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PART FOUR
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Dave the driver helps Donna into the car. Sam and I slide in on either side of
her. We have almost nothing to say as we ride. I keep my head turned to the
right, looking at the people walking along the waterway, people who aren't on
their way to a funeral. I don't want to see my mom's building when we pass it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, mostly to break the silence.

"Temple B'nai Israel in Boynton," Dave tells us. "It's about fifteen minutes
from here."

"Thanks."

"Hey," Sam says in the tone that warns us in advance that he's about to spout
off something trivial, "did you guys know that there's no beach in Boynton
Beach?"

"In my defense, I really did know that."

"I didn't," Donna says, looking out the window as we pass the headquarters of
one of the tabloids that's been giving the administration fits from day one.
"Yuck. There goes the neighborhood." She gives herself a little shake, then
glances over at me. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be flippant."

"I don't mind. Keeps me from thinking too much." I actually feel a little better
now - sad, of course, but this morning's panic is gone, replaced by something
heavier but more stable. Donna clasps my hand for a few moments. So soft, so
warm, and it lifts a little of the burden from my heart.

We drive past subdivisions with matching houses and perfect lawns, past a
manmade lake, past an enormous assisted living facility that looks nicer than
any place I've ever lived. Eventually we make our way down a wide street and I
see the synagogue just a few blocks away.

I start to shudder.

Sam slips his arm around my shoulders. "You're okay, Josh. You're going to be
okay."

I'm on my way to my mother's funeral. I'm wearing my good suit, and my shoes are
polished, and my hair's combed, and I'm going to my mother's funeral. That's
just wrong. Just...wrong.

We pull up to the entrance, where a dark-suited man wearing a white prayer shawl
meets us. He's young for a rabbi, younger than Sam, with slightly curling sandy
hair and dark brown eyes.

"I'm Reuben Kessler - you must be Joshua." He extends his hand to me and I shake
it. He holds on to me for an extra few seconds. "Your mother talked about you
all the time. I'm really going to miss her."

"But not the conversations about 'my son, the Deputy Chief of Staff.'"

He laughs, making Sam and Donna smile as they emerge from the other side of the
car. "You even sound like her. I didn't know her very long, but she made a deep
impression on me - on everyone she met." The rabbi looks over at my companions.
"I recognize you from 'Capitol Beat' - Mr. Seaborn, right?"

"Sam. How do you do?" Sam shakes hands with the rabbi, then with the manners
that make most of the women in the White House weak in the knees, he brings
Donna forward for an introduction. "Rabbi Kessler, I'd like you to meet Donna
Moss, Josh's assistant."

"I recognize your face, as well," the rabbi says as he shakes Donna's hand.

She looks perplexed. "How?"

"Marjorie showed me photos. There's one of you standing over Josh's desk and it
looks as if you're scolding him."

"Typical day at the office," I smirk at Donna, who grins for a moment before
lowering her head.

The gesture brings us all back to why we're really here. "Why don't we step into
my office?" Rabbi Kessler asks, his voice low and kind. We go inside and he
opens the door for us. Three chairs are perfectly placed in front of his desk -
which is a good deal cleaner than mine - and we sit, with me in the middle.

"This is going to be a very short service, as your mother requested. Just a few
words about her, and then the Kaddish since there's no interment today. We have
a transliteration available, of course," he says to Sam and Donna.

I'll need it, too, but I don't want to share that information.

Rabbi Kessler folds his hands. "I didn't know if you wanted to speak. It's not
required, but if you're up to it, it'd be something her friends would
appreciate."

It actually hadn't occurred to me that I'd be expected to get up and talk about
my mother. I look over at Sam, and I must have panic written all over my face
because he reaches into his pocket for the little notebook that he carries with
him every waking moment.

"I, uh, wrote some stuff down," he says softly. "Just in case."

He hands me the notebook and I look at his words. They're in his neat
handwriting, nothing crossed out, not a sign that anything changed from the
first moment he began to write.

"You amaze me. I can't make out a grocery list without half a quart of
white-out."

