Part IV
I forget how long they've known each other sometimes. Forget that before she and I were sharing laughs over a joke, they were sharing cigarettes and expensive bourbon. Forget that there are things only he knows about her, things he isn't willing to share with the rest of us.
They have this bond, this connection born of years, and cigarette smoke, and ice clinking against tumblers. And it sustains them when sometimes he is too sharp with her, or she too flippant with his feelings.
I used to be jealous of their relationship because they had something together that I could never touch. They speak a secret language with hidden meanings and cloaked words. It's complicated, and dangerous. Sometimes I wonder if it's the only way they can communicate without crossing that invisible line in their friendship.
I forget how long they've known each other sometimes because there are days when they appear less than strangers. There are days when he passes her in the hallway without greeting her. There are days when she shoots down one of his ideas in staff before he's even finished speaking.
But then there are days when he holds the door open for her when they enter the building together. And there are days when she brings him breakfast from the cafeteria because he'll forget to eat otherwise.
Their friendship is tempered with snide remarks and shy compliments; thoughtlessness and solicitude; sarcasm and sincerity. They bear the familiarity of old lovers, and the tentativeness of newborns. They're nestled in a cocoon of contradiction, and they're happy.
Were happy, or at least comfortable.
Now, Toby's door is closed forbiddingly, and his blinds drawn tightly. Ginger and Bonnie are huddled over the large file cabinet in the corner of the bullpen, talking in hushed voices. They spot me, and stand a little straighter in defense as they realize where I'm headed.
"I wouldn't go in there, Josh." Bonnie warns me as she crosses her arms over her chest.
"He on the warpath?"
"Not exactly…that would mean he'd have to engage in social interaction of some sort." Ginger mutters as she throws a manila folder on the desk. "I came in to work this weekend because he needed me to research some statistics…he made it sound important. Now he won't even bother to read them."
"Look…there's some things going on. Be sweet to him, will you?"
Bonnie snorts and I can see I've offended them. "When are we ever anything but sweet to him?" Ginger cuts in.
I shrug and dip my head. "I'm just saying…"
"Yeah. You want me to—" Bonnie gestures to the door.
"No, that's ok. I'll surprise him. But, if you hear anything crashing…please alert the Secret Service."
I don't wait for a response as I grip the knob and open the door. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I can make out his silhouette behind the desk. I wait for him to tell me to get out, but he doesn't, and this is how I know things are bad.
"Toby?"
I pull on the metal chain of the small lamp on his desk and wince as the harsh light bathes our faces, and nothing else. He looks at me now, and I have to glance away from the intensity of his gaze. I feel like I'm intruding on something very private, but I can't leave him here alone, victim to his own demons.
"What do you want?" His voice is soft and laced with weariness.
"I'm worried about you…you've been holed up in here all day."
"Josh…" He warns as he leans back in his chair.
"I don't know what kind of memories this brings up, or what's going through—"
"You don't want to go there with me." He interrupts as he gets to his feet.
"No, I really don't, but someone has to, because she needs our support. So you're just going to have to swallow whatever—"
His fist sails across the desk with a speed I wouldn't think possible for someone of his size to possess and connects with my jaw before I can even finish my sentence. And damn it hurts. He rounds the desk and for one cowardly moment I think of walking, no scratch that—running, away, but then I think of how lost CJ looked in the Roosevelt room, and I can't.
"That make you feel better, big guy?" It takes all I have not to rub the side of my face, but I somehow manage to restrain myself. "Go on, hit me again. Use me as a punching bag, because you're not going to use her."
I brace myself because he seriously looks as if he's considering it, but he suddenly turns and flings the door open. I watch him from the doorway as he plows through the bullpen, and disappears around the corner.
"What happened to your face?" Ginger asks as she rushes to my side and tentatively reaches out to touch my jaw. "Did Toby do this to you?"
I back away and hold my hands up to ward her off. "He's just a little upset."
"Well, I'd hate to see what the other guy looks like." Oh great. As if my day couldn't get worse, President Bartlet has chosen this moment to leave CJ's office and is now standing in front of me. "You got a minute, Josh?"
"Of course, sir."
He ushers me into Toby's now-vacant office and closes the door behind him. I dip my head towards the window, "Is she staying?"
The President smiles and nods. "I managed to talk her into it. She's making a call right now."
"Her dad?"
"Yeah. Listen, Josh, things are going to get hard around here."
