Title: "Four" (Powers of Ten Series)
Author: Marissa
Rating: R-ish, I suppose . . . definitely suggestive
Genre: Romance
Summary: "I never imagined a marriage spent missing Donna. I will keep missing Donna, though, because my missing Donna means that she can achieve what she has always wanted to achieve . . . . Ten thousand dollars a semester is nothing next to her sense of self-worth."
Disclaimer: Possession is 9/10 of the law, but I'm almost sure that last 1/10 will kick my ass if I try to claim Josh and Donna.
Archive: Just send me a quick note first, please.
Feedback: Second only to chocolate.
Author's Note #1: You all thought I was gone, didn't you? Well, the GCCAs set me back on track. Take that, Writer's Block!
Author's Note #2: Dedicated to my cousin and his wife, who are unfortunately in the same long-distance predicament that plagues Josh and Donna.
Author's Note #3: OK, OK. I admit it. I gave Josh a job where I'll be in two weeks. Do you blame me?
Author's Note #4: Ten to the fourth power is ten thousand. See how quickly exponents rachet up numbers?
I grab the phone on the first ring. It's nine o'clock; I know who it is. "Josh."
"Donna."
There is a moment of silence. There are a thousand things I want to tell him, but all my communications boil down to one thing: I miss him.
"I gave a speech at Brandeis today," Josh offers.
I want to say, "I know, honey. I know it's March 5th, and I have your touring schedule memorized." I don't. "How did it go?" I ask instead.
"Great." I can hear him grinning. "They were a very receptive audience."
"Let me guess: they gave you a standing ovation." I'm grinning now. Josh loves good applause more than almost anything.
"It's a very liberal school, Donna. They appreciate what Jed Bartlet did for the country."
"I'm sure you were thrilled, honey."
"Not as thrilled as I would have been if you'd been there to see it," he responds.
"Oh, Josh, don't do this."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sighs.
I am quiet for a moment. Then I say, "I got an 'A' on my paper for Politics of Interest Groups."
"The one about gun control?"
"Yeah."
"Great! Maybe I'll cite it in my next speech. You want to fax it over to the hotel?"
This is his way of taking pride in my work without treating me like a child. "Sure, I'll do that."
Another blanket of silence falls. I can almost feel my husband's frustration coursing through the telephone line. I can feel him struggling with the words he wants to say. The words win. "I miss sleeping next to you."
"Josh . . . ."
"I miss your stealing the remote from me. I miss the weird food you buy. I miss your body."
I give in. Just this once. "I miss you, too," I whisper. "I'm lonely without you. I want to touch you again."
Josh can't stand to hear me sounding sad for long. "You're touching me right now, if you know what I mean."
That drags me out of my bad mood, of course. "Joshua! I'd like to know what some of those Brandeis students would think of you if they heard you insinuating such things!"
"Oh, I almost forgot. You know what one of them asked in the Q and A session?"
"What?"
"'You're the one who married his assistant, right? She is so hot.'"
"You're kidding me!"
"No." He's grinning again, I can tell.
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'Thanks. I think so, too.'"
"Joshua!"
"Yes?"
"I think I'd better go," I sigh.
"Do you have to?" he whines.
"If I want to finish my reading assignment for Public Opinion, then yes."
"My opinion is that you should keep talking to me."
"I don't recall your being designated the American public."
"You were asleep at the time."
"See you, love," I murmur.
"See you, love," he says quietly.
I gently replace the phone in its cradle. I want to cry, but I have too much work to do to take a step down the dangerous road to self-pity.
He can't help that he has to be away. The tuition at Georgetown is somewhere on the order of $10,000 a semester, and the only way we could think of raising that kind of money without going deeply into debt was to have Josh accept the offer of a speaking tour. A man fresh out of a Presidential adminstration is a valuable speaker, and Josh is paid well for his efforts.
I signed up for classes in the spring semester back in January, and classes started only a few weeks after the wedding. I decided I wanted a degree in political science, and I knew Georgetown would give me an excellent chance to sneak a peek at the legislative branch. It took ages to get the University of Wisconsin to release my academic records, but in the end Georgetown's Office of Admissions informed me that if I took a full courseload for six consecutive semesters, I could earn a combined bachelor's and master's in American Government.
Thus the next two years of my life were blocked out with the words "GET AN EDUCATION." Josh is remarkably good natured about my scheme, even though it ensures that I will have little time for him until my graduation in December of 2004, and it necessitated his taking a job that forces him to travel for months on end.
I feel almost cheated. Working as Josh's assistant forced me to see him for about sixteen hours a day, and at the time I resented it. Now I'd give anything to see him that often.
His -- no, our -- apartment seems empty without him. I sleep in a bed made for two, eat at a table that should be set for two, and sit in a loveseat that holds two.