He shrugs, uncomfortable with praise. "I woke up early. I wanted to help."

You do, I wanted to say. You do help. But nothing came out of my mouth. Rabbi
Kessler smiled at all of us. "Josh, why don't you get some water before we
begin? Sam, Donna, I'll have my secretary show you to where Josh will be
sitting." He spirits them away from me, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a
few minutes.

I peruse Sam's notes again. It's a simple little eulogy, nothing flowery,
starting with something I told him just a few months ago. It's just so...Sam.
I'd know his writing anywhere, can tell after three sentences whether the
President's remarks were written by Sam or by Toby. And here, in a few magic
strokes of his pen, he's drawn a word-picture of my mother so vivid, so frank,
that it's as if she's in the room with me now.

After a few minutes, a pale woman with horn-rimmed glasses knocks and sticks her
head around the door. "Mr. Lyman? It's time."

Mama. Mama.

I blink and nod, then follow her into the hall. I stand just outside the doors
to the sanctuary and Rabbi Kessler pats my arm. "It's going to be all right,
Josh."

I take the black yarmulke he offers and put it on my head. When men go bald from
the back, it covers the loss, but it doesn't do anything for mine. And it feels
heavy. I haven't worn one since we did this for my father.

My father. My mother. Joanie. Gone.

I'm breathing through my mouth, heart pounding, palms dripping. Trust me to get
flop sweat at my mother's funeral. I find Donna's bright hair and walk toward
it, using it as a beacon, trying not to meet the eyes of the dozens of people
who turn around to look at me. A few hands reach out and pat my arm, murmured
condolences surrounding me like vapor. Finally I reach the front pew and slip in
beside Donna.

The rabbi walks up to the pulpit and the congregation hushes. Without preamble
he begins to talk. "Marjorie loved things that were simple and honest, heartfelt
and helpful. For that reason, we come together in her memory and offer our
sympathies to her son, Joshua. When I first met Marjorie, she let me know in no
uncertain terms who her son was - and from the smiles on your faces, I'm sure
she did the same when she met each of you. It was not out of hubris or
self-aggrandization, but out of genuine pride in his accomplishments, that she
put her son's name before her own."

Something catches in my throat. I swallow, but it only grows bigger.

"Marjorie put the needs of other people before her own, as well. The countless
hours she spent at the library, working with underprivileged teenagers who
struggled with their schoolwork, took away from the time she longed to spend
among the plants on her balcony, but tutoring was her true love. 'These are the
real flowers,' she told me more than once when she spoke of her pupils."

I hear a couple of choking sobs. When I turn my head, I see several teenaged
girls holding hands as tears stream down their faces.

"Marjorie's love extended to everyone who followed the precepts of Judaism, no
matter their faith. To her, a righteous person was a righteous person, to be
loved and respected and emulated, to be guided and protected and cherished. None
more so than her son, Joshua, who will now say a few words about his mother."

My feet don't want to come off the carpet. I have to make mental and physical
note of each step, each movement, until finally I'm standing next to the rabbi.
He steps back and sits in one of the tapestried chairs, and I'm once again in
front of a microphone.

I take Sam's notebook out of my pocket and set it down in front of me. My throat
is dry and my eyes are wet, wet enough to blur the faces of all these people who
came to say goodbye.

"These aren't really my words," I begin, throwing caution to the wind by
ad-libbing. "I mean, it's what I wish I could say if I could put words together
the way Sam Seaborn does." Sam ducks his head and Donna pats his arm. "He's one
of the President's speechwriters, and he wrote this out for me, so it's kind of
like the President's speaking but it's coming out of my mouth. You see,
normally, they try to avoid letting me talk in public."

There are some chuckles from the congregation, and a few heads nod. I guess
they're the compulsive C-Span watchers who know all about the Secret Plan to
Fight Inflation.

I smile at them, a bond forged, and begin to read Sam's words.

