XIII.  Some Warn Victory, Some Downfall
 
 
2002
 
 
He's sitting in her chair when she opens the door, because two can 
play that game.  She hasn't quite wiped the tension from her features 
by the time she notices him.  He notices a tall man behind her, with 
silver hair.
 
"Oh."
 
"Josh says a crazy person wants to kill you."
 
The pulse in his wrist beats against the desk, just a little 
heavier.  She smiles like he's made a joke.
 
"You're not completely crazy, Toby."
 
And he doesn't want this to be another conversation he knows by 
heart, so he admits, "I'm scared for you, CJ."
 
Her hand goes to her chest and she drops to the couch, then stands 
right back up.  "Get off my chair."
 
"Talk to me," he demands, staying put.
 
"It's nothing.  If he really meant to do anything, he could have done 
it when he took those pictures."
 
She shifts her weight and rubs her neck and, honestly, he's seen her 
more flustered over an unfavourable editorial.  Which isn't to say 
she isn't flustered.  
 
"Don't worry about it."  She says it like she means it.  It's nature 
to believe her when she says things like that.
 
"Is he...?"  He nods at her shadow on the other side of the doorway, 
discreet and alert.
 
"Oh.  Yeah, you can't come over anymore, I'm under armed guard."
 
"Are you sure it's safe for you to stay at home?"
 
Her mouth shapes a laugh but there's no sound.  "What do you 
suggest?  A safe house?"
 
"If that's what it takes!"
 
He doesn't realise until he looks down that he's off his feet.  
Doesn't realise until he catches the stares from curious staffers 
outside that he's yelling.  The tall man is among those whose 
attention he's attracted.
 
There's a nudge at his elbow and her hand is there.  She's looking at 
him through a blend of iron and mist.  She inclines her head towards 
the man outside.
 
"He knows what he's doing."
 
He stands, aimless.  She squeezes past and gently moves him aside, 
putting the desk between them.  Tapping the fishbowl, she gropes for 
her glasses before realising they're hanging around her neck.  Then 
she remembers he's there.
 
"Toby?  I'm way behind here.  I was talking to Ron all morning."  She 
glances up.  "And him."
 
"You must be, you know.  This must be a frightening thing to have 
happen."
 
Her face tightens just as it did after McGarry gave her that warning 
she won't discuss.  As if she's been caught out.
 
"I'm fine.  It's nothing."
 
He has nothing to say, really, and he doesn't think he's allowed to 
touch.
 
"Call me," he says.  "If, whatever."
 
She's pretending to read, smiles thinly without looking.
 
Backing out, past the attentive watcher, he relives everything that 
ever hurt and visualises with breath-sucking clarity how much worse 
things can get.  He slips away to concentrate on something that 
doesn't wear perfume and move the same way it did twenty years ago.
 
 
*
 
  
He gets drunk quicker when he drinks alone.  There's no one to stop 
him and no one to pace him, and his favourites don't taste the same 
with strangers' eyes upon him.  He'll never get used to being 
recognised, never.  
 
A bar.  Not the one hosting Josh, Donna and all the 
people trying to comfort Sam over his ridiculous fuck up 
with the tape and Kevin Kahn, because that bar's as 
homespun and wholesome as they are.  A seedier bar for 
him.  Not New York City seedy, but it'll do to drown out 
some of the cursed mellowing he's done with time.
 
He doesn't think CJ is with them.  She's self-conscious 
outside now, with Simon on her tail.  (Simon whom she's 
fighting in a way she does when she's frightened or 
flirting, or frightened to flirt.)  She's certainly not 
with him, and that's one of the reasons he's here.
 
The patrons are quiet, huddled and cowering.  Not many 
women, and they're not much to look at.  At least he can 
look at them sideways without worrying about sexual 
harassment suits.
 
Raises his glass in mock salute to the bartender, who 
dutifully refills it.  Wonders why it now takes Scotch to 
make him forget himself when bourbon always used to do 
the trick.  Decides that after this one he'll switch to 
bad red wine.  He always did like the cheap stuff, all 
the better to drown the sound of her voice in.
 
The hesitant entrance of a down-and-almost-out threatens 
to pique his interest.  Didn't think they permitted down-
and-outs around here, so close to the easy charm of the 
people he loves in spite of himself.  Enough to make him 
gag.  Lucky he has a strong stomach.
 
Because the people he surrounds himself with are too 
sweet too often.  Self-flagellation of a sort, 
associating with people so fundamentally good.
 
The unfortunate has picked him out as a likely touch.  
Giving out an odour that adds to the earthiness of the 
blend of liquor, smoke and unappealing perfume.  The 
person he was, is trying to find, would tell the man to 
fuck off.  The shell of him, who is trying to save the 
world and can afford it, signals for beer, and one for 
himself.
 