"You mean to tell me things haven't been hard, yet?"
"Funny boy. We're going to meet in the Oval at eight to go over our options."
"I understand."
"And Josh…Toby and CJ are going to have to work this out for themselves. Don't get involved."
"Yeah, now you tell me."
Bartlet chuckles and grips my shoulder. "And I would've told you the same thing, if you'd have asked me."
"Yes sir."
"Good…well, I've gotta—" He motions vaguely towards the door.
"Yeah."
His hand is on the knob, but something strikes him, and he turns to face me. "Give her some space, Josh. She's confused enough as it is without you making moon eyes at her."
I think about denying it for a moment, but it's not exactly in my best interests to lie to the President of the United States. "How did you know?"
"I've got eyes in my head, and anyone who's willing to face the wrath of Toby Ziegler's got to have some pretty strong feelings. I'm just saying to give her some time. She's vulnerable."
"I'd never hurt her."
"I know that…"
He leaves the office and I finally give into the temptation of rubbing my aching jaw. I'm never going to live this one down, but I'd go through a lot more for Claudia Jean if she asked me. Who says chivalry is dead?
++++++++++
Tom had it the easiest growing up. He was the baby of the family and my mother doted on him, if only because he hid in the folds of her dress when strangers came to visit. She basked in his dependency; hell, she encouraged it.
Tom was special, is special. He was the kind of kid who always looked down at the asphalt when he walked because he didn't want to step on any ants, or other hapless insects. He was always bringing home stray dogs and cats, and nursing baby birds that'd fallen out of their nests.
He used to get picked on a lot. He'd come home about once a week with a bloody nose, or fat lip, and I'd be forced to go hunt down the assailants because no one messed with my baby brother. In hindsight, maybe this is why he got picked on so much; his sister was always fighting his battles. But I just felt that need to protect him.
My mother had wanted Tom to become a Priest, but it was evident by the time he reached high school that his passion lay with science; It didn't matter that he had to work twice as hard as everyone else to understand the principles and theorems. He'd started researching good veterinarian schools before he reached his junior year.
Tom was the one my mother bragged about to her friends over coffee. He was the one she hugged extra long at Mass when we exchanged signs of peace. And he was the one she held dinner up for when he was running late.
And then there was Peter, all boy that one. He played every sport there was, and then made up some of his own for good measure. He was fiercely independent and had instituted a no-kissing rule for my mother before he reached his sixth birthday.
Sometimes he'd let me tag along with him and the neighborhood boys to the lake two miles away. Other times, he'd ditch me because my bike would have a flat and he didn't want to get left behind. He'd put gum in my hair one day, and bring home shiny new marbles for me the next. He was a mystery.
Peter was popular and well liked in high school, had even been voted 'Most Likely to Succeed'. Everyone expected him to sail through Stanford and become a doctor, or even lawyer. So it came as a great surprise when he decided at the last minute to apprentice himself to a welder instead. It wasn't until three months later when he'd returned from Las Vegas with his new wife that we knew he and Jeanette were expecting their first child. My mother had been scandalized of course, but I remember the look of pride in my father's eyes as he'd patted Peter on the shoulder and told him he'd done the right thing.
And finally, there was Joseph, the product of my father's first marriage. He'd come to live with us after he'd had one too many run-ins with the law. He'd resented my father, barely tolerated my mother, and ignored my brothers.
But he was different with me. He'd let me come into his room and listen to records while he rolled joints. And he talked to me. I mean really talked to me. He had this way of looking at me while he listened, like I was announcing the Second Coming of Christ. He made me feel important.
I cried until my eyes were swollen shut the day he was shipped to Basic Training Camp in Illinois. I was thirteen and couldn't understand why he'd choose to fight in a war so far from home. My father said it'd be good for him, and my mother was relieved to have him out of the house. I was the only one who mourned his absence.
We wrote to each other once a week, and although he never said it, I knew he was scared. I knew this because he never wrote about living in a foreign jungle, or dead bodies, or burning villages. Instead, he wrote poems about the girl he'd met in Hanoi, and pressed tropical flowers flat between thin sheets of paper. When the letters stopped coming, my father assured me it was just because he was busy, or that the post office was slow in delivering international mail.
My mother had been slathering Tom's shoulders with aloe to soothe his sunburn when the man came to the door. He'd held his hat in his hands and twisted it nervously as he imparted the news and extended his sympathies. To this day I can't stand the smell of aloe because it takes me back to the summer of 1974, when I locked myself in Joseph's room and wouldn't let anyone near his things because they were all I had left of him. Death changes everything.