"When I was thirteen, I stood on a bimah just like this one and said, 'Today, I
am a man.' I talked about being a son, a son of the commandments and a son to my
parents. Afterwards, my mother pulled me aside and hugged me, and said: 'You
didn't say you were a brother.' That was because my sister had died eight years
before, and I considered myself an only child. But my mother told me that you
never stop being a brother, and today, with my mother and father both gone, I
realize that I will never stop being a son.

"Part of being Marjorie Lyman's son was to be loved. Many of you know about that
love, the way she could take you into her heart and surround you with her
warmth." I give Donna a little smile. She smiles back and leans against Sam.
"Another part of being her son was to be told exactly what my failings were.
Some of you may have experienced that, as well." I pause for the moment of
laughter, and I hear Sam's voice among the many.

"But to be her son was to have held before me a model of what was just, and
right, and noble. Not in a way to make me feel inferior, but in the truest sense
of the word 'mentor,' a way that made me strive to be like her in every sense I
could. It's because my mother was compassionate that I became an advocate for
those who cannot speak for themselves." I have a sudden need to connect myself
to Sam, and it's a relief to see him nodding at me, encouraging me to continue.
"Every time I accomplished something positive, I measured it against my mother's
definition of 'goodness.' If I could hear her voice saying 'it's good, Joshua,'
then I knew it was the result of something she'd instilled in me.

"My mother and father were my cornerstones, and anything I am today is because
of their nurturing, their expectations. They may not seem to be here, but they
are in me - not just my father's eyes and my mother's smile, but in the many
unseen facets they helped me develop." This, now, is the hard part. I take a
deep breath as I prepare to say a last goodbye that is really not a goodbye at
all. "If, as we believe, our souls remain on earth as long as our good works are
remembered, then my mother is very much here among us, among us all."

I close the notebook, nod at the congregation, and take the slow walk back to my
seat. Donna's making use of Sam's handkerchief. Sam looks at me with shining
eyes, full of both tears and pride, and I quietly thank him as the rabbi asks us
to stand for the Kaddish.

Donna shares her paper with me. I used to be able to read the Hebrew, but those
days are far behind me and my mind is too fragmented to be of much use. So I
extol and hallow God, and at the end, when we say in Hebrew what Toby said to me
in Leo's office yesterday, I start to lose it.

Sam puts his arm around Donna's shoulders, reaching a little farther so that he
can touch my arm, and Donna turns and puts her head on my chest so that I have
to hold her, letting me cover my tears by leaning over to comfort her. Then it's
over and the rabbi comes to lead me back out of the sanctuary. I blink back the
last of the wetness, give Donna a hug by way of thanks, and leave with my head
held high.

"That was beautifully done, Josh," Rabbi Kessler says, clasping my hand in his.

"Thank you. I don't really remember what I said, to tell the truth, but I do
feel a little better having said it."

"I'll be by her apartment later this afternoon. Let your friends take care of
you - it's going to be rocky for a while, especially for the girls from the
library. For most of them, this is their first experience with death. They'll be
looking for your mother in you. And I think they'll find her."

He's a kind man, a good man, and I manage to work up a smile when I shake his
hand. Donna and Sam join me, Donna linking her arm through mine as we head back
for Dave the driver and his car.

We go back up Jog Road, past the neighborhoods named after golf courses, back to
the A-1-A. "Would you like to go back to the house first?" Dave asks.

"No, thanks. We should just...go. Get it over with."

"On our way, then." We pull into the driveway of one of the many condos along
the beach and Dave lets us off. "Just call this number," Dave says as he hands
me his card. "I can be back here ten minutes from whenever."

"Thanks." I get us buzzed into the lobby with just my name: "Josh Lyman."

The doorman greets us somberly, hat in hand. "I'm Mike. We met over
Thanksgiving. Listen, I'm so very sorry about your mother. She was a terrific
lady."

"Thanks. I have a key - can we go up?"

"Of course, of course. The Kleinmanns are in the apartment - she doesn't get out
much, so it meant a lot to her to get everything ready."

"His name's Hermann, I remember. What's her name again?"

