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*** 
PART FOUR 
***

Dave the driver helps Donna into the car. Sam and I slide in
on either side of her. We have almost nothing to say as we
ride. I keep my head turned to the right, looking at the
people walking along the waterway, people who aren't on
their way to a funeral. I don't want to see my mom's
building when we pass it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, mostly to break the silence.

"Temple B'nai Israel in Boynton," Dave tells us. "It's about
fifteen minutes from here."

"Thanks."

"Hey," Sam says in the tone that warns us in advance that
he's about to spout off something trivial, "did you guys
know that there's no beach in Boynton Beach?"

"In my defense, I really did know that."

"I didn't," Donna says, looking out the window as we pass
the headquarters of one of the tabloids that's been giving
the administration fits from day one. "Yuck. There goes the
neighborhood." She gives herself a little shake, then
glances over at me. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be
flippant."

"I don't mind. Keeps me from thinking too much." I actually
feel a little better now - sad, of course, but this
morning's panic is gone, replaced by something heavier but
more stable. Donna clasps my hand for a few moments. So
soft, so warm, and it lifts a little of the burden from my
heart.

We drive past subdivisions with matching houses and perfect
lawns, past a manmade lake, past an enormous assisted living
facility that looks nicer than any place I've ever lived.
Eventually we make our way down a wide street and I see the
synagogue just a few blocks away.

I start to shudder.

Sam slips his arm around my shoulders. "You're okay, Josh.
You're going to be okay."

I'm on my way to my mother's funeral. I'm wearing my good
suit, and my shoes are polished, and my hair's combed, and
I'm going to my mother's funeral. That's just wrong.
Just...wrong.

We pull up to the entrance, where a dark-suited man wearing
a white prayer shawl meets us. He's young for a rabbi,
younger than Sam, with slightly curling sandy hair and dark
brown eyes.

"I'm Reuben Kessler - you must be Joshua." He extends his
hand to me and I shake it. He holds on to me for an extra
few seconds. "Your mother talked about you all the time. I'm
really going to miss her."

"But not the conversations about 'my son, the Deputy Chief
of Staff.'"

He laughs, making Sam and Donna smile as they emerge from
the other side of the car. "You even sound like her. I
didn't know her very long, but she made a deep impression on
me - on everyone she met." The rabbi looks over at my
companions. "I recognize you from 'Capitol Beat' - Mr.
Seaborn, right?"

"Sam. How do you do?" Sam shakes hands with the rabbi, then
with the manners that make most of the women in the White
House weak in the knees, he brings Donna forward for an
introduction. "Rabbi Kessler, I'd like you to meet Donna
Moss, Josh's assistant."

"I recognize your face, as well," the rabbi says as he
shakes Donna's hand.

She looks perplexed. "How?"

"Marjorie showed me photos. There's one of you standing over
Josh's desk and it looks as if you're scolding him."

"Typical day at the office," I smirk at Donna, who grins for
a moment before lowering her head.

The gesture brings us all back to why we're really here.
"Why don't we step into my office?" Rabbi Kessler asks, his
voice low and kind. We go inside and he opens the door for
us. Three chairs are perfectly placed in front of his desk -
which is a good deal cleaner than mine - and we sit, with me
in the middle.

"This is going to be a very short service, as your mother
requested. Just a few words about her, and then the Kaddish
since there's no interment today. We have a transliteration
available, of course," he says to Sam and Donna.

I'll need it, too, but I don't want to share that
information.

Rabbi Kessler folds his hands. "I didn't know if you wanted
to speak. It's not required, but if you're up to it, it'd be
something her friends would appreciate."

It actually hadn't occurred to me that I'd be expected to
get up and talk about my mother. I look over at Sam, and I
must have panic written all over my face because he reaches
into his pocket for the little notebook that he carries with
him every waking moment.

"I, uh, wrote some stuff down," he says softly. "Just in
case."

He hands me the notebook and I look at his words. They're in
his neat handwriting, nothing crossed out, not a sign that
anything changed from the first moment he began to write.

