a chair…" he says, motioning to one of the chairs.
I do as he says and move one of the chairs beside the bed, lifting the bag and placing it on his legs, him motioning me to do so.
"Not all of these letters are for me you know," he says, after finding one and holding it up, a smile on his face.
I take it, and turn the paper over to see it.
It was an 8 by 11 sheet of paper, decorated and colored.
I am not an emotional man, but I would be lying if I said it did not touch me.
In slightly tilted letters, on the bottom it read:
Hope you feel better Mr. President.
When I grow up, I want to be an agent.
It was a very detailed picture. A long black limo, the door open, an agent diving in. Along the limo was a row of pretty well drawn people dressed in black, guns in their hands, aimed out, facing the threat.
It was something the child must have seen from that day. That fact in itself pained me, but instead of looking at this scene only as an assassination attempt, this child looked at it from a perspective of rescue and protection.
I held the paper for a moment, looking at all of the details this kid had placed onto this sheet of paper. From the trash on the ground, to the clouds in the sky, I swear this kid had to have spent hours on this.
After looking at it for a time I began to hand it back to the President.
"No, you keep it Lee."
I placed it in my lap, the paper at my finger tips.
"Thanks, sir…"
"Jed."
"What?"
"Call me Jed, I think you've earned it."
- - -
CJ
"The President is recovering nicely inside of the White House, he even took a little stroll within the White House and the West Wing, but as I have said, he is still recovering..." I tell the press. "Thank you all, and good evening."
I ignore the thousands of questions; they are pretty much all the same anyways.
I need to talk to Jed sometime; I think an interview should be made. I am tired of these questions…
I wonder where he is right now…
I just saw Abbey.
Hmm.
I turn the corner and find Charlie there.
"Hello Charlie, how are you?" I ask.
"Good…" he says, "Anything you want me to do?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you, do you think the President would be ready for an interview?"
He thought for a time.
"I don't know, I guess I'd have to ask him."
"Would you mind doing that for me? I need to do some things."
"Sure."
He then goes off, his mood slightly better than yesterday.
- - -
Jacobs
"Sir," I say. He gives me a look, wanting me to speak to him while using his name.
I don't.
We have been reading hundreds of letters, and are on the fourth bag now. Obviously we have been doing this for hours, but it doesn't seem like it.
"Have you seen them?" I ask, for some reason not clarifying.
"What?"
"The tapes…of that day." I partly regret bringing it up.
He began to shake his head but stopped, probably because it hurt, then replied, "No."
"Have you?" he asked, coming upon a red envelope.
He holds the red envelope, the only red one that has come up through all previous bags it seemed.
"No…" I answer as he opened it and took out the card.
I watched in silence as his eyes moved down the page, no doubt reading a message.
- - -
Jed
What I hold in my hand. A simple letter made by an eighth grader, whose message is anything but simple.
The color had honestly caught me off guard. I opened it, to find a letter, addressed to me, reading:
.
.
Dear Mr. President,
I saw you get shot. I was at home, on the couch.
After it happened I was scared, then I was angry.
Why would anyone want to hurt you?
Why were they doing this?
When I saw you being pushed in the limo, I honestly thought you were dead.
Later I told my mom something.
I told her I now hated the color red, saying that it never showed up in anything good.
Then she told me something I think you might want to know.
'Red is more than a color
'Red is Anger
'Red is Passion
'Red is Love
'Yes, blood is Red
'But so is something else
'Healed wounds.'
When you spoke to us when you were still in the hospital, you were Red to me.
I hope you feel better soon Mr. President.
Jennifer Bradley
8th grade
Freedman Middle School
.
.
I felt myself melt after reading this. My eyes now burn with tears, and now I find that Jacobs is talking.
"Sir?" Jacobs asks.
"Read this…" I say, giving him the red letter.
He does so; his reaction pretty much matches mine.
"Wow…" he breathes.
"Mr. President?" a knock and a voice come from beyond the door.
"Charlie, that you?" I ask. "Come in."
"Good afternoon sir," he says, glancing at Jacobs, and then at the letters somewhat spread out everywhere.
"How are you doing Charlie?"
- - -
Charlie
He never ceases to amaze me; it is never about himself…
"Good, how are you?" I ask, noticing the oxygen mask on the side table.
I watch as Jacobs hands Jed a red paper.
"Better, come over here, you need something?" he asks.
I come closer.
"CJ wanted to know if you would feel comfortable with an interview…"
I can tell that the president wonders why she didn't ask herself.
I continue to watch this great man pause and think.
"Yeah. Yeah, an interview is a good idea." He glances back down at his hands holding that paper, the color all too evident.
My Gosh, what is wrong with me? It is just a color.
"Something wrong Charlie?" Jed asks me.
I stand there for a moment trying to figure out how I should answer that question.
"Come and sit over here," Jed nearly ordered, pointing at the end of the bed, near his feet.
"Are you sleeping ok? You look really tired," Jed notes.
"Well, I suppose that answer would be a no, sir," I admit.
"Me neither…"
Did he just say that?
The most powerful Man in the world, and not only that, Jed Bartlet?
"Had a bad one last night," Jed says, motioning to the thing on the side table and then to the monitors. "The machine didn't like it, and neither did I."
"Nightmare?" I ask, making sure before I jumped to conclusions.
He nods.
"You? Or can you just not sleep?" he asks, looking up from the red paper in his hands.
"Yeah, nightmares," I answer, then mutter, "…red…"
His eyes gaze up at me intensely.
"I am going to ask you a favor…I don't want the press to get wind of it. I want you to get me the number to this person. I want it to be totally secret," he says as he hands me the red page.
"Of course sir, who is it?" I ask, grasping the page, his fingers still gripping it from the other end.
"Read it, I think you will understand."
.
.
.
I don't hate Red anymore…
- - -
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