Immediately following
Will and Josh caught up with Zoey in the anteroom to the Oval Office. Her face
was chalk-white and her hands trembled even though Charlie clasped them firmly
between his, talking softly to her as she bounced up and down on the balls of
her feet.
"Zoey," Will said gently, not knowing if he should touch her or not. "Josh just
told me. I'm so sorry."
"It's not fair, it's not right," Zoey sobbed, burying her face in Charlie's
lapel. Her words were rapid and muffled. "She was going to come up and look into
Georgetown for next year. I was going to introduce her to some of the really
good professors I had there, we were going to talk about scholarships..."
"I know, I know," Charlie murmured, wrapping his arms around her and rocking
slowly from side to side with her. He looked utterly miserable as he turned to
face Will and Josh. "He's in with Ron Butterfield. They're talking about
security for the funeral."
"When is it?" Will asked.
"Friday. I think they're coming out." Just as he spoke, the door to the Oval
opened and Ron beckoned them in. Charlie kept hold of Zoey's hand as they walked
in first, the others right behind them.
"Daddy," Zoey whispered.
"I'm sorry, baby," he replied, his expression haggard. He opened his arms to her
and she ran into them, pressing her face against his jacket. "She was a
remarkable young lady - I could tell, just from that one day, even if you hadn't
become friends."
"I want to go," she said as firmly as anyone could who was crying that hard.
"It's less than an hour from here, and I'll take all the agents you want, only
please, please--"
"It won't work, Zoey," Ron said, the words softened by his accent. "There's
absolutely no way to do security in a church that's set up the way hers is, much
less at an open cemetery. We can't possibly protect you, not without disrupting
the service and burial."
"No!" Zoey wailed, her tears beginning afresh. "I have to go!"
"Honey," Bartlet whispered into her hair. "Think about her parents. Her brother.
Her friends. Shouldn't they be able to say goodbye to Rochelle in privacy, in
their own way?"
Will listened as the hiccuping sobs slowed, then Zoey nodded. She didn't say
anything else, but she clung to her father. Bartlet rubbed her back in slow
circles with one hand and kept the other at the crown of her head. "Josh? Will?
Are you here for--"
"We're here for this," Josh said. He sounded as if he were inhaling as he spoke,
his breath was so short. "She was in my office when it came. I went and got
Will."
"Thank you." Bartlet kissed Zoey's forehead as she began to breathe normally.
"Zoey, why don't you go to the Residence and have someone bring you some tea and
a cold washcloth? I'll be there in a little while."
She nodded silently again, then let her agents escort her out through the patio
doors. Bartlet let out a heavy sigh. "I can't even begin to contemplate the
irony. You should've seen this girl, Josh. She was amazing."
"I'm sure she was," Josh replied softly.
"I'd like CJ to get some details and put this in tomorrow morning's briefing.
It's not just local news, it's a microcosm of a larger problem that's swallowing
countless young lives. Get with Toby, find some stuff, and get her something for
tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Josh patted Charlie on the arm as he left the office.
Will remained standing where he was. "Mr. President?"
"Will?"
"I was wondering - since you were present at the SADD event and Zoey had struck
up a friendship with Rochelle, do you think someone should be there representing
the White House? Someone without face or name recognition?"
"Someone like you?"
"Well, yes." Will waited to be voted down, but Bartlet and Ron both nodded in
agreement.
"I'd like to have one of our guys drive him down and stay close, just to be
safe, but he could fly in under the radar in ways that Zoey could not," Ron said
as he made some notes.
"I just wish," Bartlet said sadly, "that we could do more. Something
legislative, something to help stop this senseless loss of life. Get Congress
off its fat ass and make it put its money where its mouth is when they talk
about the welfare of our nation's youth."
"I'll be thinking about that, sir," Will replied. "Pardon me for asking, Mr.
President, but is Zoey going to be--"
"She'll be fine."
The words didn't convince either one of them.
***
Four days later - Friday
In the course of his life, Will had attended far too many funerals. Statesmen
and paupers, generals and unknown soldiers. Valiant heroes and victims of
genocide. His mother, buried in Lausanne when he was just a little boy.
He'd never seen anything like this.
There were only a few cars parked at the church. At first, Will was saddened,
thinking that the service would be sparsely attended, but then two teenaged boys
leaned out of one of the cars and flagged down Will's driver. "This isn't big
enough - they're letting us use the Episcopal church down the street. We'll lead
you." Will recognized the other boy as the one who had played the policeman.
Irony, irony.
Every space in the church parking lot was taken. People in neighboring houses
stood on their porches, waving at drivers and saying they could fit one more,
two more, in their driveways.
"Looks like parking is at a premium, Mr. Bailey," said the driver. "I'll drop
you and Agent McGahey here and come back in an hour. If you're not done, I'll
circle."
"That's fine. Thank you." Will tucked his note pad and pencil into his breast
pocket, sighing.
McGahey, a lantern-jawed, white-haired man, got out and opened the door for
Will. "You're speaking?"
"The family was honored when Debbie called to say that someone from the White
House would be attending," Will said, trying to unclench his jaw. "Then she
found out that the family asked for donations to SADD in lieu of flowers. That's
when she offered to have me make a few remarks."
McGahey whistled through his teeth. "She'll pay for that, right?"
"Oh, you bet," Will snapped, thinking with rueful glee about the next poker
night.
They had trouble making their way through the huge crowd. All along the tables
in the narthex were Rochelle's beloved possessions - a guitar, a photo album, a
copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." Will fingered the cover and
smiled.
In the sanctuary someone had rigged up a PowerPoint presentation of family
photos and all of Rochelle's school pictures, from first grade to the senior
photo she had never seen. Hundreds of teenagers clung to one another, mostly
crying, some holding hands and talking softly. In the front row were Rochelle's
parents and two young boys, and two elderly couples. "All four of her
grandparents outlived her," Will sighed.