"Esther. I'll call and tell them you're on your way up."

We ride in peaceful quiet to the seventh floor, then work our way down a
corridor. "Her apartment's at the end of the hall."

"Good thing we're not using a mezuzah for a guide to which one's hers," Sam
says, motioning to the number of doors bearing the wooden box.

We get to my mother's door. Before we can knock, a tall, thin, elderly man with
wisps of gray hair sticking to the top of his head opens the door. "Mike said
you were coming. Come in, come in." He shakes my hand, then leans over and
kisses me once on each cheek. "It's good to see you, Josh. I'm just sorry about
the circumstances."

"Thanks. These are my friends, Sam Seaborn and Donna Moss."

"Hermann Kleinmann. Two 'n's' in each."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kleinmann," Donna says, smiling at him.

"Eh, it's Hermann, please. Come on in, Esther's in the kitchen. They're here!"
he calls to his wife, who walks slowly, crookedly, obviously in a lot of pain
along with her emotional distress.

"Hello, Josh," she says softly, opening her arms to me, and I hug her. She's
frail, so fragile that I only embrace her loosely. It's hard to reconcile this
haggard woman with the stories Mom told about how she'd been an artist, so
active in her community.

Mom. Oh. Mom.

Esther lets go of me and eyes Sam. "You, I've seen on television. Smart boy,
nice boy, and Josh is lucky to have you as a friend." Sam beams, submitting to a
hug with his usual grace.

"And you - you're Josh's secretary?"

Oh, holy hell.

But Donna's too polite to insist on the P.C. term. Besides, even "assistant"
doesn't begin to cover what she does for me. "I'm Donna Moss," she says,
avoiding any job-related commentary. She smiles as she lets Esther give her a
hug as well.

"Marjorie told me all about you, and she's right. Pretty, but skinny. Josh works
you too hard. Look at you, nothing but skin and bones, and so pale!"

"If she's too skinny, Es, why don't you take her to the kitchen and let her try
some of the kugel?" Hermann suggests, and I'm so relieved that I could hug the
guy. When Esther and Donna have retreated, Hermann ushers us into the living
room. "Sit, sit. We'll talk a minute, right?"

"Of course. I want to thank you for...all of this. It's a lot of work."

"It's the least we could do." Hermann pauses as if to check that his wife is out
of earshot. "Esther feels so horrible. Your poor mother, just like that, and
Esther was right there but she didn't know what to do."

"There was nothing she could have done," I reassure him. "The First...the
doctors told us that there wasn't anything anyone could have done - the damage
was just too great."

"At least it was quick. But we don't have to talk about that now." He leans back
in the leather chair, the one my dad used to lounge in. It doesn't match the
rattan furniture Mom bought when she moved here, but she couldn't bring herself
to part with it. It's going home with me, somehow.

As if he's reading my mind, Hermann says, "I hope you don't mind, but I called a
company and they'll give you an estimate on whatever you want to take home.
Their card's on your mother's bureau."

"I appreciate that." A burst of nervous energy zaps me and I get up, going to
the balcony door and opening it. I can see over the pool from here, and beyond
that to the avenue along the waterway.

"My son calls that the 'Geezerstrasse,' the 'old guy's street,'" Hermann says
over his shoulder. "You should get some air, after. Your color's not so good."

"I spend most of my time indoors." It's true - even this little exposure to
humid, salty air feels alien after years spent in little offices. "It'd be good
to get out for a while."

"Take Donna with you," Esther says as she shuffles back into the living room
with Donna carrying tea and things on a large tray. "She's like a sheet of
paper, thin and white."

"Es, leave them be," Hermann chuckles, and his wife goes to him for a kiss. I
wonder if that's what my parents would've been like if they'd both lived a while
longer. I wonder if there's anything like that in store for me, even for a
moment.

Esther sits carefully, painfully, on the chair opposite Sam. "Before everyone
gets here, I wanted to tell you what happened."

"Should we...?" Sam asks, tilting his head toward the patio door.

