So I may be cursed.  What of it?

I am absolutely not going to worry about it.  I mean, an ancient cat goddess?  What is she going to do, take away my catnip?

Besides, things went swimmingly all weekend in Napa, so I'm clearly not cursed.

Maybe not swimmingly, but I got there with no very few problems.  Eventually.  So what if my rental car snapped an important belt of some kind?  Peter was nice enough to come and rescue me.  Aside from the car incident, we were fine.

Well, and the whole exploding grill thing.  But no one was in the backyard to be hit by flaming ground beef or hot coals, so it doesn't really count.

If I really were cursed, I would hardly have been able to enjoy such a wonderfully relaxing weekend with my family, right?  Or as relaxing as possible while surrounded by Creggs.  We're a rather boisterous clan.  We actually got kicked out of a swank restaurant on Saturday night for getting a little "out of hand."  After a few bottles of wine, we were apparently "disturbing the other customers."  And can I just say that people in Napa are nowhere near as impressed as they should be by my job.

Anyway, the weekend was great. My trip back to D.C., on the other hand, was fraught with mishaps.  It started with an ominous announcement -- after we had all boarded the damn plane, of course -- that there were some "mechanical difficulties."  At which point I demanded to be let off of the plane and was told in no uncertain terms that opening the door was against federal regulations.  The flight attendant seemed wholly unimpressed by the argument that I am the public face of the federal government, and as such should be treated as the federal government and, you know, let off the plane.

Like I said, she was wholly unimpressed.

And so, an hour and a half later, a mechanic declared the difficulties "resolved" -- and as someone who deals with words all day every day, can I point out that "fixed" or "repaired" would have been a much more confidence-inspiring choice?

Anyway, they sent us on our merry way.  While the plane lumbered down the runway, I prayed to every deity that I could think of, paying special attention to Bast.  Apparently, she was impressed, since my 150 companions and I were spared a hideous, fiery death.

A fate which Toby narrowly avoided when I received the message he left on my cellphone that, since his plane had arrived early and mine was running excessively late, he was leaving.  With his car.  Leaving me stranded at the airport, in other words.  He oh-so-thoughtfully offered to reimburse me for my cab fare, though.  I work with princes, I tell you.

At any rate, I considered the curse lifted when nothing else suspicious happened last night.  Well, except that my cat, Gloria, inexplicably attacked my hand while I was asleep, leaving me with some hideously unattractive scratches on my wrist.

Which brings us to today.  And to Carol, who's approaching me with that apprehensive look that always means my day is about to go straight to hell.

"CJ?" she asks.

"Wait.  First, a status report.  How many of the idiot boys returned with injuries?"

Carol gives me a puzzled look.  "The idiot boys?"

"Sam went sailing, Toby went skiing, and Josh went to watch baseball.  There was no falling off of boats, skiing into lodges, or, I don't know, stepping in front of three-fingered fastballs?"

"No," Carol answers, smiling brightly.  "According to Donna, Josh had a brush with... some baseball player and is still swaggering."

"Still?" I ask.  "As if that isn't his normal state of being."

"Apparently, he's worse than usual."

I give an appreciative chuckle.  "I didn't realize that was possible."  Poor Donna.

"Me, neither," Carol laughs.

"What about Toby?"

"I guess he had a great time," she shrugs.  "Bonnie said he brought bagels."

I feel my eyebrows rise.  "Toby?"

"Yes."

"Brought bagels?"

"Yes."

"Interesting," I nod.  "And Sam stayed on the boat?"

"It was one time!" Sam protests from the doorway.

I turn and grin at him.  "Yeah, but since you had the foresight to invite a camera crew--"

"They were doing a piece for 60 Minutes," he interrupts haughtily.  "They asked to come along."

"It was really quite beautiful, Sam," I tease him.  "Seriously.  I give that swan dive a 7.9.  Gotta drop you a point or two for that huge splash, but in the air--"

"Are you quite finished, Cat Girl?"

"What?" I demand.  "Who told you about that?"

"Does it matter?" he grins.  "We have Staff."

I glance over at Carol, who is watching our exchange with amusement.  "Wasn't me," she says.  "And Sam can fill you in."

I turn back to Sam.  "Let's go, Sparky."

"Wait -- Carol didn't tell you?" he asks, panicked.

"Tell me what?" I demand, ushering him into the hallway.

"Well, this just isn't fair," he mutters.

"You gonna make me beat it out of you?"

Sam shakes his head miserably.  "There's a story today in the San Jose Mercury.  Well, now it's been picked up by the networks, CNN, MSNBC, et cetera, but the story ran this morning."

"And the story says?" I prompt, with a 'come on' gesture.

"It says that on Saturday the President's Press Secretary got kicked out of a restaurant in the Napa Valley while drunk."

I grind to a halt.  "What?"

Sam stops a couple paces ahead and turns.  "Apparently, an assistant to California State Representative Maxine Tutt was at the restaurant with her boyfriend -- her fiancé.  Well," he pauses, brow furrowed, "they got engaged that night, so I guess--"

"Sam!"

"Right.  The assistant had a camera with her."

"There's a picture?" I yell.

"Yes," Toby says from behind me.  "There is absolutely a picture.  Might I ask why your arms were flailing--"

"Give me that," I demand, ripping the paper from his hand.  I certainly look drunk.  I don't remember any flashbulbs that night, but from the looks of it I was too involved in my argument with the maitre d', who by the way was quite a snob.  "Oh, God," I mutter.

"Shouldn't that be 'Oh, Bast?'" Toby asks, grinning.

Grinning!

I swat both of them with the paper and sweep past, head held high.

***

I march into Leo's office with an attitude that just dares people to mess with me.  Josh, of course, obliges.

"Well, well, well," he smirks.  "You don't look hungover."

I glare at him.  "First, I was not drunk.  Second, that was on Saturday night; it's Monday morning, so even if I had been drunk, I would hardly be hungover today.  And third, I was not drunk."

"You look pretty drunk in the picture," Sam points out from his relatively safe position by the door.

"I was tipsy at best," I say.  "And shut up."

Josh is still smirking.  "I'm just saying, have fun at your briefing."

"Oh, God," I mumble, dropping onto the couch.