"That's just not right," McGahey said. He crossed himself as they walked past
the plain blue coffin. The lid was closed, thank God, and Will breathed a sigh
of relief. He'd seen too many dead bodies, too.
After everyone had found a seat or a space along a wall, the minister took his
place on the altar. He was a slight man, a little stooped, and his hands gripped
the lectern as if he might fall down without its support. Without introduction,
he began to read words Will had heard before - the letters Rochelle's parents
had written at her "death." On his right, a young woman about Zoey's age began
to sob. Reflexively, Will put his arm around her shoulders and let her cry on
his shoulder. On his left, he saw McGahey dab at his eyes with a handkerchief.
When the minister finished, a small choir of teenagers began to sing "It is Well
With My Soul." To Will's dismay, a man lifted the lid of the coffin just as the
minister beckoned him to come up to the altar.
His mouth dry, his heart pounding, Will stood up with difficulty. He was
grateful for McGahey's silent presence just behind him on the walk that felt as
if it lasted for ten minutes. He forced himself to look at the family, not at
the coffin, not at the coffin, not at the dead girl lying in the coffin. His
fingers, icy and stiff, couldn't hold on to his notes and they fluttered to the
floor. Will bent to pick them up, and as he rose, he saw the unbearable.
The funeral home may well have done its best, but Rochelle's face was not one of
repose. Her skin had a green undertone and was the texture of granite, and her
eyes and lips were too tightly closed. The hands folded over her chest were the
hands of an old woman, not a girl who had just turned seventeen.
Will fought down bile, fought back tears. McGahey took a step forward but Will
waved him off. He straightened up, put his notes in order, and began to speak.
Oh, how he began to speak. From the depths of his heart, with a passion few had
ever seen in him, he began to speak.
"Never again."
***
Later that night
If Donna didn't stop moving his stuff around and organizing it into little
piles, Josh was going to kill her. He put his elbows on a stack of loose papers
and craned his neck until their gazes met. "What are you doing?"
"Making order from chaos," Donna replied. "Move."
"I'm using those."
"They're unrelated to the ones you have in your hands, so move."
Grumbling under his breath, Josh jerked his arms away and let Donna slide the
stack from under him. "Some day I'm going to get a real assistant."
Donna rested all her weight on one foot and put her hands on her hips. "What am
I, a hologram?"
"You're a gremlin. A little creature who invades my office and puts things where
I can't find them." He waved a hand at the bookcase. "Look. How am I supposed to
find anything?"
"You'll find anything you need in the binder with that letter name on it. It's
called organization, Josh. Even better - you could learn how to look in the
documents folder on your computer."
He grimaced. That hurt - even the President knew how to work his computer. Josh
had once had to ask for help from the fifteen-year-old daughter of a visiting
ambassador. "I'm a man who loves paper and ink, Donna. I'm a man who appreciates
the beauty of an actual document, the warmth of a report fresh from the copier."
Donna wasn't buying any of it. In fact, Josh was pretty sure she was struggling
not to laugh at him. "You need to learn to use a computer, Josh. Toby's kids
will have it figured out before you do."
"I could bypass this whole computer thing - and I'm still not convinced it isn't
a phase," he added, and then Donna really had to work at keeping her laughter at
bay, he noticed. "I could bypass this whole computer thing if I just had one
thing."
"What's that?" Donna asked, her mouth pursed.
Josh leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. "A real
assistant. One who keeps my stuff nice and neat, but not too neat, and knows the
difference. And brings me coffee. I want one of those assistants, Donna."
"I wanted a pony, but that's not gonna happen, either." She had somehow managed
to alphabetize and file several dozen papers during the course of their banter.
Josh had never understand how she did that. "Zoey's 'passed by' a couple times.
Do you have a few minutes?"
His good humor dissipated as if from a blow to the gut. "How's she looking?"
Donna's smile was gone now, as well. "The way you'd expect. Devastated.
Confused."
He honestly had no idea what he would say to her, or even if talking to him
might make it worse. Raking his hands through his hair, he looked at Donna.
"What do you think?"
She had that look on her face, that forthright, truth-to-power look. "I think,"
she said, leaning over and patting his hair back into place, "that if I were
Zoey, you're the only person I'd want to talk to. So - be a mensch."
If she had given him the Congressional Medal of Honor, if she'd made Leo the
Vice-President with a wave of her hand, if she'd caught the bullet from Rosslyn
between her teeth and spat it back out, he couldn't have been more grateful. He
demonstrated it the only way he knew.
By laughing.
"Then she's worse off than I thought. Send her in," he said, enjoying the
sparkle in Donna's eyes as she made an exaggerated pout. He made a stack of his
last remaining papers and sat up straighter in his chair, hoping to look...he
didn't know. Taller. More in control.
Not a total nutcase.
"Here she is," Donna said as she ushered Zoey into the office. She looked awful,
as if she hadn't slept in days. For all Josh knew, she hadn't. He could imagine
all too well what monsters lurked at the edges of her dreams.
Zoey bit her lip and looked around. "Your office is a disaster area," she said.
He snorted. "You should've seen it before Donna organized my stuff."
"Josh," Zoey blurted, "can we go somewhere else? Somewhere that's not so dark
and crowded and...dark?"
"Of course." He got to his feet as he spoke. Opening the door, he cocked his
head at one of the agents. "We're going to the Mess," he said. To stall long
enough to give the agents time to clear the room, he stood next to Donna's desk.
It looked like something from a catalogue. Where the hell did she put
everything?
She smiled up at him. "What's up?"
The crap she put up with from him. Good God. A woman with less backbone would've
told him to stuff the West Wing in a very personal place, but she was always
there. She didn't always do the right thing, but, dammit, she tried, and Josh
could respect that.
