MY BOYS
SPOILER: In Excelsis Deo
CONTENT: Post-ep (kind of); Mrs. L's POV
RATING: G
SUMMARY: While at Arlington, Mrs. Landingham reflects on all her boys.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and company. I'm just borrowing them.
FEEDBACK: I'd love it if helpful or positive.
I sit in this quiet, massive cemetery, watching, honoring. Remembering. Feeling. So many have given their lives or of their lives for this country-- and this place shows only a fraction of that number. It tends to humble me when I think of the freedoms they've given me through their sacrifices.
I manage one cautious glimpse which reveals that your attention is rapt; your eyes do not stray from the Honor Guard as it ritualistically conducts the graveside ceremony. And for the umpteenth time today, I am glad I decided to accompany you here. You didn't ask me to. In fact, you were surprised when I told you I wanted to come. But you didn't ask why, Toby Ziegler; you probably already knew why. And I'm grateful that you merely ushered me toward the waiting car and the silent ride.
I had to come with you. I watched the Mural Room fill with the young choir--boys whose faces reflected no knowledge of war and its destruction. I watched our own White House people enter the room to be entertained. How easy to forget those who've gone before; how easy to forget even the likes of Lowell Lydell, who had in his own way fought for the freedom to live as he wanted. How easy to forget so many of our boys. But I can't forget. And so I had to come, Toby.
I'm glad there's no snow. Snow tends to make everything more depressing and lonely than it already is. Green grass surrounds us, and maybe Walter Hufnagel would be glad to see that. To know he'll be buried beneath green grass. My boys were buried when snow surrounded us. A very bleak day that was.
My boys. They were twins, you know. I hadn't expected or planned for both of them, but the births of my Andrew and Simon were a gift for which I've always been grateful. They were simply twice as much joy.
As I was telling Charlie, I tried to keep my boys somewhat separate. I wanted each twin to have his own personality. I tried to dress them differently, to encourage each in his own aspirations and dreams. But no matter what I did, they seemed to be a united pair. And that was okay, too.
My boys were such fun. I used to watch them through the kitchen window as they played in the back yard. I believe the only real arguments they ever had, concerned which of them would be Elvis or Bobby Darin. I can still hear their laughter and their awful renditions of "Hound Dog" and "Mack the Knife." Later, they played basketball or catch or football. They double-dated to the proms. They were fun boys, and those were good years.
They were also boys of whom to be proud, I can tell you that. Tops in their classes all the way through school. Honors and awards aplenty. Scholarships. I always wanted my boys to do their best and to be serious about the things that mattered most to them, and they never let me down.
They were never the type to try to get away with things either. I could trust them. If they said they would be somewhere, that's where they were. Never did a public embarrassment come from my boys. Not one.
I remember them as they went off to college, both planning to be doctors. What a celebration we had when their letters of acceptance arrived. Yet, I felt pride mixed with heartbreak as they left our home. Of course, I wanted them to succeed in their lives, but that empty back yard was almost too much to bear.
I remember them as they came to the house to tell us of their draft notices. To tell us they planned to fight for the United States in Vietnam even though they could have avoided it. Even though we begged them to change their minds.
And I remember nights of tears--tears hidden from my brave twins until the day they left. Tears then openly shed--even by them as they hugged me the final time. I can still remember their strong, warm embraces. Their long arms wrapped so easily around their mother, holding me close as I let tears flow into the wool of their coats. And I remember watching them as they boarded the plane. Watching till there was no sight remaining of their backs--or of their plane as it took them into the clouds.
I remember all too well seeing them that last time.
And I remember the military men at my front door on that horrible winter day, talking about bravery and sacrifice. As those men talked, I thought of my boys' smiles turning to grimaces; of their sturdy, athletic bodies riddled and turning limp and cold. I realized I would never cry into the wool of their coats again. That I would be denied giving them a triumphant welcome home. That I would never see them practice medicine, nor would I attend their weddings. I would never be grandmother to their children. I would never see them again in this life. I realized my boys were gone.
Again, I glimpse over at you, Toby. And I wonder-- did your mother also watch your back as you boarded a plane to take you away from her? Did she cry whenever your letters arrived to tell her that things weren't so bad, that you were doing fine, that you'd be home before she knew it? Did she jump every time the phone rang? Did she pray nearly every waking moment for your safe return? Did she feel tremendous pride mixed with horrible worry, knowing that you were over there?
What would she think of you today as you--having gone against what's "right" and used your position to "pull strings"--attend a funeral for a homeless Korean War veteran whom you didn't even know and about whom others conveniently forgot? What would she think of you for having arranged this ceremony?
I know what I think of you.
When the call came this morning, to inform the President that the military funeral he'd arranged was a go, I knew very well what I thought of you. And when later I told you, "You absolutely should not have done that," I hoped you would pick up on my signs. That you would know my heart held such pride for you, such gratitude for what you were doing for Mrs. Hufnagel's boy. I only hope that whoever brought my boys out of that hellhole treated them with the same respect, the same concern. I hope there was a Toby Ziegler watching out for them.
You know, I used to bake them cookies--my boys. I guess I still do. For in a way, Toby, you are one of my boys--you and the others on the Senior Staff. Even that vegetable-hating President of ours is my boy in a way. I take good care of you all, but you deserve it.
Like my boys, Toby, you're a man willing to sacrifice, willing to give up personal comfort and happiness to serve his country--both back then, and now. You're a man who does what he thinks is right, who doesn't cower under pressure, who doesn't take the easy path if another one is better. I cherish that. I respect that in all my boys.
A gun suddenly fires, and I jump. The gun salute has begun. What a horrible noise. How terrifying that this is the last sound my boys ever heard. Another report, and I shudder. A third. My eyes squeeze shut. And then it's over. The flag is presented to George--after you indicate that he should receive it--and the gesture to stand is given to us.
Another soldier retired. Another boy returned to his home.
I watch George lay flowers on the coffin. They are the only things this simple man has to give to honor his brother. Flowers--and his presence...and you made both possible for him, Toby.
I feel your hand on my back, guiding me to leave this site. And in a single line, we file toward the car. Silently. Reverently. The cold air re-introduces itself as the ceremony fades into the past. And I adjust my scarf, pulling it a bit tighter around my neck.
I stand back, waiting, as you open the door for George and then close it after he takes the back seat. You move toward my side of the car, opening the door for me, too, but before I get inside, I stop. I look up into your intelligent, sad eyes, seeing there the pain of your memories--of boys' bodies horrifically mutilated; of suffering you could only watch, not prevent; of deaths that robbed families of their children or fathers; of sacrifices made for others' freedom. I see in your eyes your sympathy for my boys.
I touch the wool coat which covers your arm. I say, "Thank you, Toby." And I hope you understand what all I mean by that.
Christmas is tomorrow, but it really hasn't come for a long time. We ride off in the car toward a holiday darkened with losses, but made a bit brighter because Toby Ziegler, one of my boys, cared.
THE END
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