"No, that's fine. Stay." I'm inhaling the words as anxiety crawls around in my
brain like army ants.

Esther takes a deep breath. "We were sitting on the sofa, right next to each
other. Your mother was where Donna is right now. She was telling me how proud
she was of you, that you held your head up high and told those mamzers ­ that's
'bastards,' dear," she tells Donna, "what was what. Then she just...stopped."

Donna's face goes white. I blink a few times and try to breathe. "Wait, wait,
wait. You were watching the hearings?"

"She called and asked me to watch with her, so I came over, we made tea, we
talked, and we waited for them to show your testimony."

"Oh, my God." I duck, running my hands over my face, ending up with my
fingertips in front of my mouth. "I didn't...know..."

Sam springs out of his chair and hovers with his hands on my shoulders.
Grounding me. "All we were told was that you were watching television. We didn't
have any idea."

"They were grilling me, and she was watching, and she...she must've been so
humiliated..." I can't find any more words.

Hermann observes us with his soft blue eyes. "It's just the opposite, actually.
Marjorie told everyone in the building when you were going to be on. She said
you'd take those guys to the cleaners, show them what a real mensch is. She was
proud. Her last thought was of how proud she was of you, Josh, and how many
people get to say that about their parents?"

I'm still processing this when there's a knock on the door. Hermann gets up to
answer, but Donna takes over from this moment on, greeting people, memorizing
names and relationships, coaching me through the blinding ritual she knows all
too well.

There are so many people: neighbors, people from the synagogue, people she
volunteered with at the theater and the library. Rabbi Kessler. The group of
girls Mom had mentored comes in together, each bringing a covered dish, the
specialty of her homeland. Donna glides around, taking notes about who belongs
to what casserole so that the containers can go home to their rightful owners.
The dining room table begins to look like a United Nations commercial, and the
apartment's full of voices.

Sam watches over me. He stays by my side, shaking hands, talking politics or
sports or law with equal ease and grace so that I don't have to say anything at
all. Donna keeps tissues in her hand to wipe away traces of lipstick that the
women leave as they kiss my cheek and leave remnants of tears on my face.

For the life of me, I can't think of anything to say. I'm just numb, operating
on some primal version of auto-pilot. I thank people for their condolences,
letting Donna feed me the names, grateful that our tradition lets me sit on the
little hassock without having to be too participatory.

One especially lovely girl breaks away from her group and kneels in front of the
footstool to hug me around the waist. She's a tiny thing, all eyes and hair, and
she's crying openly. "My name's Liliana Carvajal," she manages to say between
sobs. "Your mama was like my mama. I'm gonna miss her so much!"

Over Liliana's shoulder I see Donna dabbing at her eyes, leaning into Sam for
support.

"I didn't want to go to the reading group. I thought it was for losers, you
know? But your mother made it seem like the best place in the world to be - she
cared so much. I taught her how to make Cuban bean soup and she taught me how to
make those potato cakes...lat-somethings?"

"Latkes?"

She breaks into an incredible smile. "Yeah, latkes. I'm gonna go to college now
and I'm gonna be a teacher and make other girls want to learn, just like your
mama." She kisses me, once on each cheek. "God bless you," she whispers before
disappearing into the group of girls she came with.

"That's quite a legacy, Josh," Donna murmurs from behind me. "And I bet there
are a dozen other young women standing over there who feel the same way but are
just too shy to tell you about it."

"I should go talk to them."

"I think that'd be nice." Her voice is neutral, the way it always is when she's
trying to tell me what to do. I'm going to have to feed her a straight line.

"They'll kiss me and fawn over me."

"That's because they don't know you." She gives me her hand and I rise. My knees
protest. My heart protests, too, but I know what's right. My mother taught me
that.

The little knot of teenagers untangles when a few of them see me approach. Donna
gives me names, some of which I couldn't pronounce to save my life, and I shake
hands and get hugged and kissed until my tie almost comes off and my face is wet
from their tears.

