Sunday, November 23, 2003.
"Is everything set for Thursday?" Donna calls from the nursery where she's folding laundry.
It's a quiet Sunday at home, just the three of us. In the division of household responsibilities, the situation translates into: I made breakfast and am on baby-duty while Donna fusses around the apartment in her weekly attempt to act domestic. Hey, it makes her feel better, so I don't argue.
Baby-duty right now involves blowing raspberries on David's tummy - an activity which amuses him to no end. We were reading the Cat in the Hat - a far more educational pursuit I'm sure Donna would prefer - but David kept trying to eat the book.
"Why?" I holler back before taking a deep breath and making my son giggle by blowing air against the ticklish skin of his stomach.
"Because Thanksgiving is Thursday." The proximity of Donna's voice tells me she's now standing over me.
I roll onto my back and lift David up to sit on my chest.
"Hi, Mommy!" I take his arm and wave it at her, something which rarely fails to make her smile.
She plops down on the sofa with a groan. "I feel like a whale already."
"You've gained a lot more weight this time," I point out. Her glare sends me hastily backtracking. "But it's a good thing and you look beautiful."
I'm not allowed to say she glows, whether I think she does or not. Sitting up, I slide across the hardwood floor until my back is against the sofa and my knees are bent in front of me. Resting David's feet on my abdomen, I help him practice standing up, another of his favorite games.
Donna reaches down and runs her hand through my hair.
"You're so good with him," she yawns.
"Sounds like Mommy needs a nap, doesn't it, Bear?" He's holding my fingers tightly in his hands and with little effort I'm able to pull him forward until he collapses against my chest. He giggles some more and starts grabbing for my nose and babbling.
"Mommy needs to know if Daddy is going to be ready for his annual Turkey Feed," Donna retorts with laughter in her voice.
***
"Daddy is taking Wednesday off to shop and bake and pick up your Grandma Mamme from the airport," Josh stands David back on his feet, explaining his plan directly to the baby. "You, Bear, get to stay home and help."
A year ago, Josh's behavior would have had me on the phone to Stanley Keyworth. Now, I consider it normal. My how times have changed.
"When is Grandma Mamme going to get here?" I try in vain to repress my giggles.
Ignoring my laughter at his expense, Josh lifts David up, holding him about two inches from his face. "Your Grandma Mamme's flight is supposed to get in at noon."
"Josh, honey?"
He tilts his head back and looks at me questioningly.
"You're nuts," I tell him. "You know that, right?"
"Well, yeah," he retorts as though I'm stating the obvious.
"Also, you know it's supposed to snow this week?" I don't know if he's seen a weather report or not.
"Snow?" he repeats. His hands provide our son just enough support so he doesn't topple over as he sits upright on his Daddy's lap.
"Frozen precipitation falling from the sky in the form of ice crystals. You remember, we saw it in Wisconsin during our wedding," I remind him, reaching down to pat him on the cheek.
"Lots of snow?" he asks, crestfallen.
"The forecast is for 8 to 10 inches on Wednesday afternoon," I break it to him.
"This is going to screw up my holiday, isn't it?"
Thanksgiving, oddly, is Josh's favorite holiday. He pretends to get geared up for Hanukkah and the only aspect of Christmas I think he likes is finding my gift, but Thanksgiving turns him into a Martha Stewart clone.
"You mean since Toby and Sam are out in LA setting up those focus groups? When are they supposed to fly home?"
"Wednesday afternoon. If they don't kill each other first," Josh chuckles. He tilts his head back a bit, allowing me to toy with his hair.
"Tell me again whose idea this was?"
It came up in a staff meeting late last week and President Bartlet jumped on the idea of asking real Americans, as opposed to politicians and lobbyists, what issues they wanted to see addressed. He also wanted it done in focus groups, rather than through phone polling. Toby and Sam, as the drafters of the State of the Union speech, were sent to California to work with Joey Lucas on the questions and presentations. They're also trying to determine which locations would yield the most representative data.
"There was some editorial in one of last Sunday's papers about how the Administration is really just a bunch of Ivy League liberal Beltway insiders who have no idea what real Americans want from their government. Some guy from one of the groups, Gannett or Hearst, kept bringing it up in every single press briefing," Josh rolls his eyes.
"You are an Ivy League liberal Beltway insider. Don't act all offended," I tease him.
"I am not! I'm a reformed Ivy League liberal Beltway insider. I done bought property in Wisconsin," he returns in a voice that sounds like a cross between Fargo and Gone with the Wind.
I groan at how horrible his accent is.
"What?" Josh gets up and crawls onto the couch with me, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
"That was terrible," I laugh, meeting his eyes.
The sparkle I see is irresistible and the lingering scent of his aftershave causes my blood to suddenly boil with need. David's presence between us is the only thing keeping me from jumping my husband with no warning.
"I'm just gonna put David down over there." Josh points vaguely over his shoulder, nearly falling off the couch.
***
What used to be subtle signals I barely recognized before we started dating have become blazing neon signs after two years together and several months of marriage.
It's playtime for grownups.
I sit David down on his mat, make sure his bear is close at hand and thank God for a son who can amuse himself.
"How much longer do you think we [ ]can get away with doing this while he's in the room?" I ask with a smirk.
Donna is now sitting up on the sofa, her legs slightly parted. I can smell her desire and it has the predictable effect on me - Spongebob expresses an interest in what's going on.
"I don't think we need to worry about it right now," Donna replies.
***
"Donna," Josh moans, leaning against me, his lips nibbling my neck. After a few minutes of good old-fashioned necking, he stretches out at the opposite end of the couch. To my great delight he begins to massage my feet.