God, I miss him.
~~~
I hear the click that lets me know that she has hung up, but I just grip the phone tighter. Come back, Donna. Come back.
After a minute, I hang up reluctantly. It's not fair. I twist my wedding ring around on my finger contemplatively. I imagined marriage to Donna in such a different light. I imagined her seeing me off to work as she readied herself for school. I imagined coming home and trying to cook when she had a late class. I imagined arguing over topics she was studying. I imagined settling down next to her every night as she highlighted a thick textbook.
I never imagined months' worth of nightly phone calls. I never imagined climbing into hotel beds built for two and opening up the Bible in the nightstand for comfort. I never imagined waking up every morning cold, yearning for body heat. I never imagined a marriage spent missing Donna.
I will keep missing Donna, though, because my missing Donna means that she can achieve what she has always wanted to achieve. I won't deny her what was handed to me twenty years ago. I was lucky to have two parents who could afford to pay for my first-class education. She, on the other hand, ran into Dr. Freeride, and was cheated out of her future.
I'm not about to let that happen again. Ten thousand dollars a semester is nothing next to her sense of self-worth.
Before turning in for the night, I go down to the hotel lobby and ask if there are any messages for me. Sure enough, Donna has already faxed over her paper. I read the title: "The Dangerous Lies Propagated by the National Rifle Association." I smile. If I weren't so much in love with her already, that title alone would be enough to ensnare me all over again. I head back up to my empty room to try to get some sleep.
~~~
The following night, I'm reading my Constitutional Law textbook when the phone rings. I glance at the clock: 7:30. It's too early to be Josh.
"Hello?"
"Hello. May I speak to Joshua Lyman, please?" The voice on the other end is pleasant and female.
"I'm sorry, but he's away on business."
"Is this his wife?"
"Yes it is."
"Mrs. Lyman --"
"It's Moss-Lyman," I correct automatically.
"Of course, I apologize, Mrs. Moss-Lyman. My name is Peggy Morgenstern. I'm head of Human Resources at Brandeis University. I'm sure you know your husband was incredibly well-received here yesterday."
"Yes . . . ."
"Well, I wanted to let him know that we're interested in hiring him."
There is a pause. "Excuse me?" This can't be real, I think. I can't believe this.
"The head of the Political Science department expressed an interest in conducting an interview with your husband. One of our professors recently announced her retirement, and we think that your husband may be just the right person for the job."
"Oh . . . " is my answer. I can't imagine that a professorship could possibly pay as well as a career as a touring speaker. And how could I, living hundreds of miles away, graduate from Georgetown? "I'll certainly speak to Josh about it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Moss-Lyman." She pauses. "I understand you're working towards your degree at Georgetown?"
"Yes, that's right."
"I was told to let you know that there would be no problem with your transferring credits from Georgetown to Brandeis and graduating free of charge."
It's as if fireworks have gone off inside my head. There it is: the answer to our problems. It's almost too perfect. We could settle down, see each other all the time, and achieve our own goals.
I have to tell Josh.
"That's wonderful," I say faintly. "If you'll excuse me, I have quite a number of things I have to do tonight. May I have your phone number so Josh can call you back?"
She gives me her home phone number, and it suddenly strikes me that this is a very serious job offer from a very eager employer. The thought makes me giddy.
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Moss-Lyman."
"You're welcome. Good night, Ms. Morgenstern," I say breathlessly.
Hanging up, I swiftly decide on a course of action. I get online and book a flight that leaves tomorrow afternoon for Boston. Then I call CJ's cell phone and let her know that I won't be able to meet her for breakfast on Saturday morning, since "something wonderful has come up." She doesn't ask questions, just hears my tone of voice and says she'll meet me the next Saturday. I agree and chat about what's going on in her life for a little while before hanging up.
Then the phone rings.
"Hello?" I say hurriedly when I pick up the phone. I still have to pack, I'm thinking. I still have to finish my homework!
"Guess who?" says the voice most familiar to me in the world.
"Sweetheart!" I burst out. Then I calm myself. He can't know -- not yet.
"What's going on?" I hear the grin on his face.
Composed. I must stay composed. And, unfortunately, I must lie. "Sorry, Josh, I was napping. I'm a little discombobulated."
"Napping at nine? Do you feel all right?" He's all concern and softness, and for a moment it's all I can do to keep lying.
"I don't know . . . I'm a little fatigued."
"Are you getting enough iron?" he asks as sternly as he can.
"Yes! Yes, I have Total for breakfast, and I take my multivitamin. It's not anemia, Josh, I promise." I've had a history of anemia that occurs in times of stress, so Josh is understandably worried. I have to make sure he doesn't worry too much. "The upstairs neighbors were making all kinds of noise last night, and I couldn't sleep very well. I feel a lot better now."