Five of the girls join hands and start to sing in Hebrew that's mangled enough
to make me glad Toby's not here to roll his eyes and groan, but their voices are
sweet and earnest, and I appreciate hearing them. The same words from the
Kaddish, the ones Toby said. Oseh shalom... Amen.

Donna's charmed, entranced, and she slips her fingers into Sam's as they listen
together. We applaud the girls at the end, they blush and bow, and as if on cue
people begin to take their leave.

As much as I didn't want this, I didn't want to be alone, either. I stand at the
doorway to thank everyone, then Esther leaves after giving me another kiss, and
Hermann stays behind for just a moment.

"You driver dropped off a bag with a change of clothes for the three of you.
There are boxes in the guest bedroom, and more are downstairs with the doorman
if you need them. We have markers and tape, and everything else we could think
of, sitting in there. My number's on the note pad by the phone. Don't hesitate,
Josh."

"Thank you." The enormity of what this man and his wife did for me finally hits
home, and I wrap my arms around him, mindful of his frail bones, before turning
around to my friends.

There's a whole apartment to pack up, to divide up, and if I'd thought the
memorial service would be bad, this would be a thousand times worse. I manage to
get myself into the spare room. Donna's fishing in the suitcase for my jeans and
a light sweater, which she tosses to me. "Get changed. I'll use the other
bathroom."

A few minutes later I'm out of my suit and in comfortable clothes, as is Sam.
He's standing at the table, picking at a tray of cookies. "I don't know why I'm
still hungry."

"We should eat something substantial."

"Have you seen what's in the kitchen? You could feed three countries."

"I promised you seafood, and I'll deliver on that promise." I turn around,
frowning. "I have absolutely no idea what to do with any of this stuff."

"Find her papers first, hand them off to me, and I'll figure out what to keep.
I've asked Donna to do the clothes - that's a tough one, you don't want to have
to do that. You handle books and photographs, because only you know what's
meaningful."

Thankful to have some of the responsibility taken from me, I dig into the
bookshelves. Dad's law books, Mom's history and language books, some fifty years
old, smelling like our old living room. I want them, crave them, and without
exchanging a word Sam knows to hand me two boxes. He sits down and starts
fingering through Mom's neat file box, nodding in approval as he comes across
the papers he needs.

It feels like forever before Donna comes out of Mom's bedroom, her mascara
pooling under her eyes. "I've boxed up the clothes and shoes and purses, Josh.
Where do you want them to go?"

"Goodwill, I suppose. Maybe we should have Dave do a run for us."

"I'll take care of it." Donna disappears again. I go around the apartment,
picking up a few things I remember from childhood and placing them in the living
room. There's not a lot that I want, really, and that surprises me.

"That's not much," Sam comments as if reading my mind along with the papers.

"She sent me a pile of things when she sold the house. Most of what I wanted,
I've already got." I set aside a blue china teapot, stretching my arms. "Thank
God I didn't have to go through the house. We'd never have made it. You'd been
to the house, you know what was in there."

"Yeah." He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Josh. How're
you doing?"

I haven't given it a lot of thought. But being so busy has made it a little
easier. "I'm better than I expected. I mean, I miss my mom and it's hard to have
it sink in that she's gone, but..."

The phone rings. Sam and I both jump. I go into the kitchen and pick up the
receiver. "Hello?"

"Mr. Lyman, this is Mike. A Jason Lo's here to see you."

"Thanks, send him up." I go back to Sam. "Mom's lawyer is here. You ready to
talk to him?"

"I think so. It's all pretty simple and very organized."

"Comes of being married to a lawyer, I guess."

His eyes flicker away for an instant. "I guess." His mother married a lawyer,
and look what happened to them.

I grimace, sorry to have brought up a painful subject, but before I can say
anything there's a knock on the door.

The guy is startlingly young, and startlingly familiar. He extends his hand.
"Jason Lo."

"Wait...did you do work-study at Debevoise when you were in high school?"

