Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 10/10
A West Wing Story
(Stay tuned for the epilogue!)
POV: Jed Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Everyone except Dr. Hilweg belongs to A.S.
"I feel, Mister President, that I must emphasize once again my strong recommendation that you reconsider."
President Josiah Bartlet didn't look at the head of his secret service detail, but kept his eyes focused on the passing scenes through the limousine window. Why did it seem all of the Middle East was brown? Sure, occasionally they passed an olive tree. And in the downtown areas steel structures stood out garishly against the monotone clay. But in general, he had always found it to be cast in earth tones, even down to the clothing of its inhabitants.
Except for that day. That day the browns and tans gave way to gory splashes of red. He preferred it brown.
Uneasily, he shifted, trying to keep his face blank, to avoid broadcasting to the other passengers how much it hurt just to breathe. But from the drawn brows on the faces of his wife and chief of staff, he figured he hadn't been very successful.
"Duly logged and noted, Agent Butterfield," he acknowledged, moving his eyes quickly back to the window to escape the glare from his wife's dark eyes. "And I give you permission to kill me yourself if I get blown up again." Now he let a faint smile touch his lips at the morbid humor.
Glancing up fondly, he knew Ron would never dream of returning the smile. Still, he expected at least a glimmer in the eyes. Apparently, the agent was not amused. Okay. Nevermind.
Again, he watched the land between Jerusalem and Bethlehem fly by, thankful that finally he was seeing only one of everything. That had just happened that morning actually, a morning for a lot of firsts since the accident. His first real shower - if he didn't count being clad in saran wrap. His first chewable meal - soft-chew, anyway. His first shave.
Now that was a treat. Mainly because his barber had been one Abigail Bartlet, who, armed with a bowl of hot water and a straight razor, had propped him up in the chair and eagerly gone to work to rid him of 13 days' growth of beard. Thank goodness she wasn't harboring any grudges at the moment.
He still could feel the erotic scrape of the blade, the sensual touch of her hand as she ran it along his skin, could still smell her perfume as she bent over him. Despite the ever-present pain, he'd been rather pleased with his body's response, but disappointed that he couldn't act on the visible physical reaction. Even though the secret service agents had surely seen him in just about every condition imaginable in the past two weeks, there was one particular condition he'd just as soon keep between his wife and him. But Abbey had seen, and given him one of those looks that scolded and promised at the same time. Of course, medically it was out of the question. Still -
Careful, he told himself as the memory stirred dangerous sensations. Remember where you are. For a brief, regrettable moment, he straightened to draw in a deep breath. Pain shot from his ribs, stabbing directly through his body, effectively destroying any concerns he might have had about becoming aroused in the limo.
"Son of a bitch!" The curse was out before he could stop it, gaining him the immediate attention of every single passenger.
"Jed?"
That was Abbey, he pinpointed through the red haze in front of his eyes. He managed to hold up a hand, indicating that he would be okay after a moment. Just needed a little time to wait it out. Impatience buzzing around him, he focused only on pushing the pain back down.
Even after almost two weeks, every move he made was accompanied by pain of some sort. Burning pain, aching pain, lancing pain, throbbing pain. It seemed to get worse, but he knew that was only an illusion, only a result of making himself do more, pushing his body to perform, to do things it really didn't want to do. But he had to. There was no other option. Finally, as the sensation faded to manageability, he gritted his teeth and breathed out gingerly.
"Uh, anybody got an asprin?"
He managed not to wince too much at the scowl on Abbey's face. "Josiah Bartlet," she fussed, but he heard the concern behind the irritation. "Didn't you take the Tylenol the nurse brought you before you left the hospital?"
Well, no. Like that's been doing me a damned bit of good. Sugar pills would be more helpful. At that moment, however, he was reconsidering the possibility that his assessment might have been in error. Still, stand your ground. Show no weakness.
"Abbey, you know that stuff is useless. Doesn't do a damn thing."
"It was Tylenol with codeine, Jed. Dr. Hilweg figured it would be okay just for this occasion."
He grimaced. "Now you tell me."
After a moment, Leo suggested, "There's probably some in the ambulance."
Jed sighed, a very shallow sigh. "I'm not going to stop the whole damn motorcade to get some EMT to give me an asprin. Forget it." He eased back, trying not to be too obvious as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Worried faces watched him closely.