He just didn't know how to express it. Mockery worked sometimes, and sometimes
there was banter with an undertone that made him wonder if there was a spark
that might someday ignite, or someday die out. Someday he might well try an
extravagant gesture and see where that took him. Tonight, though, he was going
to have to improvise. "I don't have anything but a couple of small meetings
tomorrow. Why don't you take the weekend off?"
That made both women laugh aloud. "C'mon, Josh, she's not gonna bite down on
that one," Zoey taunted.
Donna was watching him, the wariness in her eyes turning to something softer.
"You mean it?"
"Yeah. Absolutely. I'm not doing anything official tonight - just going to the
Mess and, you know, talking. Go home. Do whatever girly things you do."
"Wouldn't you like to know what things those might be?" Zoey whispered in his
ear. He swatted her away.
"You're like a gnat or something. C'mon, let's feed you. Donna, be gone when I
get back or I might invent something for you to do." Before Donna had a chance
for a rejoinder, Josh put his hand at the small of Zoey's back and pushed her
gently toward the stairs. Two agents were on either side of them, one was in the
front, and one brought up the rear. There was no way he was starting this
conversation now, with all these people around. Zoey seemed to feel the urgency
as well; she picked up the pace, almost running.
The agents who had gone ahead had, indeed, cleared the Mess. Josh got a pot of
coffee and two cups while Zoey slid into a booth, her back against the wall. He
could feel her watching him as he took care of spoons and sugar and napkins to
wipe up the splashes he made when he poured.
No way out now, he told himself. We're going to have The Talk. It would have
been easier to start if Zoey hadn't been looking at him as if he had some sort
of ultimate answer written on his forehead, but he was going to give it his best
shot.
Another try at pouring coffee produced the same result - a saucer with as much
coffee as the cup. Josh dunked a paper napkin into the mess and took a deep
breath. "My hands still shake sometimes," he said as he took the opposite seat.
Zoey's eyes widened. "Mine shake all the time. Look." She held her hand out,
palm down, and it trembled until she put it down on the table. "And I sweat a
lot."
"That happens, too." Josh passed the creamer to her but she pushed it aside,
shaking her head. "What else?"
She pressed her lips together, bowing her head. "I wanted to ask you something.
If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, but I really want - I really need to
ask you this."
He steeled himself. "Okay," he said, inhaling the word.
"Do you ever feel it? The bullet. Do you ever feel it hit you?"
Donna in a seafoam dress. Yo-Yo Ma rules. Bach. Pain in his chest. Toby's eyes,
black with concern.
"Yes," he whispered. "What do you feel?"
"I can smell it, whatever they put over my mouth. And when I wear something with
long sleeves, it's like rope burning my wrists." Words were pouring out of her,
torrents of words, and he wasn't able to do anything to absorb the rushing tide.
"They wouldn't let me go to the bathroom. I wet myself, and it was horrible, and
I can't remember the last time that happened, not even when they shot at
Charlie, and I wanted my Dad so much, but I hated him, too, because if he were
teaching economics at Dartmouth this wouldn't have happened to me...but I wanted
him there, Josh, I wanted him to put his arms around me and take me away, when
all the time I was cursing him in my head. Then I was at the farm, and Mom was
ranting on and on about him, and part of me wanted to tear her heart out and
part of me...Jesus, Josh, I agreed with her!"
Josh grimaced, shaking his head to clear it of the mixture of music and sirens,
the sirens beginning to drown out the music as he began to see spots in front of
his eyes. "It's okay, Zoey. He'd understand. He'd probably say worse things
about himself than you could imagine." He reached for her hands, holding them
between his, running his thumbs along the ridges of her knuckles. "I'll let you
in on a secret - I've never told anyone about this. Not Donna, or Leo, or even
Sam. Just you."
Tears swam in her eyes and she squeezed his hands. "I won't tell anyone."
"I know," he whispered. "I wouldn't say it, otherwise." It had been such a weird
thing, so off-kilter, that he'd never put it into words before. He struggled to
give voice to the feeling. "For three months, I heard from everyone. Donna was
there every day, and most days Sam and Toby and CJ would come by for at least a
while. Leo - God, Leo was amazing. He did his job and my job and still brought
me corned beef sandwiches once a week. A couple of times, your mom came. But I
never heard a word from your father, Zoey, not once, not since I woke up after
surgery. Every time the phone rang, I thought it would be Mrs. Landingham,
saying he'd get into the Suburban and make a run for my apartment, but it never
happened." He toyed with his coffee, swirling the clumping cream around with a
plastic spoon. "I wanted him there. Part of me needed to see him, to remind
myself that what I'd gone through was worth it because of him. And the other
part of me wanted to kick the living crap out of him for telling the Service to
leave off the canopy."
He stopped, almost panting. Zoey was still crying, but Josh knew she was crying
for both of them, now, for the shared, secret pain. "I won't tell anyone," she
sobbed. "Oh, God, Josh, you understand, oh, thank God..."
Josh got out of his seat and knelt beside Zoey's chair, holding her tightly in
his arms. "He does love you, Zoey, you know that. He was crazy while you were
gone. That's why he invoked the 25th - he couldn't go on without you."
"I love my father so much," Zoey hiccuped. "I love Mom, too, and when I thought
I'd never see them again...I couldn't...I couldn't..."
"Ssh, ssh, it's okay." His palm was against the top of her head as she continued
to pour out her anguish. He was either screwing up beyond redemption or doing
something remarkable, he couldn't tell, but at least she had said it, had gotten
that poison out of her system. "People love us, Zoey. I understand it with you
more than I understand it with me, but it's true. Sometimes, when you don't
think there's anything left to hold on to, you just go with that."
