This Text file is old! In a 🏛️Museum, an unsorted archive of (user-)pages. (Saved from Geocities in Oct-2009. The archival story: oocities.org)
--------------------------------------- (To 🚫report any bad content: archivehelp @ gmail.com)

*** 
PART THREE 
***

Donna and Sam sit across the aisle from me so I can stretch
out and close my eyes. I zone out for most of the flight,
napping at odd intervals, and awaken at the flight
attendant's voice asking me to sit up and fasten my seat
belt. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lyman, but we're about to land."

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks." I smooth down my hair and turn to see
that Sam is twisted across both seats, his hands buried in
the cushions. "Hey, we're landing."

"I know. I'm looking for the other half of the seat belt."
He frowns, his forehead crinkling, and he indicates two
identical pieces of hardware. "I always do this, I always
get two buckles or two latches instead of one of each."

Donna gets up from behind him and scrabbles around between
the seats. "There. Buckle up." She grins at Sam and he gives
her a dismissive wave. She takes the vacant seat next to me
and fastens her seat belt. "You slept?"

"Yeah. I'm more tired than I thought."

"Leo arranged for a driver to pick us up. We'll be at the
house before too long. Don't worry about anything."

"Should I call my mom's lawyer? Decide what to do tomorrow?"

"Nope, we have you covered. The driver's going to come back
for us around nine-thirty. There's a memorial service at
ten, and then people are coming over to your mom's from noon
to about two. Margaret called a moving company to arrange
for boxes and stuff so you can start packing, and your
mother's lawyer is flying in to talk to you about the
specifics."

There's this twitching in my left eye. I squint, hoping
it'll go away, but no such luck. We're descending now,
almost as fast as my heart is plummeting, and Donna suddenly
hands me a stick of gum.

It's not my ears, it's my soul that's popping, but I take
the gum anyway and put it in my mouth. "I'm not sure how
much of that legal stuff I'm going to be able to listen to,
Sam," I tell him as spearmint washes away the bile.

"I figured I'd just talk to the guy myself. If you don't
mind me acting in the capacity of your lawyer."

To cover up the latest surge of emotion, I raise my eyebrows
at him and smirk. "Like I can afford you. You billed out
at...?"

"Five hundred an hour." His grin is sheepish as he listens
to Donna's gasp. "I'll take it out in trade. Nice house by
the beach, some seafood." He looks down at his hands as he
traces the pattern of the seat cushion. "Chance to help a
friend."

That's Sam, measuring his worth in good deeds. Donna pats
him on the arm, lightly, smoothing the wrinkles out of his
shirt.

We touch down, bouncing once or twice before the ride
smooths out as much as the cotton of Sam's sleeve. I keep my
head down as we brave the crowds.

A guy holds up a sign with Donna's name on it - smart of
Leo, because someone might recognize Seaborn or Lyman. The
name tag gives the title of his company and his first name,
which is Dave. Dave the Driver doesn't talk much, just
shakes hands and mumbles something like "My condolences"
while we go to pick up our bags.

***

It's dark outside as we zoom along I-95. Even when we're
driving next to the beach on the A-1-A, we can't see
anything. I stare into the night sky, remembering something
from my childhood. I used to look up and imagine that one of
the stars was Joanie, spreading light to me the way she'd
done when she brought a nightlight into my room to keep me
from being afraid.

I must've told Sam the story one drunken night, or else it's
one of the fanciful notions he's picked up over the years,
because he nods at me and smiles up at the velvety blackness
overhead. Of course, knowing Sam, he's probably just trying
to hold back a dissertation about astronomy.

Donna looks out the window, gaping a little as we pull into
the electronically-fenced entrance of a faux Spanish villa
overlooking the ocean. She's been trained well enough not to
say anything, but she still shudders a little as we park in
the circular driveway and two servants greet us. "You'll be
fine," I assure her, and she suddenly becomes graceful and
elegant, drawing herself to her full height when one of the
servants hands her out of the car.

We're met in the foyer by a middle-aged woman in a dark
dress and white apron. "Mr. Lyman, I'm Rosemary Watson - I'm
the Barrington family's housekeeper, and they've asked me to
look after you."

Sometimes we all forget that the First Lady had a prior
identity. Tom Barrington is her brother, a plastic surgeon,
and his wife, Virginia, is a pediatrician. They've been to
the White House and I remember them as bright, witty, caring
people. Tom offered to "revise" my scar, but I'm not in any
hurry to have someone point a knife at me again.

"Sam Seaborn." Sam introduces himself, shaking Rosemary's
hand and nodding toward Donna. "This is Donna Moss, Josh's
assistant."

