Chapter One
March 5, 2004; Washington DC
"CJ?"
Josh Lyman came into the back room of the funeral parlor. He didn't see the woman for whom he was searching, but he did see her eldest son.
"Where's your mother?"
"She's lying down in the next room. She's got a headache."
"Mike, right? Well, she needs to come out. He's here."
"It's Martin; and, as I said, my mother is lying down with a headache. These last days, shit, these past thirteen months, have been total hell for all of us, especially for her. This is the first time she's really slept since Dad - " the voice broke slightly "and tomorrow is going to be even worse. So if she's resting, she's going to stay resting until she wakes up, and your boss can just wait if he wants his photo-op."
"Look, I know how much you're hurting. I lost my father too, six years ago, but my boss happens to be President of the United States," Josh said sharply.
Martin Cregg Reeves stiffened and showed that he was not about to back down. "I know very well who John Hoynes is. He's the man who appointed my mother Secretary of Education, the reason why we moved from Berkeley to Washington, the reason why my father" again the voice broke "is being buried from a church in DC instead of from the school where he taught for fifteen years."
"Are you saying that moving here caused your father's cancer? I thought you were on track for Summa at Dartmouth, and you're heading for Stanford Law, right? Surely you don't think - " Josh reminded himself that the young man in front of him was just that – young – and kept the derision out of his voice.
"Of course, I don't believe that!" Martin exclaimed. "But if they had stayed in California, in Berkeley, Mom and Dad would have stayed under the radar. He and she would not have had their last days together polluted by the likes of Pat Albertson and Jerry Savannah claiming that God gave Dad cancer because he quote-unquote polluted my mother with his blackness."
Josh Lyman, Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, sat down and ran his hand over his head, front to back.
"I despise that kind of hatred, Martin, and so does President Hoynes. But this country needed your mother's talents, her expertise. The improvement in this nation's public schools in the past four years is just unbelievable. And your father, God rest his soul, has done so much for the religious community in this town. Have you been out there? The Cardinal, the chief Rabbi of the biggest synagogue in town, the Episcopalian Archbishop, and the Imam of the biggest mosque are all sitting together talking about how influential your father was."
A door opened and Claudia Cregg Reeves, looking beautiful even in grief, the black of her jacket dress setting off her height and her pale skin, came into the room.
"Josh?"
"CJ," Josh came over and kissed her cheek. "Again, I am SO sorry."
"Thank you. Why are you back - "
"The President came by to pay his respects."
"And you let me sleep?" CJ rushed over to the mirror to check her hair and makeup, to smooth down her dress.
"Mom, you were exhausted."
"Martin! He's the President!"
"And you are a grieving widow."
"Why are you back here, anyway? Who's out front?"
I had just come back to check on you right before Mr. Lyman came in. Uncle Alex and Aunt Eve are holding down the fort."
"And your brothers and sister?"
"Aunt Gina took them out for a bit. They needed a break."
"Okay, I'm ready. Come with me?" CJ smiled at the young man who looked so much like his father did when she and he first met, fell in love, and conceived this son.
Martin smiled back at his mother, kissed her cheek, and took her hand.
"Let's go see the leader of the free world."
"CJ."
John Hoynes smiled as he put his hands on CJ's shoulders and kissed her briefly. Cameras flashed and the President somehow managed to turn toward them while still focusing his attention on CJ.
"He was one of a kind, CJ, and I know that so much of what you are, so much of what you have to give to the rest of us, is because of his love for you, his confidence in you, his unfailing support of you.
"Take as long as you need, CJ. Come back only when you're ready."
"Excuse me, Mr. President." Josh Lyman came up behind John Hoynes and then spoke in a low voice. "A photo with Imam Hamudi and Rabbi Silverstein would be a good thing, considering your plans for the peace conference next week."
"Excuse me, CJ." The President stepped away to join the two clergymen and the cameras flashed again. One of the priests who had accompanied the Cardinal came up to CJ and the two of them walked away from the coffin.
"Look at the bastard, Uncle Alex," Martin said to his father's older brother, "using Dad's visitation for his own gain."
"That's what politicians do, kid. He's not the worst of them."
"Colonel Reeves?" Alex looked up to see the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs approaching them.
"Admiral Fitzwallace."
Alex introduced his nephew to the man, who expressed his sympathies. Then Martin stepped away to greet someone else.
The President stepped away from the imam and the rabbi and looked around for his Education Secretary. She was nowhere to be seen, but her son was by his father's urn.
"Martin? I need to get back to the White House. Please tell your mother that anything she needs, I'm here for her."
Martin was well aware of the gossip about John Hoynes. Nothing had ever been proven (witness not only his election in '98 but also his reelection last year), but the stories were widespread. John and Suzanne Hoynes had an open marriage. John and Suzanne Hoynes had a marriage in name only. Suzanne Hoynes was a closeted lesbian. The Secret Service snuck women into the White House for a) the President, b) the First Lady, or c) a three-way. No way in hell would he allow the remotest possibility of such gossip about his mother.
