W.W. –Friday morning
"Margaret!" Leo was looking around his desk before Friday morning's senior staff, and there were a few things he wanted to check off his own personal agenda.
"Yes, Leo?" Margaret, pad in hand, stood in the doorway, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as his father used to say. She wasn't entirely her chipper self but she seemed tremendously improved compared to the previous few days.
"I need you to send a memo, instructing the following to clear their schedules for tomorrow night from 7:00 PM: C.J., Josh, Donna, Joey, Kenny, Toby, Will. I'll have more details for you later. Oh, also tell Debbie that I'll be needing Charlie Young tomorrow night too, and to make the other arrangements with the President we discussed yesterday."
"He'll understand?" She was obviously curious, but she wasn't sure if she should say anything.
"Yes. Oh, and I'll need you tomorrow night too." He grinned.
"We'll be staying late?"
"No, I'm going to have a number of you over to the house in Chevy Chase, for a special occasion. I'd hoped you'd be there."
She paled. He wondered if maybe she'd been sick. Margaret had not taken a sick day since before he went to Sierra Tucson. "At, at your home. I mean, Mrs. McGarry's home, your house?"
"Take a breath Margaret." It began to dawn on him. "You know Jenny is not Mrs. McGarry any more, right?"
"Well, you've been spending so much time over there this week, I mean, I didn't want to say anything…" Her voice had dropped to a confidential whisper. "I know she's remarried, and I had assumed that you were, you know, moving on…"
"Margaret, close the door." Leo's face was an interesting study. She stepped out, closing the door. He put his face in his hands, and called out.
"Margaret!"
She peeked back in. "You meant with me on this side, didn't you?"
"Please." He looked at her, and despite himself he smiled. "Do you really think I've been sneaking around, seeing my ex-wife, at my old house? Right under her new husband's nose?"
"Well, no. Not when you go and say it like that." She frowned. "But you can be very discrete, when you put your mind to it."
"Jenny and Mike are in Barbados. I've been house sitting and using my kitchen." He shrugged. "I mean, my old kitchen."
"Using your kitchen? For what?" She was looking at him in amazement.
"Scandalous Roman orgies, Margaret. Cooking! What else do you use a kitchen for? I've missed cooking. Anyway, I'm going to throw a little party for Josh and Donna tomorrow, and I'm having Chef Dario come over from Phoebe's to cook. I'm making my poached pears a leche, it's you know, going to be a thing."
"You're cooking, like a dinner party? At your ex-wife's house?"
"Yes, you've grasped the finer points. After senior staff, we'll make all the arrangements." He was glad things were returning to normal between them.
"Mrs… Your ex-wife isn't going to be there, right? I mean, they're still in Barbados."
"Yes, till Monday. We'll have the party tomorrow, and Sunday I'm back to the hotel. I just missed cooking." He thought for a moment. "You've been worrying about me, haven't you? This week."
"Well, it's not my place to say anything, boss, but you were at her house, and acting so strange all week. I just worried about you."
"You're a good girl, Margaret. Thanks. Now let's get this senior staff going. I have one more surprise for you after lunch today."
"Yes, sir. No hints?"
"Nope," he said smugly, "not this time. Just keep two hours clear after lunch unless the President needs it. Now shoo."
W.W.
"Josh!"
He poked his head out of the office, to see Donna with files in one hand, a phone on her shoulder, and her computer mouse in the other hand, pulling up schedules. It explained the almost Josh-like bellow.
"Yes, Pumpkin?"
"Okay, first, promise you will never call me that again? We're just not nickname people. Second," she rolled her eyes over towards the phone on her shoulder, "Mom and Dad say the party tomorrow at Leo's is fine, but do they need dress up clothes?"
She mouthed to him exaggeratedly, "Tell Them Yes," while she nodded vigorously.
"Uh, yes!" he called in a voice he hoped they could hear. "That would be a good idea!"
She scrunched her face up and winked at him, nodding. "Third, Mom wants to know if we've thought about dates. We don't have to decide right away but it if we can start to narrow down the dates they can start making plans for getting everyone together."
She shrugged through this to indicate she had no idea what to tell her mom. They had decided they would get married in DC if possible before leaving for Florida, but that was when they thought they had three or six months. Now things were moving quickly and they might be leaving for Florida by the end of February, just over a month away.
