This story begins with a blurry photograph in People magazine.

I have looked at that photo a dozen times now.  I see nothing particularly remarkable about it.  Truthfully, I'm not even sure where it was taken.  If there were any background details to give the location away, they have been cropped out.  What remains is just an image of two people talking together, unaware they're being watched.  Being judged.

A man and a woman standing close together:  I think you can tell from their body language that this is not an uncommon occurrence.  There is something about the way he leans in toward her, something about the way she smiles at him, that indicates how comfortable they are in each other's company.  They spend a lot of time talking like this; you might get the impression that they relish those moments together.

What precisely are they to one another?  How do they define their relationship?  They aren't lovers; at least (I can tell this much from the dress she's wearing) they weren't when this picture was taken.  Read the caption beneath the photo and you'll learn that she works for him.  However, if you thought their relationship is more complex than that -- more intense, you'd be right.  If you thought there is some sort of bond or attraction between them, you'd be right about that too.

You might think something else; I know I did the first time I saw this photo.  I thought that nothing could come between these two people.  Certainly not the filthy ramblings of some petty, hate-filled men.

I was wrong.

This is the story of how I lost Josh.

***

I never really received hate mail until I got to the White House.

Well, that's not entirely true.  I did get some when I worked for Hoynes, but he preferred to keep as much of the spotlight as possible on himself.  Consequently, my name wasn't in the press all that often.

Still, the occasional sick and twisted skinhead (is that redundant?) decided I merited some anti-Semitic hate mail.

I still remember how upsetting that first letter was.  When you realize that there are people out there -- a significant number of people -- who hate the very idea of your existence.  They don't even hate you, because you're not a real person to them.  They just loathe you on a hypothetical basis.

It is absolutely terrifying.

Then you begin to understand how your attempts to be a decent person, to do good, are completely irrelevant when you are judged merely on your pedigree.

Luckily, hate mail was an uncommon occurrence back then.  Upsetting, but rare.

Then there was the Bartlet campaign.

Josiah Bartlet, a liberal brainiac from New Hampshire who managed to upend the Democratic Party by beating the prohibitive favorite and then went on to somehow win the presidency.  This was the story for a long, long time.

And because Jed Bartlet's political skills are notoriously... well, let's just say the press decided that the people behind the campaign were responsible for such a surprising turn of events.

We got a lot of phone calls, Leo and Sam and CJ and Toby and me.  Lots of morning shows, lots of news shows, lots of magazine articles.  We were nearly as recognizable to the fanatic fringe as that new Commie in the White House.

As a result, Toby and I received a barrage of hate mail from "white pride" organizations.  Most of it concerned our proximity to the very WASPy Jed Bartlet, and, of course, his Aryan Princess wife and daughters.  Oh, and our Jewish inclinations to ruthlessly seek money and power in order to ruin The American Way Of Life for the Chosen Race, so that we could infect their Women with our wicked ways.

Or some combination of the two.

Over the past three years, I have received some disturbing mail: letters calling for my resignation, calling for my relegation to a segregated ghetto (sounds familiar, doesn't it?), and -- by far the most disturbing -- calling for my summary execution.

I really thought I'd seen the depths of human depravity.

I was wrong.

*

The first letter arrives when I am still very weak.

It takes a lot of effort -- and causes me a lot of pain -- to get out of bed and walk the length of my apartment.  Bending down to retrieve the mail from the floor is damn near excruciating.

But it's contact with the outside world.  Which I crave.

Contact with persons other than Donna of course.  I crave contact with Donna, too, every time she walks out the door.  Of course, her frequent presence here is one aspect of my invalid state that is rewarding: lots and lots of time with Ms. Donnatella Moss-Lyman all to myself.  Yes, that is a bonus.

I'm digressing.  Could it be I don't want to deal with the letter?

See, that therapy has paid off; now I can recognize my avoidance behavior.  Doesn't mean I don't still engage in it, but at least I know when I'm doing it.

I'm definitely doing it now.

So I haul my weak, sore self out of bed, shuffle to the door, and groan my way down to the floor to snag my mail.

Bill.  Bill.  Solicitation letter from Henry Hyde -- I throw that in the trash immediately.

And then there is the letter.

I got lots of letters while I was in the hospital.  As I've said before, I won the news cycle the week of the shooting and apparently became some sort of hero.  Now I wouldn't normally balk at the word "hero" being applied to me; but since my actions during the shooting were mindless and did nothing but place me in the path of a bullet, I feel a tad undeserving of the sobriquet.  But the few letters I did have the strength to read -- or that Donna read to me -- were amazing in their outpouring of sympathy.

More avoidance behavior.

Stanley would be so disappointed with me.

Not that I've seen him since the shooting.  He sent flowers to my hospital room -- or so I'm told; they don't allow flowers in ICU.  I'm pretty sure CJ redirected the copious amounts of flowers I received to the children's ward.  The card Stanley sent was very nice, though.  Short, but he signed off by reminding me that I could call him any time I needed to and that he'd even make a house call.  Hospital call, I guess, would be the more appropriate term.

But I really didn't have many problems in the hospital.  Psychologically speaking, anyway.  I'm pretty sure I have the drugs -- and my delicate system -- to thank for that.

Nope, the nightmares didn't start in earnest until I got back to my apartment.

I really dislike the nightmares.

Not a big fan of panic attacks, either.  I've only had a couple of those, although I haven't relayed the details to anyone who could, you know, actually confirm that they are panic attacks.  I'm just guessing that instances of sudden, overwhelming panic with attendant physical manifestation in the form of cold sweat, the shakes, and a compulsive urge to go fetal could be safely labeled panic attacks.

Thankfully, there's been no one here to witness the couple I've had.  I would really hate for Donna to have to deal with my psychological breakdown along with the burdens of doing my job for me.  You know, when Toby said Donna would make an excellent deputy chief of staff, he was right.  She's almost better at my job than I am.

I'm doing it again.

You want to hear about the letter.  The first letter anyway.  Well, to be accurate, the first letter after the shooting.  (Although I have suspicions that the Secret Service sifted the tons of mail I received while in the hospital for hate mail.  Not that I have any sort of problem with that procedure; I'm even willing to overlook the fact that those actions are prohibited by federal law.)

See how good I am at this?  I am a master of avoidance behavior.

The letter begins "Dear Dirty Jew."  It devolves from there.  I can't...

I really can't repeat the words.  Suffice it to say that the writer expresses his deep-seated fear of anything that doesn't fit into his limited version of Life, the Universe and Everything by using every tired anti-Semitic slur I've heard, plus a few new ones.  He also rejoices in my near-fatal injuries and upbraids me for surviving the attempted murder.  "So far."

These people -- people who have never met me, who know nothing about me other than that my beliefs differ from theirs -- these people are upset that I survived an armed assault.  I can't understand this.  They are in mourning because I didn't die.  That level of ignorant hate is absolutely a mystery to me.

I know that Donna has tried to shield me from letters like these.

For the last three years, she's been sifting the mail for ignorance, trying to protect me from this hate.

Now the ignorance has spread, and this letter in particular has taken on a new, threatening tone.  And the final paragraph... I really can't repeat that.  I don't even know if I can talk about it yet.  (More avoidance behavior?)

I really...  It's a difficult subject.

In essence, he threatens Donna.  This ignorant coward didn't even catch the subtext of that People article; he threatens Donna merely because she works for a Jew.  (No, that's not the word he used to describe me; I refuse to repeat that word.)

The thought of a Jew degrading a blonde, blue-eyed woman is intolerable to this cretin.

I am terrified that this hatred has fed off of itself until it is big enough to include both of us.

I can handle hate letters targeting me.  Not very well, but I can handle them.  Letters threatening Donna...

There's no reason she needs to see these letters.  So now it's my turn to shield her.

I very calmly call the Secret Service, explain the situation, wait for the agent to arrive, answer her questions, nod when she tells me the D.C. police will be contacting me within the next 24 hours, and see her out.

Then I promptly freak my shit.

When I uncurl myself from the corner of the couch, I realize the agent took the letter without leaving me a copy.  Not that I really want it for my scrapbook, but it's good to be able to name your enemies.

No matter, I seem to have selective photographic memory, because the words of hate and violence are burned into my mind.

And I have another item on the List of Things I Can't Tell Donna.

***

I have become used to hate mail.  It's unpleasant, but it happens.  Even the nicest people in public life get hate mail.  And while I love him dearly, I will be the first to admit that Josh Lyman is not the nicest person in public life.  So, as you can probably guess, my Joshua gets more than his share.

The thing about hate mail, I learned quickly during my first few weeks as Josh's assistant, is not to dwell on it.  You see what it is, you call the Secret Service, they haul it away for investigation, hand it off to the D.C. police, and that is that.  But this is different.  This is the first piece of hate mail I've personally intercepted since the shooting.

And this one is addressed to me.

A blurry photograph of yourself in People magazine might give your parents a thrill, but it also apparently sets you up as a target for the sort of individuals who (as this piece of filth writes) regret that the shooters may have missed Charlie but are happy that "at least they hit the Jew."

Okay, they don't refer to Charlie by name.  You can imagine what they call him.

And, no, "Jew" is not the word they use to describe Josh either.

