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This is part of the series that includes "Written" and "Percussion," 
but it will stand alone without those two stories. 
Summary: You're closer to Josh and Sam, and even Leo, in some 
incomprehensible way, than to David, and regret has a stench all its 
own. 

For Rose, who wanted to read it, for Ellen, who thought I should write 
it, for jordan, who had to listen to me whine for the last two weeks 
about it, and for Anna, who makes me try new things. 
  

Fraternity 
  

Your father used to wrap you both up, his boys, one on each side of 
him to guard you against the chilly Brooklyn winds. He smelled of 
cigars, even on the Sabbath when smoking was forbidden, because it was 
part of the fabric - warp and woof and tobacco. In shul you'd be 
sheltered under the rough linen of his prayer shawl. On the street 
he'd see his sons running up to him and he'd open his coat to make a 
cocoon for you and David, his boys, his boys. 

Then came the day you chanted your Torah portion and the congregation 
shouted "Mazel tov!" and there was only room for one under your 
father's tallis because you had your own. 

You still have it. You finger its fringes, long gone from white to 
ivory to a creamy beige. It's been years since you wore this, so many 
years since you stood under the rickety chuppah with Andrea and 
promised not to let your marriage be as unstable as the rented bower. 
You haven't had much use for it since. 

The Reform tradition, which you've found more comfortable than the 
Orthodoxy of your youth, doesn't include the tallis. It's not 
forbidden, just not required, so it has spent a lot of time in a 
drawer with other relics of your youth. You wouldn't leave for the 
hospital until you found it, and you aren't sure why. Perhaps because 
you usually say a prayer when David's going up in the shuttle, when 
he's sitting down on top of a huge bomb the day after promising to be 
home in time for Leah's fiftieth birthday party. But four days ago it 
slipped your mind, and your brother went up alone. And look what 
almost happened. 

Sam sits two chairs over in the hospital waiting room, watching you 
with those keen eyes. He looks at your fingers as they comb through 
the tangles in the fringes, as they smooth over a spot where 
sweet red wine spilled. It's on the left side, the same side as 
Josh's bullet wound, and the in your mind the sugary fragrance of 
Mogen David mixes with the recent, acrid odors of gunpowder and 
arterial blood. 

It's been four days and a hundred hand washings, and you can still 
smell it. 

"It's not your fault," Sam says for the millionth time and it's hard 
to resist the urge to throw a magazine at him. 

"If by 'not your fault' you mean 'you didn't pull the trigger,' then 
yeah, it's not my fault." It comes out with a darker edge than normal, 
but what the hell is normal about your lives right now? 

"No, I mean about the shuttle." 

"I don't work for NASA, Sam. It's not like I can make a speech and 
have the situation go away." 

"Okay. You should go see him, though." It's not like Sam to give up so 
easily, but that's another symptom of his exhaustion. His is not the 
usual no-sleep-for-forty-hours look, it's more like he's taken a long 
walk to the gates of Hell and can't remember how to get back. 

"David's fine," you tell him. "I talked to my sister this morning and 
she..." 

"Sister?" Sam sits up straight. "Toby, you've got..." 

"You should've been a reporter, I swear to God." You roll your eyes at 
him. "Of the Mighty Clan Ziegler, there are four. Leah, Esther, me, 
and David, in that order." 

"Very Biblical." 

"Yeah. Anyway, I phoned Leah last night and she'd gotten to talk to 
David for a few minutes. I wanted to know how he was, she wanted to 
know how he was, he wanted to know how I was. And we are all together." 

Sam doesn't catch the reference. You sigh and look up at the clock. 
The waiting room is empty except for the two of you. You're here way, 
way after visiting hours because the President and his entourage got 
to go first and it's the only way you can sneak in to see Josh. 
"What's taking so long?" 

"The President and First Lady wanted to talk to him, then Leo's 
supposed to take Donna home." 

"Good luck to Leo. He's gonna have to pry her out of there with a 
crowbar." 

"A big crowbar," Sam agrees as he leans his head against the wall and 
stretches his long arms. "Mandy ever call?" 