Josh sighs. "They're usually pretty good."
"I know."
"If they do it again, call the super."
"I know."
"I worry about you."
"I know."
"I love you more than anything in the world, Donnatella."
My breath catches in my throat, but I speak. "I know."
"I'm going to let you get some sleep now," he says, and I can hear the deep disappointment in his voice.
"Thank you, dear," I respond.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow night."
If only he knew! "Of course. See you, love."
"See you, love." I hang up. I'm half ecstatic and half depressed, but I know everything will change tomorrow night.
~~~
It's March 7th, my evening to lecture at Tufts University. I can already tell it's not going to be one of my best speeches, because I'm worried about Donna. There's something she's not telling me, and I can't imagine that it's anything good.
I stand behind the curtain in the auditorium as students and faculty members file in. All I can think about it Donna, and about how torturous it will be to spend months and months like this, worrying about her if she so much as sounds hoarse on the phone. What if she gets really sick? What then?
I step up to the podium amidst moderate applause and begin my lecture. I discuss my time in Congress and in the White House. I talk about policy. I talk a little about Rosslyn (a topic Donna suggested, saying that it would make the shooting seem less taboo to discuss and make everyone more comfortable). I talk about Donna for a little longer than I mean to. I detour around to Jed Bartlet, and end with an invitation for questions.
The questions are typical. "What was the best part of working in the White House?" "What are some of your hot-button issues?" "Has your view on gun control changed since the shooting?"
I answer them automatically. All I want to do is get back to the hotel and call my wife. When the audience members run out of questions, a coordinator gets on the stage, thanks me, and dismisses everyone. I pick up my backpack from behind the podium and start to pack up my notes. Before leaving, I sling my backpack over my shoulders and glance up at the theater, expecting to see a sea of empty seats.
One person remains in the audience.
"Well, hello there, handsome," she calls. "So glad you finally noticed me."
My heart thumps painfully. "Donna . . . ?" My voice is barely above a whisper, but the microphone on the lectern amplifies it so that the whole room is filled with my question.
She's grinning so widely that I think her face will shatter into ten thousand alabaster pieces.
I jump off the stage at the same time that she springs from her seat. Running, we meet halfway between the stage and her seat. I throw my arms around her and hold her as tightly as I can.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper in her ear.
"I have news for you," she says. I hear happiness in her voice. "Very, very good news."
"Come on, Donna, let's go back to the hotel," I implore her.
"All right," she agrees, and she takes my hand and walks towards the exit. I follow behind her, revelling in the feel of her fingers against mine.
"Did you drive over?" I ask tentatively, still hardly believing that she's walking in front of me.
"I took a taxi from the airport," she explains.
"Oh." I can't think of anything else to say. I'm filled with thoughts and impulses that make it difficult to speak.
We walk quietly through the parking lot in the dark. When we reach my rental car, I let go of her hand reluctantly so I can get in the car. She climbs in the passenger seat and immediately settles her head on my shoulder with a small, contented sigh.
As I drive towards the hotel, Donna starts kissing my neck. I shiver, but I manage to stay focused on the road ahead. Then she slides her hand under my shirt.
"Donna --" I protest, but apparently not forcefully enough, because she starts kissing my face, which is covered with day-old stubble. I keep silent until I feel her tongue flicking against my skin.
Thank God there's a shoulder on this road. I pull over quickly and turn to face her. Her face is the picture of startlement, and I think I would be laughing if it weren't for the fact that I want her so badly it hurts.
"Donnatella. I cannot drive when I'm thinking about having sex with you every second instead of every six seconds like I usually am."
Her expression morphs quickly from puzzled to delighted, then to mock-contrite. "Sorry, Joshua. I didn't know I was so distracting."
"Yes, you did," I mutter as I pull back into traffic. The rest of the ride is mercifully incident-free.
At the hotel, we stride over to the elevator, and I punch the UP button no less than four times. Come on, come on, come on. When the doors finally slide open, I grab Donna by the wrist and pull her in. As soon as the doors are closed, we start making out like two lovestruck teenagers. All too soon, the doors open again, and we are on my floor.
I practically drag Donna to the door and stuff the keycard in her hand. "You do it," I say, slightly out of breath. "The thingy. With the swish and the -- you know!"
She starts laughing hysterically, but I notice that she is flushed and slightly sweaty. "You want me to unlock the door?"
"Donna!"
She just laughs as she swipes the card. It opens on the first try. (It took me ten full minutes this morning.) Donna hussles inside and pulls me in after her.
I start to kiss her again, but she pulls away. "No . . . we have to -- have to talk. First. Talk first," she protests.
