XII
Jed had never been particularly fond of the military, US or otherwise, and things hadn't improved considerably after they were placed under his command. At this current moment, faced with the cream of the country's crop, he was giving serious consideration to the question of why he hadn't stayed an economics professor.
He didn't want to be down here, deciding the fate of the world. Maybe that kind of power gave some people thrills, but all it gave him was a crushing headache. He wanted to be back in the Oval, bossing around the Secret Service, demanding the very latest news about Leo.
"Mr. President?"
Go away.
Jed forced himself to try and concentrate on the matter at hand. Considering the matter at hand involved the possible sparking of a huge war in the Middle East, he was a little troubled by the fact that he found it very difficult.
"Mr. President, you have to give the order," Baker warned him. "One way or the other, we have less than twenty-four hours to make a decision."
That was all very well for him to say, but the two nightmare days that had already passed had brought Jed no closer to a solution.
Send the troops in. Replace one dictatorship with another. Shed bucketloads of civillian blood. Cause a war by intervening against the 'legitimate' government.
Don't send the troops in. Let the government and the rebels massacre each other. Shed bucketloads of civillian blood. Face accusations of tacitly supporting the current oppressive regime.
His military 'advisors' seemed to be under the impression that repeating the same things over and over again in different words would somehow make one option more attractive than the other. But the fact was, there was no attraction to be had on either side. The second he committed to one course or the other, he was signing a few thousand death warrants.
In less than a single day, everything was going down in Qumar. The rebels would be making their move, with or without US military support. But the 'freedom' they were fighting for was just a different brand of oppression to the one currently on offer.
Jed was heartily sick of the circling arguments. Literally; there was a heaving, acidic sensation in his chest as if any moment now he might bring up his last meal. He had to get out of here.
Jed pushed to his feet, and the assembled men all scrambled to theirs. "Mr. President-" one of them began. He couldn't even remember which; they were all beginning to blur together into one big argumentative blob.
"You said I still have twenty-four hours to make the call," he reminded them sharply.
"Less than that, sir," Baker corrected. Jed glared at him.
"However much time I've got, I'm taking it. The people of Qumar deserve a little consideration before I make the decision to destroy their lives, don't you think?" He looked to Baker. "You'll have your answer before the deadline. One way or the other."
He turned, and swept out of the Situation Room.
Thinking to himself Please, please, please just find me Leo before the deadline's past...
Jenny wondered to herself what she was doing here, in this building she had never visited before in her life. What good could she possibly do, when anybody who could find anything useful here had been and gone?
Even so, she had a burning need to step inside. To see for herself this place that Leo had been calling home.
Does he call it 'home'? Is this 'home' now? Or does he still think of the old house? Does he sometimes head towards it then remember? Did he, like her, absently put aside newspaper articles and bookmark pages, thinking to share them with the other half who wasn't there anymore?
You make it sound like he's dead or something, she always thought fiercely, but right now that thought rang spectacularly hollow. He could be dead. If she'd hung in there just a little longer, he wouldn't have been here at all...
Her hand flew almost instinctively to the old, cracked photograph in her breast pocket. She felt weak and childish for turning back to that old superstition, and yet it was the first thing she had done after receiving that stilted, awkward phonecall from Jed Bartlet; charged upstairs and rummaged through her boxes until she found it, that exact picture he'd sent to her so long ago.
As long as I carry it, he'll come back to me. He told me so. He told me so.
She stepped off the elevator, and wondered anew why she was here. She didn't even have a key. Stupid girl, why did you come here when you don't even have a key? All the doors along this corridor looked the same; blank, featureless, giving no clue as to what lay behind. What lay behind Leo's? Had he personalised it? Kept photographs; of her, of Mallory, even of his beloved Jed? Or had he kept it his new home as plain and neutral as a hotel room?
As she stood there in the hallway, not sure whether to laugh or cry at herself, one of the doors to her left swung open. A small, elderly lady in large glasses peered out, and gave her a brief smile.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I thought you were the government men coming back." She took in the way Jenny was standing in the middle of the hall, looking lost, and added "Are you looking for somebody, dearie?"
"I- no, I-" Jenny broke off, shaking her head. Then the woman's words penetrated, and she stared at the old lady. "I'm sorry, did you say government men?"
The woman nodded. "Oh, yes. They were here most of the morning, showing me pictures, asking questions. Nice boys. Very conscientious."
"Questions-?" Jenny gestured towards Leo's door. "Is this about-?"
"Poor Mr. McGarry, yes." The woman nudged her glasses up and regarded Jenny with sharp eyes. "I'm sorry, are you a friend of his?"
"I'm his wife." Oops. If she was talking to a therapist, they'd no doubt have plenty to say about that little slip-up. "His ex-wife," she corrected herself.
The little old lady's face crinkled up in sympathy. "Oh, my poor dear. Won't you come in? Have some tea or coffee? You shouldn't be out here on your own."
Much to her surprise, Jenny found herself accepting. She needed someone to talk to, and the options were pretty limited. The oldest friend she kept in touch with was Abbey, and as the First Lady and Jed's pillar of support, she certainly had bigger things to worry about right now. The only friends she and Leo had shared were political friends, and they were all rushed off their feet right now.
Besides, she couldn't help a stab of curiosity about how Leo had lived since she'd been forced to leave him. She knew without a doubt he hadn't stopped working himself too hard; had he ever come home at all, once there was nobody there to come home to?
Leo's motherly neighbour fussed over her incredibly, fixing her a drink and insisting she take something to eat and not taking no for an answer. Truth to tell, Jenny was grateful for it; she didn't remember when she'd last sat down to eat, and she felt a little faint.