"You amaze me. I can't make out a grocery list without half
a quart of white-out."

He shrugs, uncomfortable with praise. "I woke up early. I
wanted to help."

You do, I wanted to say. You do help. But nothing came out
of my mouth. Rabbi Kessler smiled at all of us. "Josh, why
don't you get some water before we begin? Sam, Donna, I'll
have my secretary show you to where Josh will be sitting."
He spirits them away from me, leaving me alone with my
thoughts for a few minutes.

I peruse Sam's notes again. It's a simple little eulogy,
nothing flowery, starting with something I told him just a
few months ago. It's just so...Sam. I'd know his writing
anywhere, can tell after three sentences whether the
President's remarks were written by Sam or by Toby. And
here, in a few magic strokes of his pen, he's drawn a
word-picture of my mother so vivid, so frank, that it's as
if she's in the room with me now.

After a few minutes, a pale woman with horn-rimmed glasses
knocks and sticks her head around the door. "Mr. Lyman? It's
time."

Mama. Mama.

I blink and nod, then follow her into the hall. I stand just
outside the doors to the sanctuary and Rabbi Kessler pats my
arm. "It's going to be all right, Josh."

I take the black yarmulke he offers and put it on my head.
When men go bald from the back, it covers the loss, but it
doesn't do anything for mine. And it feels heavy. I haven't
worn one since we did this for my father.

My father. My mother. Joanie. Gone.

I'm breathing through my mouth, heart pounding, palms
dripping. Trust me to get flop sweat at my mother's funeral.
I find Donna's bright hair and walk toward it, using it as a
beacon, trying not to meet the eyes of the dozens of people
who turn around to look at me. A few hands reach out and pat
my arm, murmured condolences surrounding me like vapor.
Finally I reach the front pew and slip in beside Donna.

The rabbi walks up to the pulpit and the congregation
hushes. Without preamble he begins to talk. "Marjorie loved
things that were simple and honest, heartfelt and helpful.
For that reason, we come together in her memory and offer
our sympathies to her son, Joshua. When I first met
Marjorie, she let me know in no uncertain terms who her son
was - and from the smiles on your faces, I'm sure she did
the same when she met each of you. It was not out of hubris
or self-aggrandization, but out of genuine pride in his
accomplishments, that she put her son's name before her
own."

Something catches in my throat. I swallow, but it only grows
bigger.

"Marjorie put the needs of other people before her own, as
well. The countless hours she spent at the library, working
with underprivileged teenagers who struggled with their
schoolwork, took away from the time she longed to spend
among the plants on her balcony, but tutoring was her true
love. 'These are the real flowers,' she told me more than
once when she spoke of her pupils."

I hear a couple of choking sobs. When I turn my head, I see
several teenaged girls holding hands as tears stream down
their faces.

"Marjorie's love extended to everyone who followed the
precepts of Judaism, no matter their faith. To her, a
righteous person was a righteous person, to be loved and
respected and emulated, to be guided and protected and
cherished. None more so than her son, Joshua, who will now
say a few words about his mother."

My feet don't want to come off the carpet. I have to make
mental and physical note of each step, each movement, until
finally I'm standing next to the rabbi. He steps back and
sits in one of the tapestried chairs, and I'm once again in
front of a microphone.

I take Sam's notebook out of my pocket and set it down in
front of me. My throat is dry and my eyes are wet, wet
enough to blur the faces of all these people who came to say
goodbye.

"These aren't really my words," I begin, throwing caution to
the wind by ad-libbing. "I mean, it's what I wish I could
say if I could put words together the way Sam Seaborn does."
Sam ducks his head and Donna pats his arm. "He's one of the
President's speechwriters, and he wrote this out for me, so
it's kind of like the President's speaking but it's coming
out of my mouth. You see, normally, they try to avoid
letting me talk in public."

There are some chuckles from the congregation, and a few
heads nod. I guess they're the compulsive C-Span watchers
who know all about the Secret Plan to Fight Inflation.

I smile at them, a bond forged, and begin to read Sam's
words.

