CJ was half-right. Someone was crucified by the press for carelessness and pathetic parenting. It just wasn't me; it was the Millers. There wasn't much I could do for them, nor did I particularly try. Their daughter's prognosis was a full recovery. She was actually out of the hospital in three days.
Jacob's injuries required a permanent set of pins and plates, along with a weeklong hospital stay after he developed an infection.
I don't recommend attempting to conduct the business of government from the pediatric wing of a hospital; it isn't very productive.
The Secret Service was able to corral Jacob's horse. After a long discussion with my staff and advisors, I decided not to destroy the animal. By the time we vacation again, Jacob's arm will be healed and he'll be able to attempt horseback riding again.
Jonah became my short shadow. Deprived of his normal friends and diversions, he took an active interest in what I do, as opposed to the tolerance he displayed before. With only a bit of joking, I made the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Raymond Sepanic, give him a briefing on keeping his mouth shut and had my National Security Advisor issue him a security clearance.
It was easier than sending him out of the room every two minutes.
I continued to read to him at night and he continues to confide his secrets in me. Of all the things which have come from the tragedies in my life, this is one of the few things I can point to and say 'this is why this happened.'
Jacob is one of the others.
CJ went back to New York after the first day. She promised to tell Isaac I needed to talk to him about something important when we got home to Washington. Jonah swore he wouldn't say anything to his brothers until I'd had a chance to talk to them both. For Isaac that means next week; for Jacob it means five or six years from now.
Our two missing family members meet us on the plane for the trip back to DC. Isaac pesters Jonah for details the instant they see each other. I give them a nod and wave them off before helping Jacob get settled, but not before I hear Isaac ask Jonah if he knows what I want to talk to him about.
He doesn't have to wait long, I sit him down when we get back to the Residence and explain everything to him. He is also confused by premise that someone could hate another person so much.
Later in the evening, I find my mind circling the problem, constantly returning to the question of how to explain hate to a child who has never been exposed to it.
Sitting in my study, trying to read briefing memos for tomorrow, I glance up and my eyes fall on a picture of my grandfather. My mother's father was a Dutch Jew, who suffered first in the refugee camp of Westerbork, then at Auschwitz and Birkenau and finally on the death marches from Poland into Germany.
When my mother passed away, Donna and I stumbled across Grandfather's papers while sorting through hers. He had written day-by-day accounts of the atrocities he endured and survived on scraps of whatever was available. Somewhere along the line, those scraps had been translated into English and bound into books.
I remember the period of my life when I read them vividly. I was struggling to find my place in the Senate, to make a name for myself apart from President Bartlet's attack dog. Jonah was just a year old, Donna was two months pregnant and I was questioning my fitness as father.
In those pages, I connected with my heritage far more strongly than I had ever before. I knew what it was to be hated simply for being Jewish. I knew what resulted when that hate was given a breeding ground and allowed to flourish. Grandfather's words gave me a context to put what I had suffered into. Nothing I went through could compare to his trials.
Pulling the first volume down, I flip it open:
November 18, 1939
My friend Jacques came today to the shop to tell me Greta would have to go to Westerbork because the government was sending all German Jews there. He told me it didn't matter that she was married to me, a Dutch citizen, or not. I asked him if I would be allowed to go with her, for I cannot bear the thought of being separated from her. I suppose it is the flush of being newlyweds, still. Our first anniversary is next week. Jacques told me he'd find out and get back to me.
Grandfather was only 19 years old when he wrote those words. Greta was barely 18. They had met when she had come to Amsterdam with her father on a clandestine business trip. Grandfather had immediately fallen for the young woman and persuaded her to stay in the Netherlands with him. They married after only a month – November 24, 1938. Greta was not my grandmother.
"Papa?" Jonah's face peeks through the crack in the door.
Closing the book, I motion for him to enter.
"What's the matter?" It's nearly midnight – long past his bedtime.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Couldn't sleep or did you wake up?"
In the shadows of my study, the paleness of his face accentuates dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping very well since we talked during Jacob's surgery; I spent several long nights watching him thrash about in his sleep.
"I had a bad dream."
Getting out of the wooden desk chair, I cross the room and take a seat on the burgundy leather sofa. Jonah curls up beside me, resting the side of his face on my thigh.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"You were giving a speech someplace," his voice quivers as he tries to grasp the wispy tendrils of what scared him so badly. "And you got hurt again. Except…"
This is the very reason I hadn't told him about the shooting. Not because he wouldn't understand, but because his fertile imagination would latch on to the vague details and have a field day with them.
"Except what?"
"Except you didn't get better," he whispers, "You went to be an angel like Mama."
"So you got up to come find me?"
Jonah nods against my leg. "Papa, I don't want you to die."
"I know, son. I know."
"Why can't people just be nice to each other?"
"Sometimes people feel very passionate about something and when other people don't agree with them, they get upset. When they get upset, they lash out. Like you yell at Jacob when he bugs you?" When Jonah nods his comprehension, I continue. "Except instead of yelling, maybe they hit those other people."
"Like how Terry Peterson beat up Simon LaFrentz for saying his shirt was ugly?"
"Sort of like that, yeah."
"But Simon was right, Terry's shirt was ugly."
"But Terry didn't think it was and it wasn't very nice of Simon to say so. If you can't say something nice…"
"…you shouldn't say anything at all," he completes the old adage for me. "I know, Papa, but I'm supposed to stick up for Isaac and Jacob when kids say bad things to them. Why is that okay?"
"Because you didn't start it, you're defending yourself or your friends from aggression. Defending yourself is okay, but you shouldn't start fights."
"You do, though, sometimes." Jonah sits up and faces me, grappling with the seeming contradictions.
"The political world is different than real life, son, and it has a whole different set of rules. That's why nobody wants their child to grow up to be a politician. You give up accepting everything as black and white, right and wrong. Everything is grey in politics, nothing is absolute."
My son shakes his head at me in confusion. "I don't get it."
I chuckle at him with a smile. "Neither do I, Jonah. Neither do I."
"Then why did you want to be President?"
"Because I want to help people. By being President, I can help everyone in the country and in other countries, as well."
Jonah bites his lower lip, considering my words before replying. "I want to help people, too, Papa, but I think I want to be an astronaut instead."
"You want to be an astronaut, huh?" I get up and stretch. God knows our space program could use some work. It never really recovered from the Columbia disaster 15 years ago. "You better start studying during science then."
"I got a B last quarter!" Jonah protests, crawling off the sofa to follow me down the hall.
"A B minus and your teacher said you spent more time making paper airplanes than paying attention in class," I chide him. We reach his room and I kneel down to hug him. "I love you, Jonah, and I'll always be here for you, okay?"
"I love you, too, Papa."