"Does it work?" Zoey asked, pulling away enough so she could look into Josh's
eyes.
He smiled and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "I'm still
here, so it must work."
Her laugh was more like a sputter, but it meant the end of her tears. She dried
her eyes on the only napkin that hadn't been baptized by coffee, then suddenly
she dropped the napkin and sat up straight, forcing a smile. Josh turned around,
saw Bartlet standing there with his agents, and scrambled to his feet.
"Sit, sit, it's okay. Someone said Zoey was down here, so I came to see what was
going on, if maybe she was hoarding cheesecake or something."
"I'm with Josh," Zoey said.
"All the more reason to put extra people on your detail. May I join you?"
Bartlet waited for Zoey to scoot over, then sat beside her, his arm resting on
the back of the booth. "What were you guys talking about?"
"The deficit?" Josh tried. Zoey giggled and put her head on her father's
shoulder.
"You crack me up, Josh."
"I serve at the pleasure of the President."
Bartlet's expression changed. He nodded gravely at Josh. "You do, indeed," he
said softly. He let a little smile curve his lips as Zoey's hand relaxed. "She's
asleep. It's about time she got some rest."
"Good. This thing with the girl - it really rattled her. I think she realizes
that it could easily have been..." He sighed. "This was probably stupid."
"Hardly," Bartlet said firmly. "She needed to talk to a friend, not a shrink. I
know this had to be excruciating for you, but I guarantee you that it's going to
help. I wish I could..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Moses was so
impressed with Hoshea's courage that he changed his name to Joshua - from
'salvation' to 'God is salvation.' A gift from God. I gotta tell you, Josh, that
sometimes it's hard to think of you as a gift from God."
Josh had been more uncomfortable with the praise than he had been with the
conversation he'd just had with Zoey, so he was grateful for the chance to crack
wise. "Like, during weeks with Thursdays in them."
"Exactly," Bartlet said, and Josh could see equal relief on the President's
face. Zoey stirred, and Bartlet put his hand on Josh's forearm, just as he had
done the night of the Illinois primary, and Josh wondered if the rush of memory
was as strong for him. "Tonight's an exception. Tonight, you are very much a
gift from God." He tilted his head and kissed his daughter on the cheek. "If
you're awake, I have something I'd like to read. It's what Will said at your
friend Rochelle's service this afternoon."
Suddenly embarrassed, Josh began to get up, but Bartlet pointed at the seat and
Josh stayed put. Zoey favored him with a shy smile as the President picked up
the folio he had brought with him. "It's about moving on in the face of tragedy,
about putting something of yourself on the line to make sure that no one else
has to suffer."
Zoey sat up straight and put out her hand. "I'd like to read it, Dad," she said.
"Aloud."
Without another word, Bartlet handed her the folio. Josh could smell the leather
mixed with Zoey's cologne as she opened it and began to read.
"Never again."
***
"Sounds like you had a bit of a day." Leo still held the folded paper in his
hands.
Will shrugged. "It's not every day someone hands you a cross at a funeral."
"May I see it?"
Will picked it up. It was about two feet high, white, with flowers drawn all
over it and the name Rochelle Marie Baker written across the horizontal bar The
dates below her name were 1986-2003. "It's called a 'descanso,''" Will said. "It
means 'rest.' "They're put at the location where the soul left the body."
Leo had heard of them, but didn't feel the need to say so. "How'd you end up
with it?"
"Her parents gave it to me, afterwards. They said I'd 'captured Rochelle's
soul,' and the next thing I knew, I had it in my hands."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I'm not sure." Will bowed his head over the cross, and Leo wasn't sure if he
was praying or trying to fight back tears. "I saw her face. They had an open
coffin. No one should look like that, Leo. Certainly not a child. And this is a
reminder." When he lifted his head, his expression was determined. "Do you think
I can I have it in the office?"
"I don't see why not. It's not a religious statement, is it?"
"Hardly."
"Then do what you see fit. Anyone has a problem, tell 'em to come see me." He
rose and stretched, feeling the old ache in his hip. "I'm calling it a night.
You should do the same."
Will's lips were pressed tightly together as he shook his head. He reached for
his glasses, placed them carefully on the bridge of his nose, and made a silent
gesture toward the mountain of papers on his desk.
"Leave it. Go home," Leo advised, although he knew damn well he'd be ignored if
he were lucky and snapped at if he weren't. What he wasn't prepared for was the
emptiness in Will's eyes. He sagged a little, then tapped Will on the shoulder.
"Walk with me."
Will followed, his steps lagging behind Leo's as they went toward the Mess. The
agents stood at the door, their faces just a little less impassive than usual.
Zoey was standing up alongside a booth where Josh and the President sat face to
face, but they were looking at her, not at one another, as she read in a voice
thick with tears but full of determination.
"...we must all work together toward a day when we can look back on Rochelle's
life and her work with pride and say of her death, never again." She blushed a
little, then sat back down beside her father while Josh smiled and nodded his
approval.
Leo pulled Will away from the door and led him to the stairs. "Go home, Will.
The stuff on your desk, it'll keep. C'mon. I'll walk you." As they ascended the
stairs, Leo gestured at the people walking purposefully past them. "I love this
place at night, did I ever tell you that?"
***
End
***
With thanks to the Fab Four: Jen, Philateley, Ria, and Ryo. Your patience and
generosity never ceases to amaze me.
To forestall the inevitable e-mails about how Rochelle's death is unrealistic:
One of my former students portrayed the "victim" at her school's SADD "Shattered
Dreams" program this spring. Three weeks later she was taking a girl home from a
party at her church when two drunken teenagers, out drag-racing, broadsided her
car and killed her instantly. Her passenger was severely maimed and will never
walk again.
Drunk driving is a national epidemic and a national disgrace.
MADD -
SADD -
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net.
Back to West Wing.