"When I was thirteen, I stood on a bimah just like this one
and said, 'Today, I am a man.' I talked about being a son, a
son of the commandments and a son to my parents. Afterwards,
my mother pulled me aside and hugged me, and said: 'You
didn't say you were a brother.' That was because my sister
had died eight years before, and I considered myself an only
child. But my mother told me that you never stop being a
brother, and today, with my mother and father both gone, I
realize that I will never stop being a son.

"Part of being Marjorie Lyman's son was to be loved. Many of
you know about that love, the way she could take you into
her heart and surround you with her warmth." I give Donna a
little smile. She smiles back and leans against Sam.
"Another part of being her son was to be told exactly what
my failings were. Some of you may have experienced that, as
well." I pause for the moment of laughter, and I hear Sam's
voice among the many.

"But to be her son was to have held before me a model of
what was just, and right, and noble. Not in a way to make me
feel inferior, but in the truest sense of the word 'mentor,'
a way that made me strive to be like her in every sense I
could. It's because my mother was compassionate that I
became an advocate for those who cannot speak for
themselves." I have a sudden need to connect myself to Sam,
and it's a relief to see him nodding at me, encouraging me
to continue. "Every time I accomplished something positive,
I measured it against my mother's definition of 'goodness.'
If I could hear her voice saying 'it's good, Joshua,' then I
knew it was the result of something she'd instilled in me.

"My mother and father were my cornerstones, and anything I
am today is because of their nurturing, their expectations.
They may not seem to be here, but they are in me - not just
my father's eyes and my mother's smile, but in the many
unseen facets they helped me develop." This, now, is the
hard part. I take a deep breath as I prepare to say a last
goodbye that is really not a goodbye at all. "If, as we
believe, our souls remain on earth as long as our good works
are remembered, then my mother is very much here among us,
among us all."

I close the notebook, nod at the congregation, and take the
slow walk back to my seat. Donna's making use of Sam's
handkerchief. Sam looks at me with shining eyes, full of
both tears and pride, and I quietly thank him as the rabbi
asks us to stand for the Kaddish.

Donna shares her paper with me. I used to be able to read
the Hebrew, but those days are far behind me and my mind is
too fragmented to be of much use. So I extol and hallow God,
and at the end, when we say in Hebrew what Toby said to me
in Leo's office yesterday, I start to lose it.

Sam puts his arm around Donna's shoulders, reaching a little
farther so that he can touch my arm, and Donna turns and
puts her head on my chest so that I have to hold her,
letting me cover my tears by leaning over to comfort her.
Then it's over and the rabbi comes to lead me back out of
the sanctuary. I blink back the last of the wetness, give
Donna a hug by way of thanks, and leave with my head held
high.

"That was beautifully done, Josh," Rabbi Kessler says,
clasping my hand in his.

"Thank you. I don't really remember what I said, to tell the
truth, but I do feel a little better having said it."

"I'll be by her apartment later this afternoon. Let your
friends take care of you - it's going to be rocky for a
while, especially for the girls from the library. For most
of them, this is their first experience with death. They'll
be looking for your mother in you. And I think they'll find
her."

He's a kind man, a good man, and I manage to work up a smile
when I shake his hand. Donna and Sam join me, Donna linking
her arm through mine as we head back for Dave the driver and
his car.

***

We go back up Jog Road, past the neighborhoods named
after golf courses, back to the A-1-A. "Would you like to go
back to the house first?" Dave asks.

"No, thanks. We should just...go. Get it over with."

"On our way, then." We pull into the driveway of one of the
many condos along the beach and Dave lets us off. "Just call
this number," Dave says as he hands me his card. "I can be
back here ten minutes from whenever."

"Thanks." I get us buzzed into the lobby with just my name:
"Josh Lyman."

The doorman greets us somberly, hat in hand. "I'm Mike. We
met over Thanksgiving. Listen, I'm so very sorry about your
mother. She was a terrific lady."

"Thanks. I have a key - can we go up?"

"Of course, of course. The Kleinmanns are in the apartment -
she doesn't get out much, so it meant a lot to her to get
everything ready."