From there, if possible, it gets worse.  There is a great deal of anti-Semitic venom directed at Josh.  As for what it says about me, well, apparently Josh was correct when he said that people would read between the lines of that article and assume we are romantically involved.  The writer of this letter makes a number of such assumptions -- all in very graphic terms.

And there are photographs in case I don't get the not-so-veiled threat.

The photos were apparently torn out of a book on Nazi Germany.  The one that makes the most vivid impression features a naked, terrified woman -- her hair every bit as blonde as mine -- who is being tarred and feathered for the "crime" of being in love with a Jewish man.

I have looked at that photo for less than five seconds.  I know I will be haunted forever by that woman and what must have happened to her after the photo was taken.

As for what must have happened to the man she loved, I can't even begin to wrap my mind around that.

Josh and me, in another time and place...

I must look pretty shook up because the next thing I know Bonnie and Ginger are standing by my desk, asking what is wrong.  I hand the letter to Ginger, who passes it on to Bonnie, who dials the Secret Service for me.  I collect myself enough to tell Bonnie that, no, I do not want to call Josh out of the senior staff meeting.

The agent the Secret Service sends up is very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.  She reassures me that this sort of thing is to be expected, given the upcoming trial of the skinhead who gave the shooters their signal.  It is unfortunate that I had to see it, but the Service will investigate it thoroughly.  The odds that whoever sent it will try to do anything to Josh or to me are infinitesimal.

After what we went through in May, even "infinitesimal" odds sound too great where Josh is concerned.  I say something to that effect, but the agent keeps telling me not to worry.  Nothing, after all, has come from the other hate mail Mr. Lyman has received since the shooting.

"This is it," I say.  I'll admit I'm confused.  "Josh hasn't received any other hate mail since May."

"We've managed to intercept most of it before it reached your office," she explains.  "The rest Mr. Lyman has brought to us personally."

"Josh did what?"

"He's brought us about a half dozen letters."

"But I open Josh's mail," I say.  "I don't understand how I didn't know."

"Ms. Moss--"

"Okay, here's the thing."  Josh suddenly opens the office door, all smiling and happy.  I dread having to tell him about this.  "That area out there is yours; this office is mine.  You really have to--"  He notices the Secret Service agent sitting across from me and (I assume) the look on my face, and he comes to a sudden halt.  "Donna, what's happened?"

I don't even know where to begin, not in front of someone else.  In private, I'm pretty sure I'd begin by screaming at him for keeping things from me.

"Mr. Lyman," the agent begins, "Ms. Moss called us earlier to report a death threat she discovered in the morning mail."

"Oh."  He looks at the agent, not at me -- a pretty good sign he's feeling guilty.  "What did this one say?"

"This letter was addressed to Ms. Moss."

You know, I've seen Josh get angry lots of times.  He's turned hostility into an art form.  This, however, is the first time I've seen him totally lose control.

"Donna?  Someone threatened Donna?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see it."  I'm used to Josh raising his voice.  This is the first time he's ever been so loud he's made me flinch.

"Sir, as I was about to explain to Ms. Moss--"

"If someone is sending death threats to my--"

"Josh!"  I barely catch the slip he's about to make in time.

"To my assistant, I have a right to see it."

The agent hesitates for a second and then hands Josh the letter.  He studies it.  I could barely stand to look at the thing, but Josh stands there and I swear he commits every ugly word to memory.  "So what are you going to do about it?" he finally asks the agent.

"As I was about to tell Ms. Moss," she says, "all we can do is contact the DC police."

"What?"

"This is a threat against a private citizen, not against the president or a member of his family.  It's not Secret Service business."

"Look at the postmark.  It's from Blacksburg, Virginia.  Isn't that where the Newseum shooting was plotted?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then it's the Secret Service's business, isn't it?  A member of the president's staff is being threatened.  Shouldn't that be the Secret Service's business?"

"Josh," I say, "let it go."

"No," he says.

"Josh."

"People are threatening you, Donna.  They're threatening you because of me."

"Which is not your fault," I point out.

"Still, I can keep the Secret Service from turning it over to the Keystone Kops."

"That's hardly an accurate description of the local police, Mr. Lyman," the agent says.

Josh doesn't say another word.  He just turns around and heads out the door.

"Josh, where are you going?" I ask.

"Leo's office," he calls out over his shoulder.

I mutter a quick apology to the Secret Service agent and take off after Josh.

***

"Josh," Donna says.  "Hold on."

"I'm going to talk to Leo," I say.

Donna looks horrified.  She reaches out, but I'm already walking away.

"Josh," she calls after me.  "Wait a second."

"Why?"  I am going to lose it really soon, and I don't want Donna to be there.  I speed up.

Donna, of course, catches up to me anyway.  "Josh, stop this."

I don't break my stride.

"Stop what, Donna?"  I am trying not to yell.  "This... this hate-monger is threatening your life, and you don't think this is important?"

"Of course I think it's important, Josh," she says.  "But the Secret Service doesn't."

I stop abruptly.  Donna takes one step past me, then halts and turns.  "Josh--"

"What did you say?"

Donna holds my gaze for a moment, then gives a small shrug.  "I'm not the president, Josh.  This isn't their job.  The D.C. police--"

"Are a bunch of incompetent idiots who are going to put this on ice."

"Josh," Donna lowers her voice.  "That's not true.  They were there at the Newseum.  They know the stakes."

"They know that a couple of ignorant skinheads made them look bad.  That doesn't mean they're going to protect you from this."

"Josh--"

"I'm talking to Leo."

"Do you think that's wise?"

I am flabbergasted.  "Do I think it's wise to inform the White House Chief of Staff that someone's threatening one of his staff members?  Well, gee, Donna, I guess that really isn't his department."

"That's not what I meant."

"Donna--"

"No, Josh, you've got to listen to me for a second."  She has her earnest face on.

I consider for a moment, then give her a curt nod.  "You've got thirty seconds."

She lowers her voice and steps closer to me.  "Do you really think it's a good idea to call attention to the implications of this letter?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the assumptions this..."  She gestures helplessly, "..this person makes are not entirely untrue."

I can't believe she's saying this out loud not ten feet from Leo's office.  I move toward her till we are almost touching.  "Donna," I whisper, "I don't think we should discuss this here."

"I know, Joshua," she whispers back.  "But you can't go in there to Leo while you're upset because someone is threatening your--"  She stops, raises her eyebrow at me, and says, "assistant."

Point taken.  I nod once more.  "Fine.  I'll take that under advisement."

I step back and head for Leo's office.

"Josh--"

"I got it, Donna."

I bypass Margaret and go straight into Leo's office.  "Leo--"

He waves me into silence from his desk.

"Yes," he says into the phone.  "Yes, we're aware of that, Patrick, but I really think--"

He rolls his eyes at me and indicates a seat with a tilt of his head.  I am too agitated to sit.  Leo notes this with a curious look.

"Patrick, I really can't discuss this right--"  He stops again.  Listens.  "I've got to go, Patrick.  I'll get back to you."

Leo hangs up the phone and turns his attention to me.  "I've got Patrick MacDougall calling to tell me the Hollywood community is against censorship."

I ignore the MacDougall thing.  "Leo, Donna's getting threats."

Leo's brow furrows.  "Threats?  From whom?"

"This one is from Jeffrey Grainger of Blackburg, Virginia."

"Who is Jeffrey Grainger?" Leo asks.

"A skinhead, Leo," I answer.  "A Neo-Nazi.  Who do you think sends threatening letters to blonde-haired white women who -- who work closely with Jews?"

"Josh--"

"I'm serious, Leo," I interrupt.  "I want the Secret Service on this."

"Last time I checked, ordering the Secret Service around wasn't in my job description, Josh."

"Leo--"

"Threats to citizens of D.C. go to the D.C. police, Josh."

"They're not trained, Leo.  A beat cop isn't going to hurl himself in front of a bullet to save Donna!"

"Charlie's mother was a beat cop, Josh," Leo says, rising to face me, "and I'd like to see you show a little more respect for the police."

"Leo--"

"Josh, this is not open to discussion.  The Secret Service protects the First Family.  Period.  This is not a threat to the office of the president.  There's nothing they can do."

"That's great, Leo.  I feel so much better."

"Josh--"

"Forget it, Leo."

"Josh, if someone wants to kill her, they'll probably succeed."

I am halfway out the door, but his words put me into suspended animation.  I don't even think I'm breathing.

"That's a lesson I learned in May, Josh."  Leo is just behind me now.  "We do what we can, all of us; but if there's a determined wingnut out there, he'll probably be able to do some damage."

I turn to face him, my body moving awkwardly.  "If you're trying to make me feel better, Leo, I've gotta say--"

"Josh." Leo's expression is somber.  "I'm not going to lie to you.  The public eye is not a safe place to be sometimes.  Donna's your assistant, and she made it into the papers.  And now, since she's linked to you, she's a Jew-lover to these..."  He is growling now, "..these ignorant little people."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know, Leo," I say.  "In fact, I believe that was my point."

"They're cowards, Josh," he says.  "These are people whose entire code of 'morality' is based on fear of the unknown.  The vast majority of them are too scared to do more than form small groups and send the occasional threatening letter."

I hold his gaze.  "But there are some who act."

"Yes," Leo nods.  "There are.  And they most likely won't do you the courtesy of sending you a heads-up."

"So we do nothing?"

"No," Leo says.  "We watch our backs."