Will and Josh caught up with Zoey in the anteroom to the Oval Office. Her face
was chalk-white and her hands trembled even though Charlie clasped them firmly
between his, talking softly to her as she bounced up and down on the balls of
her feet.
"Zoey," Will said gently, not knowing if he should touch her or not. "Josh just
told me. I'm so sorry."
"It's not fair, it's not right," Zoey sobbed, burying her face in Charlie's
lapel. Her words were rapid and muffled. "She was going to come up and look into
Georgetown for next year. I was going to introduce her to some of the really
good professors I had there, we were going to talk about scholarships..."
"I know, I know," Charlie murmured, wrapping his arms around her and rocking
slowly from side to side with her. He looked utterly miserable as he turned to
face Will and Josh. "He's in with Ron Butterfield. They're talking about
security for the funeral."
"When is it?" Will asked.
"Friday. I think they're coming out." Just as he spoke, the door to the Oval
opened and Ron beckoned them in. Charlie kept hold of Zoey's hand as they walked
in first, the others right behind them.
"Daddy," Zoey whispered.
"I'm sorry, baby," he replied, his expression haggard. He opened his arms to her
and she ran into them, pressing her face against his jacket. "She was a
remarkable young lady - I could tell, just from that one day, even if you hadn't
become friends."
"I want to go," she said as firmly as anyone could who was crying that hard.
"It's less than an hour from here, and I'll take all the agents you want, only
please, please--"
"It won't work, Zoey," Ron said, the words softened by his accent. "There's
absolutely no way to do security in a church that's set up the way hers is, much
less at an open cemetery. We can't possibly protect you, not without disrupting
the service and burial."
"No!" Zoey wailed, her tears beginning afresh. "I have to go!"
"Honey," Bartlet whispered into her hair. "Think about her parents. Her brother.
Her friends. Shouldn't they be able to say goodbye to Rochelle in privacy, in
their own way?"
Will listened as the hiccuping sobs slowed, then Zoey nodded. She didn't say
anything else, but she clung to her father. Bartlet rubbed her back in slow
circles with one hand and kept the other at the crown of her head. "Josh? Will?
Are you here for--"
"We're here for this," Josh said. He sounded as if he were inhaling as he spoke,
his breath was so short. "She was in my office when it came. I went and got
Will."
"Thank you." Bartlet kissed Zoey's forehead as she began to breathe normally.
"Zoey, why don't you go to the Residence and have someone bring you some tea and
a cold washcloth? I'll be there in a little while."
She nodded silently again, then let her agents escort her out through the patio
doors. Bartlet let out a heavy sigh. "I can't even begin to contemplate the
irony. You should've seen this girl, Josh. She was amazing."
"I'm sure she was," Josh replied softly.
"I'd like CJ to get some details and put this in tomorrow morning's briefing.
It's not just local news, it's a microcosm of a larger problem that's swallowing
countless young lives. Get with Toby, find some stuff, and get her something for
tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Josh patted Charlie on the arm as he left the office.
Will remained standing where he was. "Mr. President?"
"Will?"
"I was wondering - since you were present at the SADD event and Zoey had struck
up a friendship with Rochelle, do you think someone should be there representing
the White House? Someone without face or name recognition?"
"Someone like you?"
"Well, yes." Will waited to be voted down, but Bartlet and Ron both nodded in
agreement.
"I'd like to have one of our guys drive him down and stay close, just to be
safe, but he could fly in under the radar in ways that Zoey could not," Ron said
as he made some notes.
"I just wish," Bartlet said sadly, "that we could do more. Something
legislative, something to help stop this senseless loss of life. Get Congress
off its fat ass and make it put its money where its mouth is when they talk
about the welfare of our nation's youth."
"I'll be thinking about that, sir," Will replied. "Pardon me for asking, Mr.
President, but is Zoey going to be--"
"She'll be fine."
The words didn't convince either one of them.
***
Four days later - Friday
In the course of his life, Will had attended far too many funerals. Statesmen
and paupers, generals and unknown soldiers. Valiant heroes and victims of
genocide. His mother, buried in Lausanne when he was just a little boy.
He'd never seen anything like this.
There were only a few cars parked at the church. At first, Will was saddened,
thinking that the service would be sparsely attended, but then two teenaged boys
leaned out of one of the cars and flagged down Will's driver. "This isn't big
enough - they're letting us use the Episcopal church down the street. We'll lead
you." Will recognized the other boy as the one who had played the policeman.
Irony, irony.
Every space in the church parking lot was taken. People in neighboring houses
stood on their porches, waving at drivers and saying they could fit one more,
two more, in their driveways.
"Looks like parking is at a premium, Mr. Bailey," said the driver. "I'll drop
you and Agent McGahey here and come back in an hour. If you're not done, I'll
circle."
"That's fine. Thank you." Will tucked his note pad and pencil into his breast
pocket, sighing.
McGahey, a lantern-jawed, white-haired man, got out and opened the door for
Will. "You're speaking?"
"The family was honored when Debbie called to say that someone from the White
House would be attending," Will said, trying to unclench his jaw. "Then she
found out that the family asked for donations to SADD in lieu of flowers. That's
when she offered to have me make a few remarks."
McGahey whistled through his teeth. "She'll pay for that, right?"
"Oh, you bet," Will snapped, thinking with rueful glee about the next poker
night.
They had trouble making their way through the huge crowd. All along the tables
in the narthex were Rochelle's beloved possessions - a guitar, a photo album, a
copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." Will fingered the cover and
smiled.
In the sanctuary someone had rigged up a PowerPoint presentation of family
photos and all of Rochelle's school pictures, from first grade to the senior
photo she had never seen. Hundreds of teenagers clung to one another, mostly
crying, some holding hands and talking softly. In the front row were Rochelle's
parents and two young boys, and two elderly couples. "All four of her
grandparents outlived her," Will sighed.