"Can't we talk later?" I whine, lunging towards her neck.
She sticks one hand out like she's slamming the brakes of an invisible car and smacks me in the forehead. "Quit it, buster."
Rubbing my forehead peevishly, I look up at her. "Was that necessary?"
"Apparently, you overgrown teenager." She narrows her eyes at me. "Don't you care why I came up here?"
"Yes! I do. Really. A lot. I just . . . haven't seen you . . . in a while."
"And Little Josh is lonely?" she asks coaxingly.
"Yes," I say before I can stop myself. She glares. "I mean, well, yes, but your news is more important than my physical needs." She continues to glare. "Much more important. In fact, I'm just going to sit down here on the couch without even getting a glass of water. I'm thirsty, but I'm not going to get a drink, because your news is more important. Much more important." I sit down and look up at her pleadingly.
She finally cracks a smile and sits down beside me. "All right, hotshot. I have some great news for us."
"Us?"
"Yes, us." Now she's grinning. "You got a job offer last night."
I feel my eyes widening. "From?"
"Brandeis University. They want you to be a political science professor. And get this: I can graduate from there for free if you take the job."
Thoughts flash through my brain almost quicker than I can think them. Move out of D.C.? Leave everything? Start a new career. Won't have to worry about money. Be back in New England, back near my birthplace, back near Jed Bartlet. Settle down with Donna for good. Live in a house, with room for children. Maybe three, although it'll be up to Donna in the end.
"Josh?"
I used to love the political arena, but I'm getting too old to work for a new candidate every four or six years. The hectic pace is murder on my nerves. I'm growing older every second, and I can't keep doing what I've been doing. A change would be wonderful.
"Josh!"
I'll train the next generation of deputy chiefs of staff. I'm OK with passing on the torch now. I don't need to win anything else to prove myself. I won Donna, and that's enough for me.
I turn to Donna, who's looking at me with a mixture of anxiety and expectation. "Well?" she whispers.
Maybe I'll teach the next Jed Bartlet.
"It's perfect," I reply, and kiss her, although not before I see relief and joy light her face.
She pulls away again. I groan. "So we're moving to Waltham, Massachusetts?" Why she insists on double-checking at a moment like this is absolutely beyond me.
"I guess so."
"And you're going to teach."
"Looks like it."
She peers at me. "Josh, is anything wrong?"
I grit my teeth to keep from sounding too desperate. "The car -- what you did in the car."
She grins again, but there is a slightly malicious quality to her expression. "You mean this?" she inquires innocently, and runs her fingers under my shirt, tracing my scar with her fingers. It was she who turned my scar from a painful memory to a sexual reference point. No one else could have.
"Donna --"
"Or did you mean this?" She teases my face with her lips, and I'm helpless.
"Donna, bedroom. Bedroom," I manage to gasp.
"Later," she replies. "This couch looks plenty comfortable to me."
I'm not about to argue with my wife. I interpret her response in much the same way as an Olympic runner interprets a starting gun. I'm off and running in no time.
~~~
I wake up inexplicably happy. For a moment, I try to remember if my classes went well, or if Josh's phone call was better than usual . . . .
Suddenly, I'm smacked in the belly by a long, hairy arm. "The keycard's not working," Josh mumbles in his sleep.
I feel my face split in an enormous grin. For some reason, I love listening to Josh talk in his sleep.
"I don't have a secret plan to fight inflation," he grumbles. He's clearly irritated, and it's all I can do not to burst into laughter.
Then his voice softens. "I miss my bella Donnatella." He sounds unspeakably sad, and it's at this point that I feel I have to wake him up.
So I carefully roll on top of him, settle my head against his chest, and wait for him to wake up. Sure enough, I feel him start to stir within a minute. He pushes himself up to a semi-seated position. I can't see his face, but I hear a yawn gather in his chest. Then I hear a gasp.
"Donna! You're naked!" Josh cries sleepily.
I roll back off of him again and stare him in the face. "And?"
He looks at me, his eyes bleary and his expression confused. I realize that this is the best night of sleep he has had since he started on this road trip, and his body is struggling to adjust to the sudden change in body chemistry. Suddenly, relief sweeps away the clouds of bemusement. "That's right! We got married!" And with that, he rolls over so that he's on his side and facing me, throws one arm around me, and promptly falls asleep again.
I sigh and close my eyes. It would be nice to sleep in, in fact. And the bed's so warm . . . .
My last conscious thought is: And so our marriage begins . . . again.
"An affair of the heart survives
All the pain this world can do.
I'm so tired of all we're going through;
I don't want to live like that.
I'm so tired of all we're going through;
I don't want to love like that.
I just want to be with you,
Now and forever, peaceful, true."