"Yep, that's me. Your dad kept an eye on my progress in law school." Jason's
face is open and he has a trustworthy smile. "One of the last things he did
before taking a leave of absence - for the chemo - was to get me hired."

"He was incredibly impressed with you. And you're Mom's lawyer?"

"He specifically asked me to take care of her. In case." His smile evaporated.
"I was crazy about your folks, Josh. I'm so sorry. About all of it."

"Thanks. Come in, please. Eat something before the table collapses under the
weight. Sam'll join you. Sam, this is my mother's lawyer, Jason Lo."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Seaborn."

"Sam." He leans back the way he does when he's surprised that anyone thinks of
him as a superior. "I told Josh I'd take care of the particulars. Why don't we
grab food and sit down in the kitchen so he doesn't have to hear a language he's
forgotten how to speak?"

"Way to console the bereaved," I grunt at him, grinning. For an instant he
doesn't understand that I'm kidding, then he relaxes and smiles back.

I don't know how much time passes as I box up the books I want and leave tags on
the furniture that can be disposed of. The photo albums go into a box that I
want to put on the plane with us. Donna emerges a few times, finally allowing
Sam to bully her into taking a Coke and some cookies with her, and comes out
with her hair knotted up at the back of her head and her sleeves rolled up.

"You done?"

"Yes. But there's one thing you need to look at. If you're up to it." She leads
me into the bedroom. I inhale sharply, tears stinging my eyes, the familiar
scents of powder and perfume flooding my senses. Donna sighs, leading me past
neatly-stacked boxes of things I don't have to look at, then shows me a tattered
shoe box. "These are for a little girl. But the box looks old."

I sink onto the bed. The world's gone eerily silent. "She kept them. She kept
them, all these years."

Donna sits beside me. "Were they your sister's?"

"No. Well, they were...supposed to be." I can taste the ice-cream sodas we used
to have when Mom took us to old Mr. Clark's shoe store.

"Josh, you don't have to talk about this. I just wanted to know what to do--"

"No, it's okay. You'll like this story. There was this guy, Mr. Clark, who owned
a shoe store not far from Dad's office. Two or three times a year my mom would
call and say we were coming in, and he'd pull out things he thought we'd like.
That was in the days when people actually knew their customers."

"Before my time."

"Don't push your luck, Donnatella." I nudge her with my shoulder. "Anyway, the
fall after Joanie...we went to get school shoes for me. And he had these set
aside for Joanie because he remembered Mom had promised her 'heels' when she
turned thirteen. He hadn't heard about...and my mom didn't say anything, just
thanked him and bought the shoes for a daughter she'd buried five months
earlier."

"Because she didn't want him to feel bad," Donna says, her voice thickening with
each word. "Oh, Josh, that's so sad. So sweet."

"I'm surprised she still had them, though. She got rid of so much when she sold
the house." I open the box. The tissue's decayed over the last thirty-odd years,
revealing smooth, delicate black patent leather. "For when she turned thirteen.
Only she never did. Turn thirteen. But Mr. Clark didn't know that."

"Josh." Donna reverently covers up the shoes and closes the box, then turns to
hold me while I struggle against the latest tide of emotion. "I'll put them with
the things we're mailing to you," she whispers against my temple.

I nod my thanks, unable to speak for a moment. I want ice cream. I want a
maraschino cherry of my own, and I want to steal my sister's when she's not
looking, then have my mom give hers away to keep the peace. I want the smell of
new leather and the squeak of socks against the shoes as Joanie models them for
my dad.

I move away from Donna. "Wash my face," I mutter, and I'm thankful that she
doesn't move from her spot.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Sam and Jason are all over the remains of the
sandwiches. From somewhere, doubtless the depths of the refrigerator, they've
procured beer. Mom didn't really like it but she bought some when I was here a
few weeks ago and it seems fitting that the last of the stash would go to these
men.

"We're ready for you, Josh," Sam says, waving me toward the living room. "It's
not going to take long."

"Okay." I'd rather have my teeth drilled, but I sit obediently on the sofa while
Jason and Sam take the chairs on either side of me.