"His name's Hermann, I remember. What's her name again?"

"Esther. I'll call and tell them you're on your way up."

We ride in peaceful quiet to the seventh floor, then work
our way down a corridor. "Her apartment's at the end of the
hall."

"Good thing we're not using a mezuzah for a guide to which
one's hers," Sam says, motioning to the number of doors
bearing the wooden box.

We get to my mother's door. Before we can knock, a tall,
thin, elderly man with wisps of gray hair sticking to the
top of his head opens the door. "Mike said you were coming.
Come in, come in." He shakes my hand, then leans over and
kisses me once on each cheek. "It's good to see you, Josh.
I'm just sorry about the circumstances."

"Thanks. These are my friends, Sam Seaborn and Donna Moss."

"Hermann Kleinmann. Two 'n's' in each."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kleinmann," Donna says, smiling at
him.

"Eh, it's Hermann, please. Come on in, Esther's in the
kitchen. They're here!" he calls to his wife, who walks
slowly, crookedly, obviously in a lot of pain along with her
emotional distress.

"Hello, Josh," she says softly, opening her arms to me, and
I hug her. She's frail, so fragile that I only embrace her
loosely. It's hard to reconcile this haggard woman with the
stories Mom told about how she'd been an artist, so active
in her community.

Mom. Oh. Mom.

Esther lets go of me and eyes Sam. "You, I've seen on
television. Smart boy, nice boy, and Josh is lucky to have
you as a friend." Sam beams, submitting to a hug with his
usual grace.

"And you - you're Josh's secretary?"

Oh, holy hell.

But Donna's too polite to insist on the P.C. term. Besides,
even "assistant" doesn't begin to cover what she does for
me. "I'm Donna Moss," she says, avoiding any job-related
commentary. She smiles as she lets Esther give her a hug as
well.

"Marjorie told me all about you, and she's right. Pretty,
but skinny. Josh works you too hard. Look at you, nothing
but skin and bones, and so pale!"

"If she's too skinny, Es, why don't you take her to the
kitchen and let her try some of the kugel?" Hermann
suggests, and I'm so relieved that I could hug the guy. When
Esther and Donna have retreated, Hermann ushers us into the
living room. "Sit, sit. We'll talk a minute, right?"

"Of course. I want to thank you for...all of this. It's a
lot of work."

"It's the least we could do." Hermann pauses as if to check
that his wife is out of earshot. "Esther feels so horrible.
Your poor mother, just like that, and Esther was right there
but she didn't know what to do."

"There was nothing she could have done," I reassure him.
"The First...the doctors told us that there wasn't anything
anyone could have done - the damage was just too great."

"At least it was quick. But we don't have to talk about that
now." He leans back in the leather chair, the one my dad
used to lounge in. It doesn't match the rattan furniture Mom
bought when she moved here, but she couldn't bring herself
to part with it. It's going home with me, somehow.

As if he's reading my mind, Hermann says, "I hope you don't
mind, but I called a company and they'll give you an
estimate on whatever you want to take home. Their card's on
your mother's bureau."

"I appreciate that." A burst of nervous energy zaps me and I
get up, going to the balcony door and opening it. I can see
over the pool from here, and beyond that to the avenue along
the waterway.

"My son calls that the 'Geezerstrasse,' the 'old guy's
street,'" Hermann says over his shoulder. "You should get
some air, after. Your color's not so good."

"I spend most of my time indoors." It's true - even this
little exposure to humid, salty air feels alien after years
spent in little offices. "It'd be good to get out for a
while."

"Take Donna with you," Esther says as she shuffles back into
the living room with Donna carrying tea and things on a
large tray. "She's like a sheet of paper, thin and white."

"Es, leave them be," Hermann chuckles, and his wife goes to
him for a kiss. I wonder if that's what my parents would've
been like if they'd both lived a while longer. I wonder if
there's anything like that in store for me, even for a
moment.

Esther sits carefully, painfully, on the chair opposite Sam.
"Before everyone gets here, I wanted to tell you what
happened."

