On this particularly frigid, snowy morning, I am causing distress for those charged with running the inaugural festivities. For starters, I am anything but festive. This time of year is hard for me and I typically slip into a funk for the couple of weeks surrounding January 20th.
Certain things must be done, however, and this is one of them. Eleanor, the rather prissy woman in charge, decided the boys and I should walk the mile long parade route. I'm guessing CJ wasn't at this meeting or she would have explained the stupidity of forcing a six-year-old to walk a mile in a straight line in the freezing cold.
I let it go as my concession to the lack of interest I've taken in the entire proceeding and the bare bones to which we have stripped this normally elaborate celebration. We're doing the Processional, the speech, the luncheon with congressional leaders and the review of troops. Following those events, I will have about six hours to get everyone settled into the Residence and tuck the boys into bed before I escort CJ to the last Inaugural Ball.
"You're going to have to carry Jacob part of the way. He won't be able to keep up." CJ fusses with my overcoat, brushing the snow from my shoulders.
"I know."
"Isaac and I will be waiting on the platform with the rest of the staff. Gregory, Tina and their kids are walking with you." She's still fussing. We do this when we're nervous, this 'act like an old married couple' thing. It confuses people who don't know us, especially since I still wear my wedding band. More than once I have had to explain CJ is not my wife, she's my Chief of Staff. My Vice-President, Gregory Miller, walks toward us just as I take hold of her forearms to still her hands.
"Claudia Jean, breathe. You're freaking me out," My smile doesn't reach past my lips, but I wrap her in a hug. "You're too good to me."
"Donna would be so proud of you," she tells me, causing my eyes to tear up.
"Mr. President?" A Secret Service agent stands a respectful distance away with the Vice-President and his family.
"We ready?" I greet the Millers with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
"Can I ask you a question?" Gregory looks at me intently as we start towards the beginning of the parade route.
Until Tom, my Communications Director, recommended him as a VP candidate, Gregory was the low profile, conservative, Democratic governor of California. Before getting into politics, he worked as the Chief Operating Officer of a media conglomerate. His wife is some sort of big-time movie actress. They have two kids: Patrick, who is 19 and a freshman at the University of Southern California; and Jessica, a 16-year-old high school sophomore. They've been trying to find a private school here in D.C. for her without much success. Jonah keeps telling me that he thinks she's hot. I'm not sure if he's referring to the girl or her mother.
"CJ and I are just simply good friends." My flat tone would have stopped any other person from following up.
"That's not what it looks like."
I do not like what he is implying. It has been implied far too frequently of late by people who should know better.
"Honestly, Mr. Miller, I don't care what it looks like to you. Her husband was a good friend. I promised him a long time ago I would take care of her and Isaac. CJ made a vow to my wife on her deathbed that she would return the favor. If you have a problem with the way we honor those promises, you had better get over it now."
Jacob picks that moment to run over to us.
"Papa?" he asks, holding his arms up.
I can resist this precious gift from Donna absolutely nothing. I pick him up and he buries his nose in my wool coat. "Are you cold?"
He nods his head against my chest, content to be carried for the time being. We hit the main parade route and I put my politician face on, smiling and shaking hands as best I can while holding Jacob.
In spite of CJ's predictions, I end up carrying Jacob the entire way. My normally boisterous son is suddenly camera-shy. Jonah, however, is truly in his element. He might look like me, but his out-going personality reminds me so much of Donna's.
The snowfall becomes heavier when we reach the end of the route. I thank God I told my speechwriters to shoot for one of the shortest inaugural speech on record. I take the oath and give a fifteen-minute address outlining my intentions to pull this nation out of the economic toilet. We're done by noon. The boys are fighting over who gets which bedroom by 3 o'clock.
I have been insistent upon keeping our non-traditional family together, thereby forcing Isaac and Jonah to decide if they want to continue sharing a bedroom. Leaving the dynamic duo to their unique decision making process, I duck my head into Jacob's room.