"Nope. Margaret said she faxed her letter of resignation the night 
of the shooting. Rumor has it she just got in her car and drove back 
to New York." 

He's full of righteous indignation. "She never even asked about him, 
Toby." 

"She's a bitch, Sam. And now she's a bitch in some other zip code and 
she's no longer our problem." 

"Well, damn. I mean, because we don't have enough problems to keep 
ourselves busy these days." 

"Ah, sarcasm. You are learning, Grasshopper." 

"Shut up." Sam curls up into himself and his breathing deepens a 
little. David could always do that, grab a catnap in the most unlikely 
places. He'd keel over in the car like a defective Weeble and his 
head would land in your lap or Esther's. David's hair was black, 
like Sam's, with that same resistance to order. 

You curse the mercilessly slow advance of the second hand until one of 
the Secret Service guys comes in. "We're ready for you, Mr. Ziegler." 

"Thanks. Look, don't wake Sam up - but when he does wake up, send him 
down." The agent agrees at once. Power for the powerless, you think as 
you brace yourself for what you're about to encounter. 

You haven't seen him since the first night and to your eyes, he doesn't
look significantly better. His skin is clammy, with a yellowish tinge 
you hope is a reflection of the fluorescent lights. Someone's shaved 
him and combed his hair, but already there's stubble on his lip and 
sweat-soaked curls are hugging his neck. 

What bothers you most is how inanimate he is. The Josh you know is 
pure energy, a barely-contained form of nature, an element all his 
own. You've seen him twisting in his sleep on Air Force One; even 
slumber's powerful grip is not enough to hold him still. It's wrong 
for him to lie so quietly. 

It's wrong that you ignored the Secret Service and ordered the canopy 
down. You didn't pull the trigger, but you gave them a clean shot. 

You didn't break David's arm when he was four, but you didn't stop 
him from climbing that damn tree, either. 

You sit down in one of the two chairs. It's still warm from Donna's 
vigil. You put your palm on Josh's forehead, which is cool and slightly
damp. "Josh, it's me," you whisper, not knowing if you should wish for 
him to sleep through your visit or for him to wake up and stop the 
dangerous pounding of your guilt-infused blood. 

Josh mumbles something unintelligible but his eyes don't open. You 
stay at his side, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The 
tallis is on your lap and you hold on to it as you try to remember 
the appropriate prayers. 

You watch him in his uneasy sleep for nearly an hour, almost dozing 
off as you breathe in time with him, as your heart slows down to his 
drugged pulse rate. A contraption off to the side of the bed catches 
your eye. It's a sort of box connected to a tube and it is counting 
down time, twenty-something minutes, but you can't read it clearly 
from where you're sitting. When you flick your gaze back to Josh he's 
stirring at last, moaning softly. 

"Josh?" 

His eyes are black, the pupils vast. "Hey...Toby..." 

"I know you were expecting Donna. I'm probably a bit of a shock." 

"Yeah." He struggles toward alertness. "What happened to her?" 

You find yourself using the same hushed tones as Josh. "She's fine," 
you murmur, "just tired, and Leo took her home to get some sleep. 
C.J. drove your mom to the hotel." 

"She's been amazing...needs to rest..." He moans again, his eyes 
shutting hard against whatever pain is tearing at him. 

"Should I call the nurse?" you ask. 

He shakes his head. "Gotta wait." 

Now you realize what the box is - it's the morphine or whatever 
they're giving him for the pain and it's on a timer. Damn, there's 
almost twenty minutes left. You try to distract him. "Hey, were you 
awake when the President was here to see you?" 

"Yeah. He named...all the arteries..." Josh tries to smile but the 
pain is overtaking him. 

"We should bribe the doctors, get them to anesthetize him again. Maybe 
for a week." You laugh and you see Josh trying to laugh but he puts 
his hands on his chest in a spasm of pure agony. "I'm sorry. No 
jokes, Josh. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay." He struggles to catch a good breath. 

You want to help him, but he shakes his head when you try to adjust 
his pillow. His hand clutches the sheets and his fingers are white. 
Did they give him blood? It doesn't look as if he has enough in his 
body. 