"President Hoynes, with all due respect, what my mother needs is to have the only man she ever loved, the only man she ever gave herself to, at her side, alive and well. And I don't think even you can arrange that."
Martin turned and walked away from the President. John Hoynes signaled for his COS.
"Let's get out of here."
Two minutes later, CJ returned to the main room to see the President and his entourage of Secret Service agents and the press corps that dogged his every step leave the funeral home.
"Excuse me, Dr. Reeves?"
She turned around. The voice belonged to a man about her age, maybe a few years older. His hair, his beard, and his mustache were red, interspersed with some gray. He had the bluest eyes. He looked vaguely familiar.
"Ma'am, I'm Danny Concannon, with the Post. I just wanted to express my sympathies. From what I've seen, from what I've read, your husband was a fine man."
Danny Concannon. The senior White House reporter. Paul had commented, when they watched the press conferences, that the man seemed to be very good at his job.
"Of course, Mr. Concannon. Jeannie Madsen speaks highly of you." Jeannie was the education reporter for the Post. "Thank you for your thoughts.
"Well, again, I'm sorry for your loss. I'd best get back to covering your boss."
Later that evening
"I'm going to bed."
CJ wasn't really sleepy, but she knew that the others – Martin, Gina and Randy, Alex and Eve – were tired and they wouldn't go to bed while they thought she was still awake.
"Are you sure, Mom?"
CJ held her emotions in check as Martin came up and took her in his arms. He was so much like Paul and it took all of her effort to not fall into those arms as if it were her husband holding her and not her son.
So CJ kissed Martin's cheek, exchanged embraces with the others, and headed up the stairs of the old rectory.
She opened the door of the first bedroom on the left.
Eight year old Stevie ("Steve, Mommy, I'm not a little kid anymore!") was sprawled out on his stomach, clutching his pillow.
Nine year old Dick was lying on his side in a fetal position. Behind him, Ria was curled around his body.
CJ sighed. She was fairly sure that it was just a reaction to losing her father, but it took her back eight years, when she and Paul adopted the three little orphans whose lives had been so traumatic.
At the time, it had made good sense not to have another child for so many years after Marty was born. First of all, she had her senior year to complete and Paul had his final year of law school. When the graduate school and the Poli Sci department gave her a full tuition fellowship (plus a small stipend for books and living expenses), concentrating on getting her Ph.D. was the only logical decision.
Paul had passed the bar with (naturally) flying colors and was hired by the Dartmouth alumnus who had befriended him three years earlier. Everyone at the firm thought very highly of him and it was assumed that he was on the fast track to partnership.
Right before Christmas of her third year in graduate school, CJ had finished the first draft of her thesis and had received very encouraging responses from her advisor and the committee. The suggested changes were very manageable and she was confident that she would be able to defend her work by February. The department chair had given her "as much assurance as I can" that there would be an offer of employment for the following academic year. The relief, after six intense years of study, was heady, and CJ decided that for the next month, she would take an intellectual break. Until Groundhog Day, she would be wife and mother.
But as she reveled in her downtime, she began to sense that all was not well in her husband. It took some effort, but she persisted and, one Saturday afternoon, when they were at the winery and Gina's mother was letting Marty help her make ravioli, the two of them took horses and rode up to the tallest hill on the estate.
"Please, darling, tell me."
And he did.
Paul was no longer in love with the legal system. He was restless, often waking in the middle of the night.
"And when that happens, sweetheart, I think God is calling me to ministry."
He had considered Divinity school for a while his last year at Dartmouth, had even applied to and been accepted by Yale and Union. Then he had decided that he could do more good in the courtroom than in the pulpit. But now –
"I guess it's just buyer's remorse, five years later," Paul smiled at her.
Maybe, CJ told him, and maybe it was something more. Maybe he should apply to one of the members of the Theological Union. She countered all of his arguments. They could wait a while for a house. For that matter, they could move to a less expensive apartment if necessary. The starting salary for an instructor was not very high, but they wouldn't be destitute. For one thing, the health benefits were better at Berkeley than at his law firm.
So Paul kissed her hands and told her that if he were to become a cleric, he couldn't do it without her love and support.
After being accepted by the Pacific School of Religion, Paul spoke with the partners of the firm and tendered his resignation. The men were supportive and even offered him part-time work as a paralegal. Paul and CJ used the modest inheritance he had received from his maternal grandfather to pay off his law school loans rather than as the down payment on a house. They moved from the condo in San Francisco to a two bedroom apartment much like the one Paul had shared with Larry that first year in law school.
Three years later, CJ was an assistant professor in the Poli Sci department and Paul was a newly ordained minister, with an associate's position in a church in Berkeley and an instructor's slot at the Pacific School of Religion.
And after seven years of marriage, they began to experience the mystical joy that comes when a couple makes love not only for sexual satisfaction but also because they want to conceive a child.
The first time she miscarried, four months into the pregnancy, he kissed away her tears, holding in his own until he was alone with the senior minister of his church.