From across the car, C.J. leaned forward. "I, uh, I have some Midol, Mister President."
Now he knew he saw that smile on Ron's face, if only for a second. What a choice. But the pounding in his side had moved up into his chest and was stretching its miserable influence toward his head.
"Okay."
"Jed!"
"Abbey, I don't care at this point what she has."
"But Midol is-"
"I know what Midol is. It's a pain killer, right?"
"Among other things."
"I don't need the other things, just the pain killer." He grinned, the first real grin since the accident. "Plus, I'll look thinner on television because I won't be retaining water."
His disappointment over Abbey's refusal to respond was more than made up for by C.J.'s expression. And he considered the crack of a smile on Charlie's face to be a special bonus. Sincere about his willingness to down the Midol, he reached out a hand, but it was intercepted by his wife, still shaking her head, and now waving a small plastic bag in front of him.
"Is this what you need?" she asked.
"What the hell -"
"You are the most stubborn man I have ever seen," she explained. "I figured you'd ditch the painkillers." Her voice softened. "But it's really hurting now, huh?"
Yes, it was, but he sure as hell wouldn't admit it. He almost made a joke about her withholding drugs from a patient, but the very reference darkened his eyes and stopped his tongue. She saw the expression and misread it for an increase in the pain, because she gave up trying to make her point.
"You are an evil woman, Abigail Bartlet," he observed.
She ignored him. "Next time, don't be such an ass."
"I would really prefer there not be a next time." He was quite content with being blown up only once.
Shaking out two into her hand, she explained, "Doctor Hilweg sent these. Apparently, he's gotten to know you pretty well in two weeks. These should take effect enough to give you some relief. But don't make that speech too long; you'll be woozy."
Okay. Decision time. To take or not to take? Visions of doubling over in pain as the world watched shot through his mind and he popped them in his mouth, chasing them down with the bottle of water Charlie had handed him.
"I'm fine," he assured the five pairs of eyes staring at him. "Look, let's run through plan one more time, okay?"
His distraction worked, at least for everyone but Abbey and he hadn't figured she would fall for it anyway. Ron nodded, happy to be proactive as much as possible. Leo, Charlie, and C.J. leaned in to listen.
"We'll be retracing the last few steps you took, Mister President," the agent explained, his expression leaving no doubt about his disagreement with the entire idea. "The area has been scanned completely. Safety precautions executed, security posted all around."
Jed frowned, not liking this show of protection, but realizing the necessity of it, especially now, especially this second time around.
"The Prime Minister and Palestinian leader will have already arrived. All three of you -" Here he broke off, unable to contain himself. "Mister President, having all three of you together is just like painting big bulls eyes on your backs. Anyone who is determined to-"
"Anyone who is determined to kill me, Ron, can do it, regardless of the safety precautions we take. You know that." Rosslyn had shown them that quite clearly.
Ron's eyes admitted that he was right. Still, the agent dared to suggest, "Agreed, Mister President, but you don't have to pose for him."
Ouch! That was unlike Ron, overstepping his bounds that way, but Jed could read the motivation behind it. Agent Butterfield would never admit it, but he truly cared for his protectee and his protectee knew it. So instead, Jed simply nodded.
"I understand, Ron. Continue, please."
As they neared the city, the crowds began to file in beside the road, first in tens, then hundreds, then thousands of people, clad in the most eclectic clothing imaginable, long robes, white short-sleeved shirts, business suits, army uniforms, T-shirts and jeans. Jed stared at them, feeling the burden of their turmoil, hearing the desperation of their pleas. By the time they reached their destination, the police had erected low barriers, creating a space at the very spot of the disaster. A long table draped with a rich, navy cloth, sat in the midst of the rubble. A mass of cameras and reporters teemed in an area designated for them and policed by a healthy show of uniforms.
Jed took as deep a breath as he dared, noting with some satisfaction that the constant pain had at least dulled a bit. Working "without a net," as Sam and Toby would say, he ran through the few comments he planned to make after the signing ceremony, then nodded to Ron.
"Okay?" Abbey asked, her question containing many meanings.
"Okay," he replied. And he was. At least for now.