"Tell her the second week in February, the 8th if we can manage it," Josh said with conviction. "I have to go," he whispered. "Tell them have a good flight. We'll see them tomorrow when they're done sightseeing and you're out of that meeting."
"Okay." She looked at him with a very distracted expression. He was down the hall and heading towards the DNC briefing for the Pacific Northwest fundraising before she could respond.
"Yes, Mom," she said after a moment. "Yes, February 8th. That's 2-08-05. It's our anniversary… What? No, not that. It's the day I joined the campaign, the day we met."
Donna stopped for a second. "Code 208. I just got it. What? Oh, nothing, sorry."
She blushed, and looked around to make sure no one had been listening.
"Yes, the date was his idea, No, he hadn't said anything. Yes he does, but I've got it bad too, so that works out fine. Call me this afternoon before you get on the plane, okay? Love you, too."
She sat at her desk, files and phone forgotten in her hands. With a smile, she closed the file, hung up the phone, and pushed her keyboard back a bit on her desk. She opened her secure file drawer. Behind all the procedure cards and the policy manuals, there was a slim packet filled with white tissue. She opened it up and took out a very worn and well-traveled lanyard, from which hung a red, white and blue laminated card.
She traced her fingers over the letters. "Bartlet for America" read the face imprint under the plastic. She turned it over. "Josh Lyman" it had said at one time, but over that was a sticker, now laminated to the back of the card and bubbled a bit with age, that read in his angular print "Donnatella Moss."
She held it in her hands, and sat for a few minutes. Then she carefully brought it gently to her lips like an ancient relic, kissed the words with the barest trace of pressure, and returned it carefully. First into its tissue, then back into the packet, then finally into the secure drawer. As the drawer slid shut, she locked it, dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, and got back to work.
W.W. –Friday afternoon
"Avi, if you're not going, why should I go?" Ruth Lyman looked at her gentleman friend. Since returning from Orlando, they had spent a good deal of time together, but they also had returned each night to their own condos and their own beds.
"Ruth, your boy, he's a good boy." Avi shrugged. "If he asks for you to come alone, I have no problem."
Ruth sighed. "But he doesn't ask. He says things would be easier this time for just the weekend, maybe, if I came alone. He's sure you'd have no problem meeting Leo, who was close with my Noah." She shrugged.
"It's what do they call it, passive aggressive," she said with a scowl. "He wants me to come alone, but he doesn't want to tell me to come alone. He's a little boy and he plays his little games."
Avi stood up from her kitchen table, where they'd been drinking soft drinks and discussing plans for the day. "Josh is not a little boy, Ruth. He has reasons for what he does I'm sure. You should give him the respect of not calling names."
She looked at him and tried to hold her tongue. "You're right. It was a long time ago that he spoke his words and his father told him, 'today you are a man.' But I like you, Avi. You are sweet to me, and kind, and you don't make me crazy. If he doesn't want you to come, he can explain it to me like a rational boy, or he can come down here and get me."
"You're more than a little crazy, Ruth Lyman. I see where he gets it." He smiled. "So, if you're not going to leave tomorrow, what do you say we go for a drive today. I'll take you to the beach to see the water."
He was grinning like a schoolboy. He loved his Chrysler, and loved driving her places.
"I've been to the beach. I've seen the water." She found herself grinning despite herself. His enthusiasm for life was infectious, and she'd needed it.
"I'll buy you an ice cream soda." He knew her weaknesses.
"It's too cool for an ice cream soda. Still, you should wear a hat. Let me get changed." She smiled and went upstairs to dress, stopping at the landing to catch her breath. The stairs came harder these last few months, but she wasn't ready to give up the view and move into the downstairs bedroom in her tidy little condo. The winter sun, sea breezes and an ice cream soda with a handsome gentleman, that's just what she needed, she decided.
W.W.
"Donna, why did we have to come out here?" Josh had his hands shoved in his pockets and looked both cold and annoyed.
Donna, wearing his scarf in addition to her own coat and gloves, was walking briskly, forcing him hurry to keep up. She called back over her shoulder to him.
"This is it, here. Do you want your surprise or not?" She held open the door to a small shop. It was dark and fine and seemed completely out of place in the brightly lit Baltimore strip mall
Josh stopped long enough to read "Konstantin Frye, Fine Jewelry," on the door, and then he followed Donna in. She was taking off her gloves to shake hands with a very old man at the counter.