-- "Elaborate Lives (Reprise)," Elton John and Tim Rice's Aida
Author: Marissa
Rating: R-ish, I suppose . . . definitely suggestive
Genre: Romance
Summary: "I never imagined a marriage spent missing Donna. I will keep missing Donna, though, because my missing Donna means that she can achieve what she has always wanted to achieve . . . . Ten thousand dollars a semester is nothing next to her sense of self-worth."
Disclaimer: Possession is 9/10 of the law, but I'm almost sure that last 1/10 will kick my ass if I try to claim Josh and Donna.
Archive: Just send me a quick note first, please.
Feedback: Second only to chocolate.
Author's Note #1: You all thought I was gone, didn't you? Well, the GCCAs set me back on track. Take that, Writer's Block!
Author's Note #2: Dedicated to my cousin and his wife, who are unfortunately in the same long-distance predicament that plagues Josh and Donna.
Author's Note #3: OK, OK. I admit it. I gave Josh a job where I'll be in two weeks. Do you blame me?
Author's Note #4: Ten to the fourth power is ten thousand. See how quickly exponents rachet up numbers?
I grab the phone on the first ring. It's nine o'clock; I know who it is. "Josh."
"Donna."
There is a moment of silence. There are a thousand things I want to tell him, but all my communications boil down to one thing: I miss him.
"I gave a speech at Brandeis today," Josh offers.
I want to say, "I know, honey. I know it's March 5th, and I have your touring schedule memorized." I don't. "How did it go?" I ask instead.
"Great." I can hear him grinning. "They were a very receptive audience."
"Let me guess: they gave you a standing ovation." I'm grinning now. Josh loves good applause more than almost anything.
"It's a very liberal school, Donna. They appreciate what Jed Bartlet did for the country."
"I'm sure you were thrilled, honey."
"Not as thrilled as I would have been if you'd been there to see it," he responds.
"Oh, Josh, don't do this."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sighs.
I am quiet for a moment. Then I say, "I got an 'A' on my paper for Politics of Interest Groups."
"The one about gun control?"
"Yeah."
"Great! Maybe I'll cite it in my next speech. You want to fax it over to the hotel?"
This is his way of taking pride in my work without treating me like a child. "Sure, I'll do that."
Another blanket of silence falls. I can almost feel my husband's frustration coursing through the telephone line. I can feel him struggling with the words he wants to say. The words win. "I miss sleeping next to you."
"Josh . . . ."
"I miss your stealing the remote from me. I miss the weird food you buy. I miss your body."
I give in. Just this once. "I miss you, too," I whisper. "I'm lonely without you. I want to touch you again."
Josh can't stand to hear me sounding sad for long. "You're touching me right now, if you know what I mean."
That drags me out of my bad mood, of course. "Joshua! I'd like to know what some of those Brandeis students would think of you if they heard you insinuating such things!"
"Oh, I almost forgot. You know what one of them asked in the Q and A session?"
"What?"
"'You're the one who married his assistant, right? She is so hot.'"
"You're kidding me!"
"No." He's grinning again, I can tell.
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'Thanks. I think so, too.'"
"Joshua!"
"Yes?"
"I think I'd better go," I sigh.
"Do you have to?" he whines.
"If I want to finish my reading assignment for Public Opinion, then yes."
"My opinion is that you should keep talking to me."
"I don't recall your being designated the American public."
"You were asleep at the time."
"See you, love," I murmur.
"See you, love," he says quietly.
I gently replace the phone in its cradle. I want to cry, but I have too much work to do to take a step down the dangerous road to self-pity.
He can't help that he has to be away. The tuition at Georgetown is somewhere on the order of $10,000 a semester, and the only way we could think of raising that kind of money without going deeply into debt was to have Josh accept the offer of a speaking tour. A man fresh out of a Presidential adminstration is a valuable speaker, and Josh is paid well for his efforts.
I signed up for classes in the spring semester back in January, and classes started only a few weeks after the wedding. I decided I wanted a degree in political science, and I knew Georgetown would give me an excellent chance to sneak a peek at the legislative branch. It took ages to get the University of Wisconsin to release my academic records, but in the end Georgetown's Office of Admissions informed me that if I took a full courseload for six consecutive semesters, I could earn a combined bachelor's and master's in American Government.
Thus the next two years of my life were blocked out with the words "GET AN EDUCATION." Josh is remarkably good natured about my scheme, even though it ensures that I will have little time for him until my graduation in December of 2004, and it necessitated his taking a job that forces him to travel for months on end.
I feel almost cheated. Working as Josh's assistant forced me to see him for about sixteen hours a day, and at the time I resented it. Now I'd give anything to see him that often.
His -- no, our -- apartment seems empty without him. I sleep in a bed made for two, eat at a table that should be set for two, and sit in a loveseat that holds two.