"Again," Toby comments, "I would think supplications to--"

"Toby," I warn.

"He's got a point," Josh chimes in.

"You shut up too," I command.  Then I notice his outfit.  "What the hell are you wearing?"

Josh stands to give us all a good look at the baseball jersey he has paired with brown pants.  "Mike Piazza gave me a Mets shirt."

I stare at him.  "And you decided the White House was an appropriate place to display this proof of your lingering adolescence?"

"Josh," Leo says as he stalks into the room.  "Put on a suit.  Sam, Toby, welcome back.  CJ, what the hell were you thinking?"

The rest of the meeting goes about as well.  Leo rants at me, while the idiot boys interject sarcastic remarks.  And yet I'd rather sit through an entire day of this than face the White House press corps.

At any rate, I have had an epiphany: Bast is determined to ruin my life.

And if I have any hope of stopping her, I'm going to need help.  So as soon as Leo stops haranguing, I head for Donna's desk.  She's nowhere to be seen, and Josh's door is closed.  Figuring she's kicked Josh out again, I knock on the door.

"Yeah," Josh yells from within.

I push the door open.  "Have you seen -- Joshua!"

Josh is standing behind his desk, naked from the waist up and looking at me like a deer in the crosshairs.  He snatches the discarded Mets shirt and holds it in front of his chest.  "What are you doing?"

My eyes widen.  "What am I doing? What are you doing?"

"Changing," he answers.  "Leo told me to."

"So why didn't you tell me to go away when I knocked?"

"I thought you were Donna," he says.

I step inside and slam the door.  "What?"

Josh glances around as if the proper response were hiding behind something hung on his walls.  "I thought you were Donna," he repeats finally.

"So you wanted her to come in while you were half-naked?" I demand.

"Um, no?"

"Very convincing," I snort.  "So you wanted -- Joshua!" I yell.  "You were trying to tempt her with your naked body!"

He shakes his head emphatically.  "No!"

"Yes, you were," I say, advancing on him with my eyes narrowed.  "You thought you could prance around half naked and she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off of you and you'd win the bet."

"That's not true!" he says.

I take another step, and he clutches the shirt closer.  "Joshua," I say, my voice low and dangerous.  "Do you know what kind of day I'm having?"

"Yes."

"Do you really want to lie to me right now?"

"No."

"So you thought you'd win the bet?"

He hesitates.  "Sort of."

"Sort of?" I prompt, my hands on my hips.

"Well, I wasn't concentrating so much on winning the bet as on ending the enforced celibacy," he admits.

"Joshua!" I yell.  "You are absolutely not ending the enforced celibacy!"

He winces.  "Why not?"

"Because, you idiot, I will kill you if you so much as look at Donna with puppy-dog eyes, never mind take her to bed!"

"Okay, but she took me to bed the first time.  And the third," he pauses, a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Joshua," I moan, "please, please don't tell me things like that."

"I'm just saying, she started it."

"And I'm counting on you to end it," I say, my tone menacing.  "In fact, I have the curse of Bast on my head, and if you so much as brush fingers with Donna while exchanging file folders, I will stick to you like a burr until something appropriately hellish happens to you."

Josh pales -- his chest too, I note with amusement -- at my threat.  "I won't touch her," he promises.  "But I did have an idea."

I turn away from him.  "Would you please put a shirt on?" I ask.  "'Cause this is just getting strange."

I hear the rustle of clothing, and Josh starts talking.  "You see, I was thinking this weekend," Josh pauses here and clears his throat, "about the bet and how you and Donna conspired to make me admit something I am absolutely not culpable for.  And I decided that you and I should do a little something about that.  You know, to make things equitable and fair again."

"You think it's fair to make your assistant and soon-to-be..."  I shrug at the door, "whatever-you're-calling-it slavishly bring you coffee every day?"

"You can turn around," Josh says, his dress shirt most of the way buttoned.  "And how is that worse than having her slavishly bring you coffee every day?"

"We're sisters," I tell him, crossing my arms.

Josh makes a face.  "You're really not."

"In spirit, Josh," I sigh impatiently.  "And if I know you, you're working both sides.  You have some devious plan in mind."

Josh attempts to look innocent, which is always good for a laugh.  "I do not."

"You do," I say, staring at him until he shifts uncomfortably.  "And I bet -- Joshua!  You are incorrigible."

"What?" he demands.

"Your clever plan," I answer, my tone scathing.  "I figured it out."

"You did not," he scoffs.

"I really did.  You convince me to help you get Donna to admit that the illegal touching was her fault--"

"It was," he mutters.

"It was not," I argue.  "You hugged her."

"That's not illegal touching!" Josh protests.  "I was merely expressing my appreciation for her work."

"Give it a rest, Josh." I roll my eyes.

"And, anyway, she's the one who started sucking on my neck--"

"Josh!" I yelp, one hand up in supplication.  "I beg of you, don't continue that sentence."

"I'm just saying."

"What did I tell you about details?" I demand.

"Fine," he says.  "But she did start it."

"Whatever.  You want my help to make her admit that, right?"

Josh shrugs.

"And then," I continue, "you would conveniently not tell her about your agreement with me and somehow convince her that she still had to bring me coffee in addition to bringing you coffee, leaving you with absolutely nothing in the way of punishment."

"I'm still going to be celibate," he points out.  "That's not punishment enough?"

"Donna's going to be celibate too," I counter.  "Plus running to Starbucks every five minutes."

Josh sulks for a minute.  "I was going to throw in a pastry for you," he says.  "You know, those strawberry strudels you like."

"You think I would betray the sisterhood for a strawberry strudel?"

"You already betrayed the sisterhood," he points out.  "Twice."

"Exactly, and now I'm cursed by an ancient goddess.  Coincidence?  I think not."

Josh stares at me.  "You're insane."

"No," I say.  "I'm cautious.  And you are out of luck."  I reach for the doorknob, then turn back.  "Keep your hands off of her."

Josh drops into his chair, his tie still draped around his neck.  "Out of my mind," he mumbles.

"I would have to agree," I say, leaving him sputtering protests.

