Chapter 9 Loosahatchie River Breakdown

"We'll be back in the office on Wednesday, Leo," Josh Lyman stared at the shadows the lamp cast on the beamed ceiling while talking to his mentor. "Satterfield can keep until then."

"How are you doing?"

"Ready to be of use to somebody rather than focusing on my delicate health," Josh said flatly. "I'm fine, Leo," he placated the Chief of Staff.

"Is that what your doctor would tell me?"

"Yeah, I'm cleared for half-days in the office when I get back. I've got a note and everything."

McGarry's brow furrowed. Josh's voice was tepid, devoid of emotion. "How's Donna?"

Same flat tone. "She'll be fine when we get back to our old routine."

"Joshua Lyman, you're not about to do something monumentally stupid are you?"

"Leo, it's Friday night, why aren't you taking Jordan out to dinner?"

"I am, if that's any of your business." Damn, McGarry thought, detachment and deflection.

"Well, somebody should have a life." He swallowed, hard, plea for help dying on the tip of his tongue. "Go, Leo. We'll see you Wednesday."

Leo McGarry stared at the phone set, dial tone humming in the earpiece, terror rising like bile in his throat until he could do only one thing. "Margaret," he yelled. "Get me the First Lady."

Donna shivered as the breeze wafted through the half-open window, bringing with it the sparkling sound of banjo, mandolin and guitar.

"If they start playing the theme from 'Deliverance' I'm leaving," Josh winced as he shifted in his seat across the room.

"It's kind of nice," Donna cocked her ear toward the open window. "Seems to fit the setting."

"You got that right." He leaned toward the window and smirked. "I don't hear anything about prison or a train . . ."

"That's country and western music, silly," she swatted him.

"Then what's this?"

"Bluegrass, I think."

"Doesn't sound like a recording . . ."

"I don't think it is." Donna peered out the window. "There're lights on in the cotton house."

"Looks like somebody sitting outside . . ."

She stared at him until he met her gaze. "Josh, do you want to go see?"

"No," he shook his head. "Well, not unless you want to."

She continued to stare at him. He feigned disinterest unsuccessfully. She grinned and waited as he pushed himself out of his chair. The night was crisp and the April sky diamond-studded as they slowly made their way to the glowing barn-like structure. In addition to the music from inside, groups of two and three- men, women and young people playing guitars, banjos, mandolins and upright basses-- were perched on timeworn chairs and antique farm equipment in the incandescent twilight that spilled from the open door. Their songs told of days gone by, of love eternal and of love squandered.

He walked beside her, the woman wearing his ring and carrying his heart, even now building the little walls between them a little higher. She noticed his distance and pulled him closer, wrapping both hands around his arm which hung stiffly by his side.

"Joshua Lyman, come on in here."

Josh squinted and recognized the face of Bascom Yager peeking from the door of the cotton house. With a sigh he tugged Donna along into the light.

"Evangeline tells me you're leaving us next week," Mary Yager patted Donna's arm. "I know you'll be glad to get home."

"We'll sure miss you two," Mary Brunswick added, her husband nodding in agreement.

"We'll miss you, too," Donna replied, elbowing Josh.

"Yeah," he gasped, "it's been a . . . real change from the pace of Washington."

Donna rolled her eyes and the two older couples laughed at Lyman's discomfort. "He's a politician, alright," Winston Brunswick chuckled.

"Do you like bluegrass music?" Donna asked, leaning closer to the couples to be heard over the instruments.

"I prefer the blues, myself," Bascom Yager explained, "but our grandson plays the mandolin in the next band."

Applause and the appearance of the next band stopped their conversation. After listening a few minutes, Josh slipped out the back door, moving quietly to the outside edge of the bluish circle of illumination cast by a mercury vapor light.

"Not your cup of tea?" Evangeline Taylor nodded toward the source of the music.

"Just restless." Josh shrugged. "I'm not used to sitting much."

"So, you'll be glad to get back to normal . . ."

"Whatever that is . . ."

"It's not the same as it was, Josh," Taylor leaned back against a fence.