"What's the matter?" The lights are off and he has tucked himself and his baby blanket into the furthest corner of the room. I sit on the floor and pull him into my lap, wrapping the blanket around his narrow shoulders.
"I want to go home." The sniffles begin.
"Sport, this is going to be home for a while. We talked about this." I have a feeling this emotional breakdown isn't about where home is; it's about somebody being overtired.
"Papa?" he asks after a bit more sniffling.
"Sport?"
"Do I have to go to a different school?" The biggest thrill of his short life was starting first grade this past fall. I had made tentative plans to home-school them during the campaign, but Donna's mother came through for me, offering to stay in D.C. from September through the election so they could have a sense of normalcy.
"No, Jacob. You're going back to school next week. Mr. Franklin is going to go with you from now on though. Okay?" Tony Franklin is the lead agent for Jacob's protection detail. He is a thirty-year-old ex-Marine with a penchant for roller hockey. Hopefully, he can keep up with a six-year-old. When they met this morning, things seemed okay.
"Okay," he mumbles, falling silent for the longest time.
"Papa, tell me about Mama."
Jacob does this to me on occasion. Out of nowhere, he'll ask about Donna. It generally happens when he's feeling insecure about something. The night after his first day of school was no different. All the children in his class were talking about what jobs their parents did and Jacob was the only one without at least two parents. Most had four.
"Papa, why don't I have a Mama?"
"Your Mama had to go be with God, Jacob."
"Why, Papa? Why didn't she stay with us?"
"Your Mama was a wonderful woman, Jacob. I love her very much."
"Still?"
"I'll love your mother forever, son." I close my eyes and let the images of Donna float through my mind: memories of her and Jonah, her and I, the day Jacob was born. "She was smart and funny. She loved to learn new things; nothing made her happier than being with us."
"I miss her."
Despite his sadness, I have to smile at him. How he misses someone he never knew I don't pretend to understand. "I miss your Mama, too, son. She's watching over us though. And she'll always be in your heart. If we never forget her, if we cherish her memory, she'll always be with us."
"Jonah says Mama's an angel now."
"Jonah's pretty smart." I hug my little boy tighter.
It isn't long before Jacob falls asleep cuddled against my chest. Carefully getting up, mentally chastising myself for letting my exercise routine go to hell in the last month, I put him to bed with his blanket and Leo the stuffed lion.
Closing the door behind me, I enter the maelstrom that is the newly christened 'I & J's Clubhouse.' At least that's what the sign taped to the door says.
"Hey, no nudie pictures on the walls in the White House," I call over the music blaring from Isaac's stereo. It was the first thing they hooked up.
"Papa, we want bunk beds!" Jonah emerges from under the one bed currently in the room.
"And a basketball hoop, Uncle Josh!" Isaac is attempting to duct tape the hoop for his nerf game to the closet door.
"Bunk beds or lofts, guys?" I planned ahead for this occurrence and two loft beds are being delivered this afternoon.
They exchange glances, Isaac nodding his head in deference to Jonah.
"Lofts," my son decides as I anticipated he would.
"I'll see what we can do. If they get here, you two leave construction of them to the adults. Okay?"
CJ is leaning against the wall opposite the Clubhouse when I shut the door to keep the noise level down to a dull roar. She looks amused, but tired.
"How we doing, Claudia?"
"I'm unpacked, the stewards unpacked your stuff, Margaret is organizing the Oval Office and the rest of the staff is fighting over desk space in the West Wing."
"Want to go watch?" I favor her with my first true smile of the day, remembering the day she and I got stuck in the offices with adjoining doors because we were both late.
"No, you need to get ready for your interview," she reminds me.
Shit, I'd forgotten about that. Part of the camera crew following us around is a one-on-one personal interview with the reporter. CJ and Tom both agree it's past time for me to start talking about my personal life to the American public.
I refused to discuss the particulars Donna's death, or any of my other personal tragedies, throughout the campaign. I preferred focusing on issues such as the economy, education and the government's increasing intrusion into everyday life. I reached this decision for a couple of reasons. First of all, elections aren't about the past, they are about the future. Dwelling on the past does nothing for us; I insisted every time the issues came up, we should learn from it and move forward. Secondly, a new batch of reporters has emerged in the past ten years, many of whom I do not know and do not trust.