When the door opened and he eased out, he thought at first that perhaps the Israeli Air Force had arranged for a fly-by in honor of the occasion, but the roar did not dim with passing planes. Instead it grew louder at his emergence from the vehicle and he finally realized with a start that it was coming from the people, a blanket of cheering that deafened them all. Leo was saying something, and smiling, but he couldn't hear, couldn't discern the words. It didn't matter. He grasped the sentiment, if not the exact syntax. They were cheering him. They were screaming for him. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
He tried not to favor his tender left side, tried to walk as casually as possible, knowing that he wasn't pulling it off with much success. Lifting his right hand, he tossed a wave to them and nodded his acknowledgement. The roars, if possible, increased.
Then it hit him, the concussion of an explosion, the surprise of finding himself crumpled against a jagged rock, smoke swirling, dust raining, people screaming. Shock ran through him again, clutched at him, choked him. Oh God! Not now. Not now.
Closing his eyes briefly, he reopened them to see the outstretched hands of his fellow statesmen, ready to greet, and, he suspected, help him onto the platform. The moment passed, the flashback disappeared. Ron moved closer, not touching, but still lending his strength. He breathed in and out to regain control, took each step carefully, then stood with them, six hands clasped together amid the firecracker report of camera shutters.
They approached the ornate document that rested on the table. Palestine first, then Israel, then the United States. As he took the sun-warmed pen in his hand, he paused for a moment, lingering over the words, over the promises, and he considered the price that had already been paid over the years toward this peace, the price he, himself, had paid.
And the price that small boy had paid.
And he said a prayer right then for those who yearned for peace, for those willing to step toward it. Then, he touched the tip to the paper and watched as the ink flowed boldly onto it, proclaiming that Josiah Bartlet was part of this, that Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States of America was making a stand along with these other brave leaders.
When he stood straight again, he had to take a moment to wait out the swirling in his head. Thankfully, it calmed and he turned his attention to the Israeli prime minister, who stepped to the microphone and declared his country's commitment to the historic treaty. Jed felt his body retreating from the scene, saw it from far away, through a long tunnel and clenched his teeth in an effort to stay focused. Surprisingly, it was the prime minister who drew him back in with his closing statement.
"I turn to an American of the past to recognize an American of today. Hubert Humphrey, statesman and vice-president, said that 'the pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many.' Our generation has begun construction on this cathedral."
His arm swept back to include Jed in his remarks, bringing color to the President's cheeks. "We have the master-architect."
Finally, he turned back to the crowd, arms up in appeal to everyone present and to the watching world. "Now the execution requires all of us to labor."
Heavy applause rewarded him and Jed nodded his thanks as the Palestinian leader stood and spoke, also praising the efforts of those who brokered the peace. Again, the tunnel tried to close in on him, but he clawed his way to the sunlight and hung on. Finally, it was his turn.
As he stepped to the crowded array of microphones, he fought back the wave of dizziness that washed over him, remembering Abbey's warning about a long speech. The pain had lessened, but his head swam with the effects of the Tylenol. But he could last it out, at least long enough to tell them what he came to say.
Waiting out the applause, he began, voice low and calm. "Three weeks ago I came to this land. This land of Abraham. This land of Isaac and this land of Ishmael. I came here not as a Christian among Jews and Muslims. Not as an American among Israelis and Palestinians. I came here as a human being among human beings. We are all here as human beings among human beings.
"And we met, and we talked, and we agreed. We agreed that to live together as human beings there are certain things we do and things we don't do. In 1945, at the Yalta Conference, Franklin Roosevelt said that 'peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it.' Well, my friends, we insist on peace and we stand ready to work for it and to sacrifice for it."
Aware of the sweat that beaded on his brow, he resisted the urge to wipe it off, unwilling to show any weakness that might bring doubt on his own resolve. Instead, he gripped the podium tightly and continued, avoiding the alarm he knew would see in Abbey's eyes if he dared to look her way.
"Thirteen days ago that infant peace, barely removed from the womb, was tested by a relic from a bygone conflict, from a war that is now past. That relic could have destroyed the infant, but it did not. This newborn peace is growing stronger each moment we let it live. Let that relic be the end of the old. Let the burst of pain and suffering signal the last of the pain and suffering that we inflict on each other, on our fellow human beings."