***

Donna has returned from wherever she was and is at her desk. I tap her on the shoulder and give her a big smile.  "How was your weekend, Donna?"

"Not as good as yours," she answers with a grin.

"I was not drunk!" I protest.

Donna gives me a sympathetic look.  "Okay, but--"

"Yes, there was wine.  And yes, I drank a glass or two.  But I was not drunk!"

"I believe you."

"You do?"

"Yes."

I stare at her.  "Really?"

"Yeah," she nods.  "I've seen you drunk.  And you were clearly not drunk in that picture."

"How do you figure?" I ask somewhat reluctantly, as I'm not sure I want to know where she's going with this.

"You're not an angry drunk," Donna explains patiently.  "Like after the map thing?"  She pauses, a dopey grin in place.

"Donna," I warn.  "No touching."

"I know," she answers, blushing suspiciously.  "I'm just taking a moment to reminisce about--"

"For the love of Bast, I beg you not to finish that sentence!"

"Fine," she agrees, still smiling vapidly.  I am very afraid that these two won't be able to make it six more weeks not touching each other.

"You were making some kind of point?" I prompt, quite eager to distract her from thinking about Josh.

"Right," Donna brightens.  "You're not an angry drunk."

I make a twirly, 'yes, and?' gesture with my hand.  "I got that part."

"You," Donna touches my shoulder and leans in, lowering her voice, "are an amorous drunk."

"What?" I shriek.

Donna glances around at all the curious coworkers in the bullpen, then says, "Walk with me."

"I am not an amorous drunk," I whisper fiercely, following her into the hallway.  "I don't, like, throw myself at the nearest alpha male!"

"CJ, you were flirting with Toby."

"I was not!" I argue.  "In fact, I was explaining to him in no uncertain terms that he can't just take the map and, you know, flip it around to freak me out.  I was not flirting with Toby."

Donna grins at me.  "And yet you knew exactly which night I was referring to."

I glare back.  "You already mentioned the maps," I point out.  "When you mentioned the weekend you and Josh decided to make my life a living hell."

Donna just blushes and grins some more.

"Hands off."  I really don't think I can say that enough.  These two are going to be the death of me.  Unless Bast gets to me first.

"I'm just saying if you were drunk in Napa, that picture would be of you hitting on the maitre d', not threatening to bring the Tae Kwan Do."

"That maitre d' was a snob," I protest.  "And secondly, I can't exactly prove my sobriety to my pressroom by pointing out that I didn't stick my tongue down the maitre d's throat!"

Donna shrugs.  "So I've been doing some research into Bast and--"

"Hold on.  You're changing the subject?"

"I can't really help you with the press, so I'm moving on."

"You're moving on?"

"Yes.  Clearly this curse is--"

"I am not cursed!" I yelp in what is an admittedly undignified tone of voice.  "And even if I were cursed, it's a cat goddess!"

"Your point being?"

I throw my hands in the air.  "What's she going to do, sic a dog on me?"

Eyes wide, Donna pulls me to a stop.  "Don't tempt her!"

I glance around, half-expecting Cujo to be loping down the hallway.  "Donna--"

"I'm serious, CJ," she says.  "Bast was the protector of cats, but she was also the goddess of the hearth, dawn, civilization, bounty, plenty, enlightenment, art, music, dance, creation, birth, fertility, sex, physical pleasure, truth, hemp, the moon, and the rising sun."

I blink a few times, then ask, "Is that all?"

"Well, during the New Kingdom, Bast was linked to Sekhmet.  Some thought Bast and Sekhmet were self-created twin sisters, goddesses of sunrise and sunset, respectively.  Sometimes, they were considered a combined Goddess named Sekhmet-Bast."

"Who is Sekhmet?"

"The lioness deity of war."

I rub my forehead.  "The lioness deity of war?"

"Yes," Donna answers solemnly.  "And the press corps--"

"Certainly resembles a bloodthirsty army," I admit.  "I take your point."

"So we have to lift the curse."

"Okay," I nod.  "But I don't think we're going to be able to do it before my ten o'clock briefing."

Donna glances reflexively at her watch.  "Yeah, I'm good at organizing things, but I don't think ten minutes is going to do it when we're talking about lifting a curse bestowed upon you by an ancient Egyptian deity."

"So you're saying I'm on my own for this," I surmise.

Donna grins and heads back towards her desk.  "Pretty much."

"Great," I mutter.  "Does this count as tossing me to the lions?"

Donna glances back at me, laughing.  "That's funny!"

***

My briefing went about as well as you might expect.

Danny asked, with that insufferable smirk out in full force, if the president thought it was appropriate for his staffers to be out -- and I'm quoting -- gallivanting.

After making merciless fun of him for using the word 'gallivanting' -- and winning appreciative snickers from the rest of the room -- I answered that the president does not comment on the personal lives of his staff.  Ron Koch from the Dallas Morning News followed up, asking if I thought it was appropriate for -- You can see how quickly it went downhill.

I suggested that Koch check with the restaurant and confirm that nine people shared three bottles of wine, which averages to roughly 1.3 glasses per person.  One and a third glasses, I was sure to point out, over the course of a two-hour dinner in honor of my father's 70th birthday.

They were predictably unimpressed, as the resulting Q&A proved.

Which is why I am not surprised to return to the relative solace of my office only to find Toby standing just inside.  I ignore him, tossing my notebook onto my desk in the hopes that he'll wander away and allow me to sacrifice small field mice to Bast in peace.

Toby clears his throat.  "I thought that went--"

"Toby," I warn.  "Not now.  I'm still in kill or be killed mode, and you're the nearest thing breathing."

He tips his head back and looks at me down his nose.  "As well as could be expected," he finishes.

I glare at him.  "I wasn't drunk."

"Okay."

"I wasn't."

"Do you see me arguing with you?" he asks.

"There was no way to salvage it," I say.

"I know.  You did fine."

I give an undignified snort.  "Tomorrow's headline is going to be 'Tipsy Press Secretary Denies Drinking Problem.'"  The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, and my scowl deepens in response.  "It's not funny."

"CJ, it'll be gone the day after tomorrow."

"Which does not seem to be helping me right now," I point out.  Then I drop into my chair, muttering, "I should've played my trump card."