"Mr. Frye? I'm Donna Moss, we spoke on the phone? I'd like to introduce you to my fiancé, Josh Lyman." She had a glow, in the dark shop, when she said his name. She didn't belong here, in the dim recess, with small key lights throwing pools of crisp white light on selected items in the display cases.
"Pleased to meet you, sir," Josh extended his hand, and the old man took Josh's hand in both of his. Josh felt all the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when he saw the old man's wrist extending from his dark wool coat. The number tattooed there was grown fuzzy with age, but there was no possibility that Josh would have failed to notice it.
"Joshua ben Noah. So, this would be yours, then, now." Frye's voice was slow but surprisingly deep. He moved slowly but with great deliberation and indicated Josh's watch, which was laid out on a piece of black velvet. It was clean, and fixed to a new band.
"Donna, I thought…" Josh looked at her, and at the watch. "Sir, can I ask what was done to it?" His voice was low, the same tone he used whenever he climbed the steps to the Lincoln Memorial.
"A nice piece, this," Frye reflected. "Northern Germany. In fact, the works are from a shop that would now be in Poland, if it had survived the War. This belonged to Benyamin Lyman, yes?"
"Benjamin, my grandfather. Did you know him?" Donna moved silently to Josh's side, and he realized he had taken her hand. Her hand seemed very small and fine in his.
"No," Frye shook his head sadly. "But when Miss Moss told me… at the end, six hundred and sixty-seven of us, when the Russians came. I did not know Benyamin, but from your name, and those initials, I could guess. So tell me, how did this come to be here? In the Camp, this would go to the land of plenty. You take the meaning?"
Josh nodded, and said softly to Donna, "Jews coming to the camps would be stripped of anything valuable, and the looted goods were put into warehouses called Kanada. The SS called them the land of plenty."
He reached his hand toward the watch, but stopped with his hand a finger's breadth away. He rested his hand on the cool black velvet. "My father was a little boy when they put him on the ship to America. He went with neighbors, the Roths, through Holland. My grandfather and grandmother were supposed to come the next month. Benjamin came here through Norway after the Russians released him. He'd seen my grandmother once in the camp, the first week, but never again."
"Ah," said Frye. It was a single syllable that had all the weight of the world, all the horror, all the loss of an entire dark age. "And so, your father carried this watch, and now you?"
"Yes, sir. But I'm afraid it doesn't run so well as it did." Josh licked his lips, and said carefully to Mr. Frye, "I didn't want it changed. You know, altered."
The old man nodded, his white beard brushing across the black tie and black wool coat. "Put it on, boy."
Josh carefully picked up the watch, and looked at it. Other than being clean, there was no noticeable change. The band even resembled the original band his father had used more than the one Josh had been using.
"One tooth, young man." Frye shook his head with a very small grin. "One tooth on one gear. Not even broken, just bent. I was able to rework it. The band is from a supplier in Krakow, the same firm that supplied Huber in Germany from 1921 to 1939. Nothing else did I change."
"It's my father's watch." Josh lifted it to his ear and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared, and his eyes opened again. He looked at Donna, who was still very subdued and wide-eyed. "It's amazing. It even smells like him. It's perfect."
"Thank you, Mr. Frye, for everything." Donna reached into her purse. "Do you have the bill ready, sir?"
"No, nicht," Frye made a dismissive wave. "This job, this was good. The band I get, one Rolex sale this week and my costs are good. The workings, they were a joy. No parts needed."
"But, you must let us do something about the labor, something for your time, Mr. Frye." Donna seemed nonplussed at the thought of not being able to pay the old gentleman for his work.
"Labor? I do not charge for this labor. Arbeit Macht Frei. Shalom, Mr. Lyman." Frye looked at Josh once more then waved them away.
"Yes, sir. I understand. Shalom."
W.W.
"Okay, Karl. This is good." Leo tapped his driver on the shoulder and looked through the light drizzle to the new building. It was really something to see.
Margaret looked at the sign as they stepped out of Leo's car. The Smithsonian Institution's National Air and Space Museum's Stephen F. Udvar-Hazy Center. You have to love something named by committee, she thought. It's a hangar. A big, white hangar.
Leo took her arm and guided her to the entrance, where a young man with a severe haircut and a slightly undersized suit waited eagerly for them.