Flashes a dark, glimmering look that warns there won't be 
any more handouts.  He uses to the restroom, feels like 
giving it a cruder name.
 
Hits his head on the dusty mirror as he stares at his 
shoes.  It cracks from side to side.  He grins at his 
hardheadedness; studiously ignores his lightheadedness.
 
Hovers by the door casting his eyes around for a 
cigarette machine.  Zeroes in on one and tries to 
determine which brand is worst for his health.
 
The down-and-out looks on hungrily as Toby drops coins 
into the slot, reason enough to delay returning to his 
stool.  He stands unravelling plastic wrapping and 
noticing a feminine form alone in a booth around the 
corner from where he's been sitting.
 
He strolls across with a freshly-liberated cigarette 
between his index and middle fingers.
 
"Mind if I borrow a light?"
 
He's already picked up her box of matches and slid it 
open.  A little disappointed she's old-fashioned.  He 
hasn't lit a match in years.  Hasn't hit on a woman in a 
bar in years either.
 
Out of practice.  Can't tell if her smile is amused, 
mocking, dismissive.
 
"Plunge my life into darkness, why don't you," dryly.  An 
invitation.  Can almost detect a vague Irish lilt.  
 
He parks his ass next to her.  Takes a closer look.  She 
shifts along.
 
Hair dyed three colours red, underwritten by a dark chestnut which he 
assumes is natural.  Not young, not even by him, he notes with 
puzzlement that he should be vaguely attracted to a woman of his own 
age.
 
He puffs like an ill-tempered chimney while trying to 
think of something to say that's seductive but not a 
lie.  He's a little uneasy that she's not embarrassed to 
stare.
 
"You're not a smoker."
 
He frowns into his beer, scrutiny is one of the things he 
came here to get away from.
 
"You were back in the day when you were a poor boy, gave 
it up when you started going up in the world, now enjoy 
the occasional cigar."
 
His frown turns into a glare and he begins to suspect 
she's a journalist.
 
"'Scuse me if I'm talking bullshit," with a wave of her 
own smoke.  "I'm making this up as I go along.  It's a 
passtime.  Could do a bio of any guy here."
 
She flashes a grin that could be called intriguing at 
best and frustrating at worst.  Her lipstick is a 
fraction fuller than her lips.
 
He thinks possibly he could fall in love with her for one 
night.  Then he remembers, with some sort of regret, that 
he's proved himself incapable of falling in love for one night only, 
that each time he's surrendered to the kind of feelings 
he disdains, no amount of cold water and headache pills have 
succeeded in flushing them out of his system.  There are reasons he 
hasn't picked up women in bars in years.
 
Look at him now, staring at this woman and hearing another's voice.
 
He has been, it dawns bright, in this position before (usually 
spoiling for a fight or from the lack of one).  
 
He licks beer around the rim of the glass.  He and the could-be dream 
lovers of his lifetime have taken their turns as the runners and 
riders in the course of it all.  He forgets who started it, but he's 
taken more than his share of turns as the bird that flew.  
 
He's done himself a repeated disservice, seeking to immerse himself 
in the next thing before he has time to think.  It hasn't just been 
women - he made a failed career out of doing the same with wannabe 
lawmakers until one of the wannabes came to be.  He supposes his 
significant others gave themselves time to adjust to being formers 
(never enough time for his liking) and that is why they are better at 
drawing lines than he is.
 
But there is still - he knows, and she knows, because she came to him 
at Christmas and she kept coming back - something between the lines.
 
The woman across the table is squinting at him askew.  She's probably 
drunk as much as he has and she weighs less.  
 
This latest cycle didn't have a name but he'd to think it's spoilt 
for the lack of the fight it deserves.
 
He leaves on the table enough money for another drink.
 
 
*
 
 
So he's drunk and on her doorstep, as if they've never been *there* 
before.  There was never a Secret Service agent eyeing him 
impassively before.  A formidable lady from the look, he can't resist 
asking where Simon is tonight.
 
"Shut up, idiot."
 
He isn't sure where the agent's presence or his irritates CJ more, 
but she doesn't speak as she drags him inside by the scruff of the 
neck.
 
"You stink."
 
The kind of bars he likes will do that to a person.  His eyes glaze 
over, thinking - he knows it'll take some time to form the words for 
whatever it is he wants to say.
 
"You're not going to throw up, are you?"
 
"Do I look like Josh?"
 
"Maybe someday, if you work very hard."
 
She manoueveres him onto the couch, none too gently.  It reminds him 
of passion.  If he lets his vision blur just so, this could be the 
room where they first read poetry.
 