Now he drew upon his oratorical gifts to reach them, to stretch up to the satellites and into the homes of the world, to bring them with him. He controlled the pitch, the timbre, the rhythm so that they followed him, dived with him, danced with him, flew with him. They were his now and he knew it, determined to make their loyalty worth the effort.
"For uncounted years we have buried fellow humans before their time." He paused, hoping the trembling in his legs went unnoticed, praying that it would remain absent in his voice. Willing his strength to hold out just a while longer, he pushed the power into his words.
"It has been said that 'in peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons'."
Now his eyes meet those of the audience, Arabs and Jews, Christians and Muslims. These were his words, not Sam's, not Toby's, but his words from deep inside. With all the passion he had, all the duty he felt for humanity, he carried the people with him to the climax.
"Shall we bury fathers or sons?"
He looked hard into the eyes before him, into dark eyes and light eyes, into young eyes and old eyes, into eyes of hate and eyes of hope.
"I say to you today, my fellow human beings, I say we bury fathers. I say sons bury fathers, and daughters bury mothers at the end of life, at the time of the journey into our eternal destinies. Not at the youth of life, or even the prime of life."
The passion in his heart flowed upward through his voice. "Let the sons bury their fathers. Let the sons bury their fathers because we live in peace."
Finally, a long pause and the last emphasis. "Because we live in peace."
Head buzzing now, he stepped back from the platform. The erupting roar of the crowd seemed far away again, the wild, enthusiasm dulled by its distance from his consciousness. Still, he felt the hands in his, saw the smiles, the adoration on the faces, the tears on the cheeks, heard the praise, the congratulations. The walk to the limousine went by in a blur, and he was vaguely aware of hands helping him in, of voices giving orders.
He opened his eyes, unable to remember closing them, and realized that he leaned back on the seat, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down. The low vibration told him they were already under way. Abbey's face loomed closest, but behind her hovered the anxious expressions of C.J., Leo, Charlie, and Ron.
Well, hell.
"Jed?"
Yeah. I'm all right. I'll just sit up now. A gentle pressure on his chest. Ouch. Still tender.
"Just lie there, Jed, until we get back to the hospital. You'll be fine."
He looked at Leo, whose face was flushed with both triumph and concern. His old friend nodded and pursed his lips. "Congratulations, Mister President," he said, and that was all Jed needed to hear from him. It told him enough.
"Way to go, Sir," C.J. added.
Behind her, Ron's expression did not change. Except for the clear admiration shining in his eyes, and that meant more to Jed than any words he could have uttered.
Now Abbey leaned in, her lips brushing his ear intimately. "You did good, Babe. You did real good."
At his whisper of her name she shook her head, comprehending his unspoken question, just as he had known she would. "It's not-It's not- You just pushed too hard. You just pushed too much, Jethro."
C.J.'s surprised snicker broke the seriousness and he mustered enough energy to mutter, "Okay, Claudia, you'll pay for that."
"Yes, Sir," she answered, without even a shade of remorse.
Abbey continued, the smile in her voice obvious. "You just rest, now. We're going home."
Home. Okay. That sounded good. Really good. As he let the drugs take control of his body, he thought about what had transpired in three short weeks.
Peace. An impossible peace made possible.
At least he sincerely hoped it was. And he believed it was, had to believe it was. The hope in those faces before him made him believe.
As the tunnel finally closed in on him, he lifted his hand toward Abbey and she took it, grasped it firmly. He felt the hot tears burn his eyes, but fought back the emotional display. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Here he was the President of the United States. Here he was the world leader who would probably join the infinitesimal ranks of multiple Nobel Prize winners. So, no, he would not let the emotions take over now. Not here.
But maybe later. Maybe just with Abbey.
"The pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept, it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many."
Hubert H. Humphrey February 17, 1965, New York City
"Peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it. Twenty-five years ago American fighting men looked to the statesmen of the world to finish the work of peace for which they fought and suffered; we failed them, we failed them then, we cannot fail them again and expect the world to survive again."
Franklin D. Roosevelt March 1, 1945 Yalta
"In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons."
Croesus, Lydian king to Persian King Cambyses Quoted in Francis Bacon's Apophthegms No. 149
(Stay tuned for the epilogue!)