Our post-intercourse foreplay doesn't last long. I catch a glimpse of the clock on the VCR and if I don't feed David now, he'll start screaming in about five minutes. Josh is used to scheduling our sexual activity around the baby and doesn't grumble when I ask him to bring David to me. He just gets up and, task accomplished, returns to what he was doing.
***
Wednesday, November 26, 2003.
It's never good when the phone rings at 2:30 in the morning. Especially when you are supposed to have the day off.
"Yeah?" I answer after fumbling with the handset.
"Joshua Lyman, please."
"Speaking." This really isn't good. People who call at 2:30 in the morning and ask for me by my full name are not telemarketers with crappy watches.
"Mr. Lyman, this is Major Smith. I am the White House Military Office watch officer. I need your code word, sir."
Code word Code word? Oh, right my National Security Council code word. The one I'm supposed to use to confirm my identity over the phone with the watch officer. What the hell is it? I picked something easy to remember, right? What was it
"Mr. Lyman?" Major Smith sounds a trifle perturbed.
"Jackass." I remember all of a sudden.
"Mr. Lyman, we have a situation requiring the presence of an NSC officer. You are the officer on call. I'm sending a car for you. It ought to be there in ten minutes."
The major hangs up the phone without another word. Ten minutes gives me just enough time to make coffee and dress, but not shower or shave. I'm taping a note to the bathroom mirror for Donna when there's a pounding on the front door of the apartment.
A very young marine in fatigues with a pistol strapped to his hip is standing there when I open it.
"Mr. Lyman?" he asks peremptorily, ignoring my appearance. "If you'll come with me, sir."
I follow him down to a snow-covered government-issue sedan. He opens the back door for me and then climbs in behind the wheel.
"What's going on?" I ask, figuring he probably doesn't know.
"I was just told to retrieve you, sir." The marine says, not unkindly.
The snow, which isn't supposed to hit the East Coast until late tonight, is already three inches deep, making the trip to the White House far slower than normal.
A young lieutenant meets the car and ushers me into the Situation Room. This is the first time I've ever served as the NSC point person and I'm not sure what the procedure is. Major Smith is in the room, however, and he apologizes for waking me.
"What's going on?" I ask, trying to look like I know what I'm doing. The Situation Room intimidates the hell out of me.
"One of our Aegis cruisers, the USS Shiloh, was docked in Qumar for Thanksgiving liberty. She was attacked by terrorists in a rubber boat," he begins his briefing.
There is an impressive array of overhead satellite imagery already. A fluke I learn, the satellites happened to be in the right place at the right time.
"When will the Pentagon and CIA be ready to brief?" I ask when he finishes, knowing both agencies are probably playing catch up at this time of the morning.
"The Pentagon says they're ready now, but the watch officers at Langley are asking for another half an hour and State wants an hour," Major Smith says.
I look at the clock on the wall displaying DC time. It'll be four o'clock before we hear from State. Considering what I'm going to do next, an hour isn't going to cut it.
"Is the Secretary of Defense out of bed yet?" I ask, getting to my feet.
"I believe so, sir."
I stop at the door. "Make sure, then get everyone else rolling in. Dr. McNally, Leo McGarry, General Alexander, Chuck Hills, though I think he's in Germany this week. Congratulations, Major Smith - you get to wake up the federal government. Also tell State to get the lead out of their ass. I want what they know in thirty minutes. Any longer- they explain why to the President."
"Yes, sir." He looks positively gleeful at getting to tell off State. "What are you going to do, sir?"
"I'm going to wake the President," I tell him, heading out the door and taking the stairs to the Residence.
***
Compromising with Josh and getting the SUV was the smartest thing I did last year. Mother Nature dumped almost six inches of snow on us last night and while the storm has slacked off some, we're supposed to get a lot more. I'm not worried, though. I'm enjoying my ground clearance and four-wheel drive.
David managed to toss his hat on the floor during the brief drive in. I tug it down over his ears, wrap his scarf a little tighter and maneuver him out of the car seat. Not knowing how long Josh will be tied up, I figured the best course of action was to go ahead and bring him into daycare. Josh can pick him up when he leaves to get Elisa from the airport. Dorothy Givens is working the front desk when I finally reach the EEOB.
"Short staffed?" I ask, handing over the bag Josh irreverently refers to as 'David's Big Bag of Shit Accessories.'
"Everyone is calling in," she shakes her head. "The only good thing is we'll have fewer kids today because of the snow."
"You'd think it never snows in Washington. If you need to close shop, just call and we'll come get him." David gets a kiss before I had him to Dorothy. "You be a good boy."
"He'll be fine. You have a good day, Mrs. Lyman."
Dorothy refuses to call me Donna, despite my repeated admonitions that Mrs. Lyman is my mother-in-law.
Trudging across the slush and snow-covered street to the West Wing, my Wisconsin-honed senses tell me this storm is just taking a breather. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Bright yellow 'Caution - Wet Floor' signs decorate the lobby in an effort to call attention to the melting snow being tracked across the marble floors.
Debbie and Chris are bustling around the bullpen getting ready for what they thought was going to be a light day. Personally, I'm pretty sure all hell is about to break loose and ruin Thanksgiving for us.
"Debbie? I need you to round up weather forecasts for New York, Boston, DC, Chicago and Atlanta. Get them ready for Josh. Also, my mother-in-law is supposed to be flying into National around noon on United. Since my husband was in charge of picking her up, I don't have a flight number. I do know she had a layover in Atlanta. See if you can find out how late she's going to be," I rattle off, sweeping through the bullpen. Stopping at the door to my office, I turn around and give one more order. "Chris, I'm supposed to be in a meeting up on the Hill at 10:30. Make some phone calls, find out if that's still on."