"Mr. McGarry! So glad you could join us today, really. Stuart Baird, sir." He stuck his hand out and shook Leo's vigorously. He turned to Margaret and his expression faltered a little. "And you would be…Miss O'Brien?"
"Margaret, I'm Mr. McGarry's assistant."
"Ah. Delighted." He shook her hand briefly. "Right this way."
Baird led them in the main hall and to the right, towards the display of modern military jets. As they approached, Margaret could see a new display being completed: The Air War in Viet Nam. Alongside a helicopter or two and a Marine F4 Phantom was the largest fighter plane Margaret had ever seen.
"Would you like me to take you around sir?" Baird said without any real conviction. He'd seen the look on Leo's face.
"We'll be fine. Thanks, Stuart, for everything." The younger man nodded and moved off, leaving Leo and Margaret to stare at the Republic F105 Thunderchief.
Leo reached out a hand to trace over the plane's skin with his fingers. His expression was unreadable.
Margaret was reading the display card. "Typical of the ground attack fighter-bombers of the mid-war period was the Thunderchief, the largest single-engine jet attack plane ever used by the United States. This example was flown by Captain Leo McGarry, USAF, of the 355th Tactical Fighter Wing..."
She took a step back. "This was your plane? I mean, your actual plane?"
Leo looked at her. He grinned. "Isn't she a beaut? I flew the B from the beginning of my tour. The 'Jenny O.' Was shot down in her, poor thing. This was my plane for the last part of my tour, the 105D. They found her in a breaker's yard in Canada. Been working the restoration for three years."
He looked at her, and took her hand. "I wanted you to see something. Over here."
They walked around to the other side of the huge aircraft, almost 20 feet tall and painted an olive camouflage pattern. Under the pilot's canopy was a small badge, like the nose art of the bombers of World War II. Sitting astride the edge of the badge like she was on a window ledge, there was a pinup girl. She had long red hair and a slender build and bore more than a little resemblance to Margaret. A fine script read "Fightin' Firecracker" in white script that Margaret recognized as Leo's.
"When I got back in the air, I didn't want another 'Jenny O.' My squadron chief gave me this. Anyway, when I was at Labor and they told me to pick one of the girls out of the temp pool, I didn't really care. Then I saw that hair, shining over all the blondes and brunettes. It was a silly reason to pick you, I know."
She looked at him. "You know, you can be a bit of an ass sometimes, Leo."
He looked at her in shock. "What, I thought you might like to know how I came to pick you as my assistant."
"And this is it? I looked like a pinup girl on a plane? Don't get me wrong, Leo. I love you. You're a good boss, and more importantly you're a good man. But after all we've been through, a pinup! I have to tell you, you can be a bit sexist, Leo McGarry."
"Well, I'm sorry," he said, honestly confused. "I thought it was this sweet little story."
"It is, but honest to God, Leo, pull yourself together. You want to tell me that when we first started working together, I reminded you of your plane, that's fine. But a sweet little story? That would be, oh, I don't know…"
He looked down at his feet, and said softly, "Something like, they restored my plane to display at the Smithsonian, and I insisted they restore the original artwork. Not because you remind me of it, but because it reminds me of you?"
"Well, yes, that would be a start." She paused, and realized he was serious. "You're serious?"
He looked at her, and his eyes were bright, his expression solemn. "I know I'm not the most politically correct boss in the world, Margaret. I tune you out, I call all the assistants 'girls' and more than half the time I think of you as secretaries. I'm an old man and some things, I forget to think about."
He looked up at the plane, again running his fingertips along its smooth side. His action was somewhere between a lover's caress and a father's adoration. His eyes closed.
"But you've always been there for me, Margaret. Bad times, really bad days, and the campaigns... Christ, the campaigns. This plane reminds me of you. She came along late, but she never let me down and she always got me home."
"Leo," Margaret said, wanting to reach out to him, but knowing it just wasn't their way. "I'm glad you picked me out of the temp pool. I'm proud of you, and proud to work for you. I always have been, boss."
He smiled, and opened his eyes. "Even today?"
She grinned. "Especially today." She looked at her watch. "We really need to get back. Did you need anything else while we're here?"
He shook his head and seemed to collect himself a bit. "No, but let's tell Stuart thanks for all his help. They did a great job."
"Not as good as you did," she thought, with a little private smile. "Romantic old fool."