"And it never will be." He glared. "Leo called you."

"Actually," the doctor explained, "he called Abby, who called me."

"I feel loved," Josh said, caustically.

"You should," Evangeline admonished.

"I know." Josh studied the grass as he scuffed it with his toe. "They deserve more," he said quietly. "More than I can give them. Especially Donna." He set his jaw, as if his mind were made up about something. "Tell her I went back to the carriage house, please?"

He felt the bed dip when she joined him but affected sleep, ashamed that he'd not sent her to the other bedroom yet. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he whispered as sleep overtook him.

He awoke to a faceful of sunlit, flaxen hair. Her smooth, slim leg was thrown across his and her hand covered his heart. How could he throw this away? He shifted, his chest twinged and he remembered. How could he tie her down to him?

He slipped out from beneath her, managing not to disturb her slumber, dressed and set out on his morning walk. The sun was bright and the breeze had already dried the morning dew. He encountered Evangeline Taylor as she walked from the garage to the house, her face drawn, her eyes reddened, medical bag dangling listlessly from her left arm.

"You're out early," Josh paused.

She just nodded, almost passed him, but turned to respond, "Mr. Bascom died this morning. Miss Mary called me over to see to him."

"How old was he?" Josh asked quietly.

"Ninety-five," the doctor answered. "He just ate his breakfast and went out to the porch swing to enjoy the morning."

They stood for several moments, the coo of the mourning dove breaking the silence.

"They'll bring him back to the house tomorrow afternoon so the family can sit with him and the funeral will be Monday," she advised. "Sorry to end your visit like this."

"No," Josh waved off her apology. "You've been . . . He was something special."

Evangeline nodded, footfall heavy as she disappeared into the house.

Josh stared across the field to the cemetery behind the church, his usual walking path, before returning to the carriage house. Donna's eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily when he sat gently on his side of the bed. "Good morning," she murmured.

"'Morning," he said softly. "I have something to tell you."

The hair on the back of Josh Lyman's neck bristled as he stood, back to a corner, in the midst of the large group crowding the antebellum farmhouse. "I didn't know Methodists sat Shiva," he whispered to Donna.

"It's called 'sitting up with the dead,' Joshua," she explained with exaggerated patience, her eyes puffy and red. "And, come to think of it, it's a lot like sitting Shiva."

"Well, except that the guest of honor is here. And the mourners are allowed to bathe, shave and wear leather shoes." He folded down a finger with each point.

"Okay," she conceded, "the only thing sitting with the dead has in common with sitting Shiva is the sitting part."

"Well, there's the recollections." Josh stood before the open casket in the parlor, recalling when his father had died, he'd been in shock, finding it difficult to share the memories he'd secreted away in his heart. But the Yagers seemed to have no difficulty sharing their precious remembrances. Never straying more than a few feet from the bier, even Miss Mary could be caught smiling at some of Mr. Bascom's more outrageous adventures. He'd lived every day of his ninety-five years, it seemed, with joy and relish. And then he died.

Just like me, Josh mused, except I'd be leaving Donna with kids, a mortgage, car payments, tuition. How could I do that to her? The answer was obvious: if I love her, I can't. With a parting word to Mrs. Yager, he walked out into the moonlit night, Donna at his heels.

"Josh?" she called, but he maintained his pace down the road toward the carriage house. He could hear her practically running, heels popping on the pavement. "Josh?" She caught up and walked beside him for a while, serenaded by tree frogs and crickets.

He continued at his brisk pace for a time, but had to slow to a stroll as his breathing became somewhat labored. The moon lit their faces in blue, but failed to disguise the determination in his expression.

Donna studied his countenance, even as they paused in the entryway of the carriage house. "It's not going to happen is it?" she worried with the ring on her finger. "You're never going to let me in, are you?"

"Donna, it's not fair to you . . ." he spread his hands, palms up.

"No, Josh," she removed the ring from her hand, curling his fingers around it before pausing in the half-open door to her separate bedroom. "It's not fair to either of us."