"Hello to you too, Joshua."

"I mean it, Donna.  No TV, no radio, no--"

"I mean it too.  The standard greeting when starting a telephone conversation is 'hello.'  Or some variation thereon.  It isn't--"

"I'm on my way over now.  Don't listen to the news in any form."

"I thought you had -- you know, that meeting."

"It's postponed.  Don't answer the phone again either.  It might be--"

"Why would that meeting be cancelled?  Isn't it kind of important?"

"Something happened.  I'll explain when I get there."

"This isn't -- is this about the thing Toby said?"

"No.  Just -- I'll be there as soon as I can.  I'll tell you then."

"Tell me now."

"I don't think you should hear this over the phone."

"Joshua!"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes.  I promise."

*** 

He's all right.  I talked to him, and he's okay.  This isn't like a year ago.  Whatever's happened now, Josh is fine.  No need to panic.

But why did he tell me not to turn on the TV?  Whatever happened, he thinks it's serious enough for the media to pick it up.

To hell with his "don't turn on the TV" nonsense.  If something's happened, I need to find out.  I can't wait for him to get over here.

It takes almost ten minutes before I find it.  CNN and MSNBC are focused on Haiti, but a local station is doing a promo for the 11 p.m. news that gives me a bit of information.  Just enough to cause me to panic without actually telling me anything.  Just the words "Bartlet staffer" and "victim of a drunk driver."

Which staffer?  How can they say that much and expect people to wait until 11 to find out who they're talking about?  How is that responsible journalism?

It's not Josh.  Josh is fine.  Josh is coming over to tell me about this.

It's not Josh.  This isn't like last year.  Josh is fine.

But it's someone.  Someone we care about.  Because otherwise Josh wouldn't be so concerned about telling me himself.

The meeting was cancelled.  A meeting with the President, maybe the most important meeting ever, was cancelled.  That means it's someone -- someone close--

Even the way Josh knocks on the door is uncharacteristic.  Almost timid, like he doesn't want to do this.  No yelling "Donnatella Moss" to get my attention.  When I open the door, I can see the tears in his eyes.  He manages a tiny smile though when he notices that the television's on.

"I should have known that telling you not to do that was a tactical error," he says.  "Did you hear?"

"Just that there was an accident.  Not who was hurt."

He takes me into his arms then.  "It was Mrs. Landingham," he says.  "She was killed, Donna."

I try to pull away from him, distance myself from what he's saying, but he doesn't let me go.  "She can't be dead," I tell him.  "You got it wrong."

"No," he says sadly, "I didn't.  Leo told me."

"Then Leo got it wrong.  Mrs. Landingham's not dead.  She can't be.  We left the building together.  She was just going to pick up her new car and come right back."

"She was on her way back to the White House when it happened."

Maybe it's like hearing that Josh had been hit.  Maybe it takes a few minutes for the words to sink in, for me to grasp the enormity of what I'm being told.  Or maybe it's simply the devastated look on Josh's face that convinces me.

Mrs. Landingham is dead.

How is that even possible?

I'm sobbing so hard I can hardly even feel Josh's arms around me.  I can hear him whispering my name.

Mrs. Landingham and I walked out the gate together two hours ago.  She talked about her new car; she told me I looked too tired.  "You need to take better care of yourself, dear."  That's what she said.  That was the last thing Mrs. Landingham said to me.

The last thing Mrs. Landingham will ever say to me.

I can't remember what I said to her.  "Yes, ma'am," I suppose.  Or "good night."  Something meaningless.  I should have told her how much I admired her.  I should have said--

When I got to New Hampshire, I had no idea how to be a politician's assistant.  I was pitiful.  If Josh's office hadn't been such a mess already, he would have noticed how incompetent I was and sent me back to Wisconsin.  But for some reason, Delores Landingham decided to take me in hand and show me how to do my job.  I should have told her how grateful I was for that.