"Should we...?" Sam asks, tilting his head toward the patio
door.

"No, that's fine. Stay." I'm inhaling the words as anxiety
crawls around in my brain like army ants.

Esther takes a deep breath. "We were sitting on the sofa,
right next to each other. Your mother was where Donna is
right now. She was telling me how proud she was of you, that
you held your head up high and told those mamzers � that's
'bastards,' dear," she tells Donna, "what was what. Then she
just...stopped."

Donna's face goes white. I blink a few times and try to
breathe. "Wait, wait, wait. You were watching the hearings?"


"She called and asked me to watch with her, so I came over,
we made tea, we talked, and we waited for them to show your
testimony."

"Oh, my God." I duck, running my hands over my face, ending
up with my fingertips in front of my mouth. "I
didn't...know..."

Sam springs out of his chair and hovers with his hands on my
shoulders. Grounding me. "All we were told was that you were
watching television. We didn't have any idea."

"They were grilling me, and she was watching, and she...she
must've been so humiliated..." I can't find any more words.

Hermann observes us with his soft blue eyes. "It's just the
opposite, actually. Marjorie told everyone in the building
when you were going to be on. She said you'd take those guys
to the cleaners, show them what a real mensch is. She was
proud. Her last thought was of how proud she was of you,
Josh, and how many people get to say that about their
parents?"

I'm still processing this when there's a knock on the door.
Hermann gets up to answer, but Donna takes over from this
moment on, greeting people, memorizing names and
relationships, coaching me through the blinding ritual she
knows all too well.

There are so many people: neighbors, people from the
synagogue, people she volunteered with at the theater and
the library. Rabbi Kessler. The group of girls Mom had
mentored comes in together, each bringing a covered dish,
the specialty of her homeland. Donna glides around, taking
notes about who belongs to what casserole so that the
containers can go home to their rightful owners. The dining
room table begins to look like a United Nations commercial,
and the apartment's full of voices.

Sam watches over me. He stays by my side, shaking hands,
talking politics or sports or law with equal ease and grace
so that I don't have to say anything at all. Donna keeps
tissues in her hand to wipe away traces of lipstick that the
women leave as they kiss my cheek and leave remnants of
tears on my face.

For the life of me, I can't think of anything to say. I'm
just numb, operating on some primal version of auto-pilot. I
thank people for their condolences, letting Donna feed me
the names, grateful that our tradition lets me sit on the
little hassock without having to be too participatory.

One especially lovely girl breaks away from her group and
kneels in front of the footstool to hug me around the waist.
She's a tiny thing, all eyes and hair, and she's crying
openly. "My name's Liliana Carvajal," she manages to say
between sobs. "Your mama was like my mama. I'm gonna miss
her so much!"

Over Liliana's shoulder I see Donna dabbing at her eyes,
leaning into Sam for support.

"I didn't want to go to the reading group. I thought it was
for losers, you know? But your mother made it seem like the
best place in the world to be - she cared so much. I taught
her how to make Cuban bean soup and she taught me how to
make those potato cakes...lat-somethings?"

"Latkes?"

She breaks into an incredible smile. "Yeah, latkes. I'm
gonna go to college now and I'm gonna be a teacher and make
other girls want to learn, just like your mama." She kisses
me, once on each cheek. "God bless you," she whispers before
disappearing into the group of girls she came with.

"That's quite a legacy, Josh," Donna murmurs from behind me.
"And I bet there are a dozen other young women standing over
there who feel the same way but are just too shy to tell you
about it."

"I should go talk to them."

"I think that'd be nice." Her voice is neutral, the way it
always is when she's trying to tell me what to do. I'm going
to have to feed her a straight line.

"They'll kiss me and fawn over me."

"That's because they don't know you." She gives me her hand
and I rise. My knees protest. My heart protests, too, but I
know what's right.  My mother taught me that.

The little knot of teenagers untangles when a few of them
see me approach. Donna gives me names, some of which I
couldn't pronounce to save my life, and I shake hands and
get hugged and kissed until my tie almost comes off and my
face is wet from their tears.