"Ma'am?" He looks confused.
"The storm's going to get worse, Chris. I want you to call Senator Richardson's office and see if we're still meeting this morning," I spell out, wondering how this kid ever made a positive impression on Josh.
The next two hours are spent doing research for some pending legislation and formulating a position paper for Josh to sign off on. Even after six months in this new, rather nebulous job, I still insist Josh review my work. He very rarely changes anything, which I guess is encouraging.
"I'm going up to the Hill," I tell Debbie, motioning for her to walk me out. "Make sure Josh gets those weather reports when he finally turns up. Also, what did you find out about the flight I asked you to check on?"
"Chris called Mrs. Lyman's cell phone and she's stuck in Atlanta. Right now, everything is just delayed, but if it changes or she gets on a flight, she said she'd call Mr. Lyman. Drive safe out there." Debbie has a dubious look on her face as she surveys the overcast sky.
The thing about driving in snow isn't that I don't know how - I grew up in Wisconsin for pete's sake - it's that nobody in Washington knows how to drive in winter weather conditions. Or, this being the first snowfall of the year, they've forgotten how.
I score a parking spot on C Street north of the Senate office buildings and hustle through the metal detector in the lobby. I'm a few minutes late, but nobody in the room takes note when I initially slip into the room.
Only when I hand my coat to the young woman near the door do I notice the dried remains of David's breakfast on my suit jacket. I desperately attempt to scratch it off before I'm seen, but Senator Carol Richardson ends all hope.
"Donna! It was so good of you to come!" If the woman exuded any more false enthusiasm at my presence, I'd vomit.
"It was very kind of you to invite me," I reply, self-conscious of my appearance. "Is there a bathroom nearby? I didn't realize my son drooled all over my jacket"
She looks down her nose ever so slightly and then nods toward the corner of the banquet room. "Over in the corner."
"Thank you. I'm just going to go" I'm a trifle mortified, but I'm still less paranoid here than I was at my high school reunion.
"Certainly. I'll find you again later."
"Don't worry about the good Senator, honey," Representative Paula McKenzie's Texas twang follows me into the ladies' room. "Everyone who has kids has been right where you are now. Trust me, nobody who matters cares."
"I just wanted to make a good first impression," I glance at the freshman Congresswoman in the mirror while I make quick work of the stain. She's leaning casually against the opposite wall with her arms crossed. I haven't had much occasion to interact with her, so I'm not sure how to read her body language.
"Do you know whether your next one is a boy or a girl?"
"We don't know. It was kind of fun being surprised with David, so we decided not find out this time either." I shrug my blazer back on.
"I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?" I ask.
"Work in that madhouse over there and balance your family. I know how hard it can be on this end of Pennsylvania Avenue and you people work more insane hours than we do." The congresswoman's voice conveys her admiration.
"Josh is more hands-on than most people think," I hedge, wanting to give him due credit, but not wanting to ruin his reputation as Bartlet's bulldog.
Paula pushes herself away from the wall. "You're selling yourself short. You weren't invited because of whom you're married to. You know that, right?"
"I'm not sure why I was invited."
That's the unvarnished truth. The Democratic Women's Leadership Caucus is primarily made up of Senators and Congresswomen with a leavening of lobbyists, businesswomen and a couple of journalists. It is, without a doubt, one of the most influential networking groups in DC. Josh and Leo live in fear of the day the DWLC decides to come down off the Hill and wreck havoc on the domestic policy agenda. To date, they do nothing more than gather once a month for brunch.
***
"It's an isolated incident," Secretary Hutchinson interrupts me for the third time. "Nothing in the intelligence reports over the past several months has indicated"
"Nothing in the intelligence reports over the past several months indicated a bunch of guys in a rubber boat were going to launch a repeat of the Cole incident either," I grab the floor back, earning myself a glare from Leo and a sigh from the Secretary of State.
The major players in the National Security Council: Dr. McNally, the Secretaries of Defense and State, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Leo, the President and myself - have been sequestered in the Oval Office since five o'clock this morning arguing over what needs to be done both internationally and domestically in response to the attack on out cruiser.
In regards to the international ramifications, I've kept my opinions to myself for hours, deferring to General Alexander and Nancy McNally. The discussion has turned to Homeland Security, however, and since Chuck Hills is out of the country, I am the room's expert. Much to the dismay of Miles Hutchinson, who thinks I'm a bit of a dove to put it mildly. I heard he recently called me a two-bit pansy with delusions of grandeur.
"Do you really want to ramp up the terror alert level on the day before Thanksgiving?" Hutchinson argues. "When half the country is heading to grandma's house for dinner tomorrow? Are you insane? Do you understand the impact raising the alert level will have on holiday travel? And then when nothing happens we look like hapless idiots. Again."
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. The Secretary of Defense can drive me nuts faster than half of the Republicans on the Hill and we've been at this for over six hours.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary, I'm saying we need to raise the alert level. The day is half over. It won't have the impact on travel you think it will. Take a look outside." I make a sweeping gesture at the Oval Office's frost-covered windows. "You can't get there from here by air and if I'm a suicide bomber, an airport terminal full of stranded holiday travelers is an enticing target."
"You can't just pull a van full of explosives into the white zone anymore, Lyman," Hutchinson scoffs.
My ass you can't. I open my mouth to say something slightly less profane, but close it when Leo stands up.
"Mr. President, we need to make a decision," Leo pointedly ends the discussion before I'm allowed to present my case.