"That's just not right," McGahey said. He crossed himself as they walked past
the plain blue coffin. The lid was closed, thank God, and Will breathed a sigh
of relief. He'd seen too many dead bodies, too.
After everyone had found a seat or a space along a wall, the minister took his
place on the altar. He was a slight man, a little stooped, and his hands gripped
the lectern as if he might fall down without its support. Without introduction,
he began to read words Will had heard before - the letters Rochelle's parents
had written at her "death." On his right, a young woman about Zoey's age began
to sob. Reflexively, Will put his arm around her shoulders and let her cry on
his shoulder. On his left, he saw McGahey dab at his eyes with a handkerchief.
When the minister finished, a small choir of teenagers began to sing "It is Well
With My Soul." To Will's dismay, a man lifted the lid of the coffin just as the
minister beckoned him to come up to the altar.
His mouth dry, his heart pounding, Will stood up with difficulty. He was
grateful for McGahey's silent presence just behind him on the walk that felt as
if it lasted for ten minutes. He forced himself to look at the family, not at
the coffin, not at the coffin, not at the dead girl lying in the coffin. His
fingers, icy and stiff, couldn't hold on to his notes and they fluttered to the
floor. Will bent to pick them up, and as he rose, he saw the unbearable.
The funeral home may well have done its best, but Rochelle's face was not one of
repose. Her skin had a green undertone and was the texture of granite, and her
eyes and lips were too tightly closed. The hands folded over her chest were the
hands of an old woman, not a girl who had just turned seventeen.
Will fought down bile, fought back tears. McGahey took a step forward but Will
waved him off. He straightened up, put his notes in order, and began to speak.
Oh, how he began to speak. From the depths of his heart, with a passion few had
ever seen in him, he began to speak.
"Never again."
***
Later that night
If Donna didn't stop moving his stuff around and organizing it into little
piles, Josh was going to kill her. He put his elbows on a stack of loose papers
and craned his neck until their gazes met. "What are you doing?"
"Making order from chaos," Donna replied. "Move."
"I'm using those."
"They're unrelated to the ones you have in your hands, so move."
Grumbling under his breath, Josh jerked his arms away and let Donna slide the
stack from under him. "Some day I'm going to get a real assistant."
Donna rested all her weight on one foot and put her hands on her hips. "What am
I, a hologram?"
"You're a gremlin. A little creature who invades my office and puts things where
I can't find them." He waved a hand at the bookcase. "Look. How am I supposed to
find anything?"
"You'll find anything you need in the binder with that letter name on it. It's
called organization, Josh. Even better - you could learn how to look in the
documents folder on your computer."
He grimaced. That hurt - even the President knew how to work his computer. Josh
had once had to ask for help from the fifteen-year-old daughter of a visiting
ambassador. "I'm a man who loves paper and ink, Donna. I'm a man who appreciates
the beauty of an actual document, the warmth of a report fresh from the copier."
Donna wasn't buying any of it. In fact, Josh was pretty sure she was struggling
not to laugh at him. "You need to learn to use a computer, Josh. Toby's kids
will have it figured out before you do."
"I could bypass this whole computer thing - and I'm still not convinced it isn't
a phase," he added, and then Donna really had to work at keeping her laughter at
bay, he noticed. "I could bypass this whole computer thing if I just had one
thing."
"What's that?" Donna asked, her mouth pursed.
Josh leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. "A real
assistant. One who keeps my stuff nice and neat, but not too neat, and knows the
difference. And brings me coffee. I want one of those assistants, Donna."
"I wanted a pony, but that's not gonna happen, either." She had somehow managed
to alphabetize and file several dozen papers during the course of their banter.
Josh had never understand how she did that. "Zoey's 'passed by' a couple times.
Do you have a few minutes?"
His good humor dissipated as if from a blow to the gut. "How's she looking?"
Donna's smile was gone now, as well. "The way you'd expect. Devastated.
Confused."
He honestly had no idea what he would say to her, or even if talking to him
might make it worse. Raking his hands through his hair, he looked at Donna.
"What do you think?"
She had that look on her face, that forthright, truth-to-power look. "I think,"
she said, leaning over and patting his hair back into place, "that if I were
Zoey, you're the only person I'd want to talk to. So - be a mensch."
If she had given him the Congressional Medal of Honor, if she'd made Leo the
Vice-President with a wave of her hand, if she'd caught the bullet from Rosslyn
between her teeth and spat it back out, he couldn't have been more grateful. He
demonstrated it the only way he knew.
By laughing.
"Then she's worse off than I thought. Send her in," he said, enjoying the
sparkle in Donna's eyes as she made an exaggerated pout. He made a stack of his
last remaining papers and sat up straighter in his chair, hoping to look...he
didn't know. Taller. More in control.
Not a total nutcase.
"Here she is," Donna said as she ushered Zoey into the office. She looked awful,
as if she hadn't slept in days. For all Josh knew, she hadn't. He could imagine
all too well what monsters lurked at the edges of her dreams.
Zoey bit her lip and looked around. "Your office is a disaster area," she said.
He snorted. "You should've seen it before Donna organized my stuff."
"Josh," Zoey blurted, "can we go somewhere else? Somewhere that's not so dark
and crowded and...dark?"
"Of course." He got to his feet as he spoke. Opening the door, he cocked his
head at one of the agents. "We're going to the Mess," he said. To stall long
enough to give the agents time to clear the room, he stood next to Donna's desk.
It looked like something from a catalogue. Where the hell did she put
everything?
She smiled up at him. "What's up?"
The crap she put up with from him. Good God. A woman with less backbone would've
told him to stuff the West Wing in a very personal place, but she was always
there. She didn't always do the right thing, but, dammit, she tried, and Josh
could respect that.