Finally Josh is able to breathe again, although it's shallow and 
fast as he watches the countdown. "Your brother's shuttle landed, 
right?" 

Your brother is in this bed, you think, and asleep in the waiting room,
and in a car being fatherly to a scared young woman. You're closer to 
Josh and Sam, and even Leo, in some incomprehensible way, than to 
David, and regret has a stench all its own. "He's fine, thanks for 
asking." 

"Go see him. You never know...when..." Josh's words are interrupted by 
a short coughing fit that leaves him in breathless tears. 

"Oh, God. Oh, God." Panic. You can't do this. There's kleenex in a 
box on the bedside table and you grab a handful, enough to mop up a 
coffee spill, and you put it in his trembling hand but he's too 
debilitated even for this simple task. Your own hands shake as you 
wipe away the tears and the sweat, and you know you're going to lose 
it any second. 

And he has twelve minutes to go before he can get any relief. 

Every sarcastic remark you ever made to him, every cutting word, 
every dig, comes back up into your memory like bile and you wish your 
brain could vomit them out like food poisoning. Word poisoning. You 
stare down at Josh and you must look guilty as hell because he 
gives you a wan smile. 

"Toby, it's okay." 

Your head feels like it's going to fall off when you nod at him. You 
put your hand over his and just rest it there, like you did for David 
when the doctors had just set his arm and he needed your touch. 
"Sam's coming in any minute." 

"He's all right?" 

"Yeah, he's all right. He saved C.J., did anyone tell you that? He 
pushed her down and out of the way." 

"Good. That's...good." 

But no one saved Josh. He was just far enough behind, back by the 
gates, out of the way of security and in the way of maniacs who were 
just as happy to take out a Jew as a black man. Unthinkable, yet 
it's all you can think about. 

Sam knocks on his way into the room. "Hey, you're awake," he says 
to Josh. He looks marginally better than he had in the waiting room 
and you envy him his nap. 

"Can't sleep. Toby's cracking jokes." 

"He's a maniac, Josh." Sam pulls up the other chair and sits on the 
opposite side of the bed. The pair of you look like parents hovering 
over a sick child. 

Sam's tousled comeliness is incongruous in this place and you almost 
resent him until you look, really look, into his eyes and see not the 
azure but the anguish. He's peering down at Josh as if trying to 
read fine print without his glasses. "You need something?" 

"He has to wait until it's time for the next...thing." You don't know 
what to call a self-administered injection of narcotics, so you 
settle for the unofficial code word. 

Sam blinks a couple of times then nods as he understands what you're 
talking about. He scoots closer to the bed. Josh gives him a weak 
smile, a ghostly parody of the mocking Lyman grin. "Don't look at 
me...like that." 

"Like what?" Sam opens his eyes innocently but it only calls 
attention to the pooling tears. 

"Like that." Josh swallows and presses his lips together in a tight 
seal against whatever noise he wants to make. A tear falls from Sam's 
eye to Josh's forehead, a baptism, and Sam smooths it away with his 
thumb. So tender, such a good man, such a good brother is Sam. 

There's no small talk as Josh struggles to hold the pain at bay. It's 
almost unbearable to watch him burying his cheek in the 
sweat-dampened pillow. "How long?" he asks. 

"Three minutes, Josh. You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine." 
You sound so inane, a man whose words have gotten him through 
everything but this. You're on the side without the IV lines so you 
clasp his hand in yours like a Roman centurion. His grip is feeble. 
You tighten your own fingers around his wrist and hold on because 
he cannot. 

Sam stands up, slides his hand under Josh's head, and watches the 
seconds tick past. "Almost there. Just breathe, Josh." 

"Sam, I'm not in labor," Josh grouses, with a flicker of a real smile 
this time. He scrabbles around on the bed for the button, watching as 
the numbers go to two digits, then one. He pushes the button and 
winces. "Ahh, God, it burns..." 

His breathing evens out and his face relaxes. You expel a long, 
shuddering breath and hear that Sam is doing the same. 
"Are you okay?" you ask as his fingers release your wrist. 