I look down at the carpet, consider his words, then glance back up at him.  "It isn't supposed to be like this."

Leo nods slowly.  "I know."

***

The entire idea behind a secret marriage is, obviously, to keep other people from finding out.  A secret marriage requires certain levels of, well, stealth.  At the very least, the parties involved should maintain separate residences.  Josh and I do this.  We hate it.  But we do it.

The night after we got back from our extremely short wedding trip to Maine, Josh and I went to his place.  We made love until around midnight, at which time I reluctantly got out of bed, drove back to my own apartment and spent a restless night pondering how I could feel so lonely sleeping by myself after just a handful of nights with Josh.

Josh assures me that his night was even worse.

This became our pattern -- although some nights it's two or three a.m. before I can force myself to leave.  We're both losing sleep, I think, but it's all for the good of the Moss-Lyman Defense.

That is why, the night after I open the letter, I am stunned when Josh tells me to stay.

"Josh," I say, "you know we can't do that."

"Why not?" he asks.  He's stroking my arm as he's asking this, which I find more than a bit distracting.

"Strategy, Josh," I remind him.

"Let's forget the strategy.  Just for tonight."

Then he starts kissing me.  After several months of marriage, you'd think I'd be used to kissing Josh.  But -- and he's entirely too smug about this -- when Josh kisses me, I still have a tendency to forget everything else.  He grins at me when we finish kissing, basking in the glow of yet another Lyman victory.  "So you're staying," he says.

You can't let him get away with stuff like that.  His ego is too big as it is. I start to get up.

"Absolutely not," I tell him.

He grabs my arm and pulls me back down on the bed.  I'm laughing until I see the look in his eyes.  He's almost frightened.

"Donna, I mean it.  Don't go."

"Oh, Josh."  I get it.  I'm surprised at how dense I can be sometimes, I really am.  "Nothing's going to happen to me.  This isn't some bad Lifetime movie where skinheads are waiting around the corner to attack me the minute I leave your building."

"Don't say that.  Don't even joke about it."  He holds me tighter, as though he has to personally protect me from the people who have been writing those letters.

He can be very sweet sometimes, in a misguided sort of way.  I don't want to leave, and I certainly don't want him to worry.

"All right, I'll stay.  But just for tonight."  We curl up in each other's arms, and within five minutes I'm fast asleep.

Two hours later, Josh's screams wake me up.

***

I hear gunfire.

I know, even as I run towards the sound, what I will find.

I hear screams now.

I run faster, but the fence is still some distance away.

The screams grow more desperate and agonizing.

I recognize that voice.

I am running faster, because I think I can still stop this.

I reach the gate, finally, and leap onto it, climbing as quickly as I can.

The screams are unbearable now and barely recognizable as human.

But I know the human producing that bone-chilling sound.

Donna.

Donnatella Moss is bound to a fence like the one I'm climbing.  A ring of Nazi soldiers and sheet-clad KKK members surround her.

She doesn't see me.  She is staring, terrified, at the men advancing on her.

I tear my gaze away and glance up; the fence stretches ever higher.  I press on, scrambling upwards in desperation.

I realize I am chanting her name.

Donna is bleeding.

Ruby blood trickling down the white shift she's wearing.

I have to reach her.

She's pleading with the monsters that surround her.  Her eyes are wide.

A KKK coward dips a burning cross towards her.  She shrieks and arches away.

The ground at her feet is alive with fire.

"Donna!"  I'm screaming along with her now, my voice as tortured as hers.  "Donna!"

Somehow, she hears me.  There are flames licking at her dress as her gaze finds me.

She is crying.

"Josh," she whispers.

"Donna!"

"Josh," Donna says, her arms wrapped tightly around me.  "Please wake up."

My eyes snap open and find Donna in bed beside me.

I am in my apartment.  I am shaking violently.

It was a dream.  A horrific dream.

Donna is here with me, and she's got her terrified face on.

I can't process this.  I roll away from her and pull my knees up to my chest.

"Josh, it's okay."

I can barely hear her over my shuddering breaths.

Donna molds her body to mine from behind until I can feel her breathing.

It occurs to me that I am crying.

My arms are locked around my knees, and I can't seem to move.

Donna is still murmuring to me, her hands stroking my chest, my arms, even my face.

She gently wipes my tears away, and I can feel her breath hitch.

"Josh?"  She sounds so scared.  "Please talk to me."

I can't.  If I try to speak, I will shatter.

I'm still shaking so hard my teeth are clattering.

I manage to unclench one hand and grab hers.  She squeezes my hand tightly.

"Josh," she says, her voice thick with tears.  "I'm right here."

I want to thank her, to tell her how much her presence soothes me, but I can't move.

And so I stay curled up, my body shuddering, until I fall back into a fitful sleep.  Donna remains plastered to me, but I don't think she sleeps again all night.

***

There is, of course, a second photograph.  I've already described it -- the woman in Nazi Germany, tortured for loving a Jewish man.

I have become obsessed with this woman's story.

No, not with the photograph.  Not with that one terrifying moment when her world consisted of public humiliation and excruciating pain.

It's her life that interests me.  In that time and place, how did she find the courage to love the one man who was forbidden to her?

I think I have some idea of how it could have happened.  I don't know, in Nazi Germany, exactly what kind of contact a woman like her would have had with a Jewish man.  But it must have been fairly superficial.  And, in its own way, fairly safe.

Think about it:  He was probably the one man she knew who was absolutely forbidden to her.  The only man she looked at as something other than a potential husband or lover.  The one man she could talk to honestly.

And because she could talk to him honestly, she came to relish being with him.  That's a thrill for a woman in any time or place -- finding a man who talks to you, who listens to your opinions, who doesn't tell you what to think.

Now I don't kid myself about her.  Living when and where she did, she probably shared some of the prejudice of the people around her.  But the more she talked to this man and the more she saw him as an individual, the more she saw that the ideas she'd grown up with were wrong.

Eventually, her talks with him became the most important part of her life.  Whether she saw him every day or once a week, she lived for those conversations.

I don't know when she realized that she was in love with him.  Maybe it was a gradual process, or maybe there was some traumatic event that woke her up.  Whatever happened, at some point, she stopped lying to herself.  At some point, she admitted that she loved the one man she could never have.

She would have realized the danger she was putting him in.  Living when and where she did, how could she not?  So I'm thinking that, at this point, he must have said or done something that changed everything.  Once she realized that he loved her as much as she loved him, then there really was no turning back.

As happy as she probably was initially, I doubt she let herself think too much about how it would end.

***

I am summoned to the Oval Office as soon as I walk into the West Wing.  Mrs. Landingham sent Kathy to find me when she couldn't locate Donna.

Donna, of course, is still en route, since she spent the night in my bed and had to trek home for fresh clothing before coming in to the office.  Not that I explain any of this to Kathy or Mrs. Landingham.

But all in all, I'm in a slightly better mood than yesterday.  Waking up with Donnatella Moss-Lyman beside me is almost enough to erase the lingering traces of my nightmare.  Almost.

I don't know what scares me more: the thought of someone threatening Donna's life, or the realization that I've already begun to accept living with that threat hanging over me.  Over us both.

"Good morning, Josh," Mrs. Landingham greets me.  "You can go right in."

"Thank you, Mrs. Landingham."

I knock on the open door, and President Bartlet glances up from his desk.  "Oh, Josh."

"Good morning, Mr. President."

He waves me in.  "Shut the door, would you?"

The president rises and circles the desk, gesturing towards the couches.  I choose the one nearest me, and he sits across from me.  "How's the thing?" he asks, glancing at my midsection.

"Fine, sir," I answer.  I can't figure out why he's asking, since I've been pretty much recovered for almost six weeks.  "And yours?"

The president grimaces.  "It's nothing."

I nod.  What do you say to that?

"Josh, the trial's starting."

Dammit.  I don't need this right now.

"When?" I ask.  "Isn't this awfully fast?"

President Bartlet shoots me a strange look but ignores my second question.  "Monday."

Monday.  Okay.

"I appreciate the heads-up, sir, but--"

"Josh," he interrupts me, "you need to attend the trial."

I am floored.  I open my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is an odd squeaking sound.

I clear my throat.  "Sir?"

"We need you in that courtroom every day," the president explains.  "You're the victim, Josh, and this little punk needs to face you."

No way.  No way I'm doing this.

"With all due respect, sir, you were shot, too."

The president gives me an eloquent look.  "Don't you think it would be a little strange if the president of the United States were able to miss work for, what, a couple of weeks?"

"But it's fine for the deputy chief of staff?" I demand.  Leo would kill me if he could hear my tone.

"Yes," he answers.  "Josh, I wouldn't ask this of you--"

"You are asking this of me."  I am furious.  "And I'm not that crazy about the idea of being ordered to attend the trial of one of the men who accidentally tried to kill me."

"I would think you'd want to attend," he says, leaning toward me.  "Where is that fighting Lyman spirit?"

"Sir," I warn.

"Seriously, Josh, why don't you want to be there to ensure that justice is served?"

"Because it won't be," I explode.  I find I'm standing, breathing hard, and I don't remember getting up.

