Which I guess explains how I can manage to plow right into a redhead nearly as tall as myself in broad daylight, toppling her into her friend.

"Sorry," I mutter, grabbing their arms to keep them upright.

They exchange awed looks -- I get that a lot from polysci students -- and the redhead says "No problem" in a voice tinged with a hint of the South.

I flash my automatic pilot smile their way, and head back to the hotel.  Leo, after all, is going to the Bartlets' house, which means I am absolutely not.  I cannot deal with his attitude and Abbey's irritation and The Boys' pissing contest with Bruno & co. right now.  I just can't.

Maybe I'll go for a nice, calming drive in the country.  And if I should happen upon that Starbucks in Manchester that I hunted down back in 1998, well, so much the better.  I'm sure a white chocolate mocha would magically erase my hideous blunder.  Not to mention Sam's righteous indignation, Josh's obsession with tobacco, and worst of all, the seething anger undermining Toby's inept attempts at being the peacemaker.  Hell, maybe it'll magically cure the president, which would obviate the rest of the mess.

Where's Harry Potter when you need him?

"Dammit," I mutter, rounding the corner in search of my rental.  You wouldn't think I could lose the damn thing in a town this size, but you'd be wrong.  I always look for my Mustang, not some tiny grey rental car.

Instead of the damn car, I find Donna sitting on the hotel steps in jeans and an AIDS Walk t-shirt.  She's crying, a magazine crumpled in her hands.

"Donna?"

She starts, her blonde hair swinging as she looks up.  "CJ?"

I gesture toward the magazine.  "What are you reading?"

"Mother Jones."

I nod.  "I thought from your reaction it was our latest polling information.  Or, you know, the National Review."

Laughing, Donna swipes a hand over her face, brushing the tears away.  "No.  It's just this article.  It got to me."

"Good got to you or bad?"

Donna shrugs, self-conscious.  "I don't know.  I'm a little overemotional these days."

"Yeah." I nod.  "I know the feeling."

"Josh says I'm being girly."

"Josh is an idiot."

"True, but he's right." Donna shrugs.  "I mean, look at you."

I stare down at her, fighting an ill-timed grin.  "Are you saying I'm not a girl?"

"No," Donna answers quickly.  Then she smiles.  "Well, yes, actually."

I drop onto the stoop beside her, sensing this is not going to be a quick conversation.  With both of us sitting here, there's very little room for guests to get in or out.  Considering we know all the people staying in the hotel right now and the majority of them are members of the press corps, all of whom have filed scathing stories over the past two weeks, I don't much care.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Donna gestures helplessly in my direction.  "You're not a girl, CJ.  You're a woman.  You're..."  She shrugs.  "You're finished."

I look away.  "That part's true."

"That's not what I meant.  You're together and confident and capable--"

God, it feels good to laugh, even if it is at myself.  Even if Donna's giving me the look she usually reserves for Josh in his more alarming moments.

"CJ?"

"Capable?" I sputter.  "Do I need to find a VCR in this godforsaken place and play you the tape of my utter incapability?"

Donna tucks her hair behind her ear, shifting a little to face me.  "You made a mistake, CJ.  That doesn't make you incapable."

I wave her off.  "I'm not talking about relieved.  I've made mistakes before; I'm talking about the part where I completely froze.  I couldn't fix it, Donna."  I'm shaking my head.  Every time I think about it, I relive that moment of sick realization, the second I understood with paralyzing clarity that I'd just made the exact wrong mistake at the exact wrong time.  "All I needed to do was clarify: No, the president would absolutely not be relieved to send American soldiers into harm's way; he would be relieved to get back to running the country, a job to which he is uniquely suited."

"That's good," Donna offers with a small smile.

I merely shrug.  "Too little, far too late."

"But you fixed it.  At the next briefing, you fixed it."

"No, I did damage control.  And ineffectually at that."

Donna gives me a confused look, her blue eyes troubled.  "No one's writing about it anymore, CJ.  Haiti's over."

"It's not," I insist.

She touches my arm.  "If you mean the way Josh and Sam and Toby are acting--"

"I don't blame them," I interrupt.  "They're just -- They're focusing on damage control.  They know I'm the one who's ultimately responsible for safeguarding his image, and they know I blew it spectacularly.  The presidency is so wrapped up in the media that his image is every bit as important as what he does in office."

"That's not fair."

"I agree."

We fall silent momentarily, our gazes fixed on the light pedestrian traffic of lovely downtown Kingston, New Hampshire.  I still don't understand why the press insists on calling the Bartlet farm "the Manchester house," considering it's neither.

"CJ?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't there a gap between the media's portrayal of President Bartlet and the public's perception of him?"

I consider that for a moment.  "I suppose.  Given the fact that the legitimate press are writing accusatory stories, op-ed writers are hysterically denouncing him, and the tabloid press is publishing 'on the brink of death' crap, it's pretty telling that his numbers are still in the low forties.  With that barrage of negativity, I'd expect lower numbers."

Donna nods slowly.  "So the public cares about the scandal, but they also care about their lives and what President Bartlet has done to better them, right?"

I guess Josh wasn't exaggerating when he talked about Donna's political naiveté.  "Maybe.  But don't underestimate the press' ability to harp on something until it reaches critical mass."