"Your trump card?" Toby echoes.

"Never mind."

"CJ--"

"I said never mind."

"You also said--"

"Donna claims I hit on people when I'm drunk, not yell at them while gesticulating wildly," I blurt.

Toby watches me for a moment.  "You do."

"What?"

"Do you remember the Fourth of July cookout--"

"Toby," I groan, dropping my head onto the desktop.

"You hit on an old man."

"He was not old," I protest, rolling my head to the side to glare at him.  "He was French."

"He was Canadian."

"He was French-Canadian.  He had an accent."

"That he acquired while attending primary school in 1942."

"He was fifty, Toby," I argue.  "And he was very sexy."

"You find bald men sexy?"

I give him a pointed look.  "Well, some men can carry that off; look at Patrick Stewart."

"I'd rather not," he grimaces.  "And the reason you hit on a senior citizen is that you were drunk."

"Was not."

"CJ," Toby sighs.  "Can we not do this?"

"Fine," I nod.  "Get out."

"Don't tell the press--"

"Toby, do I look like an idiot?"

"Now or in that picture?"

"Get out!"

Nobody messes with me when I use that tone of voice, and Toby is no exception.  He hightails it out of my office, and I yell after him, "You owe me $75 for the cab!"

***

Donna sidles up to me at the copier and says in a low voice, "Have lunch with me."

I give her a strange look.  "Is Bast standing behind me?"

Donna glances over my shoulder.  "No, but Josh is within earshot and you know he gets when I eat without him."

"Fair point.  Where should we go?"

We settle on a nearby pub and escape unnoticed.  Donna leaves Josh a sticky note on her computer, and he calls her cellphone just as we reach the restaurant to -- as he put it -- place his lunch order.  Donna tells him she's not a catering service and hangs up.

I shoot her an appreciative grin.  "Maybe this thing will work out after all."

Donna smiles back widely.  "It will."

I give her a very suspicious look.  "You're not telling me something."

"No, I'm not," she answers quickly.  "I mean, I am.  Wait--"

"Donna."  I use my threatening voice and she looks like she's about to confess to something.

And then our waitress arrives, full of annoyingly inane chatter, and I table The Josh Discussion for later.  When we have placed our lunch orders, Donna leans towards me a bit.  "I've been doing a little more research."

"On Bast?"

"Yes.  And Sekhmet.  And curses in general."

"Okay," I nod.  "And?"

"And Bast may be a bit stronger than we thought."

I can tell my forehead is doing that apprehensive wrinkle thing that I hate.  "Stronger?"

"Well," Donna says, then pauses to take a sip of water.

"Donna!"

She swallows hastily.  "Apparently, Bast was sometimes worshipped as the spouse of the god, Ptah-seker-ausur--"

"What?"

Donna rolls her eyes.  "It's ancient Egyptian; like I know how to pronounce it!"

"Fine," I say with a dismissive wave of my hand.  "Bast married a god."

"There wasn't a ceremony or anything, CJ.  In fact, some scholars feel that pairing the female deities up with males was an attempt by Greco-Roman scholars to downplay their influence--"

"Donna!"

"Sorry.  In the beginning, Bast was known as the protector of the Pharaoh, and as an avenger.  She was called the Eye of Ra -- Ra was the Creator, and the strongest of the gods and goddesses -- and acted as his personal, you know, hit-person.  Ripping out the hearts of the transgressors and delivering them to his feet, stuff like that."

I stare at her for a long moment, which is convenient, because our appetizer arrives.  Donna immediately dives into the chips, munching happily.

I'm still worrying about being smote down by a stray cat with an attitude.

"You've got to try these with the salsa," Donna says, pushing the tray towards me.  "They're wonderful."

"Could I please get you to concentrate on my fast-approaching death-by-kitty," I ask.  Then I grab a chip, because they really do smell heavenly.  "Wow, these are good."

Donna smiles.  "So anyway, what I could dig up indicates that statues or pictographs of Bast almost always showed her with a sistrum in her right hand--"

"A what?"

"Sistrum.  A drum or rattle of some kind?"

"Okay."

"And a bag over her left arm."

I shake my head.  "How is this supposed to help me?  Am I going to play dress-up?"

"No," Donna laughs.  "But since you brought it up, the only account I could find of ancient celebrations in honor of Bast describes them as licentious festivals in which women pulled up their skirts while shaking sistra."

"So I should find myself a convenient pole, pull up my skirt, and that'll lift the curse?  I somehow doubt it would help my current public image as a drunkard!"

"CJ!"  Donna is still laughing.  I'm glad someone's finding this amusing.  She must sense my mounting irritation, because she manages to contain her mirth.  "I was getting to it.  The third thing is that Bast was almost always surrounded by small kitten figurines."

I give her an eloquent look.  "Kitten figurines?"

"Yes," Donna nods.  "Also many temples to Bast had catteries alongside the temples where cats were raised for the Temples; some pilgrims even brought cats as offerings to Bast.  So there's definitely a theme."

"Cats are evil?" I volunteer.

"CJ!" Donna says in this shocked tone.  "I thought you were a cat person!"

"I was until Bast put me on her hit list."

"That's the other thing.  I couldn't really find much about curses.  The technical term seems to be hexes or charms."

"Well, now that we've cleared up the nomenclature, can we possibly move on to the reversing-the-curse portion of the discussion?" I ask sarcastically.

"Apparently," Donna says, nibbling on a chip, "you really have to know the details of the curse or hex to reverse it.  So I was thinking--"

"That I'm monumentally screwed?"

Donna gives a half-shrug.  "Well, that.  Or you could just try to, you know, win Bast's favor."

I raise one eyebrow.  "Win the favor of a cat goddess who was worshipped 4,000 years ago?"

Donna nods, quite pleased with her suggestion.  "Yes."

"And how would one go about doing this?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"I'm not entirely sure," she admits, digging through her small handbag.  "But I thought you could start with this."

With a flourish, Donna places a small glass object that, upon closer examination, has been smoothed into the form of a curled up cat.  I stare at it in disbelief.  "This?"

"This," Donna confirms.  "As, you know, a symbol."

"You want me to collect cat figurines?" I demand.

