PART II

The more that you read, the more things you will know

Josh finally reaches his front door, and the leans, forehead first, again the cool paintwork. He has been gone for three days. Every muscle aches from not sleeping well. He has developed a minor fear of flying. All these things have combined to make him now, excruciatingly exhausted.

"Josh?"

Donna opens the front door, and is nearly flattened by her husband, staggering through it. Somehow he regains his composure.

"Hey," he says, brushing down his over coat.

"Hey yourself." Donna regards him with an expression somewhere between amusement and irritation. "What were you doing out there?"

"Oh, you know, thinking."

She raises an eyebrow. "And when have you ever wasted time thinking?"

"I think," he says defensively. "I think. I'm a thoughtful man."

She reaches up a hand to his face, which he leans into. "Yes," she says, and smiles. "Sure you are."

He sighs, and pulls her into his arms. "I missed you," he says, muffled by her hair.

"We missed you too."

He sighs, content to just stand there, holding her, but finally steps back. "So," he says, shrugging off his coat, kicking his bag into the corner, "anything new?"

"Not much," she says, resolutely tidying up as he creates a wake of mess. "Oh," she remembers, "there's a message for you. I was bathing Claudie and wasn't fast enough, but I think it was Will for you anyway, so I left it."

"Oh, OK." He trails through to his study, and jabs the answer machine. After the cursory cool, digital voice of the machine itself, the room is suddenly filled with yelling.

"Josh? JOSH? Why is your phone off? Dammit, Josh, you could have told me. We were totally wrong footed. We looked like idiots. After everything you've sent me, you couldn't possibly have warned me about that? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? We're screwed. Totally screwed. And frankly, I blame you. And Sam? What's Sam doing there? Seriously, you could have warned us. I'm just so…" A deep breath. A sigh. "We're screwed now. If he doesn't win then I'll…well, I'm not promising anything. All I know is we're screwed." Another pause, then "dammit" before the line goes dead with a clunk.

Josh looks up to see Donna in the doorway.

"What did you do?"

He slumps into his seat, and runs his hands through his hair. "My job," he says weakly, and then closes his eyes.

Five days earlier

Will wakes up to the sound of his cell buzzing. He groans, almost falls off the couch, then manages to pick it up, snap it open and croak "Hello?" into it.

A pause. "You have bed voice."

It takes him a tired second before he remembers whose voice it is. "Oh hi."

"Hi there. You're in bed."

He sits up, and rubs a hand over his messy hair. "What makes you think that you can judge my surrounding furniture from my voice?"

"You're not in bed?"

"No."

"But you were sleeping."

He says nothing.

"HA. Told you."

"You're annoying."

"It's what sisters are for. Also, to stop you from getting too big for your boots."

He clears his throat, and begins to move round the room, opening the blinds. "Remind me to thank you for that some day."

"Oh I will."

"Is there a purpose to this phone call?"

A gasp. "I need a purpose? To call my one and only brother? What a sad state of affairs we are…"

"All right, shut up."

He can hear her smirking.

"So," she says, "how deep in over your head are you?"

"We're fine. Just about treading water."

"Good continuation of the metaphor."

"Thanks."

A pause. "Will, I saw you on CNN this morning."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You looked dreadful."

"Thanks."

"Just don't work too hard, OK?"

"Oh, OK, I'll just stop now, right?"

"Shut up. I'm serious."

He sighs, and slumps back into the couch. "I know, but so am I. I can't stop right now. We're too far in."

"And way out of your depth."

"Well. Maybe."

"Look, I'm going to Rich and Jules for Christmas. I know you'll be beyond busy, but can you at least take some of the day off and swing by?"

"I'll see."

"Oh, well that bodes well."

He smiles. "I'll try," he amends.

"Good."

A knock at Will's door is followed by Charles appearing.

"George, I've got to go. Charles is here."

"Tell him Nadolig Llawen from me."

"OK. Speak to you soon."

"Bye."

"Everything all right?" asks Charles as he sits down opposite Will.

"Fine. Just a reality check courtesy of one Georgiana Darcy."

Charles smiles slightly.

"She said to say Happy Christmas."

Charles nods, then pushes a piece of paper at Will across the coffee table, sighing heavily. "You remember the Literary Festival that we passed over? The one in New York?"

Will picks up the paper, fingering the edges. "You guys thought it would go against your image with the young people."

"Yeah," says Charles, slowly. "So, here's the thing. The President's going."

Will's face becomes slack. "What?"

"Yeah. It was released this morning in his week's schedule, that he's planning on going to the Literary Festival."

Will leans back and groans. "Typical. I should have pushed for it."