A momentary reprieve comes with the arrival of Derrick Williamson, the man in charge of the Secret Service Presidential Detail.
"Mr. President, if you have time, we can go over your sons' protection arrangements."
"I'm going to go clarify some things with the stewards," CJ excuses herself. We don't want the White House staff cleaning the boys' bedrooms or anything else they need to learn to do for themselves. Or be presented with as punishment for misbehavior.
The ever-present camera crew is not allowed into my meeting with Derrick and the Secret Service. They remain behind, content to see what havoc Jonah and Isaac can wreck upon the Residence.
After we go over the boys' security and review my normal daily activities, it's time for me to do the interview. Because of the hell being raised in the West Wing by the transition and the nature of the discussion, they've set up in the private study.
The reporter is a woman I vaguely remember from the campaign trail, but whose name I cannot recall. I have become as bad with names as Josiah Bartlet.
I make myself as comfortable as I can in an antique captain's chair and allow them to clip the wireless microphone to my slightly rumpled dress shirt. My jacket was discarded hours ago. I consider it a miracle to still be in possession of my tie, even though it has been pulled down and the top two buttons of my shirt undone. Along with the rolled up sleeves, I imagine I look rather a mess. Or as Donna would have said, barely fit for public consumption.
The reporter does her introduction and begins with a softball question.
"How has today been?"
"Hectic." I allow small smile to grace my features, hoping it explains my general disrepair. "The White House staff has been wonderful in helping us get situated and comfortable."
"No problems?"
I shrug. "Nothing of national importance."
"How are your children dealing with this?"
"They'll have the Residence destroyed by next week." I pause for the news people to have their laugh. I assume they got a good taste of what I'm referring to. "Seriously, they're okay for the most part. It's one big adventure to Jonah. Jacob doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's been very unsettled for the past week. Once we can establish a routine, he'll be all right."
I tempted fate by opening my mouth. Before another question can be asked, I hear a crash from down the hall. Jonah's yelling for me is barely audible over the sound of Jacob screaming in pain. Rolling my eyes, I get up and go sort out the mayhem. The camera and the reporter follow in my wake.
"What happened?" I demand upon entering the older boys' room. Wooden beams lay scattered like discarded Lincoln Logs and the youngest of the three is cowering on the floor, bleeding. His initial screams have quieted to whimpers. Kneeling down, I survey the damage done to Jacob's head by whatever fell over.
"We were putting the lofts together." Isaac wisely comes clean.
"Did I not thirty minutes ago specifically tell you two to leave those alone?" My tone of voice leaves no room for argument.
"Yes, sir." Jonah and Isaac both hang their heads.
"Yet you did it anyway. Clean it up." I order, scooping Jacob up and heading towards the nearest bathroom.
Sitting him on the counter, I take a wet cloth to the blood. It isn't as bad as it looks. There's an inch long gash above his right eye and he's stopped crying completely. In my professional, fatherly, opinion it requires iodine, a bandage, a kiss and probably some ice cream.
CJ ducks under the camera to join us in the bathroom. She makes a face when I apply iodine to the cut.
"Ouch, Papa! That hurts!" Jacob informs me indignantly, jerking his head back. The skin around the cut is starting to swell and discolor already. He's going to have a mammoth headache.
"CJ, grab the…" I trail off when she hands me a gauze pad. Once it's secured to the little boy's head, CJ hands me two children's Tylenol. I give them to Jacob with a glass of water.
"Better?" I raise my eyebrows at him. When he nods, I kiss the top of his curl-covered head.
"Papa, can I have some ice cream?" Huge brown eyes look up at me woefully from his seat on the counter. At times like this, I understand why Donna was helpless when I wanted something.
"After dinner, Sport."
"Can I go make fun of Jonah?" Denied one request, he tries another.