He just didn't know how to express it. Mockery worked sometimes, and sometimes
there was banter with an undertone that made him wonder if there was a spark
that might someday ignite, or someday die out. Someday he might well try an
extravagant gesture and see where that took him. Tonight, though, he was going
to have to improvise. "I don't have anything but a couple of small meetings
tomorrow. Why don't you take the weekend off?"
That made both women laugh aloud. "C'mon, Josh, she's not gonna bite down on
that one," Zoey taunted.
Donna was watching him, the wariness in her eyes turning to something softer.
"You mean it?"
"Yeah. Absolutely. I'm not doing anything official tonight - just going to the
Mess and, you know, talking. Go home. Do whatever girly things you do."
"Wouldn't you like to know what things those might be?" Zoey whispered in his
ear. He swatted her away.
"You're like a gnat or something. C'mon, let's feed you. Donna, be gone when I
get back or I might invent something for you to do." Before Donna had a chance
for a rejoinder, Josh put his hand at the small of Zoey's back and pushed her
gently toward the stairs. Two agents were on either side of them, one was in the
front, and one brought up the rear. There was no way he was starting this
conversation now, with all these people around. Zoey seemed to feel the urgency
as well; she picked up the pace, almost running.
The agents who had gone ahead had, indeed, cleared the Mess. Josh got a pot of
coffee and two cups while Zoey slid into a booth, her back against the wall. He
could feel her watching him as he took care of spoons and sugar and napkins to
wipe up the splashes he made when he poured.
No way out now, he told himself. We're going to have The Talk. It would have
been easier to start if Zoey hadn't been looking at him as if he had some sort
of ultimate answer written on his forehead, but he was going to give it his best
shot.
Another try at pouring coffee produced the same result - a saucer with as much
coffee as the cup. Josh dunked a paper napkin into the mess and took a deep
breath. "My hands still shake sometimes," he said as he took the opposite seat.
Zoey's eyes widened. "Mine shake all the time. Look." She held her hand out,
palm down, and it trembled until she put it down on the table. "And I sweat a
lot."
"That happens, too." Josh passed the creamer to her but she pushed it aside,
shaking her head. "What else?"
She pressed her lips together, bowing her head. "I wanted to ask you something.
If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, but I really want - I really need to
ask you this."
He steeled himself. "Okay," he said, inhaling the word.
"Do you ever feel it? The bullet. Do you ever feel it hit you?"
Donna in a seafoam dress. Yo-Yo Ma rules. Bach. Pain in his chest. Toby's eyes,
black with concern.
"Yes," he whispered. "What do you feel?"
"I can smell it, whatever they put over my mouth. And when I wear something with
long sleeves, it's like rope burning my wrists." Words were pouring out of her,
torrents of words, and he wasn't able to do anything to absorb the rushing tide.
"They wouldn't let me go to the bathroom. I wet myself, and it was horrible, and
I can't remember the last time that happened, not even when they shot at
Charlie, and I wanted my Dad so much, but I hated him, too, because if he were
teaching economics at Dartmouth this wouldn't have happened to me...but I wanted
him there, Josh, I wanted him to put his arms around me and take me away, when
all the time I was cursing him in my head. Then I was at the farm, and Mom was
ranting on and on about him, and part of me wanted to tear her heart out and
part of me...Jesus, Josh, I agreed with her!"
Josh grimaced, shaking his head to clear it of the mixture of music and sirens,
the sirens beginning to drown out the music as he began to see spots in front of
his eyes. "It's okay, Zoey. He'd understand. He'd probably say worse things
about himself than you could imagine." He reached for her hands, holding them
between his, running his thumbs along the ridges of her knuckles. "I'll let you
in on a secret - I've never told anyone about this. Not Donna, or Leo, or even
Sam. Just you."
Tears swam in her eyes and she squeezed his hands. "I won't tell anyone."
"I know," he whispered. "I wouldn't say it, otherwise." It had been such a weird
thing, so off-kilter, that he'd never put it into words before. He struggled to
give voice to the feeling. "For three months, I heard from everyone. Donna was
there every day, and most days Sam and Toby and CJ would come by for at least a
while. Leo - God, Leo was amazing. He did his job and my job and still brought
me corned beef sandwiches once a week. A couple of times, your mom came. But I
never heard a word from your father, Zoey, not once, not since I woke up after
surgery. Every time the phone rang, I thought it would be Mrs. Landingham,
saying he'd get into the Suburban and make a run for my apartment, but it never
happened." He toyed with his coffee, swirling the clumping cream around with a
plastic spoon. "I wanted him there. Part of me needed to see him, to remind
myself that what I'd gone through was worth it because of him. And the other
part of me wanted to kick the living crap out of him for telling the Service to
leave off the canopy."
He stopped, almost panting. Zoey was still crying, but Josh knew she was crying
for both of them, now, for the shared, secret pain. "I won't tell anyone," she
sobbed. "Oh, God, Josh, you understand, oh, thank God..."
Josh got out of his seat and knelt beside Zoey's chair, holding her tightly in
his arms. "He does love you, Zoey, you know that. He was crazy while you were
gone. That's why he invoked the 25th - he couldn't go on without you."
"I love my father so much," Zoey hiccuped. "I love Mom, too, and when I thought
I'd never see them again...I couldn't...I couldn't..."
"Ssh, ssh, it's okay." His palm was against the top of her head as she continued
to pour out her anguish. He was either screwing up beyond redemption or doing
something remarkable, he couldn't tell, but at least she had said it, had gotten
that poison out of her system. "People love us, Zoey. I understand it with you
more than I understand it with me, but it's true. Sometimes, when you don't
think there's anything left to hold on to, you just go with that."
"Does it work?" Zoey asked, pulling away enough so she could look into Josh's
eyes.