God, I miss him.
~~~
I hear the click that lets me know that she has hung up, but I just grip the phone tighter. Come back, Donna. Come back.
After a minute, I hang up reluctantly. It's not fair. I twist my wedding ring around on my finger contemplatively. I imagined marriage to Donna in such a different light. I imagined her seeing me off to work as she readied herself for school. I imagined coming home and trying to cook when she had a late class. I imagined arguing over topics she was studying. I imagined settling down next to her every night as she highlighted a thick textbook.
I never imagined months' worth of nightly phone calls. I never imagined climbing into hotel beds built for two and opening up the Bible in the nightstand for comfort. I never imagined waking up every morning cold, yearning for body heat. I never imagined a marriage spent missing Donna.
I will keep missing Donna, though, because my missing Donna means that she can achieve what she has always wanted to achieve. I won't deny her what was handed to me twenty years ago. I was lucky to have two parents who could afford to pay for my first-class education. She, on the other hand, ran into Dr. Freeride, and was cheated out of her future.
I'm not about to let that happen again. Ten thousand dollars a semester is nothing next to her sense of self-worth.
Before turning in for the night, I go down to the hotel lobby and ask if there are any messages for me. Sure enough, Donna has already faxed over her paper. I read the title: "The Dangerous Lies Propagated by the National Rifle Association." I smile. If I weren't so much in love with her already, that title alone would be enough to ensnare me all over again. I head back up to my empty room to try to get some sleep.
~~~
The following night, I'm reading my Constitutional Law textbook when the phone rings. I glance at the clock: 7:30. It's too early to be Josh.
"Hello?"
"Hello. May I speak to Joshua Lyman, please?" The voice on the other end is pleasant and female.
"I'm sorry, but he's away on business."
"Is this his wife?"
"Yes it is."
"Mrs. Lyman --"
"It's Moss-Lyman," I correct automatically.
"Of course, I apologize, Mrs. Moss-Lyman. My name is Peggy Morgenstern. I'm head of Human Resources at Brandeis University. I'm sure you know your husband was incredibly well-received here yesterday."
"Yes . . . ."
"Well, I wanted to let him know that we're interested in hiring him."
There is a pause. "Excuse me?" This can't be real, I think. I can't believe this.
"The head of the Political Science department expressed an interest in conducting an interview with your husband. One of our professors recently announced her retirement, and we think that your husband may be just the right person for the job."
"Oh . . . " is my answer. I can't imagine that a professorship could possibly pay as well as a career as a touring speaker. And how could I, living hundreds of miles away, graduate from Georgetown? "I'll certainly speak to Josh about it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Moss-Lyman." She pauses. "I understand you're working towards your degree at Georgetown?"
"Yes, that's right."
"I was told to let you know that there would be no problem with your transferring credits from Georgetown to Brandeis and graduating free of charge."
It's as if fireworks have gone off inside my head. There it is: the answer to our problems. It's almost too perfect. We could settle down, see each other all the time, and achieve our own goals.
I have to tell Josh.
"That's wonderful," I say faintly. "If you'll excuse me, I have quite a number of things I have to do tonight. May I have your phone number so Josh can call you back?"
She gives me her home phone number, and it suddenly strikes me that this is a very serious job offer from a very eager employer. The thought makes me giddy.
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Moss-Lyman."
"You're welcome. Good night, Ms. Morgenstern," I say breathlessly.
Hanging up, I swiftly decide on a course of action. I get online and book a flight that leaves tomorrow afternoon for Boston. Then I call CJ's cell phone and let her know that I won't be able to meet her for breakfast on Saturday morning, since "something wonderful has come up." She doesn't ask questions, just hears my tone of voice and says she'll meet me the next Saturday. I agree and chat about what's going on in her life for a little while before hanging up.
Then the phone rings.
"Hello?" I say hurriedly when I pick up the phone. I still have to pack, I'm thinking. I still have to finish my homework!
"Guess who?" says the voice most familiar to me in the world.
"Sweetheart!" I burst out. Then I calm myself. He can't know -- not yet.
"What's going on?" I hear the grin on his face.
Composed. I must stay composed. And, unfortunately, I must lie. "Sorry, Josh, I was napping. I'm a little discombobulated."
"Napping at nine? Do you feel all right?" He's all concern and softness, and for a moment it's all I can do to keep lying.
"I don't know . . . I'm a little fatigued."
"Are you getting enough iron?" he asks as sternly as he can.
"Yes! Yes, I have Total for breakfast, and I take my multivitamin. It's not anemia, Josh, I promise." I've had a history of anemia that occurs in times of stress, so Josh is understandably worried. I have to make sure he doesn't worry too much. "The upstairs neighbors were making all kinds of noise last night, and I couldn't sleep very well. I feel a lot better now."