Donna shrugs.  "Do you have a better idea?"

I hold her gaze for a long moment before reaching for the figurine.  "This is going to end badly. I'm going to wind up the crazy old woman who lives in the basement and talks to all of her cat figurines."

"Well," Donna says with a disarming grin, "that's better than death-by-kitty, right?"

***

I drive very carefully on the way back to the White House.  The last thing I need right now is for Bast to send me a vengeful traffic cop.

When I mention this to Donna, she turns an interesting shade of white and starts explaining the literary mishap that led some modern scholars to believe that Pasht was an alternate spelling of Bast, and the root of the word passion.  She then launches into a discussion of the Latin word pati -- to suffer -- from which passion is truly derived.  When detailing the different meanings of passion, she turns bright red and makes a disparaging remark about some British Egyptologist at the turn of the century that she feels is responsible for the whole thing.

I would push the issue -- why she blushed, I mean, not about mistranslating hieroglyphics -- but I have a sneaking suspicion that there was some serious illegal touching between Josh and Donna this weekend.  Bast is the goddess of sexuality, after all, and we've already established that she hates me.  Draw your own conclusions.

I just don't want confirmation at this point.  I have enough on my plate, what with the hideous, heart-ripped-out-by-vengeful-cat death I have waiting for me.

And so I stick my head in the proverbial sand (or should I say litterbox?), making vague noises of interest until Donna's lecture is interrupted.

By Josh's impatient bellow as we clear the doorway, of course.

I glance over at her.  "How does he do that?"

"Do what?"

"Know the precise moment you're within shouting distance."

She's blushing again.  "The window," she says finally.

"What window?"

"In his office.  You can see people as they're walking up to the building."

I stop in the hallway.  "He watches for you out the window?"

"Yes," Donna answers, as if this were a perfectly natural habit.  Perhaps it is with these two.

"Okay."  I shrug and walk away.  "Oh, and thanks," I add over my shoulder.

My office is deliciously deserted; even the phone is silent for once.  I am smiling as I enter, closing the door softly to preserve the fragile peace.

And then I trip over something lying on the floor.  Something that produces an alarming rattle.  As a one-time resident of L.A. -- the city formerly known as a desert wasteland -- I assume the worst and leap onto the couch to avoid a fatal snakebite.  Thank Bast I closed the door, because the object turns out to be not a rattlesnake, but a bright blue baby rattle.

I stare at it in surprise before clambering off the couch to scoop it up.  And glare at it.

I immediately suspect foul play on the part of the idiot boys, but decide that discretion -- and strategy -- are the better parts of valor.  I will sit at my desk, enjoy the temporary silence, and devise a suitable punishment.

Which is when I notice my new menagerie.

On top of my desk, a small collection of cat figurines stand, sit, and lie.  From a cuddly grey and white stuffed animal to a bright blue plastic bath toy, a sweet set of nested orange tabbies to a sleek black sculpted candle, I'd say the idiot boys covered pretty much every feline permutation.

I yank open my office door to call for Carol, but find Josh instead, lounging against her desk.  Smirking.

Realizing I'm still holding the damn rattle, I brandish it in his direction.  "I get the cat figurines, but why the rattle?"

He gives a careless shrug.  "Closest I could get to a sistrum at Toys 'R Us."

"How'd you know about the sistrum?"

"Donna told me."

I narrow my eyes.  "When?"

Josh pushes away from the desk, beating a hasty retreat.  "I figured with your purse, the rattle, and the figurines, you could do a little number for us.  Perhaps Cat Scratch Fever would be--"

The rattle makes a very satisfying noise when it bounces off of his head.

***

Not surprisingly, Bast soon sends another of her minions to my office to bother me.  And this one has press credentials.

"Go away, Danny."

"Is that any way to treat a visitor bearing gifts?"

"When said visitor is a reporter planning on running a story on me being drunk -- which I was not -- yes."

Danny stares at me.  "That was an interesting sentence right there."

"Go away," I repeat.

"Granted, I didn't show up with wine, but still--"

"Danny."

"For you," he says, holding out his hand.

I give him a suspicious look, then reach out to accept the offering.  Which turns out to be -- surprise, surprise -- a small white plastic cat.

I turn wide eyes to Danny.  "You are not writing about--"

"CJ, relax," he interrupts with a smile.  "You weren't drunk and you're not cursed and I won't write about either."

"Who told you."

"That you weren't drunk?"

I roll my eyes.  "About Bast."

"Josh mentioned it."

"Josh mentioned it?"

"Yes."

"Randomly?"

"In a manner of speaking."

I am immediately suspicious.  That's reporter-speak for 'absolutely not, but I'm not about to admit it.'  "Why?"

Danny tries the innocent face.  "Why what?"

"Why'd he tell you?" I demand.  "What were you going to write about?"

"Nothing."

"Danny."

"Seriously, I wasn't going to write it."

"Fine.  What was it?"

Danny sighs.  "I heard something on the scanner."

Oh, God -- Bast -- Whatever.

"Your police scanner?" I ask, my voice louder and higher-pitched than it was mere moments ago.

"Yes."

"Something involving this administration was broadcast over the police scanner?"

"Not directly."

"It wasn't directly broadcast or--"

"It doesn't directly involve the administration, which is why I'm not writing it.  If you were curious about that."

"Danny, could you cut the cryptic crap?"

He raises an eyebrow at my encroaching psychosis, but finally spills.  "Josh, got a speeding ticket.  Forty-seven in a thirty."

I stare at Danny, somewhat horrified as things begin to make sense.  "A speeding ticket?"

"Yes."

"Friday night."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Few blocks from his condo."

"And you heard this on your scanner?"

"Cop called in the plates," Danny shrugs.

I give him a look.  "You have the plate numbers of senior staff memorized?"

"Not on purpose or anything; I have a knack for remembering plate numbers."

I roll my eyes.  "Dork."

"I prefer quirky," he says.  "Plus it's an Audi A4; Josh drives a damn nice car."

"So he tells me," I mutter.  I will never understand the male fascination with cars.  But more to the point, I have a very good idea why Josh was speeding towards his condo.  Which would also explain why he was so eager to wave Danny away from the story.

I am going to kill them both.