President Bartlet is staring up at me, his eyes wide.  "Josh--"

"No," I say.  "Justice can't be served."  I circle behind the couch. I need to move, to expend some of this uncontrollable energy.  "These three kids, they did more than shoot me, sir.  They stole something from me too.  They wanted Charlie dead because he's black.  Not because he's a bad person, or because he did something awful; just because he's black.  They missed him, but oh, lucky for them they managed to bag themselves a Jew."

I can't stop talking.

"Josh--"

"I mean, Jews are right up there with blacks and Hispanics and gays and Arabs and witches and gypsies, right?  Disposable.  The lesser races."  I stop pacing as suddenly as I started.  "I knew all of this before, Mr. President, I did.  I knew there were people out there who were capable of such hatred.  But I didn't understand it.  I didn't really believe it.  Not in here."  I tap my chest.  "I do now."  I pause.  "And I hate them for that."

"I do too," President Bartlet answers quietly.  "I do too, Josh."

"I know."  I shake my head in frustration.  "So does Charlie.  And Toby.  And CJ and Sam and Zoey and Mrs. Bartlet and Ron Butterfield."  And Donna, I add silently.  "And there's nothing the judge can do to remedy that."

"I know that, Josh," he says.  He does.  I can tell.  "But it's all we have."

I turn away from him and stare sightlessly out the dormer windows.

After a moment, I sigh.  "You're right."

"You'll attend the trial?"

"Yes, sir."

*

"You're not coming," I tell Donna.  "And that's final."

She gives me her stubborn face.  "In case it has slipped your mind, Joshua," she says, her voice low and dangerous, "it's not 1912, and I am not your property to order around as you see fit."

"You are still my subordinate," I point out, my voice harsh.  "And as such, I am ordering you to stay here and run the office."

"Josh, you are not going to this alone."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

She crosses her arms.  "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"Not particularly," I admit.  "But the choice isn't mine to make."

"Yes, it is, Josh."  She steps closer and lowers her voice.  "You're still having nightmares--"

"Donna, that's irrelevant."

"How do you figure?"

"Those nightmares -- which, by the way, are exceedingly rare--"  She arches one eyebrow in disbelief. I ignore her implied comment. "--are from the shooting.  This is a trial."

"A trial about the shooting," she says, exasperated.

"Donna, have you ever been to a trial?" I ask.  "Hell, have you ever flipped past Court TV?  Trials are boring."

"Not," she says, "when there's a parade of witnesses testifying about the Neo-Nazi movement."

"Donna, I don't even have to testify.  I'm just there as The Guy Who Got Shot."

"So I'll be there as Someone Who Cares About The Guy Who Got Shot."

"How about, instead of that, you're here as The Person Running the Office?"

"Josh," she says, "you shouldn't be there alone."

"What're you going to do," I scoff, "hold my hand?"

"If you need me to, yes," she answers evenly.

I wish the office door were closed so that I could hug her.

I settle for a smile.  "I appreciate that, Donna, I really do.  But I need you here.  Besides," I add, "I won't be alone.  Toby's going."

"Toby?" she repeats.  "Toby's going?"

"Yes," I nod.  "Leo told me this morning."

She watches me for a moment, and I can all but see the gears turning in her head.

"Okay," she says finally.

"Okay?" I am suspicious.

"Yes."

"Donna--"

"I said okay, Josh."  She turns abruptly and leaves my office.

I have a feeling I may not have won the argument.

***

I'd go to Leo and insist that I be allowed to accompany Josh to the trial, but a couple of things stop me.  First, Leo would agree with Josh that I should stay here and run the office.  Second, I don't think it's a good idea to call Leo's attention to the personal nature of my relationship with Josh.

Still, staying here while Josh goes to that trial is not an option.  I'm watching him fall apart in front of me, and I know he'll need me there even if he is too stubborn to admit it.

So this is what I come up with: lunch with Margaret.  This may not sound like a sacrifice to you, but have you ever had lunch with Margaret?

Margaret believes that you should chew your food slowly if you are to digest it properly.  Consequently, lunch with Margaret goes on for a very, very long time.  I have never had dinner with Margaret.  Life is short, and I simply don't have that kind of time.

On the plus side, however, you can talk a lot while Margaret is chewing.

"President Bartlet ordered Josh to go to the trial," I begin.  Casually, you know.  Just catching Margaret up on the day's events.  "And so now the problem is that Josh needs me to go to the trial with him, but he's worried that the office will apart with both of us gone, so he's thinking I should stay here."

What?  I said that Josh needed me.  I did not say that Josh himself thought he needed me.  It's a subtle yet important difference.

This is when Margaret starts pointing to herself.

The first time I ever saw Margaret do this while chewing, I nearly panicked and performed the Heimlich maneuver on her.  Over the years, however, I have learned to interpret Margaret's attempts at communicating while focusing on the laborious process of chewing.

"Margaret, are you volunteering to watch Josh's office for me during the trial?"

Margaret nods.

"That's great.  Because, you know, I can call you during the recesses to make sure there's nothing here that Josh or I need to take care of personally."  I pause for a second as though this thought has just occurred to me.  "But will Leo approve?  Because, you know, this puts extra work on you -- though not that much because I'm sure I'll have a couple of hours each day to spend here.  It's just that I know Josh won't want me to do this if we don't get Leo's permission."

Finally, Margaret swallows.  "Oh, that's no problem," she says.  "I'll explain it all to Leo.  You can count on him telling you to go to the trial by the end of the day."

I'm getting pretty good at this strategy stuff, if I do say so myself.

***

The trial is, as I predicted, quite boring.

Opening statements were yesterday, but the press was more interested in my presence than the workings of the trial.  As a result, getting in and out of the courtroom proves to be a bothersome trial of its own.

The reporters recognized Toby too, and some snapped pictures of Donna, to my dismay.  But if today's papers are any indication, my countenance is the most interesting.

There's one picture in particular -- I think it ran in the New York Times -- that lays my feelings on the trial bare.  I don't know how they managed it, but the picture is of Toby, myself, and Donna.

Toby is in the front left corner of the picture, mouth open, eyes fiery, and obviously gesturing for the reporters to leave us alone.  He isn't quite in focus.  Neither is Donna, who is in the back right of the frame, her eyes locked onto me.  She has her concerned face on, and as I look at my image, dead center and sharply in focus, I begin to understand why.

I look awful.  Haggard.  Older than my years.  My face lined with tension and apprehension.  Although I don't remember the picture being taken, I must have been looking dead at the camera.  Now, standing outside the courtroom waiting for the day's testimony to begin, I am mesmerized by the haunted man staring out at me from the paper.

Is that really me?

***

I'm back to obsessing over the woman in that photograph.  Specifically, I'm wondering what kind of man she fell in love with.

Pure speculation on my part again (and, yes, I know I'm projecting), but I'm thinking he was what you might call difficult.  Yes, I know he was living under some of the worst circumstances imaginable, but he knowingly crossed all kinds of lines getting involved with her.  He would have understood the potential consequences even better than she did, and yet he let himself fall in love with her anyway.

I'm guessing (and don't we all know why?) that he had what you might call a healthy ego.  I'm guessing that injustice in any form drove him crazy.  I'm guessing that he had the most incredible eyes and that the way he grinned melted her heart.

Not that he would have had many occasions to grin.  But still.  When they were alone.

The sex was fabulous.

Come on, we have to give them that much, don't we?  We know what's going to happen; we know how they're going to suffer for having the nerve to love each other.  I say the very least they should get out of this is great sex.

But, you know, it wasn't just the sex.  It was after.  He was one of those incredible men who holds on to you after sex and you can have these amazingly intimate conversations then, just as you're drifting off to sleep in his arms.  So I'm saying she knew exactly what she was doing, but this man was extraordinary and she thought he was well worth the risk.

She was right, of course.

***

The reporters keep asking the same questions over and over again; they want to know my impressions, my hopes, and especially my fears for the outcome of the trial.

I don't answer them.  It's not something I could verbalize.  Not even if I wanted to; not even when Donna asks me.

I see her watching me with her worried face.  I wish I could soothe her fears, but it's taking all of my strength not to lose it again.

Donna sits beside me every day in the courtroom, her leg just touching mine.  And every night, she stays with me until I fall asleep.

Of course, I don't actually fall asleep.  I can't take the chance that the nightmares will start before she leaves.  I managed to convince her that the episode she witnessed was an isolated occurrence.

Before she leaves each night, Donna kisses my shoulder or my cheek or my back, and tells me that she loves me.

I don't know how she can believe I'm actually asleep, because every time she says those words, my breath catches in my chest.  Many times her words, whispered when she believes I can't hear them, reduce me to tears.

I think she may know that I'm faking it, but she allows me my deception.  And she always leaves.

So I endure the nightmares alone.  Because that's the only way I know how.

***

The trial goes on for fourteen days.  Which is ironic when you think about it.

Fourteen hours of surgery to put Josh back together after the shooting.

Fourteen days to destroy him.

He doesn't even look like Josh any more.  All the spark, all the life, seems to have gone out of him.  He doesn't even swagger anymore.

A Josh Lyman who doesn't swagger.  I would never have believed it.  Even after the shooting, I wouldn't have believed it.

The bullet injured his body, but this trial -- this trial is reaching his soul.

It's fourteen days of listening to people who hate.  They hate Charlie for being black.  They hate Josh and Toby for being Jewish.  They hate Zoey for dating a kind, intelligent, thoughtful young man who happens to be black.  They hate President Bartlet for hiring blacks and Jews and letting his daughter date one.  They hate the blonde who walks into court with the two Jews every day, just on general principle.