Josh sighs. "They're usually pretty good."
"I know."
"If they do it again, call the super."
"I know."
"I worry about you."
"I know."
"I love you more than anything in the world, Donnatella."
My breath catches in my throat, but I speak. "I know."
"I'm going to let you get some sleep now," he says, and I can hear the deep disappointment in his voice.
"Thank you, dear," I respond.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow night."
If only he knew! "Of course. See you, love."
"See you, love." I hang up. I'm half ecstatic and half depressed, but I know everything will change tomorrow night.
~~~
It's March 7th, my evening to lecture at Tufts University. I can already tell it's not going to be one of my best speeches, because I'm worried about Donna. There's something she's not telling me, and I can't imagine that it's anything good.
I stand behind the curtain in the auditorium as students and faculty members file in. All I can think about it Donna, and about how torturous it will be to spend months and months like this, worrying about her if she so much as sounds hoarse on the phone. What if she gets really sick? What then?
I step up to the podium amidst moderate applause and begin my lecture. I discuss my time in Congress and in the White House. I talk about policy. I talk a little about Rosslyn (a topic Donna suggested, saying that it would make the shooting seem less taboo to discuss and make everyone more comfortable). I talk about Donna for a little longer than I mean to. I detour around to Jed Bartlet, and end with an invitation for questions.
The questions are typical. "What was the best part of working in the White House?" "What are some of your hot-button issues?" "Has your view on gun control changed since the shooting?"
I answer them automatically. All I want to do is get back to the hotel and call my wife. When the audience members run out of questions, a coordinator gets on the stage, thanks me, and dismisses everyone. I pick up my backpack from behind the podium and start to pack up my notes. Before leaving, I sling my backpack over my shoulders and glance up at the theater, expecting to see a sea of empty seats.
One person remains in the audience.
"Well, hello there, handsome," she calls. "So glad you finally noticed me."
My heart thumps painfully. "Donna . . . ?" My voice is barely above a whisper, but the microphone on the lectern amplifies it so that the whole room is filled with my question.
She's grinning so widely that I think her face will shatter into ten thousand alabaster pieces.
I jump off the stage at the same time that she springs from her seat. Running, we meet halfway between the stage and her seat. I throw my arms around her and hold her as tightly as I can.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper in her ear.
"I have news for you," she says. I hear happiness in her voice. "Very, very good news."
"Come on, Donna, let's go back to the hotel," I implore her.
"All right," she agrees, and she takes my hand and walks towards the exit. I follow behind her, revelling in the feel of her fingers against mine.
"Did you drive over?" I ask tentatively, still hardly believing that she's walking in front of me.
"I took a taxi from the airport," she explains.
"Oh." I can't think of anything else to say. I'm filled with thoughts and impulses that make it difficult to speak.
We walk quietly through the parking lot in the dark. When we reach my rental car, I let go of her hand reluctantly so I can get in the car. She climbs in the passenger seat and immediately settles her head on my shoulder with a small, contented sigh.
As I drive towards the hotel, Donna starts kissing my neck. I shiver, but I manage to stay focused on the road ahead. Then she slides her hand under my shirt.
"Donna --" I protest, but apparently not forcefully enough, because she starts kissing my face, which is covered with day-old stubble. I keep silent until I feel her tongue flicking against my skin.
Thank God there's a shoulder on this road. I pull over quickly and turn to face her. Her face is the picture of startlement, and I think I would be laughing if it weren't for the fact that I want her so badly it hurts.
"Donnatella. I cannot drive when I'm thinking about having sex with you every second instead of every six seconds like I usually am."
Her expression morphs quickly from puzzled to delighted, then to mock-contrite. "Sorry, Joshua. I didn't know I was so distracting."
"Yes, you did," I mutter as I pull back into traffic. The rest of the ride is mercifully incident-free.
At the hotel, we stride over to the elevator, and I punch the UP button no less than four times. Come on, come on, come on. When the doors finally slide open, I grab Donna by the wrist and pull her in. As soon as the doors are closed, we start making out like two lovestruck teenagers. All too soon, the doors open again, and we are on my floor.
I practically drag Donna to the door and stuff the keycard in her hand. "You do it," I say, slightly out of breath. "The thingy. With the swish and the -- you know!"
She starts laughing hysterically, but I notice that she is flushed and slightly sweaty. "You want me to unlock the door?"
"Donna!"
She just laughs as she swipes the card. It opens on the first try. (It took me ten full minutes this morning.) Donna hussles inside and pulls me in after her.
I start to kiss her again, but she pulls away. "No . . . we have to -- have to talk. First. Talk first," she protests.
"Can't we talk later?" I whine, lunging towards her neck.