But right now, I have to pretend I'm not about two seconds away from shoving that rattle up Josh's--

"CJ?"

"Yeah."

"You zoned out for a second."

"Long day."  I forcibly relax my grip on the small plastic cat, belatedly feeling the sharp edges digging into my palm.

"Right."  Danny nods.

"I.  Was.  Not.  Drunk."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Yes."

I can feel my forehead crinkling with skepticism.  "How do you know?"

Danny gives me a cocky grin.  "You're a lover, not a fighter."

"Get out."

He grins some more.  "When you're drunk, I'm saying."

"Out."

"You're not going to thank me for the gift?"

"The tiny plastic cat?"

"It's for the fishbowl.  To keep Gail company."

"So the present is actually for my goldfish?"

"Our goldfish."

"Get out."

"Okay."

***

Here's something I'll bet you didn't know: It's nerve-wracking to work with seven pairs of cat eyes -- be they beaded or painted on -- watching your every move.

I have resorted to placing them along the front edge of my desk facing the door.  Sort of like a miniature, protective, feline army.  Or perhaps I have finally lost it, driven mad by Bast and her kittens.

I am, in fact, debating the relative merits of referential (Morris or Garfield) versus original (say, Lakota) for naming the orange tabbie figurine when Sam sticks his head in my office, unannounced.  Luckily, my naming debate was not conducted aloud.  I am not yet talking to the figurines.

As it is, Sam glances at the Bast Battalion -- as I've dubbed it -- and grins.  "Cute," he decides.  "And appropriate."

"Appropriate?"

"You've always struck me as rather feline, CJ."

I glare at him.  "You consider me finicky, haughty, and rude?"

Sam gives me a panicked look.  "I was going for lithe, independent, and sublimely smart."

"Oh," I answer lamely.  I think I'm blushing.  "Okay, then."

Sam rushes past the momentary awkwardness.  "So there's a thing."

"Okay," I repeat.

"With the zoo."

"The National Zoo?"

He nods.  "There are protestors."

I raise an eyebrow.  "People are protesting, what, animals?  Evolution?"

"No," Sam laughs.  "Animal rights advocates are protesting the size of the habitats, the conditions... stuff like that."

"Stuff like that?"

He shrugs.  "Yeah."

"I see we're taking them seriously."

"CJ, they're protesting a zoo; how seriously can you take that?"

"Well," I say, "they have some legitimate concerns."

"Since when are you an animal person?"

"Since Bast targeted me for a fiery death.  What's the thing?"

"One of the protestors is Reginald Shallick."

I perk up immediately.  "As in--?

"Representative Shallick's son, yes."

"Really?"  I am grinning like a lunatic.  "Henry Shallick's son is an animal rights activist?"

"Yes."

"Henry damned-liberals-are-exactly-what's-wrong-with-God's-country Shallick has a son--"

"Who throws red paint on people wearing fur coats."

"Well, this is just delicious."

Sam nods.  "And much more interesting than a drunk Press Secretary."

"Exactly," I say.  "And I was--"

"Not drunk," he finishes with me.  "I have a meeting.  You'll cover this at the briefing?"

"Absolutely.  I will absolutely cover Shallick's son's heroic fight."

"Heroic?"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Oh, one other thing."

I give him a hopeful look.  "The Majority Whip's daughter has renounced capitalism and is living on a commune with some guy named Desert Sky?"

"No, but it's almost as good," Sam grins.

"What?"

"The President wants to see you."

***

"CJ!" the President cheerfully greets me when I poke my head in the Oval Office.  "Come right in!"

Leo, standing beside the President's desk, gives me a look that translates loosely to "save yourself."  I infer that President Bartlet is dispensing trivial knowledge to his Chief of Staff, and while I briefly consider making my excuses, I need to know if he knows I broke the damn Bast statue.

And so I step bravely into the fray.  "You wanted to see me, sir?"  Maybe he'll keep it short.

"Did you know, CJ, that the name Egypt is actually a variation on the Greek Aigyptos, and is not what Egyptians themselves call their motherland?  In fact, they call it Kemet."

I suppress a groan and try to look interested.  "Really?"  I couldn't honestly care less that Egypt is really Kemet, but maybe he'll get distracted by the etymology and forget I broke his statue.  Assuming he knows.

"Yes," he beams at me.  "And although evidence of their the vast pantheon of gods has been used to classify the ancient Egyptian culture as polytheistic, it's quite possible that instead of gods and goddesses, the deities were actually considered different faces of one god.  A belief system which is more properly termed monolatrous, according--"

Leo interrupts sarcastically, "As fascinating as this is, sir--"

"CJ," the President continues, talking right over Leo, "did you realize that the ancient Kemetic people spelled their words without vowels, just like modern-day Arabic?  I'm speaking now of hieratic, not hieroglyphics, which were, of course, pictures resembling whole words.  This practice makes it all but impossible to truly know how the ancient gods and goddesses were addressed."  He shoots me a significant look.  "For example, there's some debate, I understand, over whether or not Bastet is an alternate translation of Bast."

"Mr. President," Leo intones, rolling his eyes.  "Could we please table the discussion of ancient languages and their written forms?"

Okay, so they definitely know about the statue.  Damn that Charlie.  Now I have to confess and then be subjected to some hellish torture.  Like, you know, listening to the President prattle on about the ancient Egyptian pantheon.  That ought to be fun.

I take a step forward.  "Funny you should mention Bast, sir, because--"

"Bast is written hieroglyphically with a jar-like symbol which represents bas, and the half circle -- which is somehow related to a loaf of bread, although I'm not sure I quite understand the connection -- stands for the feminine t ending."

"That really is intriguing, sir," I try again.  "And I have--"

"Did you know that Bastet is the most common mistranslation of her name?" the president rambles on, ignoring the glares he's getting from Leo.  "In fact, it's entirely possible that ancient scribes added an additional bread loaf to emphasize that the feminine t ending should be pronounced when it started disappearing from the spoken language.  Due to foreign influences, more than likely."

"Sir--"

"In one of the Pyramid Texts, Bast is described as 'Knowledge through which death cannot approach too closely.'"

I stare at him with a puzzled look on my face.  "Okay."