POV: Jed Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Everyone except Dr. Hilweg belongs to A.S.
"I feel, Mister President, that I must emphasize once again my strong recommendation that you reconsider."
President Josiah Bartlet didn't look at the head of his secret service detail, but kept his eyes focused on the passing scenes through the limousine window. Why did it seem all of the Middle East was brown? Sure, occasionally they passed an olive tree. And in the downtown areas steel structures stood out garishly against the monotone clay. But in general, he had always found it to be cast in earth tones, even down to the clothing of its inhabitants.
Except for that day. That day the browns and tans gave way to gory splashes of red. He preferred it brown.
Uneasily, he shifted, trying to keep his face blank, to avoid broadcasting to the other passengers how much it hurt just to breathe. But from the drawn brows on the faces of his wife and chief of staff, he figured he hadn't been very successful.
"Duly logged and noted, Agent Butterfield," he acknowledged, moving his eyes quickly back to the window to escape the glare from his wife's dark eyes. "And I give you permission to kill me yourself if I get blown up again." Now he let a faint smile touch his lips at the morbid humor.
Glancing up fondly, he knew Ron would never dream of returning the smile. Still, he expected at least a glimmer in the eyes. Apparently, the agent was not amused. Okay. Nevermind.
Again, he watched the land between Jerusalem and Bethlehem fly by, thankful that finally he was seeing only one of everything. That had just happened that morning actually, a morning for a lot of firsts since the accident. His first real shower - if he didn't count being clad in saran wrap. His first chewable meal - soft-chew, anyway. His first shave.
Now that was a treat. Mainly because his barber had been one Abigail Bartlet, who, armed with a bowl of hot water and a straight razor, had propped him up in the chair and eagerly gone to work to rid him of 13 days' growth of beard. Thank goodness she wasn't harboring any grudges at the moment.
He still could feel the erotic scrape of the blade, the sensual touch of her hand as she ran it along his skin, could still smell her perfume as she bent over him. Despite the ever-present pain, he'd been rather pleased with his body's response, but disappointed that he couldn't act on the visible physical reaction. Even though the secret service agents had surely seen him in just about every condition imaginable in the past two weeks, there was one particular condition he'd just as soon keep between his wife and him. But Abbey had seen, and given him one of those looks that scolded and promised at the same time. Of course, medically it was out of the question. Still -
Careful, he told himself as the memory stirred dangerous sensations. Remember where you are. For a brief, regrettable moment, he straightened to draw in a deep breath. Pain shot from his ribs, stabbing directly through his body, effectively destroying any concerns he might have had about becoming aroused in the limo.
"Son of a bitch!" The curse was out before he could stop it, gaining him the immediate attention of every single passenger.
"Jed?"
That was Abbey, he pinpointed through the red haze in front of his eyes. He managed to hold up a hand, indicating that he would be okay after a moment. Just needed a little time to wait it out. Impatience buzzing around him, he focused only on pushing the pain back down.
Even after almost two weeks, every move he made was accompanied by pain of some sort. Burning pain, aching pain, lancing pain, throbbing pain. It seemed to get worse, but he knew that was only an illusion, only a result of making himself do more, pushing his body to perform, to do things it really didn't want to do. But he had to. There was no other option. Finally, as the sensation faded to manageability, he gritted his teeth and breathed out gingerly.
"Uh, anybody got an asprin?"
He managed not to wince too much at the scowl on Abbey's face. "Josiah Bartlet," she fussed, but he heard the concern behind the irritation. "Didn't you take the Tylenol the nurse brought you before you left the hospital?"
Well, no. Like that's been doing me a damned bit of good. Sugar pills would be more helpful. At that moment, however, he was reconsidering the possibility that his assessment might have been in error. Still, stand your ground. Show no weakness.
"Abbey, you know that stuff is useless. Doesn't do a damn thing."
"It was Tylenol with codeine, Jed. Dr. Hilweg figured it would be okay just for this occasion."
He grimaced. "Now you tell me."
After a moment, Leo suggested, "There's probably some in the ambulance."
Jed sighed, a very shallow sigh. "I'm not going to stop the whole damn motorcade to get some EMT to give me an asprin. Forget it." He eased back, trying not to be too obvious as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Worried faces watched him closely.