"Pleased to meet you." The women shake hands and Donna
relaxes a little. "The Barringtons asked me to extend their
sympathies. They also wanted you to know that their house
and staff are entirely at your disposal for however long you
are able to stay."

"That's very kind," I murmur. "We'll only be here a couple
of days at the most."

"Take as much time as you like," Rosemary says, smiling.
"There's a car you're welcome to use, and any of us on the
staff would be happy to give directions if you want to get
away for a bit. Now, your mother's place, the Dorchester, is
just a few miles south of here on Ocean Parkway."

"Yeah, I was here at Thanksgiving - I think I can remember
how to get there." Suddenly I feel my legs becoming shaky.
Sam exchanges a glance with Rosemary, who smiles again and
indicates the stairs to the second floor.

"But of course you're all exhausted. I've got your rooms all
ready for you and your bags should be in them by now. I'll
show you upstairs."

We follow her up a curving flight of stairs. "This is the
guest hall. Ms. Moss and Mr. Seaborn, you're on this side,
and Mr. Lyman, you're in the main guest room." She opens the
door to show me a spacious room with a huge bed, a desk,
bookcases, and a muted television tuned to CNN. "It has a
view of the ocean, but of course you won't be able to see it
until morning. There's a little patio through the glass
doors, and if you like, I can arrange for you to have
breakfast there so you can have some fresh air and privacy."

"Before the funeral" is what she doesn't say. The absence of
the words, kindly intentioned though it may have been,
stings more sharply than even I could have imagined.

"Thanks." I turn to Sam and Donna as Rosemary makes a
discreet exit. "You want to get settled?"

"We can do that in a few minutes." Sam leans over so that he
can see the television. CJ's on camera. In the early, heady
days of the administration, we always stopped whatever we
were doing to watch her in front of the curtain, then at
some point we decided it was geeky to be all that amazed and
we learned to multitask while she briefed the press.

Sam turns up the volume. CJ looks into the camera as she
says: "Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman has been
temporarily excused from the hearing following the sudden
passing of his mother earlier today. The President,
Vice-President, White House staff - and, I'm certain, the
press corps - extend their deepest sympathies to Josh at
this sad occasion." She gazes straight into the camera for a
moment and even though this was taped earlier, I still have
the strange yet comforting feeling that she's communicating
with me. She takes a question. "Katie."

"Is it true that Sam Seaborn went along with Josh Lyman, and
if so, for what official purpose?"

"Yes, Sam Seaborn is with Josh, but not for an official
purpose - they've known one another for many years and he's
going as a friend, not as a member of the White House Staff.
Donnatella Moss, Josh's assistant, is traveling with them,
and I'm sure she has her hands full." A few reporters
chuckle. "And to head off your next question, the trip is on
commercial air and was paid for by private funds, and the
three of them will be staying in a private residence."

"Good for her," Sam murmurs.

"I can't believe anyone would bring something like that up
at a time like this." Donna's voice is high-pitched and
indignant.

"It's their job, Donna," Sam tells her, swiping a weary hand
across his forehead.

"Yeah, well, they can take their job and--" She shakes her
head as she cuts off her words. "We should all unpack," she
says, changing the subject with a slight yawn in my
direction. "I'll come back and check on you before I go to
sleep, okay?"

"That's not really necessary."

"It is necessary - for me. It'll keep me from having to
answer the phone in the middle of the night when you can't
find your bathrobe." She tosses her banter at me, and I want
to catch it, but I'm way off my game.

"I'm good. Thanks." I usher them to the door. They turn
around to look at me so I give them as good a smile as I can
muster. "Night, guys. And thank you for coming with me."

"Goodnight, Josh," they say almost in unison. Moments after
I close the door I hear two doors across the hall open and
then shut, and we're separated. I'm alone.

I'm alone. Really alone, no connection to anyone, anywhere,
and the feeling of freefall is like emotional vertigo. Cold,
a horrible, painful chill, creeps through my veins and I
have to sit down because my legs don't work anymore. I
collapse onto the bed, shuddering, hoping I'm not going to
cry, but there's no chance of that. Tears come. I hate
crying, but this time it feels good, the wet heat warming my
face. My chest aches as sobs follow, ripping their way free.

There's a stirring out in the hall, doors opening,
susurrence, one deep voice and one light one. Over the
pounding of my heart I hear a knock on my door and the
slight creak of the hinges.

"I'm okay," I mutter to whoever is there before opening my
stinging eyes.

It's Sam. He stands in the doorway, tie gone, shirt collar
open, sleeves rolled up, rumpled and sad and aching in his
own way. "Josh," he whispers.