While there's not what you'd call a skinhead section in the courtroom, there's the defendant, his family and the occasional witness who glare at us.  Toby glares back, Josh stares straight ahead, and I watch Josh.

And there's the ordeal of getting into the courtroom every morning: there are skinheads outside; can you believe it?  Every kind of hate group imaginable seems to have congregated in DC just for this trial.  They stand as close to us as the police will let them, and they yell things.  Filthy, unrepeatable things, many of them having to do with the sight of Josh and me together.  So -- in another one of his misguided attempts to shield me -- Josh refuses to touch me in public.  I think that it would help him, you know, if I could hold his hand or take his arm, but he won't even consider it.  Josh never thought twice about touching me in public before we were involved; now we're married and he refuses to have any innocent physical contact with me in public.

Even when we're not in the courtroom, we can't get away from the trial.  It seems to be the only story the press wants to cover these days.  When there's not a recap of the day's testimony on TV, there are the human interest stories and the documentaries on hate groups.  CJ has warned me against, in her words, "looking too concerned."  She's afraid that the media may try to make something out of my presence by Josh's side.  She isn't worried about the PR fallout at all; like me, she's concerned about how Josh will react if I become a target.  As it turns out, the White House press corps has been our biggest ally here.  When the court reporters want to know about "the blonde with Josh Lyman," people like Danny Concannon laugh and say, "Please!  That's just Donna."  And, so far at least, everyone agrees that I'm not a story.

No one suggests that I stay away from the courtroom, however. CJ even tells me, in private, that she thinks my presence is the only thing holding Josh together.

I'm not holding Josh together very well though, am I?

Every morning, when I meet him at the office, I can see how he's slipping away just a little more.  He's not sleeping, despite his attempts to convince me otherwise.  He looks haunted; he's losing weight; he's talking less and less.

A Josh who doesn't swagger and who doesn't talk...

I can't reach him.  We sit in the courtroom together, but he doesn't look at me and he doesn't talk to me about what we hear.  At lunch with Toby, at dinner by ourselves, I try to get him to talk.  I ask questions, but the only answers I get are from Toby.

When court adjourns for the day, Josh and Toby and I fight our way back through the media and the protestors and return to the West Wing.  Josh and I do the minimum of whatever needs to be done.  I watch Josh somehow gather up his last bit of energy and pretend to be his usual self as he returns those phone calls that can't be postponed.  Then we go home.

He hardly eats; I doubt he'd even remember to eat if I weren't there to remind him.  He is living now in the world of his nightmares, the world of the people who almost killed him, the world that almost destroyed his family at Treblinka and Birkenau.  A world where he is an object of hatred, where people are upset that he didn't die, where he would be in even more danger if the people who scream at us knew I was his wife.

After dinner, we go to bed.  There is a desperate quality to Josh's lovemaking that wasn't there before.  I think he's using sex to try to drive the nightmares away.  Apparently, it's not working since we don't make love very often any more.

I go to bed with him every night anyway, and we play out our little charade.  He pretends to sleep, and I pretend to believe he's sleeping.  I tell him things -- things that he would never let me say to his face.  I tell him again and again how much I love him, how much stronger he is than the people who want to destroy him, how very proud I am to be his wife.

I don't think he hears a word of it.

He won't sleep while I'm there.  He won't risk having another nightmare in front of me; he is so afraid of seeming weak.  And I want him to get at least a little rest.  So I get up and get dressed and leave him.

I would stay if he asked me to.  As I'm getting dressed, I think, Please, Josh, tell me to stay with you.  Don't make me wake up alone.  Don't shut me out like this.  But I never say it out loud, and he never asks.

I drive back to my apartment, crying most of the way.  Sometimes I turn the radio as loud as it will go, and I scream at the top of my lungs.  It never helps.

When I get back to my apartment, I fight the urge to call him.  He might actually be sleeping, and what would I say?  "Please, Josh, don't do this to yourself"?  I fall asleep, telling myself I'll find a way to make him open up to me tomorrow.  Then my alarm clock rings, I go to the West Wing, I meet Josh and Toby, and we get ready for another day of venom and hatred.

***

"So you admit to being a member of West Virginia White Pride?" the defense attorney asks.

I can feel Donna's gaze, but I concentrate on the woman testifying.

"Yeah," LaVerne Mae Stover nods, unapologetic.

"And you placed the call to the police in Blacksburg, Virginia, alerting them to the whereabouts of Carl Leroy?"

"Objection," says the federal prosecutor, rising.  "Asked and answered."

The judge nods.  "The witness has already answered this question.  Move it along."

The defense attorney approaches the witness.  "Why did you call the police on Carl Leroy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Isn't it true that you're up on federal drug charges?"

"Objection," the prosecutor says again.  "Relevance."

"Your Honor," the defense counters, "whether or not LaVerne Mae Stover used possibly false information as a bargaining chip to save herself is certainly relevant."

The judge considers, then nods.  "Overruled."

"Ms. Stover?" the defense attorney prompts.

"Yes," she says reluctantly.  "But I wasn't lying."

"Then why did you turn in Mr. Leroy?"

"He messed up," she says, glaring at Carl Leroy.  "He was supposed to kill the ni -- to kill that black guy.  Not shoot the president."

"Why not?"

LaVerne Mae Stover gives the defense attorney a withering look.  "I ain't going to jail because Carl shot the wrong guy.  We don't kill our own."

I can't take it.

I stand up and step past Donna.

I can feel everyone's eyes on me, hear the murmurs, but I push blindly into the aisle and head for the door.

We don't kill our own.

I have to get out.

I can't face the hate-filled crowds or the stinging epithets right now.  I am half-running down the marbled hallways, looking for somewhere I can hide from it all.

I see a sign for the restrooms and veer inside.  There is no one else here.

I am so angry, I can't contain it anymore.

I think I'm yelling.

I know I'm stomping up and down on an innocent trash can.  My leather wingtips are making an impressive dent, but it's not enough.

I pick it up and hurl it across the room.  Right at the window.

Fucking window has wire in the glass, so it just cracks a little.

I shatter, instead.

Somehow, I end up sitting partially underneath the row of sinks, my arms around my knees.  I am sobbing.

The door creaks open.

I wail something that approximates, "Go away."

Footsteps echo on the tile, and then I hear rustling sounds.

I lift my head wearily.

Toby is sitting across from me, his back up against the stall.

He's not looking at me.  "I was in New York," he begins.  "I think it was '78 or '79.  I was a little bit drunk.  It was probably two in the morning, and it was cold.  I remember it was December, because there were those annoying tinsel candy canes everywhere."

My sobs are slowing now, as I concentrate on his words.  I rest my forehead on my arms.

"I was walking home from a bar," Toby says, "and I heard noises in the alley.  I really just wanted to go home and pass out, but I turned into the alley and saw these three guys kicking something.  Viciously kicking."  He clears his throat.  "I asked them what they were doing, and my voice startled them.  When they stopped for a minute, I could see what they were kicking.  It was a boy, probably sixteen or seventeen.  The boy was black.  They were all white, of course."

I don't think I can listen to this story.  I want to tell him to stop.

"It was pretty dark in the alley, and when they saw the color of my skin, they relaxed.  They smiled at me.  And I'll never forget this; one of them said, 'Just teaching this nigger a lesson.'"  Toby stops talking again, and I can hear him swallow hard.  "They fully expected me to join in, or at least condone it.  They expected me to smile back and leave them to kick the shit out of this poor kid with the wrong color skin."

I'm shaking.  I'm not crying anymore, but I can't stop shaking.

"They started kicking him again, three against none, at this point.  The kid was so bad off I don't think he even realized they'd stopped at all.  Or maybe he was already unconscious.  I yelled something, I'm not sure what, and ran toward them.  I don't know how I was going to make them stop, but I couldn't walk away.  I reached them, and they looked at me a little closer, and they figured out that I'm a Jew."  He pauses for a long moment.  "They sneered at me, called me a kike, and started after me.  I ran like hell, and managed to get back to the street before they caught up to me."

I look up.  Toby is still staring at his hands.  I find my voice.  "What happened?"

He glances at me and away, a small grin haunting his face.  "They kicked the shit out of me too."

I shake my head in disbelief.  "Toby."

"Yeah," he nods, the smile fading.  "But some passersby noticed and called the cops.  I ended up with two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a whole lot of bruises.  The kid wasn't so lucky:  He died from internal bleeding before he reached the hospital.  His name was Jamaal Lunceford."

We sit in silence for a long moment.  Then I ask, "What happened to the three guys?"

Toby unclasps his hands and shrugs.  "Never found them."

"Figures."

"Yes," he says.  "But this time, one of them got found."

I look away from him, examining the ugly beige tile on the floor.  "I don't understand where all of that hate comes from."

"Ignorance," he answers.

"I know," I say.  "I know that, but... I just can't understand hating a group of people so much for no reason." I shrug helplessly.  "And when does the hate turn to violence and genocide?"

"I don't know," Toby answers.  He lets the silence build for a moment, then says, "Aside from being extremely violent criminals, the members of West Virginia White Pride are apparently very stupid."

"What do you mean, stupid?" I ask.