She sticks one hand out like she's slamming the brakes of an invisible car and smacks me in the forehead. "Quit it, buster."
Rubbing my forehead peevishly, I look up at her. "Was that necessary?"
"Apparently, you overgrown teenager." She narrows her eyes at me. "Don't you care why I came up here?"
"Yes! I do. Really. A lot. I just . . . haven't seen you . . . in a while."
"And Little Josh is lonely?" she asks coaxingly.
"Yes," I say before I can stop myself. She glares. "I mean, well, yes, but your news is more important than my physical needs." She continues to glare. "Much more important. In fact, I'm just going to sit down here on the couch without even getting a glass of water. I'm thirsty, but I'm not going to get a drink, because your news is more important. Much more important." I sit down and look up at her pleadingly.
She finally cracks a smile and sits down beside me. "All right, hotshot. I have some great news for us."
"Us?"
"Yes, us." Now she's grinning. "You got a job offer last night."
I feel my eyes widening. "From?"
"Brandeis University. They want you to be a political science professor. And get this: I can graduate from there for free if you take the job."
Thoughts flash through my brain almost quicker than I can think them. Move out of D.C.? Leave everything? Start a new career. Won't have to worry about money. Be back in New England, back near my birthplace, back near Jed Bartlet. Settle down with Donna for good. Live in a house, with room for children. Maybe three, although it'll be up to Donna in the end.
"Josh?"
I used to love the political arena, but I'm getting too old to work for a new candidate every four or six years. The hectic pace is murder on my nerves. I'm growing older every second, and I can't keep doing what I've been doing. A change would be wonderful.
"Josh!"
I'll train the next generation of deputy chiefs of staff. I'm OK with passing on the torch now. I don't need to win anything else to prove myself. I won Donna, and that's enough for me.
I turn to Donna, who's looking at me with a mixture of anxiety and expectation. "Well?" she whispers.
Maybe I'll teach the next Jed Bartlet.
"It's perfect," I reply, and kiss her, although not before I see relief and joy light her face.
She pulls away again. I groan. "So we're moving to Waltham, Massachusetts?" Why she insists on double-checking at a moment like this is absolutely beyond me.
"I guess so."
"And you're going to teach."
"Looks like it."
She peers at me. "Josh, is anything wrong?"
I grit my teeth to keep from sounding too desperate. "The car -- what you did in the car."
She grins again, but there is a slightly malicious quality to her expression. "You mean this?" she inquires innocently, and runs her fingers under my shirt, tracing my scar with her fingers. It was she who turned my scar from a painful memory to a sexual reference point. No one else could have.
"Donna --"
"Or did you mean this?" She teases my face with her lips, and I'm helpless.
"Donna, bedroom. Bedroom," I manage to gasp.
"Later," she replies. "This couch looks plenty comfortable to me."
I'm not about to argue with my wife. I interpret her response in much the same way as an Olympic runner interprets a starting gun. I'm off and running in no time.
~~~
I wake up inexplicably happy. For a moment, I try to remember if my classes went well, or if Josh's phone call was better than usual . . . .
Suddenly, I'm smacked in the belly by a long, hairy arm. "The keycard's not working," Josh mumbles in his sleep.
I feel my face split in an enormous grin. For some reason, I love listening to Josh talk in his sleep.
"I don't have a secret plan to fight inflation," he grumbles. He's clearly irritated, and it's all I can do not to burst into laughter.
Then his voice softens. "I miss my bella Donnatella." He sounds unspeakably sad, and it's at this point that I feel I have to wake him up.
So I carefully roll on top of him, settle my head against his chest, and wait for him to wake up. Sure enough, I feel him start to stir within a minute. He pushes himself up to a semi-seated position. I can't see his face, but I hear a yawn gather in his chest. Then I hear a gasp.
"Donna! You're naked!" Josh cries sleepily.
I roll back off of him again and stare him in the face. "And?"
He looks at me, his eyes bleary and his expression confused. I realize that this is the best night of sleep he has had since he started on this road trip, and his body is struggling to adjust to the sudden change in body chemistry. Suddenly, relief sweeps away the clouds of bemusement. "That's right! We got married!" And with that, he rolls over so that he's on his side and facing me, throws one arm around me, and promptly falls asleep again.
I sigh and close my eyes. It would be nice to sleep in, in fact. And the bed's so warm . . . .
My last conscious thought is: And so our marriage begins . . . again.
"An affair of the heart survives
All the pain this world can do.
I'm so tired of all we're going through;
I don't want to live like that.
I'm so tired of all we're going through;
I don't want to love like that.
I just want to be with you,
Now and forever, peaceful, true."
-- "Elaborate Lives (Reprise)," Elton John and Tim Rice's Aida