From across the car, C.J. leaned forward. "I, uh, I have some Midol, Mister President."
Now he knew he saw that smile on Ron's face, if only for a second. What a choice. But the pounding in his side had moved up into his chest and was stretching its miserable influence toward his head.
"Okay."
"Jed!"
"Abbey, I don't care at this point what she has."
"But Midol is-"
"I know what Midol is. It's a pain killer, right?"
"Among other things."
"I don't need the other things, just the pain killer." He grinned, the first real grin since the accident. "Plus, I'll look thinner on television because I won't be retaining water."
His disappointment over Abbey's refusal to respond was more than made up for by C.J.'s expression. And he considered the crack of a smile on Charlie's face to be a special bonus. Sincere about his willingness to down the Midol, he reached out a hand, but it was intercepted by his wife, still shaking her head, and now waving a small plastic bag in front of him.
"Is this what you need?" she asked.
"What the hell -"
"You are the most stubborn man I have ever seen," she explained. "I figured you'd ditch the painkillers." Her voice softened. "But it's really hurting now, huh?"
Yes, it was, but he sure as hell wouldn't admit it. He almost made a joke about her withholding drugs from a patient, but the very reference darkened his eyes and stopped his tongue. She saw the expression and misread it for an increase in the pain, because she gave up trying to make her point.
"You are an evil woman, Abigail Bartlet," he observed.
She ignored him. "Next time, don't be such an ass."
"I would really prefer there not be a next time." He was quite content with being blown up only once.
Shaking out two into her hand, she explained, "Doctor Hilweg sent these. Apparently, he's gotten to know you pretty well in two weeks. These should take effect enough to give you some relief. But don't make that speech too long; you'll be woozy."
Okay. Decision time. To take or not to take? Visions of doubling over in pain as the world watched shot through his mind and he popped them in his mouth, chasing them down with the bottle of water Charlie had handed him.
"I'm fine," he assured the five pairs of eyes staring at him. "Look, let's run through plan one more time, okay?"
His distraction worked, at least for everyone but Abbey and he hadn't figured she would fall for it anyway. Ron nodded, happy to be proactive as much as possible. Leo, Charlie, and C.J. leaned in to listen.
"We'll be retracing the last few steps you took, Mister President," the agent explained, his expression leaving no doubt about his disagreement with the entire idea. "The area has been scanned completely. Safety precautions executed, security posted all around."
Jed frowned, not liking this show of protection, but realizing the necessity of it, especially now, especially this second time around.
"The Prime Minister and Palestinian leader will have already arrived. All three of you -" Here he broke off, unable to contain himself. "Mister President, having all three of you together is just like painting big bulls eyes on your backs. Anyone who is determined to-"
"Anyone who is determined to kill me, Ron, can do it, regardless of the safety precautions we take. You know that." Rosslyn had shown them that quite clearly.
Ron's eyes admitted that he was right. Still, the agent dared to suggest, "Agreed, Mister President, but you don't have to pose for him."
Ouch! That was unlike Ron, overstepping his bounds that way, but Jed could read the motivation behind it. Agent Butterfield would never admit it, but he truly cared for his protectee and his protectee knew it. So instead, Jed simply nodded.
"I understand, Ron. Continue, please."
As they neared the city, the crowds began to file in beside the road, first in tens, then hundreds, then thousands of people, clad in the most eclectic clothing imaginable, long robes, white short-sleeved shirts, business suits, army uniforms, T-shirts and jeans. Jed stared at them, feeling the burden of their turmoil, hearing the desperation of their pleas. By the time they reached their destination, the police had erected low barriers, creating a space at the very spot of the disaster. A long table draped with a rich, navy cloth, sat in the midst of the rubble. A mass of cameras and reporters teemed in an area designated for them and policed by a healthy show of uniforms.
Jed took as deep a breath as he dared, noting with some satisfaction that the constant pain had at least dulled a bit. Working "without a net," as Sam and Toby would say, he ran through the few comments he planned to make after the signing ceremony, then nodded to Ron.
"Okay?" Abbey asked, her question containing many meanings.
"Okay," he replied. And he was. At least for now.