"The headquarters of West Virginia White Pride are in Blacksburg."

"Yes," I nod.  "I'm aware of that, Toby."

"Are you also aware that Blacksburg is located, not in West Virginia, but in Virginia?"  Toby looks up at me and smiles.  "Their headquarters are in another state entirely."

I hold his gaze for a long moment, until an answering smile comes to my face.

Maybe I can do this.

"Toby," I say, "do you just know this stuff or what?"

That's the first sarcastic remark I've made in I don't remember how long.

"They're two different states, Josh," Toby says.  "That's criminal stupidity."

It's not even a very funny remark, but suddenly I'm laughing.  Toby laughs with me.

I'm probably on the skinny edge of hysteria, but it just feels so good to surface from the mire.  Even if it is just for a moment.

***

I'm torn here.  Seriously torn.  On the one hand, Josh is melting down in front of my eyes.  If Toby can help him through that, then Toby can be my new best friend.  On the other hand, helping Josh through stuff like this is supposed to be what I do.  Personally and professionally, I am supposed to be the person Josh turns to.

And how disgusted am I with myself for caring about something like that right now?

So I'm standing outside the men's room, wondering whether I would be able to hear anything if I just put my ear to the door, when Danny Concannon calls my name.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.  I may not know much about how the press works, but I do know that White House reporters cover, well, the White House.  Not trials.  There is a whole group of reporters I've never seen in CJ's press room here for that.

"I was there that night," Danny says and kind of shrugs.  "I talked my editor into letting me cover the trial."

This is what Josh taught me about reporters:  Be very careful what you say around them because you are never completely off the record.  They have their own agenda, and everything they see and hear is filed away for further use.  So, although I like Danny, I know that I need to watch myself around him.

"So, Donna," Danny says when it becomes clear that I'm not going to volunteer an explanation for Josh's running out of the courtroom, "what's going on with Josh?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's not exactly acting like himself, is he?"

"He seems fine to me."  I don't care if Danny is a nice guy who has a crush on CJ, he's still a reporter.  I am not going to tell him that I'm afraid that Josh is having a nervous breakdown.

"Then what just happened back there?"

"What do you mean, Danny?"

"I meant that abrupt exit Josh just made from the courtroom."

"Oh, that.  Well, it's actually -- I'd tell you, but you know how Josh gets.  He'd be furious with me for talking to anyone, especially a reporter."

"Donna, I'd like to think that I'm more than just a reporter to you guys."

"No, really, Danny, Josh will be furious."

"Three separate gossip columnists asked me very specific questions about you and Josh, and I assured them that you were just his assistant."

"Well, I am.  I mean, it's not like he's ever given me, you know, a pet."

"Come on, Donna."

"How long do goldfish live anyway?  'Cause CJ really loves that fish, and I'd hate to think--"

"Donna."

"Well, all right, if you must know, it was lunch."

"Lunch?"

"Yes.  Josh insisted that we get lunch during the recess.  And I didn't think the food looked particularly appealing, you know?  So I just had tea and toast myself.  But Josh had to get the greasiest looking cheeseburger I have ever seen in my life.  And now he's experiencing what you might call digestive problems.  I warned him, but does he ever listen to me?"

"Digestive problems?"

"Yes."

"And Toby's in there with him because--"

"Toby had a cheeseburger too."

"Okay."

I give Danny my sincere face, which always works on Josh.  "And you know Josh.  He's just going to be furious when he finds out I told you."

"What did you tell Danny?"

I spin around to find Josh staring at me.  He looks better than he did when he ran out of the courtroom, though not by much.

"I was telling Danny -- who is very concerned about you, Josh -- that I told you not to eat that greasy cheeseburger and it's hardly my fault that now you're having, you know, digestive problems."

"Digestive problems?"

"Yes, and I mean look at poor Toby.  He didn't even want to order a cheeseburger, but you talked him into it and now he looks just as sick as you.  I wouldn't be at all surprised if it turns out to be e. coli, you know, because I read that cases of that are actually increasing in the greater DC area and--"

"Donna?"

"Yes, Danny?"

"You're doing really well here, but you might want to leave out the e. coli part.  That's where it starts sounding a little on the implausible side."

"Well, I'm just saying."

"Okay."

As it turns out, either Danny did believe my story about greasy cheeseburgers and e. coli bacteria or he's just really a nice guy, after all.  Because, of all the reporters in the courtroom that day, Danny Concannon is the only one who does not lead with the story of how The Guy Who Got Shot ran out in the middle of LaVerne Mae Stover's testimony.

***

It never even occurred to me that I would make headlines by walking out of the courtroom.  But I did.  Most of the resulting stories open with me "abruptly fleeing the courtroom" and then go on to imply that my sanity is questionable.  Which is actually not all that outrageous a statement.

Luckily, no reporters witnessed what I'm referring to as The Bathroom Incident.  Well, except Danny, but he didn't press even when Donna started rambling about cheeseburgers and e. coli.

CJ, however, is lying in wait when I arrive at the West Wing to meet up with Toby and Donna.

"Josh, do you have a second?"

I glance at my watch.  "I've got about forty-five, yes," I answer flatly.  I remember when I had the energy to joke with my friends.  Now that just seems like too much effort.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

Pretty stupid question.

"I'm fine, CJ." I give her a stupid answer.

She looks annoyed.  "You're so fine you made the papers."

"CJ, it was nothing."

"Really?"  She looks quite skeptical.

"Yes," I say.  "Really."

"There isn't any shame in skipping a day, Josh."

I roll my eyes.  "It's probably the last day of testimony, CJ."  My tone is mean, and I can't seem to alter it.  "Aren't you worried that my absence would lend further credence to the Josh Is Cracking Up stories?"

"No," she answers evenly.  "I'm worried about you."

Oh.

Well, I feel like a jackass.

"CJ--"

"Josh, I'm serious.  You've lost weight; you're barely talking to anyone.  I can't remember the last time I saw you smile."  She shrugs.  "I'm worried.  We all are."

"Oh, great," I snort.  "The entire West Wing family is going to be scrutinizing me, waiting for some sign of impending breakdown.  That's really helpful, CJ."

"Josh--"

"I've got to go."  I make for the hallway.

"Wait a second, Josh."

CJ slams the door and stands in front of it, blocking my exit.

I stop, cross my arms, and glare at her.

"No one's scrutinizing you, Josh," she says.  "We're watching your back.  Me, Donna, Toby, Sam, Leo, The President.  Hell, even Mrs. Landingham asks about you every day."  She pauses, softens her tone.  "We're paying attention, Josh, because that's what friends do."

What can you say to that?

I nod slowly.  "Okay."  My voice sounds rusty.

CJ watches me for a moment.  "Okay," she answers finally.

She pulls the door open and gestures for me to precede her.  I touch her arm briefly as I pass.

It's the first time I can remember voluntarily touching anyone other than Donna in weeks.  It feels strange, this connection.

I wonder if that should worry me.

***

I'm thinking about the photograph again, and the parts of the story it doesn't tell.  I don't know how anyone found out that this man and woman were together.  They were smart enough to take precautions, not to tell even their closest friends.  But somehow people found out.

I don't want to dwell on what happened then.  Especially not on what happened to him.  I mean, I suppose he might have ended up in a concentration camp, but I doubt he lived that long.  I remember the photograph and the mob attacking her, and I can't see how the man she loved survived long enough to even end up in Auschwitz.

So let's assume that he died.  Probably right there in front of her eyes.

I don't want to think about that, okay?

*

"You have to eat something, Josh."

To tell the truth, I don't have much of an appetite myself, but this was an awful day, tomorrow will be the worst day of all, and we both need to keep our strength up.

"Not hungry."  Josh is sprawled out on the sofa, his eyes closed.  It's breaking my heart just to look at him.

"Still, you should eat."

He opens his eyes and looks at me.  "What part of 'not hungry' don't you understand?"

"What part of 'you need to eat' is beyond your Ivy League-trained mind?"

"Donna, I cannot -- I can't eat after hearing -- after what's been going on in that courtroom."

I sit down on the floor next to him.  Normally, I'd just push him over until there is some room for me on the couch, but something about his body language makes it clear that he doesn't want me touching him.

"Maybe we should talk about it," I say.

"Right," he says.  "'Cause that's your answer to everything, isn't it?"

"I'm just saying that -- that I understand how upset you are, Josh."

"How could you possibly understand?"

"I've been there every day, Josh.  I've heard every single word."

"Yeah, but you're not the one they want dead, are you?"

"Some of them do.  Have you not heard the things they've been shouting at me?"

Josh jumps up then and starts pacing around the room.  "Well, thanks for pointing that out, Donna.  Thanks for reminding me that I can't even protect my own wife."

"That is not what I was saying, Joshua, and you know it.  I'm saying that with everything that's happened, I do have at least some idea of what this is all about."

"And I'm saying you can't possibly get it.  I never really got it before now."

There are moments in your life that you relive over and over.  You think if you play them back often enough you can figure out exactly what went wrong and how to change it.  This is one of those moments.  If I'd just said something else.  If I hadn't thought to try to lighten the moment and go for the banter.  If I hadn't been so stupid.

"Okay, point taken.  I mean, the worst thing that ever happened in my family was my father's story about the fortune Grandpa Moss lost in the stock market crash of 1929.  Which, in reality, only came to $499.  I'm sure that was worth a lot more in the 1920s, but still--"

"Will you be quiet?  Will you just please for once in your life be quiet?"