He sighs and stands, bringing the rest of us to our feet. "We already raised the force protection level, correct?"
"It was automatically raised to Charlie for most commands when the Shiloh was attacked, sir. The port where the attack occurred is at Delta for the next couple of days," General Alexander confirms.
"Let's just leave well enough alone for right now then," he decides, siding with Secretary Hutchinson. It takes all my self-control to not hang my head in defeat. "We can always reevaluate the situation later. Thank you, everyone. I'm sorry this turned into an all morning thing."
With a round of 'thank you, sirs' everyone stands and files out the door. I head straight for my office, needing to wrap up a couple loose ends before heading to the airport to get my mother.
"Where's Donna?" I call, flipping through the stack of phone messages Chris handed me as I stormed past.
A glance at the atomic clock tells me it's 11:30. I'm not going to have time to pick up David. Both assistants have appeared in my doorway, casting anxious glances at the windows behind me.
Debbie opens her mouth, but Chris speaks first. "Mrs. Lyman is stranded in Atlanta until at least tomorrow."
"You mean my mother, right?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at the blowing whiteness and then down at the stack of National Weather Service advisories on my desk.
"Yes, sir. And the Mrs. Lyman you're married to is still up on the Hill at her meeting," Debbie volunteers.
"Okay. Look, the two of you get out of here before the snow gets too bad." I'm feeling magnanimous, despite getting my ass kicked by Miles Hutchinson in the Oval Office. If these weather reports are even remotely accurate, DC isn't going to dig out from under this thing until Monday.
They both scramble for their coats and leave just before the phones start to ring off the hook. I grab the one on my desk.
"Lyman."
"Mr. Lyman? This is Dorothy Givens from the EEOB daycare center."
"What's wrong? Is David okay?" I'm a pessimist by nature. I admit it.
"David's fine," she chuckles. "But we need to close down early because of the weather"
"Oh, sure. I'll be right over."
I discover just how bad the weather is when I dash across the street. Dorothy Givens is waiting for me in the lobby of the daycare with David and his bag. It's clear she's waiting on me so she can go home herself.
"I'm sorry, Dorothy. I've been in the Oval Office all day," I apologize and take David from her.
He greets me by squealing and grabbing my nose.
"Hey, Bear. You want to go hang out at Daddy's office?" His delight at seeing me helps soothe over the bad day I'm having. "Thanks again, Dorothy. Have a Happy Thanksgiving."
We're barely out the door when my pager starts beeping wildly.
"Whatever it is can wait," I mutter, navigating the increasingly slick sidewalks with David in my arms.
Once we reach the warmth of the West Wing, I shift David on my hip and reach for my pager: "Oval - NSC - Now."
Oh, hell.
I contemplate the baby in my arms. When the President said David was welcome in the Oval Office at all times, I doubt he had a national security crisis in mind. I sent all non-essential Operations personnel home on my way across the street. What am I going to do? I mentally run through who would still be in the building and come up with only one name.
"CJ?" I skid breathlessly into her office.
"Leo is screaming bloody murder looking for you." She's bent over her desk scrounging for an article.
"I know, but I had to go get David. The daycare closed and Donna's not back yet," I plead.
She shakes her head, immediately knowing what I want from her. "No, Josh. I can't. Every time I look at him, he screams."
"Everybody else is gone or I wouldn't ask. Please? There are a couple of books in his bag; you can just read to him. He loves to be read to. Donna should be back before he gets hungry. Please?" I try the puppy dog eyes that my wife can't resist.
"Oh, give him to me." She caves and reaches for David.
"You can take his coat off, by the way," I yell over my shoulder, dashing off to the Oval Office.
Cutting through Leo's office saves me some time and I ditch my overcoat there. A young officer from the Military Office is briefing the group when I quietly enter and cross to my usual spot near the portico doors.
"What took you so long?" Leo scowls, handing me a folder.
"I had to go get David. I was gone for 10 minutes," I reply under my breath, flipping the folder open.
I give half an ear to the briefing officer while I skim the report. Its contents make me livid. In an attack nearly identical to the one on the Shiloh, terrorists hit a cruise ship making a port call in Puerto Rico. 25 people were killed.
Maybe now we can raise the alert level, I fume silently.
***
Josh isn't in his office when I get back at about one o'clock, but after hearing the news about the cruise ship attack on the radio, I didn't expect him to be. Debbie and Chris are both gone, which is fine because it isn't safe to drive out there. The snow started again during the two hours I was networking.
All of the assistants and non-essential personnel appear to have taken off. The West Wing is nearly deserted. I pour myself a cup of coffee and decide to see if CJ needs any help.
"Do you need" I stop short in the doorway to her office, flabbergasted at the sight before me.
CJ is perched on her couch beside a sobbing bundle of blankets. From the tiny blue and red Mets stocking cap on her desk and the diaper bag at her feet, I presume my son is the object of her attention.
"Thank God!"
"The daycare closed?" I surmise.
"Just before noon. Josh got paged while he was over there and he gave me that look"
The puppy dog eyes, CJ had no chance.
"How do you resist those eyes?"
"I don't. Don't feel bad," I laugh. "Has he eaten?"
"No. It started out okay. We read his books and then he started to get fussy I think he needs to be changed, 'cause he kind of smells."
"You have no idea how to change a diaper, do you?" I flick my hand, telling her to move so I can sit down and make quick work of his dirty diaper.
CJ uses the time to shut her door and draw the shades. I look at her questioningly.
"I figured you'd want to feed him," she shrugs.
"I" I smile at her gratefully. "I do. Thank you."
Her simple gesture is a testament to how much more accepting our friends have become in the last month. Just before Halloween, CJ freaked at the very idea of being in the room when I breastfed.