"Sure." I set him down and give him a swat on the butt as he dashes out the door, almost knocking over the camera guy.
The reporter stares after him, astonishment written all over her face. "How do you do that?"
"What?" I learned early on kids are virtually indestructible. You bandage them up and send them on their way until they bang into something else.
"He was bawling his head off two minutes ago and now he's fine?"
I laugh at her wonderment. I can't help it. "He's six. He has two speeds: on and off. If I flipped out over every cut, scrape, bruise or occasional head wound, we'd be in the emergency room every day."
We pass the Clubhouse on our way back to the study. Two Secret Service agents, power tools in hand, are lurking outside the room. Jacob is just inside the doorway, giggling at the two troublemakers trying to re-organize the pieces of the lofts.
"You're going to wait until they get it cleaned up, right?"
"Yes, sir." Neither of them reacts to my joking tone.
"Don't let them touch the power tools. I doubt we're equipped for accidental amputations." The thought of Jonah and power tools makes me cringe: he isn't klutzy so much as he is overly curious and disproportionately fearless.
"Yes, sir." This time I get a couple of smiles out of them.
We settle back into the interview and it is obvious the softball questions are over.
"When did your wife pass away?"
"January 20th, 2013. The day Jacob was born," I answer, unconsciously fiddling with my wedding ring.
"She had cancer?"
I nod. "Donna was diagnosed in July of 2012 with stage four breast cancer. By that time, it had already spread to her lymph nodes. She was four months pregnant with Jacob. We decided we didn't want to risk aggressive radiation and chemotherapy treatments. There wasn't a very good probability of recovery. And the treatments would likely have caused a spontaneous abortion."
I pause to take a deep breath and try to explain why we reached the decision we did. "We had several miscarriages between Jonah and Jacob. Donna didn't want to do anything that might terminate the pregnancy. She felt if that's what we did and she survived, she wouldn't have been able to look at herself in the mirror. To sacrifice our child for her own life wasn't something she could fathom."
"You must have loved her very much." It isn't a question so much as a response to the pain I'm sure she can see in my eyes.
Biting my lower lip in a struggle to control my emotions, I reply with a nod, blinking back tears. Despite my best intentions, I can feel a path of wetness slowly trickle down from the corner of my eye. I've never really talked about this with anyone except Abigail Bartlet. Abbey was my rock during those five months. When I needed to rant and rail and curse God for doing this to my family, Abbey was only a phone call away. She always knew what to say to help me get a grip on my emotions so I could go home and be there for Donna and Jonah. CJ, I'm sure, provided the same outlet for Donna.
She gives me a moment to compose myself and then lightens the mood a bit. "So what's with you and CJ Cregg?"
I roll my eyes. "CJ and I have been friends for 20 years. We have a mutually beneficial living arrangement."
"She moved into the White House."
"She has her own room," I counter, my smile returning. "We are not involved in any sordid or sexual capacity. The arrangement we have works for us and our boys."
We move on to talk a bit about the shooting. I had disclosed that I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder when I ran for the Senate back in 2006. I use the present tense because it is not something that is curable. Twenty years later certain things still cause me to have flashbacks. I still have the odd nightmare. The difference is I am mentally capable of dealing with it now. Then, I didn't understand how to make the flashbacks stop or what triggered them. Now, I do.
No one has ever attempted to make an issue of it, much to my surprise. Which is fine, since I haven't talked about it with any of the boys.
After we finish, I check my crappy watch to discover it is time for dinner. CJ and I reached an agreement with the cooking staff to allow us to cook as a family on occasion. This is one of those nights. It's a celebration of sorts. Or it was supposed to be.
In the subdued manner of condemned prisoners at their last meal, Jonah and Isaac are setting the table. CJ started without me and when I enter the kitchen, I find a flour-covered Jacob happily squishing homemade pizza dough onto the pan.
After we eat, the troublemakers are sentenced to a week of dish duty and three days without video games for their crimes. By the time they finish with the dishes, CJ and I need to get ready for the ball and the boys need to get ready for bed.