Five of the girls join hands and start to sing in Hebrew
that's mangled enough to make me glad Toby's not here to
roll his eyes and groan, but their voices are sweet and
earnest, and I appreciate hearing them. The same words from
the Kaddish, the ones Toby said. Oseh shalom... Amen.

Donna's charmed, entranced, and she slips her fingers into
Sam's as they listen together. We applaud the girls at the
end, they blush and bow, and as if on cue people begin to
take their leave.

As much as I didn't want this, I didn't want to be alone,
either. I stand at the doorway to thank everyone, then
Esther leaves after giving me another kiss, and Hermann
stays behind for just a moment.

"You driver dropped off a bag with a change of clothes for
the three of you. There are boxes in the guest bedroom, and
more are downstairs with the doorman if you need them. We
have markers and tape, and everything else we could think
of, sitting in there. My number's on the note pad by the
phone. Don't hesitate, Josh."

"Thank you." The enormity of what this man and his wife did
for me finally hits home, and I wrap my arms around him,
mindful of his frail bones, before turning around to my
friends.

There's a whole apartment to pack up, to divide up, and if
I'd thought the memorial service would be bad, this would be
a thousand times worse. I manage to get myself into the
spare room. Donna's fishing in the suitcase for my jeans and
a light sweater, which she tosses to me. "Get changed. I'll
use the other bathroom."

A few minutes later I'm out of my suit and in comfortable
clothes, as is Sam. He's standing at the table, picking at a
tray of cookies. "I don't know why I'm still hungry."

"We should eat something substantial."

"Have you seen what's in the kitchen? You could feed three
countries."

"I promised you seafood, and I'll deliver on that promise."
I turn around, frowning. "I have absolutely no idea what to
do with any of this stuff."

"Find her papers first, hand them off to me, and I'll figure
out what to keep. I've asked Donna to do the clothes -
that's a tough one, you don't want to have to do that. You
handle books and photographs, because only you know what's
meaningful."

Thankful to have some of the responsibility taken from me, I
dig into the bookshelves. Dad's law books, Mom's history and
language books, some fifty years old, smelling like our old
living room. I want them, crave them, and without exchanging
a word Sam knows to hand me two boxes. He sits down and
starts fingering through Mom's neat file box, nodding in
approval as he comes across the papers he needs.

It feels like forever before Donna comes out of Mom's
bedroom, her mascara pooling under her eyes. "I've boxed up
the clothes and shoes and purses, Josh. Where do you want
them to go?"

"Goodwill, I suppose. Maybe we should have Dave do a run for
us."

"I'll take care of it." Donna disappears again. I go around
the apartment, picking up a few things I remember from
childhood and placing them in the living room. There's not a
lot that I want, really, and that surprises me.

"That's not much," Sam comments as if reading my mind along
with the papers.

"She sent me a pile of things when she sold the house. Most
of what I wanted, I've already got." I set aside a blue
china teapot, stretching my arms. "Thank God I didn't have
to go through the house. We'd never have made it. You'd been
to the house, you know what was in there."

"Yeah." He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his
nose. "Josh. How're you doing?"

I haven't given it a lot of thought. But being so busy has
made it a little easier. "I'm better than I expected. I
mean, I miss my mom and it's hard to have it sink in that
she's gone, but..."

The phone rings. Sam and I both jump. I go into the kitchen
and pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mr. Lyman, this is Mike. A Jason Lo's here to see you."

"Thanks, send him up." I go back to Sam. "Mom's lawyer is
here. You ready to talk to him?"

"I think so. It's all pretty simple and very organized."

"Comes of being married to a lawyer, I guess."

His eyes flicker away for an instant. "I guess." His mother
married a lawyer, and look what happened to them.

I grimace, sorry to have brought up a painful subject, but
before I can say anything there's a knock on the door.

The guy is startlingly young, and startlingly familiar. He
extends his hand. "Jason Lo."

"Wait...did you do work-study at Debevoise when you were in
high school?"