"We didn't know," says Charles, shrugging. "There was no way to know."

Will suddenly looks annoyed. "Oh, there was a way. But it wasn't up to us." He crumples up the paper which he has not read, and smashes it between his hands, before dropping back against the couch. "Well, I guess it's all right," he says slowly. "We can't really salvage this now, and it's not like anyone else was going."

Charles watches him for a second. "That's not entirely true."

Will opens an eye. "What?"

"It would appear," begins Charles, clearly concerned, "that Saul Zimmerman had accepted."

"What?"

Charles nods.

"How come you're getting this all first?"

"They thought you were asleep. Viv came to me."

Will resumes the smashing of the paper ball. "Zimmerman?" he says, shakily. "Bloody Zimmerman, and the President, together, at picturesque, intellectual events…" He continues muttering, the ball crunching against one palm, then the other.

"I'm sorry," says Charles. "This was my call, and I blew it."

"You didn't know," says Will, automatically. "I'm in charge of these things. I wanted to go. I should have pushed for it."

They both know that he's sincere, and yet neither can't say anything else. After what feels like hours, Charles sighs. "So," he says. "What can we do about it?"

Will stares at him blankly for a second, then, "nothing. We can't go. We'd lose all credibility running after the President like that. It would get leaked. We can't be seen hovering in the background of photos like the kid who no one likes. We've got to be front and centre with something."

"What?"

Will stands up, and strides towards the door. "Anything, just as long as it isn't near them," he says, and flings open the door. "Jaime? Matt! I need details of any big Christmas events going on, this weekend, preferably west of Michigan, and I need it now. " He turns in the doorway. "We're going to fix this" he says, and then whirls out of the room.

"Hey, where are you?"

"Somewhere above land, I'd hope. I think the pilot said we've got about a half hour until we land."

"Good, OK, well Chris has everything you need."

A pause. "Does it feel dishonest to you?"

"Don't say that. I'm trying not to think about it. I say, thank God your sister lives in Milwaukee."

"I say, I'm going to kill you for forcing me to spend a week with her."

"This is what we need. This is all that's going to save us now."

"You're talking like we've been struck down with deadly viruses and simultaneously held at gunpoint."

"We might as well have been."

Charles laughs. "OK." He pauses. "What's your plan?"

"I need to be here," says Will. "If this is going to be a problem, I need to see it first hand."

"OK. Keep me updated."

"Yeah, OK. Me too"

"OK..."

Will sits at the back of the massive hall, his phone clamped to his ear, murmuring into it.

"…so what's going on?" asks Chris, clearly similarly busy at the other end.

"Oh, the President spoke for a while. Now there's a local children's choir. It's not important. What's he doing now?"

"Serving dinners at a homeless shelter."

"How did you swing that one?"

"I phoned and asked if they wanted volunteers. We haven't told them who he is. He's plain clothes, wearing a button, but nothing else campaigning. We're going to leak a photo of it somehow."

"Nothing too obvious. The less this looks like a set up…"

"However we do it, it's a set up. No one would believe that any candidate was just doing it out the goodness of their own heart."

"Yeah, well, do your best. It's good you did that first though."

"That's what we thought. The less he's recognised, the less it looks fake."

"OK. What's next?"

"Tomorrow he's going hunting with Mitch."

Will gives a low whistle, to the consternation of those sitting around him. "What did he say to that?"

"We're drawing lots."

"Ah, OK, well make it clear that it wasn't my idea that he went out with a gun and his brother-in-law."

"But good, right?"

"Yeah, it might be."

"Then skiing the day after. Some time we have an open air nativity to fit in, and a children's shelter."

"Good, OK. I want him talking as much as possible, all right? Meet and greets, coffee houses, I don't care, just get him talking about the issues."

"OK. What else?"

"That's it for the moment. Just as long as I don't see a single headline with him and some pun on Oshkosh." He sighs. "Keep me updated."

"Yeah, OK."

Will snaps his phone shut, and settles in the for the rest of The Rhythm of Life. At last, it ends. The young choir, clearly thrilled with themselves, scamper off stage. Passing them, as he walks on, a young man takes his place behind the podium.

"Well, thank you children. Let's give them another round of applause. Weren't they great?"

Will half heartedly joins in.

"So, that's the end of the main event, please stay and enjoy everything else we have to offer. After a quick break here, Governor Saul Zimmerman is going to speak to us. But for now, let's thank again everyone who was involved, especially, President Santos!"