"I'm okay," I repeat, but this time it's an airless, stifled
gasp. "I...need to...can't..."

I need to spill the salt water that contains my DNA and my
father's, and my mother's. But I can't allow myself to cry
in front of Sam, for all that he's my closest friend.

He nods, his stance a little defeated, his solemn eyes at
half-mast. I stand up, hunching over the roiling pain in my
stomach, and incline my head toward him. I can't look into
his eyes, can't bear the compassion and concern I'd surely
find there.

Sam closes the gap between us with uncertain, hesitant
steps, then opens his arms to me. His embrace is
strong. He holds me up as I lean into him, feeling and
smelling the starch in his crisp shirt, and he pats my back
in a slow, steady rhythm. "Do you want me to get Donna for
you?"

The stubble on my face rasps against Sam's shirt as I shake
my head. "It's not...I just can't do this in front of either
of you," I manage to whisper. "I think I have to be alone
tonight."

"I know." He pulls away, his hands on my upper arms, looking
me in the eye. "Although, if you change your mind, I'm here.
Well, I'm not here, I'm across the hall, but you know that."

"I know that." I clear my tear-clogged throat. "I know
that," I say again, softer, as I take a step backward and
break the connection between us.

He doesn't say anything else, just gives me a sad smile as
he heads for the door. I lift my chin at him, waiting until
he is gone before taking out the manila envelope I've never
opened.

It's not her will, which I haven't seen since she updated
it, but a copy of Mom's last wishes. It's pretty
straightforward, in the legalese she picked up in all her
years as an attorney's wife. Like my father, she's willed
her body to science and her remains will be cremated and
sent to me at some point along the way, to be placed beside
Dad's in the little columbarium we had built next to
Joanie's grave.

There's room for me, too. I've seen the plot. I just...

Dammit. Here it comes. I set down the envelope and collapse
into bed, fully clothed, and for the first time since I was
a little boy, I actually cry myself to sleep.

***

I'm still fully clothed when unwelcome sunshine wakes me.
Falling asleep in my clothes happens more often than not
these days, and even opening my eyes to broad daylight
would've escaped my notice except that there's a lot of it,
too much for my apartment, and it's coming from the wrong
side of the bed.

I turn over, gazing blearily at the alarm clock. From
somewhere close by I get a whiff of fresh-cooked eggs. And
ripe strawberries. There's no mistaking that aroma--I woke
up to it enough times in my childhood...

And in one sudden, horrible moment, I remember why I'm in
this big bed and what's going to be happening in the next
few days. Oh, God, it hurts, and only the fear of being late
to my mother's memorial service keeps me from losing it
right then and there.

I drag myself out of bed and fish around for my bathrobe.
I'd rather be boiled in oil than call for Donna, so I keep
digging until it turns up, then head for the shower. Being
clean helps, I think, as I lather myself a couple of times
to wash away the day-old sweat from the hearing. Hard to
believe that, just yesterday, the hearing was my biggest
worry. Shows you how much your life can change in just a
matter of hours.

I slump against the shower wall for a few minutes, breathing
through my mouth, until the panicked sensation passes. By
the time I get into my clothes, I hear a light rapping on
the door, and Donna's voice.

"You decent?"

"Nope."

"Good, then we're coming in." She and Sam enter together.
Sam looks a little anxious and he's fiddling with the knot
in his charcoal tie. His suit is almost the same color of
gray as Donna's dress. She's got some sort of black shawl
thing around her shoulders. The darkness just emphasizes the
circles under her eyes.

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked, checking me out from head to
toe.

"Yeah, actually. I kinda dropped off and I'm pretty sure I
slept through the night."

Donna's gone to the balcony and opened the doors. Sure
enough, there's ocean to be seen, and a light, salty breeze
comes into the room. "They left your breakfast on a tray
outside."

"You guys ate already?" I look at my watch as Sam goes out
to retrieve the tray and then brings it out to the balcony.

"Well, I was up early. Just in case you couldn't find your
bathrobe."

"Voila." I point to the bathroom door, where the robe is
hanging up to dry. "I'm not a complete basket case, Donna."

"I never thought you were." She usually swipes something off
my plate when I'm eating, especially if she doesn't have
food of her own, but today she just sits with her legs
demurely crossed at the ankle and watches seagulls dive into
the foam.

I butter a piece of toast and hand it to her. She starts to
cry.

Sam moves from his perch on the balcony railing to crouch
beside her and put her head down on his shoulder. At least
he can comfort someone. It's something he needs to be able
to do.

"Did you want marmalade instead?" I ask, cocking my head to
one side, and Donna laughs through her tears.