Donna glances over at me.  "What do you mean?"

I look away again, my gaze catching on the riot of color in the town square.  Flowers, I remember, surrounding a gorgeous marble war memorial that lists Kingston's fallen sons and daughters from both World Wars, Korea, and Vietnam.

One night during the Bartlet for America campaign, Toby, Josh, Sam and I wound up in the town square not long after Josh returned from his father's funeral.  Though we were all a little tipsy, we sobered up when we stumbled across the war memorial.  The Vietnam Wall is overwhelming in its sheer size; this relatively small list of names in this tiny town none of us had ever heard of before -- it was a blow to the gut.

Toby, Sam, and I exchanged worried looks as Josh took a few steps closer, running his hand reverently over the marble.  Toby said his name quietly and Josh glanced back, this look of utter devastation on his face.  "I don't have a stone."

Toby nodded his understanding and I joined Josh and took his hand, while Sam hunted around in the dim light from the flag's spotlight until he found a piece of gravel to give to Josh.  Josh mumbled thanks, then carefully placed the stone on top of the memorial, whispering something I couldn't quite make out.

That was the first time I understood the vulnerability of the great Josh Lyman.  And it was the first time I saw the depth of friendship he and Sam shared.  It was also the night I realized how proud I was to be a part of this group of amazing individuals.

I don't know what I'm going to do with myself when I leave.

"CJ?"

I blink once or twice, bringing myself back to the present.  "Yeah?"

Donna's giving me an apprehensive look.  "What do you think is going to happen?"

"I have no idea, Donna."

"CJ--"

"The press isn't going to let it go.  That's the most important thing everyone needs to understand.  It's been since Watergate; they feel it's their responsibility to uncover every deep, dark secret of every single person in the public eye, most importantly, the president.  And now they found out that we put one over on them--"

"We did not," Donna protests.  "We didn't even know--"

"Of course we didn't," I agree, surprised at the amount of bitterness in my voice.  I used to be so proud of my work on that damn campaign.  I was so proud of what we accomplished.  And now, through no fault of our own, our legacy -- the legacy of Toby, Josh, Sam, and me -- is going to be tainted with suspicion and conspiracy theories.

"So the press will figure it out, right?  They'll investigate and find out that we really didn't know, and--"

"They're not looking to prove us innocent, Donna," I sigh.  "It appears we did something wrong, and the press feel it's their God-given right to prove that we did."

"Fine, then," Donna nods, looking very determined.  "Let them try.  They can't prove something that's not true."

"Maybe not in the court of law, but in the court of public opinion they can sure as hell try."

"They're wrong," Donna insists.  "They'll figure that out."

"Maybe, but that won't affect what's going to happen."

Donna stares at me; her whole body stills.  "What do you mean?"

I study my hands with sudden fascination.  "The press wants a fall guy."

"Well, too bad," Donna answers, panic lacing her tone.  "They can't have one, because no one did anything wrong."

"The best thing for the president is for someone else to take the blame."

"For the fact the he didn't want to share his illness with the entire world?  Who else can possibly be blamed for that?"

That is the question.

I shrug.  "Considering the blunder with Haiti," I say, my tone carefully neutral, "the logical solution--"

"CJ," Donna interrupts, horrified.  "No.  That's the worst thing that could happen."

"The worst thing that could happen would be a trial in the Senate and a vote to remove President Bartlet from office.  This way maybe--"

"Josh won't let you. Toby, Sam, Leo -- CJ, the president won't let you."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," I say, smoothing an imaginary crease in my pants.  I'm surprised to realize my hands are trembling.

"You'll still be subpoenaed, right?"

"Yes."

"So the truth with still come out," Donna says.  "So your resignation--"

"Would take the heat off of the president in the meantime.  The press already doubt my credibility, and without that, I'm a hindrance to the president anyway.  If I resign without giving specific reasons, the press may focus on that for a little while and allow President Bartlet to do, you know," I wave one hand around, "presidential things."

"That won't solve anything," Donna answers stubbornly.

"It may help."

"CJ, you can't--"

I run a hand over my face, so tired of this conversation.  I've gone over it so many times in my head already, and yet I can't bring myself to explain it to someone else.  "Look, Donna, nothing's been decided.  I just..."

Donna watches me for a moment, then nods.  "Okay."  She looks away, biting her lip.

I catch sight of her magazine again and tap it lightly.  "So what were you reading about?"

"Factory workers," she answers quietly.  "They tried to unionize and the company moved the plant to Mexico.  The article followed one of the laid off American workers, and one of the newly-employed Mexican workers."

I look at her askance.  "And that made you cry?"

She shrugs.  "Turns out, life kind of sucked for both of them."

I watch her for a moment, then push myself to my feet.  "Come on."

Donna meets my eyes.  "Where are we going?"

"You sound like you could use a white chocolate mocha too."

Her expression brightens as she bounds to her feet.  "You're going to the Starbucks in Manchester?"

"Yup."

Donna grins at me.  "I swear, those things are magical."

My smile grows brittle, and I have to turn away.  "Yeah," I say.

If only it were so.

THE END

10.21.01