The room breaks into an enthusiastic storm of applause. This one is at least warranted. Will cringes as off the side, he sees President Santos wave briefly, before turning and shaking hands with Zimmerman. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn…" he mutters, watching the cameras flash around them. "Chris had better get me a front cover," he continues muttering. If anyone cared to listen, they'd probably think he was crazy. Thankfully, most people are getting up, tired of sitting still for so long. The room is quickly emptying, leaving only a core of people who Will resignedly recognises as political writers, a few journalists he met whilst working at the White House, and noticeably, in the opposite corner, Sam Seaborn. Will raises a hand in greeting, and slowly gets up to walk over.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," says Sam, standing up and shaking hands. "What are you doing here?"

Will grimaces, and Sam laughs.

"Oh," he says. "Checking the competition?"

"Something like that. It was a massive mistake not coming here so, you know, I wanted to see the damage first hand."

Sam laughs again. "You really are like Josh." They sit down. "Have you heard him before?"

Will shakes his head. "No. I've heard about him."

"From Josh?"

"He did mention him to me a while ago. He passed on your email to me as well."

Sam grins. "Good. Well Bingley has been looking great recently. You have a new writer?"

Will grimaces again, and says nothing for a minute, then, "we just lost her."

Sam looks at him, hard, and then raises his eyebrows, and turns back to the stage where the chairs for the children's choir have been moved, and teleprompters replaced. "Right," he says, quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, until a scatter of applause from the front of the now slightly fuller room, begins. Onto the stage walks the man from before, and a much older man, tall and broad, although slightly bowed with age, a slightly surprised smile as the scattered applause grows, especially at the front.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says the MC, "Governor Saul Zimmerman."

He takes his place behind the podium, and waves a hand to cease the clapping. "All right, that's enough," he says genially. "I'm really not used to this kind of reception. That last place I went I got booed off stage."

A gentle laugh ripples through the audience.

"Well," he continues, "it is an absolute privilege to be here. I can't say that I ever imagined this day. I certainly didn't as a school boy, strugglin' through Shakespeare. And now here I stand before you all, and don't imagine that I'm going to lecture you on the bard himself. There are men and women much better qualified to teach you about that than me, something that no doubt my wife will die of shock to hear." He smiles, and settles at the podium. He looks relaxed, at home. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrance; and one man in his time plays many parts…" He smiles. "I'm not above quoting him though. See, this is something that I've been trying to put into words for weeks, and skimming my old copy of As You Like It, I find that William Shakespeare managed it over four hundred years ago. I've played many parts in my life. I had my entrance sixty-five years ago. I had some good scenes of stealing fish, of climbing trees, then I got the really romantic ones. You know, nothing Romeo and Juliet, but they were good. I've had some good scenes of work and discovery. I had my big romance which I am pleased to say has been a constant set piece for forty years. There have been sad scenes, and many to chronicle my stupidity, but that's how it is when your play is long. I've been the son, the brother, the annoying uncle, the lover, the friend, the husband, the father. I've been the politician, but not before I was the baker and the secretary and the student. I've also just become the grandfather, a new and exciting part to play, I'm telling you. These parts I've played, they've been amazing. I think we can all look back on the parts that have made us up, and see that they were crucial for who I am, and you are, today. But see, here's where I'm starting to get annoyed."

The audience is listening in rapt attention. It's like the most electrifying bedtime story, and Will is stuck somewhere between deep, gut wrenching admiration, and deep, gut wrenching terror. Zimmerman takes a sip of water, and seems to think for a second.

"You see, these parts have been decisions. No matter what you will say about star crossed lovers and my fate being written across my hands, I know that it was a series of big decisions that led to my being here. Decisions to go to that place, to meet that person, to ask that beautiful woman to marry me. I may not have control over every event in my life, but the parts that I have played, have been chosen and accepted. As a politician, there is no part of me which if you dusted it off and held it up to me, I would say I did not know how it came to be there. I believe that is what gives strength of character. The ability to look at your life and identify it and claim as your own. But you see, we all have areas which we might be able to trace and explain, but can't in any way say that it was a decision to have it. We might accept it, we might stand in it and walk by it, but I truly believe that if it was not a decision to make it part of yourself, then you cannot rally people around you solely based on that fact. Because you see, it might be an experience which you can share, it might be a heritage. But we see every day, someone with our experiences, someone from around my neighbourhood, someone who looks like me, and while those things might be the same, our hearts are not."

Will leans forward, breathless. It feels as if the whole room is holding its breath.

"So far this election, these campaigns, have almost entirely focussed on character debates, and I do not mean real character debates. If we were standing up there, talking about the things we have done, the decisions we have made, then maybe the American people could have half a shot of getting the right person for the job. But let's be honest here, pretty much the only thing that anyone has talked about so far is age, sex, and race."