"There's less 'estate' in terms of money than when she first drew up the will,
although it's still substantial," Jason says. "Your mom was giving money away
hand over fist. She endowed a lot of things in your father's memory, and in your
sister's. There are other assets, as well. There's insurance, of course, and
anything you want from the apartment, although she's asked that the furniture go
to the battered women's shelter in Delray if that's okay."

"That's good. I had no idea what to do with it, anyway."

"Sam's going to take care of filing the insurance paperwork. There's going to be
some inheritance tax involved, especially when you sell the condo, I just need
to warn you, but it won't be too bad."

"Ah, the death tax. Ainsley would have a field day," I say to Sam, who shoots me
a dirty look in return. "Do you have the will? I'd like to read it."

"There are two. There's the first, the disposition of property - she left
everything to you, Josh, so it's pretty straightforward - and there's also an
ethical will."

Sam leans toward me. "Now, you see, that's really interesting. I'd never heard
of that until Jason told me about it today."

"They're pretty common among Jews - a way to tell their children what they
expect of them, how to live their lives. Although she was proud of you just the
way you were, Josh, I want to make sure you realize that."

"I do. I've been told. Thank you."

"You'll need to change the beneficiaries on your own insurance, change your
will, stuff like that, and Sam says he'll handle it all for you. So, other than
saying again how terribly sorry I am, my part of this is really done." Jason
stands, as do Sam and I. It just takes me longer.

"Thank you for coming all the way down here for this."

"It's an honor to have worked for her. Your dad made my career, you know."

Pain stabs my chest, a recollection of Dad saying something about this kid, this
one kid, who was going to go all the way in law. At the time I'd thought he
meant that the kid would do well in comparison to me, but now I realize what
he'd seen in the teenager working in his office. And that he didn't love me any
less. "You're going to make partner?"

"They say in another year, two at the outside. And it's because of your father.
I was honored that he asked me to take care of family matters for your mother.
It's the least I can do, to come out here and pay my respects." He shakes my
hand again. "Hang in there, Josh. Don't let those Congressional cretins get to
you."

It suddenly occurs to me that I haven't heard a news report in almost twelve
hours, for the first day in probably fifteen years, not counting the shooting.
"Is Schuller...?"

"You didn't hear?" Jason looks positively gleeful. "The President ripped him a
new one. Then Toby Ziegler went on CNN and rained battery acid on the wound.
Schuller won't bother you again."

"Excellent. Is someone taping the news, Sam?"

"CJ's got Zach archiving everything for you," Sam says smoothly. "Jason, it was
a pleasure to meet you. Please come visit sometime - you've got a good head for
politics."

"I might just do that. Thanks." Jason nods and takes his leave.

Sam walks back to the kitchen and picks a manila envelope off the table. "This
is the ethical will, Josh."

"I...can't look at it now. There's still so much..."

"I know. I'll put it in my room, and you can tell me when you're ready." Sam
tucks the envelope into his jacket, which is hanging neatly on a dining room
chair. "We ought to rescue Donna."

"Good idea." We go into the bedroom, where Donna is marking something on a box.
"You ready to take a break?"

"I think so. We're down to the small things, jewelry and a few photos. You?"

"I've found everything I was looking for. The rest can go to Goodwill or
whoever." A sudden thought hits me. "Her wedding rings. Where are they?"

Donna holds up an empty bag from Bethesda Hospital. "They were in here. I put
them with the rest of the jewelry. I called the house and Rosemary said she can
store them in the family vault until you're ready to go home."

"Let me see." She hands the rosewood box to me and I open the lid. Donna and Sam
back away to give me some privacy, Donna saying something about needing to brush
her hair and Sam offering to pack up the legal papers in one of the shipping
boxes.

The rings are there, and I hold them near my heart for a moment before setting
them back in the box. I look through the other items - some valuable, some whose
value is purely sentimental - until I find exactly what I need. I remove those
two pieces and carefully slip them into my pockets. For later.

***
To Part Five