"Josh!"

"I mean it.  For the last three years, the only thing I have wanted is for you to shut the hell up!"

And sometimes there are things that happen that are unforgivable.  Like you build an entire relationship around the way you talk and the fact that he listens to you, and then he says -- what he just said.

"Josh, you don't mean--"

"Yes, I do.  I'm tired of it.  I don't care about Hawaii and DVD players.  I do not care whether you want to learn to ski.  I do not give a damn what life was like a hundred years ago or whether Salvador Dali had distinctive penmanship.  Just shut up."

"Josh--"

"I didn't even want an assistant.  You just wouldn't shut up long enough to hear me say so.  And you've never even been that good an assistant."

And he just keeps saying these horrible things.  "This -- this thing," he says, "this isn't even a real marriage.  What are we doing here anyway?  It's like we're playing house.  It's not like you're a real wife or anything."

"I don't think--"

"Of course you don't.  You never think.  You just talk."

I will be damned if I will let him reduce me to tears.  I stand up, I walk into the bedroom, and I make sure to slam the door behind me.

***

I'm still standing here, right by the bookcase.  Right where I was when I stopped pacing and started hurling words at my wife.  Words I didn't mean.  Words that were downright cruel.

I'm so angry.

I'm angry with Donna for talking to me when I wanted to brood in silence.  I am furious with myself for losing it.

I have so much anger inside of me that it hurts.  It feels like it's chewing me up from the inside.

The other morning when I coughed up blood in the shower, I thought I finally had proof that hatred actually does fester in the physical realm.  Then I realized that, somewhere along the way, I'd just acquired a rather nasty ulcer.

I'm seriously regretting my dislike of guns.  Why couldn't I have a pistol handy when I want to make it all stop?  I'll just finish Carl Leroy's work for him.  I'd probably be better off.

God, that's not true.

I don't want to die.  I really don't.

I just want this to stop.

I can't really define what this is, besides to say that everything in my life is wrong.  Nothing is working.  Not one thing.

For a while, I thought this thing with Donna was going to be the exception.  I thought she could be my anchor while I delved into the poisoned, polluted waters of hatred.  I never thought I would resent her for her ability to remain untainted by it.

There's enough of the old Josh left -- the Josh who would do anything for the people he cared about -- to worry about Donna.  I know this is taking its toll on her too.  I wish there were something I could do to change that.

Her relationship with me has done nothing but cause her pain.  She's been pulled into this world of hatred and violence and evil, and she's too good for this.  She doesn't deserve it.

She especially doesn't deserve a fuckup of a husband who repays her for weeks of quiet, constant support by yelling horrible, untruthful things at her.

I'm not strong enough to be the man she needs me to be.  I'm barely strong enough to hold it together.

There's one last thing I can do for her, though.  I can spare her my venom.  I can give her some small measure of peace.

Maybe she can heal if she's free of me.

***

I didn't realize I had so much stuff at Josh's.  A sweater here, a toothbrush there -- it adds up.

It's been twenty minutes, and I'm gathering up my stuff.  As soon as I finish this, I'm going home.  Going to my apartment.  Whatever.  I have no idea what Josh is doing.  Ask me if I care.

"Donna?"

If he thinks I'm saying a word, he's crazy.

"Donna, come on.  Say something."

Well, if he insists.

"Josh, go to hell."  I go back to rooting around in his closet for my stuff.

"Donna, the thing is--"

"I'm a good assistant, Josh."

"Yes, you are."

"I may not have the supportive wife thing down, but I'm a damn good assistant."

"I agree.  I shouldn't have said that."

"And I'm taking your duffel bag."

"Excuse me?"

"I've got all this stuff here, and I have to get it back to my place somehow."

"Oh."

"And I'm a good assistant."

"We've established that."

I turn around and look at him.  He's standing in the doorway like he's afraid to come any closer to me.  "Donna," he says, "the thing is -- the thing is that I don't think I can do this right now."

"Do what?"

"This.  Us.  Marriage.  I don't think getting married was such a good idea."

I thought I'd already hit bottom today.  I was wrong.

"You mean we should get a divorce?" I ask.

"It might not be a bad thing."

"You don't love me?" I can't believe I'm asking that.  How pathetic am I?

"I don't seem to feel much of anything at the moment."

"I don't even know what to say to that.  Which I'm sure will please you."

He winces.  "It's not you, Donna.  It's--"

"A divorce could be a problem.  From a strategy point of view.  I mean, with the trial and all, you're even more high profile than before and when it becomes public knowledge that we're divorcing and no one even knew we were married--"

"Still.  We can't be married."

So he really wants this:  I gave him an out, and he didn't take it.  I go back to my packing.  Divorced.  I am going to divorce Josh.  I am going to spend the rest of my life being not married to Joshua Lyman.

"If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one to hear it," I ask, "does it make a sound?"

"I don't know.  What is the sound of one hand clapping?"  He sounds almost amused.  Almost like Josh.  Almost.

"No, I mean, what if we could have a secret divorce -- a sort of non-divorce divorce?"

"A non-divorce divorce?"

"Yeah.  Just between us.  Private.  You know, for now.  We'll agree that the marriage is over, but we won't get a formal divorce until -- until later.  When no one cares that we were ever stupid enough to get married."

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"Only if one of us wants to marry someone else.  Which we don't.  Do we?"

"I don't," he says.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.  "Well, then," I say, "a non-divorce divorce should work out just fine."

In the end, we're very civilized about it.  He even carries the duffel bag out to my car for me.  I promise to go to court with him the next day, though he doesn't ask me to.

I don't cry on the way home tonight.  I don't feel anything.  I wonder if I'll feel anything ever again.

***

Self-recrimination hurts worse than that bullet ever did.

I am driving blindly, not paying any attention go where I'm going.  I can't believe what I said to Donna.  Any of it.  But especially... I told her to shut up.  I told her our marriage wasn't real.

I will not cry again.  I haven't cried this much since I was teething.

I know this means something, but I can't deal with it right now.  That famous avoidance behavior.  But the truth is, if I could make this... this internal chaos stop, I would do just about anything.  I just don't know how.  I don't know how to make the pain stop, to make this daze lift, to make things right with Donna.

I don't think I can do this.  I can't breathe -- I think I'm hyperventilating.

I pull the car over and get out.  If this were a movie, I'd be standing in a downpour.  Instead, the evening is crisp, and the sharp smell of fall is in the air.  I can see each individual star glaring down at me.

Stumbling a bit, I make my way to the corner and glance up.  I have managed to drive myself almost all the way to Stanley's.  I wonder what that means.

For once, I heed my subconscious and trudge to Stanley's.  Luckily for me, my therapist works out of his house.

I bang on the door for several minutes before I hear Stanley.

"It's Josh Lyman," I shout.  Probably unnecessarily.  I'm sure he reads the papers.  He must've known I'd be coming eventually, even if I didn't.

"Josh."  He pulls the door open and invites me in, ushering me straight to his office.

I realize I am shivering again, even in my coat.  I huddle into it a little more and collapse onto the leather chair.

Stanley bypasses the desk and sits across from me.  He looks strange in his jeans, but he's still Stanley.  He watches me, expectant.

"So," I say, my voice shaky.  "I married my assistant."

Stanley's eyebrows shoot up.  That's not at all what he expected me to say.  "Donna?"

"Yes," I answer.  "Three months ago.  We didn't tell anyone."

"Because of work," he comments.

I nod.  "I love her.  I really do."

"Okay," Stanley answers, waiting for me to get to the point.

"The thing is, I think she hates me."

Stanley looks confused.  "Why do you think she hates you?"

"I've been..."  I sit up a bit, hunch over.  I can recognize this as defensive posturing, but I can't seem to stop it.  "I think I may be having panic attacks."

Stanley doesn't look at all surprised to hear this.  "From the shooting."

"Yes," I say.  "And the letters."

"What letters?"

"From..."  I wave my hand inarticulately.  "From them.  The people who hate me for being Jewish."

"Bigots," Stanley supplies.

"Yes," I answer.  "Them."

"You've been getting hate mail."

"I've been getting hate mail for years," I say.  "Now they're sending it to Donna too."

"They're threatening Donna?"

"Yeah," I say.  "It's worse, though."

"Since the shooting?" he prods.

"Yeah."  I am gasping a little.  It's hard to get the words out.  "It's like a sickness.  I feel infected.  All of this hate and ignorance... I absorbed it or something.  It's coming out my pores, Stanley, and I can't--"

"Josh," Stanley interrupts.  "Take a deep breath for me, okay?  Deep breaths."

I concentrate on my breathing and regain a bit of control.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say.  "A little."

"Why do you think you're infected?" he asks.

I can't look at him now.  I stare at the window, even though I can't see outside.  I see my reflection -- a crumpled, weak man.  "Because..."  I shrug.  "I hate.  I hate them for doing this to me. I hate myself for letting it get to me.  I hate... I hate the people I love, even, for being spared."

"That's perfectly natural, Josh."

"No, it's not.  I love Donna.  Why would I say those things to her?"

"What did you say, Josh?"

I shake my head. I can't.  "Horrible things.  Unforgivable things."

"Why did Donna marry you, Josh?"