I'm holding the phone cord so tight that it's almost cutting off my circulation as I wait for my father to pick up the other end in California.
"Cregg residence."
I place the picture of my brothers that I've been studying for the past twenty minutes back on my desk and answer, "Hi Dad."
"What's wrong, Claudia?"
I smile despite myself because he knows me too well, and has seen past the false note of cheerfulness in my voice. "I um, I have something to tell you, dad."
I hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end, and my father clears his throat. "You're not…you're not sick, are you?"
"No…nothing like that." I quickly assure him, although I'm sure that would almost be easier for him to accept at this point.
"I don't…I don't know how to say this." I whisper.
"Just come right out with it, Claudia Jean." His voice is so confident, so soothing. He thinks he can handle this, thinks I'm not about to break his heart.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. "Five years ago…five years ago, dad, I went to a clinic and I…I went to a clinic and I had an abortion." I wait for a response, and when there is none, I continue. "I didn't want you to find out, didn't want to disappoint you, but there's going to be a newspaper article tomorrow, and it'll be on the evening news…and I, well, I just wanted to tell you myself. And Dad, I won't blame you, won't blame you one bit, if you decide never to speak to me again. But you have to know that I never—"
"I know. I know about the…your visit to the clinic."
"But…how?" I ask, and there is this pain in my chest, and it is so hard to breathe.
"Father Flynn…you see, he was holding a vigil outside of the gates."
"But I was in—"
"Chicago. He was visiting his brother."
"How long have you known."
"He called me that night…I've known for five years." This shouldn't be so easy, this telling him. I want him to denounce me, to hang up the phone in disgust because it's what I deserve. And almost as if he's reading my mind, he speaks again, this time softly. "It's time you stopped blaming yourself, Claudia. It's time you let this go. There have been so many nights I've wanted to call you, to let you know that I know. To let you know that I loved you before you walked through those doors, and I loved you after you walked out. You are my daughter, and nothing could make me love you any less."
There is this pressure in my chest, and behind my eyes and before I can stop it, I'm sobbing uncontrollably as my father tries to soothe me with his gentle tone and endearments. After my cries have subsided to a few sniffles and hiccups, my father says,
"It's time to come home, Claudia. You need to heal your heart, and you can't do it with cameras and reporters at your doorstep."
"I can't dad…I have to be here…I have work to do."
He sighs in disappointment, but he doesn't press the issue. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me that if things get to be too much, if you can't handle this, you'll come home."
"I promise."
"Good, because there is someone I'd like you to meet."
I laugh now and loosen my grip on the phone cord. "Dad, do you have a girlfriend?"
"I don't have time for that sort of nonsense, Claudia Jean." He says disapprovingly, and I hear the sound of a chair sliding across the linoleum floor as he sits down at the kitchen table. "I went down to the animal shelter on Saturday, and believe me when I tell you that I picked up the most amazing dog you'll ever see."
"You got a dog?"
"I most certainly did. And the tricks Rufus can—"
"Wait, you named him Rufus?"
"No, his previous owners did, but that's beside the point. I have to tell you…"
I smile now because my father can still talk to me about animal shelters and dogs, can still make me giggle like a little girl, and can still say 'I love you' without sounding false.
He has forgiven me, even when I can't forgive myself. And although I'm a long way from completeness, the healing has begun, and it is enough for now.
+++++++++++
The smell of her perfume reaches me before the sound of her footsteps. It's the same soft scent she's been wearing for years, subtle and intoxicating. I've never gathered the courage to ask her what it is; it's too intimate.
But I once spent two hours at Macy's sampling every perfume bottle locked behind the glass cases because I needed to know the brand. And there is a pillowcase in my top drawer that still lingers with her scent from the night she spent on my couch during our first week in office. I can't bring myself to wash it.
I've never told her any of this, of course. It would scare her, hell it scares me. And then I remember that I'm supposed to be mad at her, and so I don't turn around when the footsteps stop a few inches behind me. I can see her reflection in the smooth marble of the memorial and realize that she's not looking at me, but at a point beyond my shoulders.
"Is there something you wanted?" I ask gruffly after the silence becomes almost unbearable.
"Can we talk?" She asks, and her voice is rough with emotion, but she's still not looking at me.
