Sam measured coffee grounds into the filter, poured in water, but stopped just short of turning on the coffee maker. He had slept badly the previous night and not at all the night before that so perhaps coffee was not the thing to drink at this hour. Opening the large cabinet he used as a pantry, he put away the coffee and searched for the tin of teabags that disuse had pushed to the back of the bottom shelf. Lemon chamomile -- not his first choice, but it was not bad and might improve his chances at a night's sleep. Filling the teakettle, he put it on the stove and turned on the burner.
As he waited for the water to boil, Sam looked around the kitchen for some small chore to do. The dishwasher, he knew, was empty. He had run it that morning and put away its contents between going for a long run and taking a long overdue trip to the grocery store. When he had returned from shopping, he had found Josh's business card jammed into the vents in his mail slot. He had thrown it away as soon as he got upstairs.
Picking up a sponge, he wiped down the counters, and then took a mug from the cupboard and dropped in a teabag. When the water boiled, he poured it into the mug, inhaling the smell of lemon and something green and herbal. Sam drank tea so rarely that he watched the clock on the microwave, waiting the prescribed three minutes before taking out the teabag. Switching off the overhead light, he headed into the living room.
Wind lashed against the windows, and he pulled aside the heavy drape to look out. The rain had become sleet in the hour he had been home, and Sam thought it might turn to ice. Letting the drape fall back into place, he looked at the answering machine with its flashing red light. He had seen it the moment he walked through the door but had successfully distracted himself from checking it for the past hour.
Gripping the mug tighter, he walked over to the desk. "C'mon," he muttered. "Just check it. You said you weren't going to do this." And, with something just shy of super-human effort, he hit 'play'.
The first two were hang-ups from the same number, one he was familiar with -- the Communications bullpen. He deleted both. The third was Ginger, her voice low and worried.
"Sam, it's Ginger. Toby told me to call you at home. It's 7:35, and you're late for senior staff. I hope you're on the way, but please call me if you get this."
Sam hit the delete button again, jerking away when Josh's voice filled the apartment. Tea slopped onto his hand, and he wiped it on the leg of his jeans as he fought the urge to erase the message without listening to it.
"Sam, hey! Pick up if you're there." Josh waited and then drew a deep breath. Sam pictured him pacing back and forth in his office. "Look, I just got out of Leo's office, and I gotta tell you everybody's pretty upset. I don't know what's going on with you, buddy, but let's sit down and talk, okay? Give me a call; I'm on my cell." There was another pause broken by a rough sigh. "We can straighten everything out, Sam, just call me."
The beep signaled the end of the message, and Sam stabbed the button. "I'm not in the mood for a 'Lyman Knows Best' lecture, Josh. I've been listening to them for a couple of months now, and I've had it."
The next message was the one he had been dreading, the one that had kept him awake for a good part of the night. The voice was as low and hard as he had ever heard it, and that never boded well.
"Sam, it's Toby. I've talked to Leo, and we're not accepting your resignation, not without talking to you and maybe not even then. What the hell are you thinking? You serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States. That means you don't -- "
Sam hit the button, ending the growing tirade. He did not need another rant from anyone, particularly Toby. He had had his fill over the past weeks.
The last message was from CJ. She was not part of this mess, not one of the reasons he had resigned. He would call her, if only to say good-bye.
"Hi, it's CJ. I know you're in town because I just talked to Danny -- and thanks for keeping it off the record, by the way. You made my life a lot easier. Anyway, I was hoping we could meet for a drink... or dinner... or lunch..." She chuckled at her own rambling, and Sam realized he was smiling as well. "You know, something involving food." There was a pause, and then a gentle sigh. "I know you've heard from Josh and Toby and god knows who else, so you're probably sick of us right now, but I'm worried about you, Sam. I want to make sure you're all right. Please call me, all right?"
Sam stared at the answering machine when the message ended but made no move to erase it. He was no longer angry; he was simply exhausted. He glanced down at notebook he had left open on the desk after finishing his letters of resignation. As he had fought for the right words, he had turned to the handwritten list of quotations he had compiled over the past two years. Most would never have been included in speeches, but they led his mind along wandering paths of words and meanings. One had stood out: It isn't that they can't see the solution. It's that they can't see the problem.
He stumbled to the couch, spilling more tea and not caring. He thought of his bedroom, but he was too tired to make the effort required to get ready for bed. Stretching out with the mug on his chest, he stared up at the ceiling. Today had been long, and he was ready to end it. With inclement weather forecasted through Sunday, he planned to catch up on his sleep. Monday, and the future, seemed impossibly far away.