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Chapter 2 - Mockery

There were a few things that he remembered with stunning clarity, no matter what amount of time had passed since then. Probably most people knew the feeling, remembering things down the smells and sounds, not just driftwood of what once was but an imprint of something that happened. Fitz was sure that the moment he had carried Jerry down those stairs down the podium had already turned into one of these memories, stuck forever in his mind with haunting, tormenting clarity. The flashlights flickering, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, the fabric of the boy´s clothes against his hands, the blood. The urgent yet calm words of his agents urging him to stay away from his own child in case the collapse had been caused by something contagious. They had not backed away under his glares, the desperation of a father but it had only been one of them that seemed to understand the full scope. He would probably be forever thankful for Tom Larsen. There had not been more than a curt nod of understanding and the man had let him carry his own son without further questioning. Not blocked his way. Not insisted on the usual safety protocol. Small blessings in a world of madness…

The sun was shining as they stood on the edge of the small cemetery. Why was the sun shining? It seemed like just another cruel jab of fate. Tragedy laughing in their faces. The beginning chills of winter, the last drifts of leaves had to be what they should contend themselves with, a meager display of nature at mirroring a couple parents grief over their oldest child.

There had not been much of a debate over the funeral. Not a big media event but a burial with closest friends and family only and even there it seemed they had become picky. Neither of them had wanted to turn this into a media event and whereas Fitz knew his wife had a reckless streak to her when it came to playing the media to their advantage, her advantage, it was good to see she had limits in that. But such thoughts didn´t matter. Not right now. No media. No cameras. Just them and a few more, less than a dozen all in all and the priest. After the insanity of the last few days this seemed the only right thing to do. His family had a burial site down in California. He had never had to think about these kinds of things but the issue had never come up. Burying his son, his very own son, next to his own father had been out of question.

There had been a eulogy. No pomp. No lies like back when Old Jerry had died. Just honest grief. It had been minutes ago but had anyone asked him about it, Fitz would not have been able to remember a single word of his own speech. Yet this was another of those carbon moments. This, right now. The cooling November wind against his cheek, his gaze fixed on the coffin and his wife who gave his hand a squeeze right before he stepped forward and picked up the shovel, the priest´s calm, floating words just another addition to the mockery of the skies…

"Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand … For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, "Fear not, I am the one who helps you."

He did not break down, his legs did not give way. That had come the night before. And the one before that. And that other night since then, when the cheers from other rooms of the West Wing had drifted into his office where he sat, cradled in his wife´s desperate grasp, his wife dialing a number that had never received an answer.

It seemed hours later, but could merely have been more than half an hour. The motorcade had been reduced, on his urgent insistence, to the very necessary core, the press corps had been left at the White House, the media as cut off and misled from information as was possible. Probably there were quite some down in California right now, waiting for a burial that would never take place, leering after pictures of a grieving president and First Lady they could sell off to the highest cutthroat bidder. It was almost strange to not be beleaguered by flashlights and cameras and microphones. The three black limousines parked near the entrance of the small DC cemetery they had chosen mostly because he knew Mellie would not be able to bear not visiting her son´s grave often, were hard to hide with just a few leaves left, but it had worked well enough. No reporters as far as he could tell and when they walked back, hand in hand as they had not done for so long, it gave him a soothing sense of peace.

They had almost reached the cars, their daughter as numb as them, petrified, unable to understand what was happening, clasping her mother´s hand, when Fitz saw him. He kept a respectful distance, near one of the trees yet within the Secret Service´s perimeter. For a moment, Fitz meant to just ignore the man, then he turned to Mellie, her face the mask it had been ever since …then. "I will be right back." He squeezed her hand, then let go and she let him. Did not ask any questions about the man who had been watching them, but just gave him a brief look over her shoulder when she continued her way to the car.

"I did not expect anybody to know about this." His voice sounded calm, but he found it dull. Devoid of emotion after there had been too much of it these past couple of days.

"That´s because nobody knows." Eli Pope met his eyes straight on. "We both know this is not the place for the mobs."

Fitz nodded. There was the briefest flicker of thought, whether he should ask. About her. He discarded it immediately. She had run off in the moment where he had needed her the most and either that meant she just didn´t care or her father had something to do with her disappearance which meant either way he would not get any information from the man.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh", Pope said. "I guess I just came here to tell you that, as a way of comfort, maybe, if that is even possible.

"It´s appreciated."

Her father nodded. "I hope I did not intrude, Mr President."

There was no shaking of hands, no more words than these. The other man just turned around and walked away. They had never been on good terms, naturally not, but in that moment Fitz felt the smallest feeling of gratefulness. Despite all the differences the man at least put up that kind of dignity. He had not been invited, but his brief visitation seemed like comfort. Almost.

He opened his mouth. Where is she? He wanted to ask. Then he did and the other man turned.

"She took a plane." he said. "One I urged her to take a long time ago but she never did when I asked her. This, Mr President, I am not to be blamed for." And with that, the other man left, leaving the bitter taste of regret and shame. He had just buried his child for God´s sake. He should bury other things as well while he was at it instead of mocking his own son´s memory.