"Did you not get a snack this morning?" I gasp out loud at the ferocity with which he latches and proceeds to suckle with.
In response, he just presses his fists that much harder against my flesh. Josh needs to make some actual progress on the solid food front with this kid.
"How was the thing?" CJ asks, sitting down at the other end of the small sofa.
"Weird. I'm still not sure why I was invited."
"You're an up and coming player in the Democratic Party, Donna, you know that."
"You're already a player in the Party. How come you never get invited?" I ask the question I've been wondering all morning. Why me and not CJ?
"Yes, but you have the ear of one of the President's most influential advisors. Among other things," CJ leers jokingly.
"Which is what I thought at first, too. And that's fine, they can try to work me to get to Josh all they want, it'll backfire before it's successful. But I got cornered by Paula McKenzie in the restroom," I start to explain.
"Freshman from Texas?" CJ interrupts.
"Right. And she said I wasn't invited because of whom I'm married to. Which is why I'm confused."
"Who actually called and asked you to go?"
"Carol Richardson."
CJ makes a face. Richardson is a conservative Democrat from California. We're pretty sure she's a Democrat in name only because she couldn't get elected out of the San Francisco area as a Republican. She and my husband have a mutual dislike for one another.
"No, you weren't invited because of Josh, I'll agree there."
"Yeah. Hey, have you heard from Sam or Toby?" I change the subject, wondering if we can salvage Thanksgiving.
"Toby called this morning. The first leg of their flight was non-stop to O'Hare and it was closed to incoming traffic before they ever left the hotel. It sounds like they won't be able to get back until Friday. I think Joey Lucas is planning to take pity on them tomorrow."
There's a knock at the door before I can make any snide comments about Toby and Sam being stranded for Thanksgiving.
"Who is it?" CJ calls, getting up and cracking the door open. I hastily drape a blanket over my exposed breast in case it's a reporter.
The sound of Dr. Bartlet's voice puts me at ease. "I'm just trying to find out who's stranded."
"Come on in, ma'am." CJ opens the door enough for the First Lady and an unobtrusive Secret Service agent to enter.
"Solid foods not going well?" Abbey steals CJ's spot on the couch.
I return her smile. "Solid foods are Josh's project. Nature provided me with alternative feeding options."
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Mrs. Bartlet motions between CJ and I.
"No, we were just trying to figure out why Donna got invited to the DWLC brunch this morning," CJ says.
"You know, back when Jed was in the House, the DWLC was a group of Congressional wives who wanted an excuse to get together and bitch about their husbands. And find out who they were sleeping with," Abbey offers, leaning back against the arm of the couch. "Then those wives started inviting the odd woman who had gotten herself elected and then a there were a couple of women in the Press Corps, in fact I think Helen Thomas was an original member. Before the wives knew it they were outnumbered and not very welcome."
Her story, while interesting, doesn't explain how I ended up being asked to attend. I'm one of those wives who wouldn't be very welcome.
"I still don't understand."
"You know there's a rumor floating around the Press Room about a Lyman running for office in the not so distant future. Maybe they think it's going to be you," CJ suggests with a thoughtful look.
Abbey nods noncommittally. "Don't worry about the why, Donna. Just enjoy the fact you're influential enough to be invited."
"But I'm not" I start to protest. I change the subject when the First Lady shakes her head at me subtly. There's more to this than I know right now. "What brings you down here, ma'am?"
"I'm seeking out the orphans and the stranded. So far, I've discovered the support staffers have more brains than most of their bosses and are already gone. Is anybody left in Communications?" she asks CJ.
"Just the couple of guys who drew the short straws and had to work tomorrow anyway. They volunteered to stay and work the overnight desk."
"Since there was nobody around when I came back, I assume Josh sent everybody he could in Operations home. Margaret's even gone." I agree.
"I think it would be wisest if you just stayed over in the Residence tonight. Jed and I will expect you for supper tonight and dinner tomorrow. Don't try to tell me whatever holiday plans you had aren't shot to hell." Abbey gets to her feet, motioning for us to keep our seats.
CJ and I exchange glances after the door closes behind her.
"I'll bet he's going to give that lecture we all escaped last year. The one about the hats the pilgrims wore," CJ groans.
I shudder at the thought. "As long as there isn't any pink fluff at the table. 'Cause you know it'll be some kind of ancient Bartlet family recipe we all have to try and I hate pink fluff, CJ. The sight of it makes me want to puke."
***
I'm not sure why I expected Josh to gloat that this wouldn't have happened if I had listened to him in the first place. I suppose because a couple of years ago he would have. Now, however, he stands in his normal spot off to my right, doing what he did during this morning's session - watching and listening attentively. I've been impressed with his professionalism today. Even when I didn't take his advice this morning, he kept his peace.
Something Nancy McNally didn't feel the need to do after the first meeting broke up. She was in here when we got word about the cruise ship; telling me in no uncertain terms she thought he was right about the need to raise the alert level. Her exact words escape me, but her point was simple: Josh spent a great deal of time making himself the Administration's expert on Homeland Security at my request and to ignore his professional advice was foolhardy at best and put lives in danger at the worst.
She also referred to Miles Hutchinson as a Napoleonwanna-be, but I'm almost certain she was being sarcastic.
After the briefing officer finishes, I solicit options from the people in the room.
"Miles?"
The Secretary of Defense clears his throat and shoots an indecipherable look toward Josh before voicing his opinion. "Mr. President, at this point, I think what we do is continue the current level of Force Protection and raise the terror alert level to high."