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that." His voice is soft now, the words not 
punctuated by gasps. "It's actually better tonight. Last night 
was kinda rough." 

You and Sam exchange a quick glance. Rougher than this? And Donna's 
been here through it all. It had literally taken the President's 
order to get her to leave Josh's side. God bless her, she's stronger 
than the two of you put together. 

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, his hand stroking the wet hair at Josh's 
nape. He helps you turn the pillow over to the dry, cool side and 
Josh settles back in with a grateful sigh. 

"Thanks." His eyes are clearer now but the lids are heavy. 
"It puts me to sleep. Sorry." 

"That's okay, we're good," you assure him. "We want to talk about you 
behind your back, anyway." 

Josh's attempt at a smirk is a failure. He gives you a drowsy boy's 
smile. "Great...I must be doing better..." 

You and Sam watch him close his eyes and it's so different from that 
night, when you were the one cradling his head and death, not sleep, 
was beckoning. 

Sam carefully moves his hand and sits back down, looking over your 
shoulder at the guards out in the hall. "There's somebody out there, 
Toby." 

"The hell?" You get up and when you turn around you see David's 
concerned, haggard profile in the window. "It's my brother." 

"Really?" Sam Seaborn, one of the most powerful men in the nation, 
twists around in his chair to gawk at an astronaut. You have to hide 
your smile. "He doesn't look much like you." 

"He has all his hair, rat bastard," you grumble, but you have always 
thought that David is a handsome man and for some absurd reason 
you're as proud of that as you are of his accomplishments. 
"I'm gonna..." 

"Yeah." Sam's attention is refocused on Josh, so you're safe to get 
up and see your brother. 

He spots you through the window and gives you a grin. You go into the 
hallway and the two of you shake hands, almost like strangers. 
"David, what are you doing here?" 

"I made Esther track you down." 

"No, I mean why aren't you at NASA being debriefed or decaffeinated 
or whatever they do when you come home from one of these?" 

David laughs. "Ever since the news came on that night I've been so 
obnoxious that they released me early." 

"Ah. The Ziegler Method." 

"Exactly." David looks at you, his expression neutral to mask his 
concern. "How're you holding up, Toby?" 

"I've been better." It's a non-answer, one of many you've given him 
in your adult years as the fraternal thread frayed to its last 
strand. "I wasn't hurt, David. You knew that from the news, and from 
talking to the girls. You didn't need to come all the way out here." 

"Well, you didn't need to come out to NASA but Leah said you had a 
ticket all ready before...this happened." He gives you his lopsided 
grin. "Why don't I buy you a drink, and we'll catch up?" 

You remember what the President said, and Sam. See your brother. 
Josh's implied warning. Before it's too late. 

"I'm gonna make sure Sam's ready to stay the night, then I'll come 
along. Hang on." When you get back inside the ICU you find that Sam's 
already asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, inches from Josh's 
shoulder. Sam shivers a little in the overchilled air. You take off 
your jacket and put it over him, patting his back softly. 

Then you see your tallis lying at the side of the bed. Josh will know 
what this means. He'll understand that it's a blessing you can't 
say aloud because you're a man of words but not that kind of words. 
Carefully, reverently, you thread one end through the space below 
Josh's neck so that the folds lie across both shoulders. The words of 
the Shema come out of your mouth, softly, and you smooth down his 
hair before you leave the room. 

David's eyes are soft as he pulls you into a bear hug. He smells like 
wool and airplane food and the breeze of an unseasonably cool evening. 

"You're a good brother, Toby," he says, and you realize what he must 
have suffered when the first vague reports of a shooting came in. 
"A very good brother. I just wanted you to know that." 

You cast a glance back at the ICU, where Sam and Josh are both asleep. 
Safe. Protected. Warm. It's what men do for their brothers. What 
David is offering to you, now. You put an arm around his shoulders as 
you head for the door. 

There will be drinks, and memories, and cigar smoke, and if that 
unseasonably cool evening air touches you, then maybe your brother 
will wrap you up in his coat. 
  
END