Getting out of the shower, I find them all in my room. Donna trained Jonah from birth that I am incapable of dressing myself for formal events, so he considers it a mandate that my preparations are properly supervised.
I study them in the mirror as I assemble my tuxedo. Jonah and Jacob, with their dark hair and brown eyes, are such contrasts to Isaac's red-haired, blue-eyed, freckled-splattered features. My boys are short and skinny for their ages. Jacob is about the size of an average four-year-old, the only reason I can still lug him around. Jonah can sometimes be heard at night praying for a growth spurt. Isaac is tall, like his mother, and stocky, like his father. He is thoughtful and meticulously where Jonah is brash and impulsive. Jacob is the wild card. You never know what the day will bring with him, much like life with Donna was.
"Papa?" Jonah asks, handing me my suspenders.
"What?" I reply warily.
He glances at his cohorts. "We took a vote."
This can't be good. They only invoke the principles of democracy when they want something.
"We want to go tonight." I'm looking down at three hopeful faces. Three freshly-scrubbed, hopeful faces, I notice. Jacob's gauze pad has been replaced with flesh colored butterfly bandages.
"Go. Get dressed." I give in and wave them towards their rooms.
Margaret uses the word adorable to describe the trio all decked out in tuxedoes.
"For that, dear Margaret, you are on Jonah patrol tonight." I inform my long-time gatekeeper.
"Can I just have a recitation of the batting averages of the '69 Mets?" She groans. The look I get I long ago dubbed the 'nothing deserves this' look.
Jonah is God's revenge on me for all of the truly horrid things I did to my parents as a child. Left unsupervised, I can count on him to pull just about anything. My fear tonight is tomorrow's headlines will be that the President's 11-year-old son was able to get drunk at the Inaugural Ball. Or that he tried to pick up a congressman's wife. I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to convince him that he is not Casanova.
While dancing the ball's first dance with CJ, it dawns on me that I did not imagine the worst possibility. My eldest is putting his best moves on the Indian ambassador. Not that she isn't a stunningly beautiful woman, she is. The real problem is there are three members of the White House Press Corps within earshot and I know for a fact his best moves come verbatim from the old Austin Powers movies and involve repeated use of the word 'shag.'
I glance around for Margaret. Isaac has her distracted some fifty feet away from the scene of the crime. CJ and I come off the dance floor and are immediately intercepted by Jacob and the senior Senator from New York. Separately, in case you were wondering. The Senator from New York is a pompous ass with whom I have never gotten along.
"Mr. President," he begins, ignoring the short presence to his right.
"Papa!" Jacob tugs on my trousers.
"Excuse me for just a moment, Senator." I kneel down to eye level with the more important party.
"What is it, Sport?" His tie is a bit crooked, but I resist the urge to straighten it. It gives him a slightly rakish look.
"My head hurts," he whines.
I'll bet it does. The lump above his eye is a fetching shade of purple. I stand and fish two more children's Tylenol out of my pocket. Grabbing a glass of water from a passing waiter, I squat back down.
"Here."
He opens his mouth so I can pop the pills in and then takes a big gulp of water. I give him about thirty more minutes before I have to take him upstairs to bed. In deference to the more intimate White House I wish to establish, this final Ball is being held in the House. It sprawls across several rooms, but it allows me to be in the vicinity of my children.
Senator Ficanelli is still standing there, impatiently tapping his foot. Time to put sibling rivalry to work.
"Jacob, see Jonah?" I point the little boy in the direction of his brother.
He nods his head.
"Go tell him if he doesn't get within arms reach of Margaret in one minute I'm giving his Playstation away. Make sure everyone around you hears it, too. Okay?"
"Okay, Papa." He gives me a quick hug before dashing off to humiliate Jonah.
"Just another moment, please, Tony." I want to enjoy my handiwork.
"Papa says he'll give your Playstation away!" carries through the ballroom as only the voice of a six-year-old can.
Jonah looks positively mortified when he glances my way. Raised eyebrows and a subtle finger point send him sulking through the chuckling crowd toward Margaret.