She sipped her drink, and said awkwardly "Um; did you know my husband, then?" She noticed the way the word 'ex' had slipped out of the conversation, and thought rebelliously Why the hell not? It's not like I've got myself a new husband yet. Or, judging by how things had gone with Michael, that she ever would.
The neighbour, who'd introduced herself as Elsie Bannerman, clucked sadly. "Not as much as I'd like," she said. "He was always very polite; lovely, lovely man. A real old-fashioned gentleman. Not home often, though."
Jenny couldn't help smiling into her coffee-cup. "Yes. Yes, that's rather exactly what I thought."
Elsie gave her a surprisingly sharp glance. "You miss him," she observed, not as a question.
"Yes," she admitted. "In the little things." She didn't need to elaborate, for the old woman was nodding.
"My Henry passed away three years back. I get along, but..." she sighed. "He used to kick this coffee table over. His eyesight wasn't what it was, bless him, and it seemed like every day he'd manage to kick the thing over. He'd always put it back, but he could never remember where it was supposed to go." She looked down into her cup. "Now, every day when I come into the room, the coffee table's right where it's supposed to be." They sat in silence for a moment, bonding over all the little things that had been irritating once and now were just... missing.
"It's- it's stupid," Jenny said finally. "I haven't seen him for months, and yet... Now it's worse. Even though I never went to see him, now I don't know where he is it's worse."
"They'll bring him back for you," Elsie reassured her. "They were bright boys, the ones I talked to. Conscientious. They'll find your husband for you."
"I hope so," Jenny sighed. "I want to believe it, but..." She hesitated, and then touched her breast pocket. "I... you know what I did, the other day? I went through all my old things and found an old photo he sent me. He sent it to me when he went off to fly in the war. He said I should carry it as a promise he'd come back." She smiled, though the expression was painfully fragile. "I carried it in my pocket every day, and... he did, he came back to me. And the other day, I went and found that photo, and now I'm carrying it again."
She looked to Elsie, expecting some reaction to the stupidly superstitious story, but the old woman only nodded compassionately, and said "It's funny. I can't imagine your Mr. McGarry as a young man. He always seems so... not old, but... weary. A very weary man."
Jenny nodded. She knew what the old woman meant; she had witnessed it long enough herself. Leo wore the world on his shoulders; he had done so from the earliest she knew him, even as barely more than a boy, but it had become a thousand times worse when he came back from the war.
What did they do to you out there, my Leo? What did you see, that hurt you so much?
She pulled the photograph out of her pocket, and held it out to Elsie. It had been taken at some time during their training, a group of young men with awkward haircuts and strained smiles. Leo was in the front, looking very small and young compared to all the other men. Boys. They were all just boys, really.
Elsie looked where she pointed at Leo, and nodded. Then she frowned. "That's him," she said suddenly.
"Who?" asked Jenny. Elsie tapped a figure on the end of the row.
"Him. The man with the scar I saw visit your husband. The one that the men from the government wanted to know about."
"What?" Jenny grabbed the photo from her, and stared. She knew the names of all these men, had memorised them in the days when all she had of Leo was a pitifully small bundle of letters that said almost nothing. "You saw this man? Here?"
"Yes, dear. Is he someone you know?"
"No, I- Leo used to talk about him. He- he was supposed to have died! Leo was really broken up about it; they used to fly together. His name was Robert Trachtenberg, but they used to call him-"
"-Trace?"
Leo couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. He'd seen Trace shot down, seen his plane crash and burn. You died, you died, I know you died, I saw you.
"You remember me." The harsh laugh was like nothing he remembered from those long ago days. The voice was the same, but sharp, brutal, devoid of the playful boyishness it had once held. "The high and mighty Leo McGarry remembers me. Well, what do you know?"
"You- you were shot down," said Leo weakly. "I saw you shot down!"
"Yes!" The shouted answer was painfully loud after his hours in the silence. "You saw it! You saw me shot down! And you left me there."
"Trace, I-" He felt sick. Sick to his stomach. Oh God, he wasn't dead, I thought he was dead, I swear I thought he was dead- "Your plane was burning! I saw it burn!"
"Yes, it burned! It burned, and so did I!" The ex-pilot yanked open his shirt, and even in the dimness Leo could see the unnaturally shiny flesh of a healed-over burn. If there was ever a time to try and wrench the rifle from his hands, it was now, but he could only look away.
"I burned, and I waited," said Trace, dangerously quiet. "I waited, and I waited, because I knew my good friend Leo would come back for me." He spat. "My good friend Leo. But you didn't, did you? You left me there. Left me there for them to find."
Leo was shaking his head; unable to take it in, not wanting to take it in. "I thought you were dead. Trace, I thought you were dead." He could smell the recycled air of his cockpit, see the fighter plane crashing into the trees in flames. Oh God, he survived that, no one should ever have survived that... "I swear to God, I thought you were dead..."
"Quiet!" The rifle butt struck him across the face again, but he didn't even care. Go on, hit me. I deserve it. I left you, oh God, I left you. I didn't know.
"Trace," he said painfully. "Please, believe me. I didn't know. Let me... let me help you, Trace. I can-" His only reply was another brutal swipe of the rifle butt.
"I'm not listening, McGarry," Trace spat. "I'm not listening to your lies. You think I'm ever going to trust you? You left me. You left me to die!"
With that he once again stormed out, slamming the door so violently it shook the entire trailer. Leo was left alone in the dark, wondering if he would ever escape... and if, after what he'd just found out, he even deserved to.