The second time, they cried together. He gently scolded her when she wondered if they were being punished for something they had done. ("He doesn't work that way, sweetheart. He didn't want this to happen anymore than you or I did.")
The third time, he told her, with a voice raspy from sobbing, that they couldn't put themselves through this any more, and she agreed, fresh tears from her eyes soaking into his shirt. He would get a vasectomy ("It's easier on me, sweetheart, and easier to reverse if they find out why and how to prevent it."). When she asked, somewhat hesitantly, if they could adopt, he smiled at her and said they could take into their hearts as many children as she wanted and the agencies would allow.
Five months later, they got the call. There were three kids, a girl of six, and two boys, fifteen months and two months. The children were mixed race, a white mother and two black fathers. ("Which is one of the reasons I thought of you," the social worker said. "The two of you would understand."). The mother had been married to the father of the little girl; when the child was four, the father was in the wrong place at the wrong time, waiting for a bus when the gang-banger next to him was executed in a drive-by. After that, the mother went into a mental tailspin and became addicted to the anti-depressants and other pills prescribed for her. She felt she needed a man in her life and found one who reminded her of her husband. However, the resemblance was only physical and the next man took advantage of the situation, spending the modest life insurance and the survivor benefits for his own use. He never married her, but fathered two sons with her. On the way home from the hospital after the birth of the second child, he wrecked the car, killing himself and the woman. The newborn miraculously survived, most likely because the hospital staff placed the donated state of the art infant seat in the back seat of the car and fastened the baby in it. The autopsy revealed a blood alcohol level three times the limit and traces of Percocet® in the man.
"There's no family to speak of. The baby is fine; the mother was clean throughout the pregnancy. However, the toddler has some issues. He was born addicted and although there don't seem to be any mental deficiencies, thank God, he is physically behind schedule for his age. Candace has her own set of problems. There are signs of sexual abuse. We can't get her to admit it, but we think it was the boys' father. The Department will cover the cost of psychological treatment and family counseling for five years. I realize it's a lot to throw on you all at once," the social worker smiled at them, "so take time to think about it. I don't need an answer right now."
But Paul and CJ had one right then.
For the boys, being so young, it was as if they had always been part of the family.
Candace was a different story. It took several years for her to feel secure in the Reeves family. CJ could only watch and admire as her husband patiently waited for the little girl to realize that he was nothing like the first man who had taken her birth father's place.
She remembered the night, almost three years into the adoption, when the two of them had come into her room to say goodnight. (For the first two years, Candace had insisted on sleeping with Dick. After long sessions with the therapist, she revealed that the boys' father had abused her when Emily was too pregnant or still in recovery. The man also began to hit the toddler when he messed his diapers and she wanted to protect her brother. It was a major step to get her to sleep in the little room that Paul and CJ had decorated with a little girl in mind.) Paul had run his finger down the bridge of the little girl's nose. She sighed, and said, "My first daddy used to do that."
When they left her bedroom, CJ noticed two tears on Paul's cheek.
"She said 'My first daddy' just then," Paul answered when asked.
"Darling, I'm so sorry," CJ reached up to comfort her husband.
"I'm not upset, sweetheart. Before, she always called Morriss her 'real daddy'. I think she means that now she thinks of me as her second daddy."
In the next few months, she did begin to open up, especially to Paul. For one thing, they found out that she hated her name. (The boys' father called her his "little piece of candy" and the bad memories spoiled the name for her.)
"Well, honey," CJ said, "we'll use your middle name."
It turned out that "Gloria" sounded stuffy to the little girl.
"I think Gloria is pretty; it's what the angels sang when Jesus was born," Paul said, "but maybe it is a little stuffy for you. How about Ria?"
And for the first time, she ran to his lap and let him hold her the way she dimly remembered being held in those early years before a bullet devastated her life and that of her mother.
Paul went to all her teachers and insisted that she be called Ria. He went to the bureau of records and filed for an official name change.
Until a year ago, Ria had been a delightful young girl on the verge of becoming a delightful young lady, secure in the love and the steady guidance of two parents who loved her. Now, seeing her sleeping with her little brother, CJ hoped that losing a father for the second time in ten years would not be too traumatic for Ria.
CJ stepped in her room, stripped off her clothes, and showered. Then she slipped into one of her husband's T-shirts.
About five months ago, CJ started buying new ones for him and stopped washing the ones he wore. She kept the used shirts in a big Ziploc ™ bag, and for the past three nights, she had been taking a shirt and wearing it to bed, putting it back in the bag in the morning, to mix with the others, to not lose the combination of scents that, for the past twenty-four years, had personified passion, authority, tenderness, caring, security, guidance, comfort, and, most of all, love.
And finally, alone in the bed that had been just right for two but was now too big for one, she gave in to the tears she had held back since she had left the bed sixteen hours earlier.
"Oh, God, Paul. Tomorrow will be even worse. How am I going to face the rest of my life without you?"