He smiled and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "I'm still
here, so it must work."
Her laugh was more like a sputter, but it meant the end of her tears. She dried
her eyes on the only napkin that hadn't been baptized by coffee, then suddenly
she dropped the napkin and sat up straight, forcing a smile. Josh turned around,
saw Bartlet standing there with his agents, and scrambled to his feet.
"Sit, sit, it's okay. Someone said Zoey was down here, so I came to see what was
going on, if maybe she was hoarding cheesecake or something."
"I'm with Josh," Zoey said.
"All the more reason to put extra people on your detail. May I join you?"
Bartlet waited for Zoey to scoot over, then sat beside her, his arm resting on
the back of the booth. "What were you guys talking about?"
"The deficit?" Josh tried. Zoey giggled and put her head on her father's
shoulder.
"You crack me up, Josh."
"I serve at the pleasure of the President."
Bartlet's expression changed. He nodded gravely at Josh. "You do, indeed," he
said softly. He let a little smile curve his lips as Zoey's hand relaxed. "She's
asleep. It's about time she got some rest."
"Good. This thing with the girl - it really rattled her. I think she realizes
that it could easily have been..." He sighed. "This was probably stupid."
"Hardly," Bartlet said firmly. "She needed to talk to a friend, not a shrink. I
know this had to be excruciating for you, but I guarantee you that it's going to
help. I wish I could..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Moses was so
impressed with Hoshea's courage that he changed his name to Joshua - from
'salvation' to 'God is salvation.' A gift from God. I gotta tell you, Josh, that
sometimes it's hard to think of you as a gift from God."
Josh had been more uncomfortable with the praise than he had been with the
conversation he'd just had with Zoey, so he was grateful for the chance to crack
wise. "Like, during weeks with Thursdays in them."
"Exactly," Bartlet said, and Josh could see equal relief on the President's
face. Zoey stirred, and Bartlet put his hand on Josh's forearm, just as he had
done the night of the Illinois primary, and Josh wondered if the rush of memory
was as strong for him. "Tonight's an exception. Tonight, you are very much a
gift from God." He tilted his head and kissed his daughter on the cheek. "If
you're awake, I have something I'd like to read. It's what Will said at your
friend Rochelle's service this afternoon."
Suddenly embarrassed, Josh began to get up, but Bartlet pointed at the seat and
Josh stayed put. Zoey favored him with a shy smile as the President picked up
the folio he had brought with him. "It's about moving on in the face of tragedy,
about putting something of yourself on the line to make sure that no one else
has to suffer."
Zoey sat up straight and put out her hand. "I'd like to read it, Dad," she said.
"Aloud."
Without another word, Bartlet handed her the folio. Josh could smell the leather
mixed with Zoey's cologne as she opened it and began to read.
"Never again."
***
"Sounds like you had a bit of a day." Leo still held the folded paper in his
hands.
Will shrugged. "It's not every day someone hands you a cross at a funeral."
"May I see it?"
Will picked it up. It was about two feet high, white, with flowers drawn all
over it and the name Rochelle Marie Baker written across the horizontal bar The
dates below her name were 1986-2003. "It's called a 'descanso,''" Will said. "It
means 'rest.' "They're put at the location where the soul left the body."
Leo had heard of them, but didn't feel the need to say so. "How'd you end up
with it?"
"Her parents gave it to me, afterwards. They said I'd 'captured Rochelle's
soul,' and the next thing I knew, I had it in my hands."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I'm not sure." Will bowed his head over the cross, and Leo wasn't sure if he
was praying or trying to fight back tears. "I saw her face. They had an open
coffin. No one should look like that, Leo. Certainly not a child. And this is a
reminder." When he lifted his head, his expression was determined. "Do you think
I can I have it in the office?"
"I don't see why not. It's not a religious statement, is it?"
"Hardly."
"Then do what you see fit. Anyone has a problem, tell 'em to come see me." He
rose and stretched, feeling the old ache in his hip. "I'm calling it a night.
You should do the same."
Will's lips were pressed tightly together as he shook his head. He reached for
his glasses, placed them carefully on the bridge of his nose, and made a silent
gesture toward the mountain of papers on his desk.
"Leave it. Go home," Leo advised, although he knew damn well he'd be ignored if
he were lucky and snapped at if he weren't. What he wasn't prepared for was the
emptiness in Will's eyes. He sagged a little, then tapped Will on the shoulder.
"Walk with me."
Will followed, his steps lagging behind Leo's as they went toward the Mess. The
agents stood at the door, their faces just a little less impassive than usual.
Zoey was standing up alongside a booth where Josh and the President sat face to
face, but they were looking at her, not at one another, as she read in a voice
thick with tears but full of determination.
"...we must all work together toward a day when we can look back on Rochelle's
life and her work with pride and say of her death, never again." She blushed a
little, then sat back down beside her father while Josh smiled and nodded his
approval.
Leo pulled Will away from the door and led him to the stairs. "Go home, Will.
The stuff on your desk, it'll keep. C'mon. I'll walk you." As they ascended the
stairs, Leo gestured at the people walking purposefully past them. "I love this
place at night, did I ever tell you that?"
***
End
***
With thanks to the Fab Four: Jen, Philateley, Ria, and Ryo. Your patience and
generosity never ceases to amaze me.
To forestall the inevitable e-mails about how Rochelle's death is unrealistic:
One of my former students portrayed the "victim" at her school's SADD "Shattered
Dreams" program this spring. Three weeks later she was taking a girl home from a
party at her church when two drunken teenagers, out drag-racing, broadsided her
car and killed her instantly. Her passenger was severely maimed and will never
walk again.
Drunk driving is a national epidemic and a national disgrace.
MADD -
SADD -
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net.
Back to West Wing.