"Does anyone disagree?" I glance around, taking in the shaking heads and general agreement. "Get it done."
Leo catches my eye and nods toward Josh, who seems determined to exit the room as quickly as possible. I return his gesture and send my Chief of Staff after his Deputy. Leo needs the chance fix whatever is wrong with Josh.
***
I grab my coat and almost clear Margaret's desk area before Leo chases me down.
"Josh." He jerks his head toward the closest room.
I precede him into the Mural Room, pretty sure I know what this is about. Closing the door, Leo turns to face me and then doesn't say a word.
"What? I left David with CJ and she wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect."
"You can't blame yourself for what happened in Puerto Rico," he says, placing his hand on my shoulder and gripping it gently. "You had a good day, Josh."
"If I'd had a good day, 25 people on a holiday cruise in Puerto Rico would be gorging themselves at the all-you-can-eat buffet dinner. Not coming home in body bags," I reply derisively, shrugging off his hand.
"We have to be cautious sometimes. This was the first time you've ever been in an NSC meeting like this. We can't cry wolf every time there's a hint something bad might happen. And this time there wasn't even a hint," Leo says.
The condescension in his voice pushes me right over the edge and my frayed temper explodes.
"I didn't want this damn job, Leo. I didn't ask for it. I gave the damn card back the first time. But you and the President insisted I step up and do it. So I did the best damn job I could. I learned more about emergency management, military readiness, foreign policy and intelligence than I ever wanted to know. You asked me to become your expert on Homeland Security and I did. I did everything you asked me to and when it comes time for me to give you an informed opinion, you cut me off and roll over for Miles Hutchinson," I pause and stare at Leo stonily before continuing. "You are right about one thing - I am new in there and there are people on the National Security Council who think I don't have any idea what I'm talking about. I guess I didn't realize you were one them."
He opens his mouth to refute my statement and then stops. "He has to consider every option, Josh. You aren't always right."
"Despite published reports to the contrary, I'm not egotistical enough to say he has to take my advice. I'm just asking you to hear me out."
"People did listen to you and you did have a good day, son," Leo tries again, stepping away from the door.
"Sell it to the people who lost loved ones today." I answer coldly, slamming the door on my way out.
***
My husband alone in his office with the lights out is never an indicator of a good day. I settle David in the port-a-crib next to my desk before entering Josh's lair. He's sitting with his feet on the windowsill, lost in the blizzard raging outside.
"Hey," I whisper quietly, making myself at home on his lap.
"How was your thing?" He takes my hand and absently rubs his thumb over the back of it.
I, in turn, rest my head on his chest. "It was okay. I'm still not sure why I was invited."
"You're an influential member of this Administration. Why wouldn't they invite you?"
I'm touched at his sincerity, but we're not sitting in his dimly lit office at 2 o'clock in the afternoon because I had a lousy day.
"What happened?"
Josh sighs deeply. "25 people were killed by some nuts in a rubber boat because I couldn't make nice with the Secretary of Defense."
The infamous Lyman guilt complex rears its ugly head. It's been quite some time since Josh tried to take the blame for something outside of his direct control.
"No," I lift my head and stare at him until he meets my eyes. "25 people died because of some nuts in a rubber boat."
"Donna," he whines, clearly wanting to brood.
"Josh," I mimic him. "Don't do this, honey. No matter what happened in the Oval Office, do you really think you could have prevent any of today's events?"
"Yes! Okay? Yes, I do! If we had raised the alert level, those people would never have been allowed to leave the cruise ship and port security would have been tightened," Josh says empathetically.
"Who made the decision to not raise the alert level?" I ask the rhetorical question to help Josh realize he isn't at fault for what happened today.
"The President," he admits after a moment of silence.
"Did you tell him what you thought should be done?"
"I got cut off."
"By whom?"
"Hutchinson and then Leo."
We have a winner. He's upset because Leo wouldn't listen to him. Even though he insists Leo will never take his father's place, Leo's approval means the world to Josh and he knows it. Leaving me with the question of why Leo cut him off.
"Were you going to say something that hadn't already been said?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm supposed to be the guy on Homeland Security, Donna. They sat me down and convinced me I could make a difference by doing this shit. I did everything they fucking asked me to do. I gave up how many hours with you to get myself educated on this crap? We cut our goddamn honeymoon short! But when it counts, I don't get to voice my fucking opinion? And 25 innocent people get killed. It's bullshit!" Josh rages. If I weren't sitting in his lap, he'd be pacing.
"What are you going to do? Turn your card in again?" I challenge.
"I don't know," he sighs. The fight drains out of him and leaves behind the guilt. "Can we go home?"
"We're staying here tonight. The Bartlets are expecting us for supper." Accepting the First Lady's offer without talking to Josh may have been a mistake.
"We're doing what?" Josh asks in disbelief.
"Dr. Bartlet invited us to stay here rather than drive home. And since our holiday plans have fallen through, she wants us to have dinner here tomorrow as well."
"Donna!" He whines, but follows me into my office to gather David's things.
"Go back in there and get your spare clothes," I order, pointing at his office.
***
A steward shows us to the Pierce Bedroom. He politely informs us dinner will be promptly at six o'clock and we should make ourselves at home before leaving the room and closing the door.
David is asleep in Donna's arms, so I set up the port-a-crib we brought from her office. She lies him down and covers him with the green and gold afghan her great-aunt Gertrude sent us as a baby gift, then wraps her arm around my waist.
Watching my little boy breathing evenly, my guilt surges again. Twenty-five years ago, someone stood over the crib of their young son and thought about the future not knowing it would include a representative from a cruise-line would be knocking on door to tell them their son and his brand-new wife had been killed in a terrorist attack on their honeymoon.