Will's not the only one breathless. Sam is transfixed, as is pretty much everyone in the room. Zimmerman has them spellbound. He pauses for a second, and sighs, looking off, before shaking his head slightly.

"Look, I get it. There's something exciting about being able to identify with someone so powerful on such a basic level. To be able to say 'I'm a women- she knows how it is for me'. To say 'I'm black, and he's black, and we have the same issues'. Even to be able to look to the White House and say 'he's young. She's young. They get me. They haven't forgotten what it's like to be me'. I get this, all right? I'm not blind to it, and I certainly don't want to take away from that recognition, from that identification, because it is important. But here's the thing. I am so much more than a sixty five year old, white man. President Santos is much more than a fifty one year old, Hispanic man. I mean, Jesus Christ himself never stood there and said, 'well after all, I am a thirty three year old Jewish man'. Of course he didn't, and of course we don't. And before I see a bunch of erroneous headlines tomorrow, I am in no way painting myself as the Messiah of the American people, so let's not do that, all right?"

A laugh circles the room, and Zimmerman smiles.

"I believe that the people of America are smarter than we have been giving them credit. They are smarter than blindly following their friends, they are smarter than blindly following their neighbours. I've always been a bit of an odd ball when it comes to voting. No doubt my children will tell you, I've always been an oddball, full stop." He grins. "But in all seriousness, I have not always been comfortable with the big movements to get everyone out voting. I believe that every vote is important. I believe that the idea that voting for the underdog is a vote wasted is one of the most ridiculous ideas that has ever been suggested. But I also believe that elections are won and lost on blind voting, on people who hear one fact, two facts, and they are sold. No matter if the things which actually matter to them are fulfilled, no matter if the problems facing them are going to be sorted out. They walk into the booth, and they pull the lever, and might as well have done it with their eyes shut. And right now? This election is going the way of forcing them to go in blind, because I'm telling you, the only facts that I can find out about some politicians is their name, their age, their sex and their race. Everything else seems to be less important. I'm telling you now. I will not let you go to the polls ignorant. I will not let you go in blind. I am saying right here, right now, this election, these people and this country deserve better for their President than vital statistics behind a desk. I am more than that, and you are more than that, and I am determined that this will be the most thorough, most open and honest, most intelligent election that his country has ever seen."

The people, as a room, rise to their feet, in deafening applause. Will and Sam find themselves looking at each other, blindly, before also rising and applauding. There is simply nothing else to do. Zimmerman waves a hand to them, and slowly the noise fades, and the people return to their seats.

"Well if we can find such enthusiasm and excitement about the election, then maybe there's a chance for greatness. You know, Emerson said 'trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great'." He sighs, looking overwhelmed, but elated, a light shining from his eyes. "We're here at a literary festival. I think it's only right to share just a few more great words with you." He fishes in his pocket, and brings out a small book. "I should know it by heart, by now," he says ruefully, "but the words are so great, I didn't want to get them wrong, and forget any." He puts on reading glasses. "On and on you will hike, and I know you'll hike far, and face up to your problems whatever they are. You'll get mixed up of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact, and remember that Life's a great balancing act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. Will you succeed? Yes you will indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)"

He takes his glasses off to laughter, and applause. "Yes," he says, "well Dr Seuss said something else. He said once that sometimes the questions are complicated, but the answers are simple. The questions we face today are I guess some of the most complicated that we've ever faced. But let me tell you. They will not be solved by silence and inaction. Jim Henson once said that it is so much easier to be negative and cynical, and predict doom for the world than it is to try and figure out how to make things better. The simple answer? We have a responsibility to do the latter."

Applause starts to build in the room, but Zimmerman is clearly nearly done. He carries on over the growing cacophony.

"Before the time comes for my exit, I want to be able to say that I tried to figure out how to make this country better, and this world better. We need a new birth of freedom from this oppressive ignorance and inaction. And I'm telling you. With that rebirth, the government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

His parting words are barely audible above the roar of the audience. The first few thunderous applauses earlier had brought in more people, eager to hear what was happening. Now, a nearly full room, stands to its feet, leaving only a few, Will included, resting his dizzy head on his hands.

"Thank you, God bless you," Saul Zimmerman practically yells over the crowd, "and God bless America."

If it was possible, the audience noise level increases. As does Will's nausea.

"Hell," he mutters into his palms. "We're totally screwed."

With grateful thanks to Dr. Seuss, Jim Henson, Emerson and Shakespeare, each of you reading and reviewing, and LJ, each brilliant in your own way.