"I'm going to call you a cab."
 
"I just got here."
 
"I told you not to come."
 
The only illumination comes from a side lamp, like she really is 
comfortable leaving him in the dark.  He remembers why he came.
 
"Because you don't want me here or because of Leo?"
 
"Because it's not a good time!  And I don't have to explain myself to 
you."  
 
"He's manipulating you, you know."  As if he hasn't (or tried to).
 
"See, I knew you were going if to say that if we were ever foolish 
enough to venture onto this topic."
 
He closes his eyes momentarily and sees stars, shining just for him.
 
She makes her point: "I'm not going to be a problem for this 
administration."
 
"If Leo really thought this was a problem, he'd have been a lot 
more blunt about it, let me tell you.  He just thinks life would be 
easier if no one had sex."
 
She opens her mouth and he leans to cover it with his, but she throws 
him off, wrinkling her nose.  She's never sexier than when she's too 
high and mighty to kiss him.  She smacks his hands away and the sting 
echoes in his stupour.
 
"He knew if he ordered you not to see me, you'd fight it.  He's 
playing to your insecurities about your position."
 
"I'm not insec-"  She surrenders the lie halfway in but not the 
struggle.  "I knew you were going to say that too."
 
"You want to know what I think?"
 
"Hardly ever."
 
"I think that when you say you knew I was going to say that, what you 
mean to say is, 'I know'.  Because you do."
 
"Toby, we didn't talk about what we were doing while we were doing 
it.  Do you really think this is something we should be wasting our 
breath on?"
 
"We should still be doing it."
 
She raises an eyebrow.  His patience begins to wane.  
 
She mutters something underneath her breath.  He doesn't quite catch 
it but she didn't say never again.  He takes her hand and tries to 
squeeze it out of her.
 
She doesn't repeat herself.  "Let's just agree to defy definition, 
shall we?"
 
He doesn't know what that means.
 
She smacks his hands, again, and calls for a cab.
 
 
*
 
 
It's too dark a night for the month of May, which has become a black 
tradition following the people he loves.  He repeats history lessons 
in his mind, trying to remember how much of the Wars of the Roses he 
took in before a new drama began to unfold.
 
He pauses for a minute, fingers spread across the door of her hotel 
room.  He can't hear anything.  He wouldn't expect to.  This isn't 
the kind of place they used to stay in.  He turns his hand and knocks 
his knuckles against the wood.  Nothing.  And again, harder.  He 
thinks he hears something that might be movement, and imagines her 
hovering on the other side of the door.
 
"CJ.  It's me."  He rocks on the balls of his feet and tries again.  
"Open up before I create a disturbance."
 
Voice through a wall.  "Oh, Toby.  Not tonight."
 
"You know how disturbing I can be.  Be all over the papers in the 
morning."
 
He knows she sighs, pictures the resignation in her posture when her 
hand pauses on the doorknob.  The lock clicks and she draws him 
inside.  
 
"You know," she says.  "You used to be the thing I associated with 
New York."
 
Her hair carelessly secured with a clasp, sticking out in haphazard 
clumps, apart from the strands falling down.  She's buried beneath a 
robe, redder than her eyes, far too thick for May.  The black Vera 
Wang lies puddled in the middle of the floor.  She kicks it into the 
corner on her way to the bed.  She sits down.
 
"I was just going to bed," she tells him.  He's not foolish enough to 
mistake it for flirtation.
 
"Everybody's worried about you."
 
"I'm fine."
 
If that were true, she'd put up a fight when he sits beside her and 
leans his shoulder against her own.  He wipes his finger across the 
bedclothes behind her back and examines it as if he expects to find 
dust.
 
"They seemed to think you might talk to me.  I figured judging by 
past practice that was unlikely, but nevertheless."
 
She shakes her head, the near violence a relief in the face of her 
passivity.
 
"*Not* tonight, Toby."
 
He takes her hand.  She squeezes back.
 
She wonders, "Do you think it'll make the front page?  Under the fold 
maybe?"
 
What can he say to that?
 
Her mind wanders on, like his fingertips across her palm.
 
"Is everyone okay?  Have you spoken to Josh?"
 
"They're fine."  As usual, he's unsure how much to say.  "We're all 
praising God it wasn't you."
 
She turns her head into his shoulder and begins to shake.  "He 
shouldn't have been here.  Nothing was going to happen to me."
 
He slides his arms around her back.  The robe's beginning to slip.
 
"I want to see him."
 
"Oh.  Oh, I don't think that's-"
 
"Not Simon.  The guy.  My stalker.  I want to see him and I want to 
know the fuck the bastard thought he was doing."
 
"Okay, I don't think that's a good idea either."
 