"Josh?" Donna whispers questioningly.
"I just I feel like I didn't do enough. I should have done more." My voice is raspy and I'm struggling to keep my emotions under control.
"Come and lie down," Donna suggests. "You didn't sleep last night, you're exhausted."
"I don't need a nap. I need my boss to stop treating me like an intern and start taking me seriously," I nearly bite her head off.
"I'll rub your back," she ignores my tantrum, turning me toward the bed before releasing her hold. She crosses her arms and cocks her hip, clearly stating she's in charge.
With a heavy sigh, I shrug out of my coat, shirt and tie.
"Take everything off," she instructs when I move to lie down.
Buck naked, I'm finally allowed to sprawl across the bed. Donna straddles my waist and begins kneading the tense muscles in my back.
***
I strip down to my underwear, figuring this will end with an activity that doesn't require clothing. Josh is a gigantic knot of anger and guilt. I start with his neck and shoulders, working diligently until each muscle lets go of its tension. Josh groans repeatedly in appreciation of my efforts. I can feel his anxiety waning by the time I reach his butt. The urge to end this properly is overwhelming.
When Josh is finally spent, I crawl up to cuddle in his arms. We don't speak, I just stroke his chest until his breathing tells me he's asleep.
***
"Shh, Bear" I whisper. I'm pacing the hallways of the Residence trying to get David to calm down. He woke up from his nap while Josh was still sleeping and started crying. I changed him and tried to feed him, but he still wouldn't stop wailing. The change in his routine is probably why he's so cranky.
He's not unlike his father that way. But I can't calm my son down with mind-blowing sex.
"Donna?"
"Sir?" I push open the door to the President's private study. "We weren't disturbing you, were we? It's just he's only been in the Residence a couple of times and it's hard to get him to settle down in strange places"
"It's okay." He gets out of his chair, crossing the room to take David from my arms. "I can think of far more disturbing things than an upset child."
David responds by stopping mid-cry and staring at the President with frank curiosity.
"You remember me, don't you?" President Bartlet asks with a smile David happily returns. "You'll get used to this place in due time."
"Thank you for letting us stay." I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I know we don't live very far, but"
"Sit down, Donna," he interrupts me again, gesturing to the leather loveseat near his chair.
"I Thank you, sir." I don't know what to say. I tease Josh and the others quite a bit about getting trapped by the President and his stories, but I've never been on the receiving end.
"This is as good a time as any for us to talk."
"You want to talk to me?" This is a first.
"How's Josh?"
"He's okay." I reply carefully, in what may be the biggest overstatement of my life. "He's taking a nap. He didn't get any sleep last night."
"I imagine he told you what happened today. Do you like fingers?" President Bartlet addresses his last comment to David, who has grabbed the President's finger and is trying to pull it into his mouth.
I have to think about how to translate Josh's profanity-laden tirade into words I can actually use in the presence of the President of the United States. "He told me some of it."
President Bartlet's restrained chuckling surprises me somewhat.
"If I'm honest with myself, I'd imagine he's not to keen on Leo or I right now."
When I don't answer, President Bartlet turns his attention to the baby. "You do look remarkably like your daddy, don't you?"
"He has Josh's personality, too," I snort, wondering how my mother-in-law survived Josh's childhood with her hair intact.
"Donna, I know Abbey's talked to you a couple of times about the ups and downs of being a politician's wife. I want you to understand she and I have the utmost faith in you."
"Sir?" I'm confused.
"Every President likes to leave a legacy and an heir, so to speak, to continue their agenda and finish what they started. For most, it's a Vice-President they handpicked and brought along to take over the job. I've chosen to focus a little further into the future," he says with a glance down at David.
Meeting my eyes, he continues. "It was supposed to be Sam. He had it all - youth, passion, vigor. But then a funny thing happened on the way to the forum, so to speak."
"Sir?" This conversation has reduced me to one, single-syllable word.
"You."
"Me?" Okay, I've got two words now.
"Well, you and then this little guy and I'm sure your next child will have an equally strong impact," President Bartlet shifts David in his arms just slightly, letting the boy continue to gum his fingers. "Josh is still unsure of himself on some things and untried in many ways, but he's learning. He's got his eye on the big picture now. You're responsible for a lot of his growth. You should take great pride in the changes you've wrought in him."
"I'm not sure I understand." And that's as much an understatement as my earlier assessment of Josh being fine was an overstatement. I haven't changed Josh. At least, not intentionally. Any changes to my husband have been his own doing.
"Josh is going on to great things."
"I know he wants to run for the Senate." Whatever else he's thinking about, he's keeping close to the vest.
"He'll only have that seat for a term. Two at the most. If he didn't need the experience of being a candidate, I'd talk him out of it. But you can't get where he's going without having run for something."
We're silent for a long time. I'm thinking hard about what the President has said and what he hasn't said, trying to read between the lines and decipher the code to my future with Josh. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to what President Bartlet is thinking about.
"Do you like the White House, Donna?" he asks out of the blue.
"It's an interesting place to work."
"It's an interesting place to live, as well. Did you know John Kennedy was the last president to have young children in the White House? John, Junior was born mere weeks after he was elected."
"Mrs. Kennedy actually gave birth to a child while her husband was in office, too. They had a son named Patrick. He was born on August 7, 1963 and died two days later," I yawn. God knows I must be tired if I'm trading trivia with President Bartlet.
"I think a president should be surrounded by children, to help remind him of the future and why he's doing what he's doing," he says, getting to his feet.
I do the same with far less grace.
"Late March, right?" President Bartlet asks, handing back a far less fussy David.