"Yeah."  He grins. "I don't know what the hell that means, either."

"I broke your statue," I blurt.

The President gives me that devilish look I've learned to dread.  "Right."

"I assure you, sir, it was an accident.  I was completely unaware of the statue's value, and in my defense, I did attempt to--"  I stop short, because "crazy glue it back together" is probably not going to work here.  I glance at Leo for help.

He smirks at me.  "Crazy glue it back together?"

"Traitor," I mutter.

The President laughs outright.  "Claudia Jean, is it true that you have been cursed by Bast?"

I sigh and admit it.  "It's possible."

"Possible?" Leo asks, still enjoying the hell out of my discomfiture.

"There have been some..."  I pause.  "Indications."

"That picture?" the President suggests merrily.

I nod.  "Yes.  And since you brought that up, sir, I'd like to make it very clear that I was not drunk."

He grins at me.  "So Bast is giving you a little bit of punishment for breaking that statue?"

"It would appear that way," I say with a shrug.

"So you probably think that's punishment enough," he says in that agreeable tone that means he's about to do something devious.

And I'm unsure how to answer that.  "I wouldn't know, sir."

The President gestures to the couches.  "Have a seat, CJ.  We're going to have a little chat about the history of the domestic cat and its association with Bast."

"We are?"

I shoot Leo a desperate look, but he's already backing away.  "I think I hear Margaret."

The President waves a hand, dismissing Leo, then looks at me expectantly.  "Yes, we are."

I drop onto the couch and give him a weak smile.  "Great."

***

Thirty-six long minutes later, Mrs. Landingham all but drags President Bartlet away for a meeting in the Mural Room.  I thank every single god, goddess, familiar, and Pharaoh I can think of and race back to my office.

I am very nearly late for the four o'clock briefing, so Carol catches me up on the events of the day as we make our way through the labyrinthine corridors.  Of course, there's nothing much to catch up on -- Congress is in recess, no one has bombed anyone in the last day or so, and the Mary Marshs of the world have been unusually quiet today.

Normally, I would enjoy such a slow news day.  But with the whole 'CJ's a drunkard' thing floating around out there, I'd prefer a full-fledged crisis to overshadow it.  I just hope the Shallick thing gets above the fold.

I am almost there when I hear a familiar voice.  I turn and wait for him to reach Carol and me.

"CJ," Toby says, halting at my elbow.

I wait, but he doesn't say anything else.  "What?" I demand finally.

His gaze flicks to Carol, who gives me an indulgent smile.  "It's ARC," she says.

"ARC?" I repeat.

"Animal Rights Coalition," she explains.  "Reginald Shallick's organization."

"ARC," I confirm.  "Got it."

Carol starts off.  "I'll give the two minute warning."

"Thanks." I turn to Toby.  "Yes?"

"You were in with him?"

"Thirty-six minutes, Toby," I say.  "If I never hear the words cat, Bast, or Egypt again, it will be too soon."

His expression is unreadable.  "I've got to completely rewrite Sam's intro for the Brazil thing."

"Okay," I say, puzzled at his non-sequitur.  "Were you looking for me?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"It's nothing," he demurs.  Which makes me incredibly curious.

"Does it have to do with that piece of paper?"

Toby glances reflexively at his left hand.  Then he sighs.  "Yes."

I hold my hand out.  "What is it?"

"Something very silly," he says.

I can feel my eyebrows attempting to take flight.  "Silly?" I repeat, incredulous.

"Yes," he answers grumpily, his free hand waving about in agitation.  "Sam was reading the Brazil thing aloud and my mind wandered -- pure self-preservation.  That intro could put an insomniac out with no problem."

I'm still staring at him.  "Okay."

He glances around, then thrusts the paper at me.  "I blame Sam."

I take it and glance down.  It's a piece torn from his ever-present yellow legal pad.  Judging from the cryptic notes, it is the lower left-hand corner of a page of comments on Sam's speech.  And at the bottom, in bold black pen strokes is a striking likeness of a cat.  Curled up asleep.

"Toby, you--"

But the idiot is gone.  While I was admiring his handiwork, he fled.  Coward.

With a grin, I tuck Toby's cat into my leather folder and enter the pressroom.

***

The briefing -- and, in fact the remainder of my workday -- goes surprisingly well.  No glitches, no screw-ups, no hints of Bast at all.

By the time I call it a day (at 11:57 p.m.), I have convinced myself that the curse must have a specific shelf life, and I have emerged, scathed but standing, on the other side.  I am still very careful on my way out to the car; the last thing I need is to trip, fall, and blacken my eye.  That would certainly not help my whole 'I'm not a drunkard' thing.

The drive between the White House and my townhouse in Georgetown -- you'd be amazed how much I got for my Hollywood Hills home when I left L.A. -- is short and mind-numbingly boring.  In fact, I've learned that the lights are timed to be green pretty much all the way if I keep the car at forty.  Which I do.

I'm nearly home when it happens.  Cruising along, my attention split between the road and NPR, it takes a moment for the image to register.

When my mind recognizes the two glowing green orbs in the road ahead of me as eyes, I slam on the brakes.

My car shudders to a halt about five feet in front of a small black and white cat, who calmly stares up at me from where she's sitting square in the middle of my lane.  Absently, I flick on my hazards, stick the car in neutral, and engage the emergency brake.

And then I notice an SUV careening down the cross street fifty feet down the road.  I watch, open-mouthed, as the Explorer -- oblivious to its red light -- plows right through the intersection.

Right where I would have been if I hadn't stopped.

I am shaking as I climb out of my car and approach the cat, who still just watches me placidly.  She is almost glowing in the headlights.  It's eerie.

This is ridiculous, I think.  There's no way a cat just willfully saved me from a car accident.

And yet the black and white cat stands and saunters towards me, winding around my ankles once before sitting down on her haunches and staring up at me.  She's beautiful; all sleek black fur and snowy white paws.  I crouch down and offer my trembling hand.

"Hi, sweetie," I croon.  "What are you doing in the road?"

She rubs my fingers, purring.  There's no collar or tag on her; I'm curious about her name.

"Where's your home?" I ask.

She looks up at me, her whiskers twitching.