When the door opened and he eased out, he thought at first that perhaps the Israeli Air Force had arranged for a fly-by in honor of the occasion, but the roar did not dim with passing planes. Instead it grew louder at his emergence from the vehicle and he finally realized with a start that it was coming from the people, a blanket of cheering that deafened them all. Leo was saying something, and smiling, but he couldn't hear, couldn't discern the words. It didn't matter. He grasped the sentiment, if not the exact syntax. They were cheering him. They were screaming for him. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
He tried not to favor his tender left side, tried to walk as casually as possible, knowing that he wasn't pulling it off with much success. Lifting his right hand, he tossed a wave to them and nodded his acknowledgement. The roars, if possible, increased.
Then it hit him, the concussion of an explosion, the surprise of finding himself crumpled against a jagged rock, smoke swirling, dust raining, people screaming. Shock ran through him again, clutched at him, choked him. Oh God! Not now. Not now.
Closing his eyes briefly, he reopened them to see the outstretched hands of his fellow statesmen, ready to greet, and, he suspected, help him onto the platform. The moment passed, the flashback disappeared. Ron moved closer, not touching, but still lending his strength. He breathed in and out to regain control, took each step carefully, then stood with them, six hands clasped together amid the firecracker report of camera shutters.
They approached the ornate document that rested on the table. Palestine first, then Israel, then the United States. As he took the sun-warmed pen in his hand, he paused for a moment, lingering over the words, over the promises, and he considered the price that had already been paid over the years toward this peace, the price he, himself, had paid.
And the price that small boy had paid.
And he said a prayer right then for those who yearned for peace, for those willing to step toward it. Then, he touched the tip to the paper and watched as the ink flowed boldly onto it, proclaiming that Josiah Bartlet was part of this, that Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States of America was making a stand along with these other brave leaders.
When he stood straight again, he had to take a moment to wait out the swirling in his head. Thankfully, it calmed and he turned his attention to the Israeli prime minister, who stepped to the microphone and declared his country's commitment to the historic treaty. Jed felt his body retreating from the scene, saw it from far away, through a long tunnel and clenched his teeth in an effort to stay focused. Surprisingly, it was the prime minister who drew him back in with his closing statement.
"I turn to an American of the past to recognize an American of today. Hubert Humphrey, statesman and vice-president, said that 'the pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many.' Our generation has begun construction on this cathedral."
His arm swept back to include Jed in his remarks, bringing color to the President's cheeks. "We have the master-architect."
Finally, he turned back to the crowd, arms up in appeal to everyone present and to the watching world. "Now the execution requires all of us to labor."
Heavy applause rewarded him and Jed nodded his thanks as the Palestinian leader stood and spoke, also praising the efforts of those who brokered the peace. Again, the tunnel tried to close in on him, but he clawed his way to the sunlight and hung on. Finally, it was his turn.
As he stepped to the crowded array of microphones, he fought back the wave of dizziness that washed over him, remembering Abbey's warning about a long speech. The pain had lessened, but his head swam with the effects of the Tylenol. But he could last it out, at least long enough to tell them what he came to say.
Waiting out the applause, he began, voice low and calm. "Three weeks ago I came to this land. This land of Abraham. This land of Isaac and this land of Ishmael. I came here not as a Christian among Jews and Muslims. Not as an American among Israelis and Palestinians. I came here as a human being among human beings. We are all here as human beings among human beings.
"And we met, and we talked, and we agreed. We agreed that to live together as human beings there are certain things we do and things we don't do. In 1945, at the Yalta Conference, Franklin Roosevelt said that 'peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it.' Well, my friends, we insist on peace and we stand ready to work for it and to sacrifice for it."
Aware of the sweat that beaded on his brow, he resisted the urge to wipe it off, unwilling to show any weakness that might bring doubt on his own resolve. Instead, he gripped the podium tightly and continued, avoiding the alarm he knew would see in Abbey's eyes if he dared to look her way.
"Thirteen days ago that infant peace, barely removed from the womb, was tested by a relic from a bygone conflict, from a war that is now past. That relic could have destroyed the infant, but it did not. This newborn peace is growing stronger each moment we let it live. Let that relic be the end of the old. Let the burst of pain and suffering signal the last of the pain and suffering that we inflict on each other, on our fellow human beings."