"Yep, that's me. Your dad kept an eye on my progress in law
school." Jason's face is open and he has a trustworthy
smile. "One of the last things he did before taking a leave
of absence - for the chemo - was to get me hired."

"He was incredibly impressed with you. And you're Mom's
lawyer?"

"He specifically asked me to take care of her. In case." His
smile evaporated. "I was crazy about your folks, Josh. I'm
so sorry. About all of it."

"Thanks. Come in, please. Eat something before the table
collapses under the weight. Sam'll join you. Sam, this is my
mother's lawyer, Jason Lo."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Seaborn."

"Sam." He leans back the way he does when he's surprised
that anyone thinks of him as a superior. "I told Josh I'd
take care of the particulars. Why don't we grab food and sit
down in the kitchen so he doesn't have to hear a language
he's forgotten how to speak?"

"Way to console the bereaved," I grunt at him, grinning. For
an instant he doesn't understand that I'm kidding, then he
relaxes and smiles back.

I don't know how much time passes as I box up the books I
want and leave tags on the furniture that can be disposed
of. The photo albums go into a box that I want to put on the
plane with us. Donna emerges a few times, finally allowing
Sam to bully her into taking a Coke and some cookies with
her, and comes out with her hair knotted up at the back of
her head and her sleeves rolled up.

"You done?"

"Yes. But there's one thing you need to look at. If you're
up to it." She leads me into the bedroom. I inhale sharply,
tears stinging my eyes, the familiar scents of powder and
perfume flooding my senses. Donna sighs, leading me past
neatly-stacked boxes of things I don't have to look at, then
shows me a tattered shoe box. "These are for a little girl.
But the box looks old."

I sink onto the bed. The world's gone eerily silent. "She
kept them. She kept them, all these years."

Donna sits beside me. "Were they your sister's?"

"No. Well, they were...supposed to be." I can taste the
ice-cream sodas we used to have when Mom took us to old Mr.
Clark's shoe store.

"Josh, you don't have to talk about this. I just wanted to
know what to do--"

"No, it's okay. You'll like this story. There was this guy,
Mr. Clark, who owned a shoe store not far from Dad's office.
Two or three times a year my mom would call and say we were
coming in, and he'd pull out things he thought we'd like.
That was in the days when people actually knew their
customers."

"Before my time."

"Don't push your luck, Donnatella." I nudge her with my
shoulder. "Anyway, the fall after Joanie...we went to get
school shoes for me. And he had these set aside for Joanie
because he remembered Mom had promised her 'heels' when she
turned thirteen. He hadn't heard about...and my mom didn't
say anything, just thanked him and bought the shoes for a
daughter she'd buried five months earlier."

"Because she didn't want him to feel bad," Donna says, her
voice thickening with each word. "Oh, Josh, that's so sad.
So sweet."

"I'm surprised she still had them, though. She got rid of so
much when she sold the house." I open the box. The tissue's
decayed over the last thirty-odd years, revealing smooth,
delicate black patent leather. "For when she turned
thirteen. Only she never did. Turn thirteen. But Mr. Clark
didn't know that."

"Josh." Donna reverently covers up the shoes and closes the
box, then turns to hold me while I struggle against the
latest tide of emotion. "I'll put them with the things we're
mailing to you," she whispers against my temple.

I nod my thanks, unable to speak for a moment. I want ice
cream. I want a maraschino cherry of my own, and I want to
steal my sister's when she's not looking, then have my mom
give hers away to keep the peace. I want the smell of new
leather and the squeak of socks against the shoes as Joanie
models them for my dad.

I move away from Donna. "Wash my face," I mutter, and I'm
thankful that she doesn't move from her spot.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Sam and Jason are all over
the remains of the sandwiches. From somewhere, doubtless the
depths of the refrigerator, they've procured beer. Mom
didn't really like it but she bought some when I was here a
few weeks ago and it seems fitting that the last of the
stash would go to these men.

"We're ready for you, Josh," Sam says, waving me toward the
living room. "It's not going to take long."

"Okay." I'd rather have my teeth drilled, but I sit
obediently on the sofa while Jason and Sam take the chairs
on either side of me.