And the hospital.  I never said how much she helped me at the hospital.  She sat by my side and held my hand for what seemed like hours.  Other people told me not to worry, other people promised me Josh wouldn't die, but I didn't believe them.  Mrs. Landingham didn't promise me anything she couldn't guarantee.  She just sat there quietly beside me and held my hand and I started to believe that maybe I wouldn't lose him after all.

I never thanked her for that. I was afraid to.  I was afraid that if I said anything I'd give away how much I loved Josh.

I wish I'd had the courage to thank Mrs. Landingham for how she comforted me in the hospital.  Why didn't I do that?

I have always adored Mrs. Landingham.  I love her sense of humor, her strength; I am in awe of the way she does her job.  I mean, here's this woman who could have retired years ago; and on an average day she accomplishes more than Margaret, Carol and I combined.  She's lost her sons, her husband, and she still has this positive outlook on life.  She's amazing.

Was.

She was amazing.

I have to start thinking about Mrs. Landingham in the past tense now.

Josh has tears in his eyes, but he's clearly more concerned about me than about himself.  He holds on to me; he whispers my name while I lean my head against his chest and sob.  After a few minutes, he runs his hands gently over my hair.

And I remember that it's May.

Next week is the anniversary of Rosslyn.  The President has MS, Mrs. Landingham is dead, and it's been fifty-one weeks since the night I nearly lost Josh.

We'll have to go to a funeral -- we'll have to go to Mrs. Landingham's funeral -- in a few days.  Someone has to make arrangements.  Knowing Mrs. Landingham, she's left specific instructions somewhere.  Margaret and I will probably need--

It could have been Josh's funeral.  It could have been Josh.

I start kissing him, partly to remind myself that he's alive, partly because I need to forget about Mrs. Landingham for a few minutes.  He kisses me back, and it's all very frantic and passionate and primal.  It's this need we both have, right this minute, partly to comfort each other and partly to remind ourselves that we made it through Rosslyn and last Christmas and somehow we'll make it through all this.

We're tearing at each other's clothes, and it's something of a miracle that we end up in bed rather than on my living room floor.  Usually, when we make love, we're slow and romantic and -- because we don't stop being us -- we tend to banter even in the middle of things.  Not tonight.  Tonight we're silent and frenzied and desperate.  I can't get close enough to him, no matter what I do, to reassure myself that he's really still here, that we're still here, close enough to forget everything else, to shut out all the death and the pain and the controversy that's waiting for us outside this room.  To remind myself that whatever else happens, we still have this.

As it turns out, we're lucky that we were so hurried.  Josh hasn't been laying, pretty much spent, in my arms five minutes when both our phones start ringing.

Under other circumstances, it would be funny.  Josh is rummaging through the pile of clothes scattered on the floor, trying to find his cell phone.

But the calls are anything but funny.  Mine is Margaret, nearly hysterical with grief, wanting to know whether I'm coming back to the office tonight.  Josh has to deal with Toby hinting none too gently that if we don't get back soon, people will talk.

Under other circumstances, I'd worry about how much Toby suspects.  Tonight, however, I can't seem to worry about whether anyone realizes that Josh and I are lovers.  Tonight that seems like a minor concern.

Except that I wonder whether Mrs. Landingham would be disappointed in me for having a sexual relationship with my boss.  It's definitely not the sort of thing she'd approve of.

But then again, she's always been especially fond of Josh, so maybe--

Besides, I think I've done about as good a job hiding my feelings for Josh from Mrs. Landingham as I did hiding things from CJ.  There wasn't much that escaped Mrs. Landingham's notice, after all.

And I'll never know for sure now anyway.

So this is what I'll do:  I'll let myself believe that Mrs. Landingham knew all about Josh and me and that she approved.  That she would have said something to me otherwise if she thought I was making a mistake.

I need to believe this right now.

Josh and I continue our uncharacteristic silence as we get dressed.  We give each other one last quick kiss, and then we step out of my apartment together back into the world where we have to be boss and assistant, where there are crises and controversies waiting for us.

Back into the world where the President Josh helped elect has MS.

The world where Mrs. Landingham is dead.

THE END

05.15.01