Now he drew upon his oratorical gifts to reach them, to stretch up to the satellites and into the homes of the world, to bring them with him. He controlled the pitch, the timbre, the rhythm so that they followed him, dived with him, danced with him, flew with him. They were his now and he knew it, determined to make their loyalty worth the effort.
"For uncounted years we have buried fellow humans before their time." He paused, hoping the trembling in his legs went unnoticed, praying that it would remain absent in his voice. Willing his strength to hold out just a while longer, he pushed the power into his words.
"It has been said that 'in peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons'."
Now his eyes meet those of the audience, Arabs and Jews, Christians and Muslims. These were his words, not Sam's, not Toby's, but his words from deep inside. With all the passion he had, all the duty he felt for humanity, he carried the people with him to the climax.
"Shall we bury fathers or sons?"
He looked hard into the eyes before him, into dark eyes and light eyes, into young eyes and old eyes, into eyes of hate and eyes of hope.
"I say to you today, my fellow human beings, I say we bury fathers. I say sons bury fathers, and daughters bury mothers at the end of life, at the time of the journey into our eternal destinies. Not at the youth of life, or even the prime of life."
The passion in his heart flowed upward through his voice. "Let the sons bury their fathers. Let the sons bury their fathers because we live in peace."
Finally, a long pause and the last emphasis. "Because we live in peace."
Head buzzing now, he stepped back from the platform. The erupting roar of the crowd seemed far away again, the wild, enthusiasm dulled by its distance from his consciousness. Still, he felt the hands in his, saw the smiles, the adoration on the faces, the tears on the cheeks, heard the praise, the congratulations. The walk to the limousine went by in a blur, and he was vaguely aware of hands helping him in, of voices giving orders.
He opened his eyes, unable to remember closing them, and realized that he leaned back on the seat, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down. The low vibration told him they were already under way. Abbey's face loomed closest, but behind her hovered the anxious expressions of C.J., Leo, Charlie, and Ron.
Well, hell.
"Jed?"
Yeah. I'm all right. I'll just sit up now. A gentle pressure on his chest. Ouch. Still tender.
"Just lie there, Jed, until we get back to the hospital. You'll be fine."
He looked at Leo, whose face was flushed with both triumph and concern. His old friend nodded and pursed his lips. "Congratulations, Mister President," he said, and that was all Jed needed to hear from him. It told him enough.
"Way to go, Sir," C.J. added.
Behind her, Ron's expression did not change. Except for the clear admiration shining in his eyes, and that meant more to Jed than any words he could have uttered.
Now Abbey leaned in, her lips brushing his ear intimately. "You did good, Babe. You did real good."
At his whisper of her name she shook her head, comprehending his unspoken question, just as he had known she would. "It's not-It's not- You just pushed too hard. You just pushed too much, Jethro."
C.J.'s surprised snicker broke the seriousness and he mustered enough energy to mutter, "Okay, Claudia, you'll pay for that."
"Yes, Sir," she answered, without even a shade of remorse.
Abbey continued, the smile in her voice obvious. "You just rest, now. We're going home."
Home. Okay. That sounded good. Really good. As he let the drugs take control of his body, he thought about what had transpired in three short weeks.
Peace. An impossible peace made possible.
At least he sincerely hoped it was. And he believed it was, had to believe it was. The hope in those faces before him made him believe.
As the tunnel finally closed in on him, he lifted his hand toward Abbey and she took it, grasped it firmly. He felt the hot tears burn his eyes, but fought back the emotional display. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Here he was the President of the United States. Here he was the world leader who would probably join the infinitesimal ranks of multiple Nobel Prize winners. So, no, he would not let the emotions take over now. Not here.
But maybe later. Maybe just with Abbey.
"The pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept, it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many."
Hubert H. Humphrey February 17, 1965, New York City
"Peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it. Twenty-five years ago American fighting men looked to the statesmen of the world to finish the work of peace for which they fought and suffered; we failed them, we failed them then, we cannot fail them again and expect the world to survive again."
Franklin D. Roosevelt March 1, 1945 Yalta
"In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons."
Croesus, Lydian king to Persian King Cambyses Quoted in Francis Bacon's Apophthegms No. 149