"April 3rd," I correct him, feeling myself blush.
The President chuckles softly. "The second of many to come, Josh says."
"I want a big family," I admit, allowing myself to be ushered to the door. His eyes twinkle and ask the obvious question. "I don't know for sure. Maybe six or seven."
"A president should be surrounded by children," President Bartlet repeats, patting me on the arm.
This time I get the message he's trying to send.
***
"Feel better?" Donna's voice fills the small kitchen on the Residence's main floor.
"Some," I reply truthfully. Mind-blowing sex is a sure-fire way to alleviate my tension.
"What are you doing?" She joins me near the butcher-block counter where I'm rolling out pie crust. I'm struck by how beautiful she is, standing there in a pair of flannel pants and one of my over-sized t-shirts with David on her hip. Not for the first time am I grateful she insists we keep emergency overnight bags in the office.
"The Bartlets were going to Manchester for Thanksgiving, so they gave the staff tonight and tomorrow off. I ran into Dr. Bartlet and she asked me if I'd cook dinner tomorrow," I gesture around the kitchen with my rolling pin. "This place is stocked with everything I could ever need and one of the chefs scrounged up a turkey before he took off."
"The girls and Charlie are already up there, aren't they?"
I nod and sprinkle a bit more flour over my dough to keep the rolling pin from sticking. "It's us, the Bartlets, CJ, Leo and Mamme if her flight gets in."
"What about supper?"
"I made your favorite comfort food. It's in the oven."
"You're going to feed the President and First Lady tator tot casserole?" My wife lifts her eyebrows, indicating she thinks I'm nuts.
"It's fast and easy and I can make pie crust while it's in the oven. Do you want fresh apple pie tomorrow or not?" I counter.
"Is the oven on?" Donna teases me with a smile.
"Yes, I turned the oven on."
"So, I just came from the President's study," Donna announces. She sits David down on the floor at our feet and picks up a knife to start slicing apples.
"Did he practice the pilgrim hat lecture on you?" I'm trying to keep the discussion light-hearted.
"No. Actually, we traded JFK trivia. Josh, where are we heading?"
I stop what I'm doing and face her. I'm not sure what she's asking. "Huh?"
"I mean, I know you're going to run for the Senate, but what happens after that?"
I shrug. After today's experience, I'm no longer sure I'm capable of making the types of decisions I once thought I was.
"President Bartlet said every President wants to leave an heir and his was going to be Sam, but not anymore." Donna leaves her unasked question hanging. If not Sam, then who?
"He's talking about me," I answer her with a flash of insight. The changes in my job and assignments since last year's election start to make sense. "I I'm not sure I want it. Not after today. I'm not even sure I want to run for the Senate anymore."
Today was extremely disillusioning and added to the gun control thing last week, I'm starting to question my effectiveness in changing things for the better. Which is the only reason I'm in politics.
"What would you do instead?" Donna scoffs, popping an apple slice into her mouth.
"I could cash in my trust funds and live the life of a gentleman farmer in Wisconsin." As dorky and out of character as it sounds, it's increasingly enticing.
My wife just snorted at me.
"What?"
She simply stares at me like I'm an idiot until I hang my head. Once I concede, Donna wraps her arms around me and pulls me close.
"I just don't think I can make those kinds of choices," I whisper, resting my chin on her shoulder. "How do you live with yourself when 25 people die because you made the wrong decision?"
"That's a question you should ask him," Donna replies. "He wants you to ask, baby. He and Leo are both here for you. They know you're still learning and they want to teach you. Why do you think you spend so much time staffing him? Every other day when it used to be twice a week? He wants you in there, learning everything you can. And you are, honey. You are."
"You really think so?"
Donna has always been wiser than me in these types of things. I can get tunnel vision and focus on the individual trees too much at times. Donna sees the whole forest and in that way we balance each other perfectly.
"I really think so."
"Are you okay with it?" I pull away, knowing we're about to start a journey that, with a good deal of luck, will bring us right back to this kitchen someday.
"As long as we do it together," she answers. Her blue eyes shine with a confidence in me I'm not sure I share.
"Okay, then," I nod and seal our pact.
***
"You talked to Donna?" Abbey asks.
We're standing outside the kitchen eavesdropping on Josh and Donna.
I nod, leaning against the hallway wall. "Yeah, I thought she could help him understand."
"She knows him better than anyone." Abbey agrees. "I'm not questioning your choice. I happen to agree with it, but why Josh?"
"They remind me a lot of us, when we were younger," I admit. "They're both smart and empathetic and they listen to each other. Donna keeps him on an even keel and he supports her unconditionally."
Abbey purses her lips. "She's going to take a beating if they go through with it."
"Because she's so much younger than he is?"
"Mainly. She doesn't have a degree. Think about the way she got her job. We know how intelligent she is. We see her leadership and people skills every day. The public is going to see her as a little blonde tramp who slept her way into the West Wing."
My wife is exceedingly perceptive.
"So you convinced the DWLC to bring her in so she could start gaining some allies outside the Administration?" I ask knowingly.
"You're not the only one with a protégé, Jethro," she states, turning on her heel and heading away from the kitchen, toward our bedroom.
I stand in her wake, chuckling.
"Are you coming?" she calls over her shoulder.
"I'm going to make sure there's going to be marshmallow salad." I love marshmallow salad. My mother had a family recipe she handed down to me.
"Nobody likes your pink fluff, Jed," Abbey shakes her head.
"You eat my pink fluff every year." What does she mean nobody likes my fluff?
"No, the cat eats your fluff every year. Why do you think she always has diarrhea every Thanksgiving."