"There's less 'estate' in terms of money than when she first
drew up the will, although it's still substantial," Jason
says. "Your mom was giving money away hand over fist. She
endowed a lot of things in your father's memory, and in your
sister's. There are other assets, as well. There's
insurance, of course, and anything you want from the
apartment, although she's asked that the furniture go to the
battered women's shelter in Delray if that's okay."

"That's good. I had no idea what to do with it, anyway."

"Sam's going to take care of filing the insurance paperwork.
There's going to be some inheritance tax involved,
especially when you sell the condo, I just need to warn you,
but it won't be too bad."

"Ah, the death tax. Ainsley would have a field day," I say
to Sam, who shoots me a dirty look in return. "Do you have
the will? I'd like to read it."

"There are two. There's the first, the disposition of
property - she left everything to you, Josh, so it's pretty
straightforward - and there's also an ethical will."

Sam leans toward me. "Now, you see, that's really
interesting. I'd never heard of that until Jason told me
about it today."

"They're pretty common among Jews - a way to tell their
children what they expect of them, how to live their lives.
Although she was proud of you just the way you were, Josh, I
want to make sure you realize that."

"I do. I've been told. Thank you."

"You'll need to change the beneficiaries on your own
insurance, change your will, stuff like that, and Sam says
he'll handle it all for you. So, other than saying again how
terribly sorry I am, my part of this is really done." Jason
stands, as do Sam and I. It just takes me longer.

"Thank you for coming all the way down here for this."

"It's an honor to have worked for her. Your dad made my
career, you know."

Pain stabs my chest, a recollection of Dad saying something
about this kid, this one kid, who was going to go all the
way in law. At the time I'd thought he meant that the kid
would do well in comparison to me, but now I realize what
he'd seen in the teenager working in his office. And that he
didn't love me any less. "You're going to make partner?"

"They say in another year, two at the outside. And it's
because of your father. I was honored that he asked me to
take care of family matters for your mother. It's the least
I can do, to come out here and pay my respects." He shakes
my hand again. "Hang in there, Josh. Don't let those
Congressional cretins get to you."

It suddenly occurs to me that I haven't heard a news report
in almost twelve hours, for the first day in probably
fifteen years, not counting the shooting. "Is Schuller...?"

"You didn't hear?" Jason looks positively gleeful. "The
President ripped him a new one. Then Toby Ziegler went on
CNN and rained battery acid on the wound. Schuller won't
bother you again."

"Excellent. Is someone taping the news, Sam?"

"CJ's got Zach archiving everything for you," Sam says
smoothly. "Jason, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please come
visit sometime - you've got a good head for politics."

"I might just do that. Thanks." Jason nods and takes his
leave.

Sam walks back to the kitchen and picks a manila envelope
off the table. "This is the ethical will, Josh."

"I...can't look at it now. There's still so much..."

"I know. I'll put it in my room, and you can tell me when
you're ready." Sam tucks the envelope into his jacket, which
is hanging neatly on a dining room chair. "We ought to
rescue Donna."

"Good idea." We go into the bedroom, where Donna is marking
something on a box. "You ready to take a break?"

"I think so. We're down to the small things, jewelry and a
few photos. You?"

"I've found everything I was looking for. The rest can go to
Goodwill or whoever." A sudden thought hits me. "Her wedding
rings. Where are they?"

Donna holds up an empty bag from Bethesda Hospital. "They
were in here. I put them with the rest of the jewelry. I
called the house and Rosemary said she can store them in the
family vault until you're ready to go home."

"Let me see." She hands the rosewood box to me and I open
the lid. Donna and Sam back away to give me some privacy,
Donna saying something about needing to brush her hair and
Sam offering to pack up the legal papers in one of the
shipping boxes.

The rings are there, and I hold them near my heart for a
moment before setting them back in the box. I look through
the other items - some valuable, some whose value is purely
sentimental - until I find exactly what I need. I remove
those two pieces and carefully slip them into my pockets.
For later.

***
END PART FOUR
***