"He was watching me everywhere.  It's time he had to look me in the 
eye."
 
"CJ."
 
Apparently she's not quite cried out after all.  He's ashamed of the 
fact that he's so full of relief on a night like this.  He'd a 
million times rather feel her heartbreak in his arms than live with 
the threat of harm hanging over her.
 
"He liked me," she says, her face broken up in pieces.
 
He plants a kiss on her hair; she doesn't notice.  "Everybody likes 
you.  You're an idiot to miss it."
 
Laughing through her tears, "That's not true.  Your sister hates me."
 
"Ruthie?  Only until she met Andi."
 
Voice as light as his head's become.  His hands up and down and all 
over her back and suddenly he can't keep at bay the nightmares he's 
been refusing to have ever since Josh came to his office and asked if 
she was all right.
 
"CJ, I'm sorry."  It's easier to say when he's done nothing wrong.
 
She chokes out, "I kissed him," and he wonders when he would have 
heard if this hadn't happened.
 
His fingers press harder against the bare skin at her shoulders.  She 
leans closer in response and looks at him.  Something like nerves 
glistens next to the grief and tears in her eyes.  He slides his hand 
into her hair.
 
He demands, "Kiss me."
 
"Wh-"  She stiffens in his arms.  "He's dead."
 
"I know.  We're not.  Kiss me."
 
And she does.  And she breaks away, and her face freezes.  Then she 
does it again, and she doesn't stop.
 
 
*
 
 
Late nights at the office mean Chinese food upon Chinese food, and 
it's straining the buttons on his shirt.  Even the smell goes to his 
gut.  But it's Andi's favourite and he can tell by the flint on the 
phoneline when she calls that there's going to be a struggle of some 
kind and he can do without one over chicken and rice.  Pushing peas 
around the plate gives him something to do with his hands.
 
Sitting by the window, slightly ajar.  The night air breathes them 
life.  She stares at him, a caged animal.  Coloured lighting through 
paper lanterns casts a flush across her face.  They ate here once 
before, the first time she won an election, and she looked much the 
same.
 
"How's CJ?" she asks, because CJ's smalltalk between them.  "After 
that crazy guy, and her agent.  That must have been terrible."
 
"She's fine."  What can he say?  Anything but the truth.  "She was 
shaken up."  Anything but how much.  "But she-  At least we know 
she's safe now."
 
"Sure," Andi nods.  "I'm glad."
 
There's a lull while she shovels food into her mouth like it's going 
out of style and he tries to reign in his fascination.  A grain of 
rice sticks to her lip, and his appetite is more than it was a minute 
ago.
 
"So," he has to break the silence, "You were very, ah, insistent on 
the phone.  What was it you wanted?"
 
Mouth still stuffed, she gives him a look half-aching half-
reproachful: you have to ask?
 
She chews, she swallows, her throat is white.
 
"Did you read the article I sent?"
 
He groans inside.  She's been cutting out articles ever since they 
started trying (and failing) and when they stopped, she forgot 
to.  It's just like the way sometimes he and CJ forget not to be 
lovers, but more of a tragedy.  
 
He nods to save lying aloud.  He can't bear the stories of other 
people getting what he's missed.
 
"Medical technology's come on leaps and bounds these past couple of 
years."
 
"Andi, don't you think it's time-"
 
"I talked to the doctor, Toby."
 
He drops his useless fork and it tears the paper tablecloth.  
 
"She thinks we might be able to do it.  She said we shouldn't have 
given up the last time round."
 
"Well, maybe she's right," and he can't believe he's capable of 
speech just yet, "But we *did* give up."
 
"We can try again."
 
These words are all recycled from another context and another love of 
his life, who never ever wanted what he wanted, he and the woman 
sitting opposite.
 
Unease gives way to excitement, which gives way to fear and before he 
can quite believe what's within his reach, he realises with a thud 
that this will come down to a choice, again, between the things he 
wants most from the world.
 
"Are you serious?" he asks, for something to say.
 
"Have I ever thought this was funny?"
 
She takes another mouthful.  He watches her swallow.
 
"When you say try again..."
 
She squirms but she won't look away.  "I mean have a baby."  Babies 
need families.  He'd never let his do without.
 
"You're sure?  You can go through this again?"
 
Impatience is her virtue.  "Toby, this isn't an idea I had this 
morning."
 
He runs his tongue around his teeth although he's eaten nothing. 
 
He wonders how serious CJ was about defying definition, how 
complicated she's willing to let life get.  If she'll be so careless 
about labels if an ugly one is applied to her.  But he can't afford 
to let these things be a consideration.
 
He doesn't know when his fingers started tapping on the table.
 
"How would it work?"
 
 
*