"How did you know where to find me?" I relent as I turn to face her, and I notice that she's not wearing a coat.
She finally tears her gaze away from the wall and shrugs as she meets my eyes. "I had a hunch."
"Did you talk to Josh?" I ask, and unconsciously run a finger across my bruised knuckles.
Her face is set in lines of confusion and she shakes her head negatively. "No…should I have?"
"No, I was just wondering."
She seems to accept this weak answer because she looks off to the side and absently begins to move around the loose gravel with the toe of her shoe. She sighs and looks up again. "So…"
"Yeah."
"You're angry with me."
I wonder if she realizes how ridiculous her statement sounds, how my feelings go beyond anger, how hard I'm trying to control myself because no matter what I'm feeling right now, I don't want to hurt her.
She runs her fingers through her hair and shifts nervously on her feet because I don't answer. After all these years she knows how to read my silences though, so she takes this as a sign to continue.
"You don't have any right, Toby."
"Any right to what?" I ask angrily, and I'm aware that my voice is pitched a little higher than normal.
"You don't have any right to judge me."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
She snorts. "Aren't you? You're a self-righteous son of a bitch Toby Ziegler, and don't tell me that you haven't been sitting in your office all day wondering what kind of woman kills her own child."
Her eyes dare me to contradict, but I can't. "You don't know what I went through, don't know how much I agonized over that decision, how much I still wonder if I did the right thing." She says softly as she looks away.
"You should've told me." I counter quietly.
"I should've…" She trails off incredulously, and then meets my gaze squarely. "Fuck you."
She brushes past me, but almost on it's own accord, my hand snakes out and grips her arm in what I know is a bruising grip, but she doesn't flinch. "Let go." She says simply.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, and I hate the vulnerability in my voice.
She jerks her arm free and points her finger accusingly. "You stopped calling. You never answered my letters. I didn't even get a lousy e-mail in three years, and you want to know why I didn't tell you?"
Her voice is shrill, and I wince. "You don't know what it was like, CJ. You didn't have to see the look in Andi's eyes whenever I got off the phone with you, didn't have to deal with her insecurities. She was my wife…what did you expect me to do?"
"Nothing." There are tears in her eyes, and her voice is heart-breakingly low. "I expected nothing of you, Toby. Because she was your wife and you were my friend, and I knew you loved her. And all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. But I'll be damned if I let you stand here and try to pin this on me."
I've never once considered how those years of silence weighed on her soul. I've never considered it because when I showed up at her house three years ago to recruit her for Bartlet's campaign, she acted as if there had never been three years of unanswered letters, and un-returned phone calls. She never demanded an explanation, never asked questions.
"And later?"
"Later, what?"
"You could've told me later…when you joined the campaign."
She closes her eyes briefly, and I've disappointed her again because whatever response she's been expecting, this wasn't it. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. "I barely recognized you. You were so different, so…hard." The breeze ruffles her hair and she looks up into the velvet sky, blanketed now with bright stars. "I've been trying to forget, Toby. Because there are days when I can barely get out of bed, when I have to force myself to brush my teeth and put some clothes on. There's this hole…this emptiness, and I don't know how to fix it, but as long as I don't think about it, as long as I try to forget the smell of the clinic antiseptic, then I can live without what's missing." She sighs again and seems embarrassed by her admission. "God, I sound so pathetic."
Her honesty and the fragility of her posture startle me. And before I know what I'm doing, I've removed my coat and draped it around her shoulders. I'm so ashamed of myself, and I wish I could just erase the last six hours. But I can't, and so instead I have to concentrate on the next six hours, and how I'm going to help this amazing woman.
"I'm…I'm sorry, CJ." There are so many other things I want to tell her. Poetic things, mundane things, romantic things, trivial things…but in the end I can't. "I'm so sorry." I repeat.
The coat falls from her shoulders as she pulls me closer and wraps her arms loosely around my neck. "Oh Toby…" She breathes against my temple.
And I know she's forgiven me, because she moves away to gently wipe the tears from my cheeks. Tears I wasn't even aware I'd shed. She holds my face between her hands for a moment before she gently plants a kiss on my forehead.
"We should get back…" She murmurs as she bends down to pick up the fallen coat. She drapes it across her forearm and intertwines her fingers in mine, leading me across the park.
And we walk back to the White House this way, our joined hands swinging loosely between us, and my coat dangling over her arm.
++++
TBC