"I'm so sorry, Josh. I don't know what came over me." She
does that weird thing women do with their fingers when they
want to dry tears without smearing their makeup. "It just
sneaks up on me once in a while, when I least expect it. I
need to fix my face, okay?"

Before I can say anything she's gone. Sam looks at her empty
chair, then at me. His face is a giant question mark as he
waits for me to enlighten him.

"Donna's mother died when she was in college. Not long after
that, Donna took up with Seth - that schmuck who let her
drop out to pay his way through med school and then dumped
her because she wasn't educated."

"Wow. I didn't know that." Sam sits opposite me and munches
slowly on the piece of toast that had started the episode.
"It explains a lot about her." He reaches for another piece
of toast.

"Feel free to, you know, consume my entire breakfast."

He's not deterred. "Donna's a very compassionate person. And
I think you're going to need that in the next few days."

I want to tell him that he's no slouch in that department,
but before I can work up the nerve his cell phone rings.
With an irritated groan he reaches in his pocket. "Sam
Seaborn." He covers the receiver for a moment. "It's Toby,"
he tells me. "What? When? Okay, calm down - wow, you really
shouldn't use that word over an unsecured phone line...yeah.
Okay. I'll look. I'll tell him."

"Tell me what?" I ask around a mouthful of strawberries as
Sam hangs up and slams the phone back into his pocket.

"That he's...thinking about you."

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"I may have a bad poker face, but you're the worst damn liar
on the face of the earth." I get up and head for the
television. "I take it something's in the news cycle that we
wish would go away."

"Josh, yeah, there's something. And I need you not to get
crazy, okay?"

I snort as I turn on CNN, fumbling with the remote to get
the sound on. It doesn't work, so I start punching buttons
on the television. Donna enters at the same time and stands
next to me as the three of us watch whatever this is
unfolding. At first it doesn't look like much - a freight
train derailment that didn't injure anyone seems to be the
lead story, so I turn my attention away from the picture to
look at the bewildering array of control buttons.

Donna points to the screen. "What's he going on about? And
why's there a picture of Mrs. Landingham?"

Finally I get the sound working in time to hear the voice of
Congressman Schuller from Indiana, someone even the
Bartlet-haters think has gone way over the edge since the
M.S. disclosure. "I think an investigation is called for,"
he's saying into a hand-held microphone someone has thrust
in his face. "I think that the deaths of two people close to
upper-level figures in this scandal is probably not
coincidental. That they occurred in such a short span of
time may well indicate that the administration will do
whatever it takes to cover its tracks."

Sam slaps the power button with so much force that the
entire entertainment unit rattles. I push his hand aside and
turn the television back on.

"Josh, don't..."

"I wanna hear what this asshole has to say."

They're on CJ now, and I can tell by the space between the
White House emblem and her head that she's tired enough to
have taken off her shoes. Her glasses are a little askew.
"We've just heard about the Congressman's remarks and we are
prepared to make this statement."

The camera pans to show Toby standing next to Carol,
glowering. He looks as if he'd be happy to eat any reporter
who makes a comment right now.

CJ continues. "The groundless accusation implicit in
Congressman Schuller's remarks is not only without merit but
also completely inappropriate at this time of sorrow and
loss - or, for that matter, at any other time. As a United
States citizen protected by the First Amendment, the
Congressman is free to make whatever speeches he wants - up
until his comments become slanderous, at which point the
White House Counsel will take any and all necessary steps to
force him to cease and desist.  In the meantime, we will not
dignify this horrendous breach of common decency with a
response."

With that, CJ stalks off the podium. The room is eerily
silent. Not one reporter has asked for clarification.

"I think that about wraps it up," Sam says, his voice
gentler than his words, and he waits for me to nod before
turning the television back off.

"I bet Toby's having a conniption fit right about now." I
inhale through my mouth. "You should really be there with
him, Sam."

"Nah. I'd only restrain him. This way we get some
entertainment on the road and some stories for when we get
back." He gives Donna a little smile, but she's determined
to be angry.

"That's so sick," Donna murmurs. "What kind of person could
think something like that?"

"The kind of person who hates everything we stand for.
Everything we've worked for." Sam's eyes flash the way he
does when he's well and truly wound up about something.
"Toby says they're taking care of it, and not to worry."

"The President must be...wow, I can't imagine the level of
fury." I shake my head.

"I don't want you to worry about it, Josh," Sam reiterates.

Rosemary turns up at the door, which Donna has left open.
"I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but if you're going to get
there in time, then..."

I put my hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment.

"I think I have enough to worry about already."


***
END PART THREE
***