"What can I do for you, Senator?" I finally turn my attention to the impatient oaf. It takes almost an hour to extract myself from the conversation about tariffs on the Hudson River.
"How on earth do you keep track of them?" I hear a high-pitched, Southern-accented voice ask as I scoop up Jacob mid-tumble. He was amusing himself by running and sliding around the edge of the dance floor in his new shoes.
Turning, I discover the voice belongs to one of the new congressional representatives. One I have yet to meet.
"I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced. Joshua Lyman," I offer her my hand.
"Peggy Nyeland, Georgia's fourth district. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President." She gives me a faint smile.
Peggy Nyeland? Oh yeah. I remember. Georgia's fourth district was an open seat. We intentionally ran a weak candidate against her because she is a known reactionary. Fire and brimstone, Southern Baptist, anti-everything I believe in.
Isn't this just awkward as hell?
"I'm tired."
Thank you, Jacob, for rescuing me yet again. Congresswoman Nyeland is not someone I should be speaking with alone. I need CJ and Tom here at the very least. Preferably with the entire 82nd Airborne Division and a Marine Expeditionary Unit to boot.
Returning the woman's patently fake smile, I take the opportunity I've been given. "It's nice to put a face with name. I'm sorry, but it's way past bedtime. I need to round up the brood."
Jonah and Isaac both magically appear, streaking past us with Margaret a step behind. I snake a hand out and catch the back of Isaac's jacket.
"Stop!" I order.
Isaac starts to complain, but stops knowing he's pushed his luck today. Jonah trots over without a peep. Margaret looks at me gratefully.
"Bedtime. Let's go."
They put up no argument and Isaac leads the way towards the Residence. CJ intercepts us to kiss them good night.
"You are coming back down?" It's more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah. I'll be back in about thirty minutes."
It's actually closer to forty-five minutes by the time everyone gets tucked in. I find Margaret near the bar, gazing longingly at the dance floor.
"You looking at someone or do you just want to dance?" I whisper in her ear from behind.
She jumps about five feet in the air. "You are a horrible influence on those boys."
"They're in bed, Margaret. Give it a rest."
She takes my offered hand and we hit the dance floor. There are very few safe women around here tonight. Safe meaning they know I'm not looking for anything other than a dance partner. Margaret pawns me off on CJ after the first number, who turns me over to Zoey Bartlet. I didn't even see her and Charlie arrive. Zoey trades me to Carol for the lobbyist who was bending my press secretary's ear. Carol's husband is dancing with an attractive brunette Carol doesn't want him anywhere near.
That hand-off lands me in the middle of the dance floor with Peggy Nyeland.
"Would you like to dance?" I offer, figuring it is the only way out of the situation.
"I would love to, Mr. President."
We finish the dance with about five feet safely between us. With a little effort, I managed to maneuver us to the edge of the crowd. In those brief moments we danced, I came to realize this woman is going to be a pain in my ass for the next two years. She is neither witty nor gracious nor accepting. She is Mary Marsh reincarnate.
It's just after midnight when I pack it in, the party still in full swing. I am not as young as I used to be and the boys will be up at an obscenely early hour. I don't so much go to bed as I collapse, fully dressed, on top of it.
"Josh, come on. Sit up for me." It has to be CJ. She's the only person who calls me Josh anymore.
"I'm awake." I sit up with my eyes still closed.
"You going to undress in your sleep?"
"Done it before."
"I know. It's an acquired skill." She's teasing me like Donna would have.
"CJ?" I take her hand, begging for her reassurance that I'm not alone in my grief.
She sits down on the bed. "I still miss him, Josh. Eight years and it hasn't gone away. I look at men, I admire them, but I have no desire to be with them."
"There are days I doubt I could get it up if I wanted to."
We share a tired smile while I shrug out of my jacket and shoes.
"You are a good friend, Claudia Jean Cregg." Wrapping my arms around her, we snuggle together fully clothed. Nights like tonight I just want somebody to hold and CJ just to be held.