"What?"  I am having a hard time following his train of thought.

"Why did she marry you?"

I stare at the middle distance and remember the look on her face when I gave her my grandmother's ring, the smile in her eyes when she recited her uniquely-Donna vows, the way she said my name when she made love to me.

I am crying again.  I can feel the tears on my cheeks.  "She loved me."

"Past tense?"

"Probably."

"Do you think maybe Donna is as upset about this situation as you are?"

"No," I answer quickly.

"Why not?  The man she loves--"

"She doesn't know, Stanley."  I am spewing venom again.  "Her grandparents weren't gassed to death by the Nazis."

I can't believe I just said that.

I can't believe it.

Am I really angry with her for not experiencing the same hell I did?  The same hell my grandparents did?

Stanley is watching me, letting me process this.  "It's okay to be angry, Josh."

I shake my head.  I still can't really speak.

"Josh, it's okay."

"It's not," I manage.  "I've been... I've been angry and withdrawn and bitter and hateful to her because... because..."

"Because your family has been the target of vicious persecution for three generations and hers hasn't."

I am such an asshole.  Donna deserves so much better than me.

"Josh."  Stanley leans forward to catch my attention.  "You're not angry with Donna.  You're angry with fate, with whatever it is that put your grandparents in the concentration camps and you in the path of a bullet.  And that's okay."

"It's not.  What I said to her... It won't ever be okay."

"Josh--"

"I've got to go, Stanley."  I stand up.  My legs are barely strong enough to carry me.

"Josh, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'll come back, Stanley.  But I have to go."

"When?"

"Now."

"I meant when will you come back?"

"I don't know, Stanley."  I shrug.  "Tomorrow.  The day after."

"Josh--"

"The sentencing... the hearing's tomorrow," I explain.  "I have to say something."

"You're testifying?"

"I have to explain," I say, still somewhat incoherent.  "I need time to think about it."

Stanley watches me for a moment.  "Okay," he says.  "You have my number."

"Yes," I nod.

"Any time, day or night."

"Right."  I reach the door and pause.  "Thank you, Stanley."

*

I am shaking a little.  I haven't been this nervous about speaking in public since college.

Donna touches my knee as I stand.  How I wish I could hold her hand while I do this, but that isn't an option.  Not now.  Not after the things I said to her.  I am grateful for her presence, even if I don't deserve it.

I push my fruitless thoughts aside and head for the small lectern.  I can feel the weight of the crowd's expectation.  Not to mention the glares from Carl Leroy and his cadre of ignorant skinheads.

I reach the podium and grasp it with both hands; that way no one can tell my hands are trembling.

"Thank you, Your Honor."  I nod to the judge.

The silence is sudden and visceral.

I stare at the wood grain of the lectern for a moment, clear my throat, and begin.  "On May 17th, while walking on a public sidewalk, I was shot in the chest with a 9 millimeter bullet that collapsed my lung and critically damaged my pulmonary artery.  Fourteen hours of surgery later, and I was patched back together, more or less.  Except for a twelve week recovery period that effectively placed me under house arrest with the added bonus of omnipresent pain."

I pause, allowing my conviction to overcome my nervousness.  "I was not the specific target of this violent attack.  Charlie Young, whom you've already heard from, was the intended victim.  His crime?  Being black.

"Although I was not the specific target of Clyde Mitchell, Roger Lee Retchless, and Carl Leroy, I am a target of their hatred, their derision, and their violence.  By virtue of being Jewish, I became a target.  My coworker, Toby Zeigler, became a target for the same reason.  My--"  I stop, swallow hard.  "My assistant, Donna Moss, became a target because she works for a Jew."

I swear I can feel her gaze on my back.

"Josiah Bartlet, Zoey Bartlet, my coworkers at the White House, Stephanie Abbott, whom you've also heard from, and everyone else at the Newseum that night became a target."

I glance over my shoulder at Leroy, who is glaring at me.  "I support wholeheartedly Carl Leroy's right to believe all those things the Nazis believed about my grandparents."  I wonder if anyone can hear the tremor in my voice.  "I support his right to say these things out loud, at gatherings of other ignorant cowards, as distasteful as the concept is to me.  But as soon as this hatred turns to violence, it must be punished with the full strength of the law.

"I know it's tempting to give Carl Leroy a harsh sentence because he was involved in an attack that injured the sitting president.  But I'm here to ask you for the maximum sentence for another reason: because Carl Leroy is part of a culture of violence.  And violence cannot be tolerated."

I look down at the lectern for a moment, then continue.  "My grandparents wore the numbered tattoos they received at Birkenau proudly, as proof of their courage and their will to live.  I will try to do the same with my scars, scars that are lifelong proof of Carl Leroy's violent actions."  I hold the judge's gaze.  "It is only fair for Carl Leroy to carry this around with him for the rest of his life; a life spent incarcerated for his part in a senseless and hateful act of violence."

***

I am numb.

I am incapable of feeling anything at all.

I've decided to stay like this for the rest of my life.

After all, if I start feeling anything again, there will only be pain.  And bitterness.  Lots of anger.

Anger at these bastards who would be too damn happy to discover what they've done to Josh.  To me.  To Josh and me.

Anger at Josh.

Anger at Josh for not letting me be, in his own words, "like a real wife."  Anger at Josh for giving up on the marriage before we had a chance.

Anger at myself for falling in love with Josh.  Anger at myself for not forcing him to talk about what was bothering him sooner.  Anger at myself for all the nights I got out of bed instead of insisting that he let me stay.

We've faced too much anger these last few months.  I think I'll just stay numb.

Josh's name is called, and I notice that he's shaking.  Josh -- who normally craves the spotlight, who jokes about being "a professional hostile witness" -- is shaking.  The numbness begins to wear off, and I start to reach for his hand.  But he's gone before my brain manages to tell my hand to move.

Josh begins his testimony.  He talks, very matter of factly, about the shooting, about his injuries, about Charlie.  I hear my name -- "my assistant Donna Moss."

That's what I am again, of course, but it hurts to hear him say it nonetheless.  I was just getting used to hearing him say "wife."

I wish that I could testify.  I wish that I could say all the things Josh isn't saying.  I would tell the judge about the jagged scar on Josh's beautiful chest.  I would tell them about his nightmares.  I would tell them about the hate mail and the death threats.  I would tell them how Josh and I had this amazing friendship and how it had just evolved into something else and how incredible that was and how we've lost it now because of this.

I would tell them about a woman in Nazi Germany, whose name I'll never know, who would have understood what I'm feeling.

She must have tried to be numb too.

I wonder if she was better at it than I am.

Josh finishes his statement and sits back down beside me.  I don't look at him.  If I look at him, I'll break.  But someone takes my hand, and I look up in surprise.  It's Mrs. Landingham, sitting on my other side.  I didn't hear her come in.  When I look around me, they're all here:  CJ and Sam, Charlie, Margaret, Bonnie and Ginger, Nancy and Kathy.  I wonder for a minute who's running the country.  I wonder if Josh even knows they're here.  I wonder if he knows how much we all love him.

If I cry, Josh will be furious.

Mrs. Landingham squeezes my hand tighter.

The judge doesn't take long.  He sentences Carl Leroy to the maximum amount of time allowed.  Then chaos erupts, and the press starts crowding around Josh.  CJ, bless her, takes command.  But in the melee, I'm pushed aside.  I can't even see Josh anymore.

Mrs. Landingham finds Sam, who helps us get out of the courtroom.  It's Sam who hugs me and tells me that Josh will be all right; it's Sam who makes sure I get back to the White House safely.

I don't see Josh again.  I don't know when I will see him or where he's gone.  Leo has ordered him to take some time off.

He's already left.  He didn't say goodbye.

*

But what happened to her?  Was she murdered?  The logical part of my brain says she must have been.  That no one survives what was done to her.

I'm not listening to the logical part of my brain.  Not today.

She survived.  Without him.  But she survived.

Someone must have helped her.  She was left there, without him, naked and humiliated and in so much physical pain that she couldn't even begin to process the emotional loss.  So there must have been someone who wasn't completely heartless, who gave her some place safe to stay until she healed.  At least, until her physical wounds healed.

What did she do then?  I think she did what she could.  I don't mean that she became some sort of commando or woman warrior.  But she found something useful to do.  She must have moved, of course, and changed her name; she must been in constant danger.  But she survived.  And she found little things to do; maybe she was one of those people who helped shelter Jewish families in hiding.  Whatever.  What I'm saying is that she refused to give up.  She refused to let the bastards who destroyed him win.

After the war ended, I suppose, she led a very ordinary life.  Maybe she married and had children, who never dreamed their mother had such a past.  And then one day, maybe in a history class, they saw the photograph and recognized her.  She would have been very matter of fact when she told them her story -- the story about the man she loved, the man who should have been their father, and how she survived and he was destroyed.

Of course, they would ask her if it had all been worth it.  With all the pain and suffering, with knowing how it was fated to turn out, would she still have fallen in love with him?

This is what she'll remember when she's asked that question:  She'll remember how they talked, how he listened.  She'll remember the way he smiled, and how he could be entirely too sure of himself, and the look on his face when he made love to her.  So, yes, she'll say, it was worth the pain.

For a few brief months, I was loved by an extraordinary man.  And it was worth all the pain.

THE END

10.25.00