I don't know why I talk to animals as if they can answer me, but I regularly converse with Gloria, my cat.  See?  I'm halfway to 'crazy old lady who talks to her cat figurines.'  I knew this would end poorly.

I can't stay in the street, petting a cat all night, so I scratch her behind the ears once more and rise.  "I've got to go home now.  You should probably do the same."

I give her one last look, then reach for my car door.  I open it and begin to slide inside, but there's suddenly a black and white cat sitting in the driver's seat.  "Honey," I say with a laugh.  "You can't live in my car."

She meows at me.

I look at her askance.  "I have a cat."

Unperturbed, she gracefully leaps into the passenger seat, settles down, and gives me an expectant look.

I glance around, at a loss.  "Do you live around here?  I can't just take you home with me.  Gloria would kill me."

She blinks slowly.

Throwing my hands into the air, I fold myself into the car and reach over to pet her.  "Do you know anyone named Bast?"

Her small, pink tongue slips out and licks my fingers.  She's purring again.

"Is that a yes?"

She meows.

"Okay, then," I say with an exasperated laugh.  "Let's go home.  Just promise me you won't kill Gloria, 'kay?"

The black and white cat curls into a ball in the bucket seat, her tail tucked around her.  I stare at her for a moment, then release the brake and put the car in first gear.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

***

The small, black and white cat takes the car ride surprisingly well.  Especially in comparison to my Gloria, who screams like a banshee the entire two-minute trip to the vet.  Big baby.

Anyway, I arrive home and give the cat -- who really needs a name -- a look.  I mean, how am I supposed to get her inside?  Grab her and toss her over my shoulder, or assume she'll follow me?

I grab my bag and open the door.  The cat takes matters into her own hands (paws?); she jumps onto the ground via my lap, takes a few steps, and stops to look back at me.  "I'm coming," I say, closing the car door and setting the alarm.  I am amused -- and a bit freaked out -- when she precedes me up the stairs and to the door, as if she's lived here all her life.

I open the door and ask her politely to wait a moment.  She explores the foyer a bit as I take a few steps into the living room.  Gloria jumps down from the couch and blinks at me sleepily.  Then she freezes when she sees my new friend.

With an apprehensive look, I say, "Gloria, this is our new roommate, okay?  She's a nice kitty.  Saved me from a hideous death, in fact."

Gloria's ignoring me, instead approaching the new cat slowly, eyes, ears, and nose working full force.  The black and white cat sits down calmly, studying Gloria as she grows closer.

I carefully set down my bag and psych myself up to reach into a full-on catfight and rescue Gloria, if need be.

To my surprise, Gloria and the new cat sniff each other thoroughly, then, as if they've known each other for years, wander off towards the kitchen.  I follow in shock, watching Gloria all but give the black and white cat a tour.  They hunker down at the food bowl and begin to eat, ignoring my existence completely.

I grab the phone and call Donna.

"Josh," she answers.  "I said no."

I knew it!  Those two are so dead.  I growl into the phone, "It's CJ."

"CJ!" Donna says.  "I thought-- I thought you were Josh.  He's been bugging me to--"

"Call off the bet?" I suggest.  She doesn't reply, so I choose to ignore it.  "Never mind.  Please don't confirm my suspicions about this weekend.  The Enforcer is back, and I will seriously kill you both if you lapse again."

"But--"

"No, Donna," I interrupt loudly.  "Just -- no."

"Okay."

"So, a funny thing happened to me on the way home," I say, my attention drawn back to Gloria and her new best friend.  "And I was wondering if you'd have a better explanation than I can come up with."

"What's your explanation?"

The black and white cat turns her head to look at me over her shoulder.  I hold her gaze and say slowly, "I don't think Bast cursed me."

"Really?" Donna asks.  "Why?"

I tell her the story, as the new cat turns her attention back to her meal.

When I finish, it takes Donna a moment to answer.  "CJ," she says quietly.  "Clearly Bast sent the cat to protect you."

"Donna, Bast is an ancient Kemetic goddess; I highly doubt she's sending domestic cats into the D.C. streets to prevent car accidents."

"Okay," Donna says.

"Don't use that tone," I complain.  "You sound like my mother."

"I'm just saying, it's too coincidental.  You've been obsessing over cats for the past three days, and now a cat saved your life?"

I don't want to talk about this anymore.  "Look, I've got to go.  I just wanted to know if you had any suggestions for a name."

"Well, Bast would just be wrong," she comments."

"True."

"What's your cat's name?  Gloria?"

"Yes," I nod, watching the two cats again.

"So you're going to want something kickass and feminist."

"Of course," I answer absently.

"Um..." Donna thinks about it for a moment.  "Oh!  I've got it. Cady."

"As in Elizabeth Cady Stanton," I nod, smiling.  "I like it!"

"Good."

"Hey, I should go.  It's late.  Thanks for the suggestion."

"'Kay," Donna answers.  "Tell Cady the rest of us send our thanks and our love."

"Donna," I admonish, embarrassed by my whimsical notion of a life-saving cat.

"G'night, CJ," she says.

"Good night," I answer.  "And keep your hands off of Josh!"

I can hear her laughing as she hangs up.

Then I toss the phone onto the counter and sit down on the floor, holding out my hands to both cats.  Gloria looks at me, then keeps eating.

"Snob," I grin.

Cady, on the other hand, meanders over and sits down, meeting my gaze.

"Hello, Cady," I say.  "Donna says thank you."

She blinks at me.

I reach out and scratch her under the chin.

Cady looks up at me with the feline equivalent of a grin in place.  Her whiskers tickle my hand a little, and I lean closer.  "So could you do me a favor?  Could you tell Bast I'm really very sorry about the figurine.  I've got a whole lot of replacements, though, thanks to Donna and the idiot boys.  Also, if she could further see clear to stop the Drunkard Press Secretary thing from becoming a story, that'd be great."

Cady purrs.

"You're something else, you know that?" I ask.  "How about this:  You relay my message to Bast, and Gloria and I will be happy to have you as our third roommate, okay?"

Cady climbs daintily onto my lap and settles down. I laugh.  "I'll take that as a yes."

THE END

03.22.01