Title:
When the Earth Moves
Author:
CGB
Web:
http://Appelsini.tripod.com
Email:
luberluber@yahoo.com.au
Archive:
Sure
Category:
CJ/T
Rating:
PG - 13
Spoilers:
Some ITSOTG and Mandatory Minimums
Disclaimer:
All characters within belong to Shroom-boy and WB.
Summary:
It's all over bar the shouting.
Thanks
again to Ms Jenny McD for her political nous.
*
"Give
me a place to stand and I will move the Earth" - Archimedes
*
It has
a beginning and an end, a first time and a last.
The first
time is hazed in his memory, surreal and intangible.
He
remembers arguing in a bar only his opponent eludes him. He
thinks
it might have been Sam. He remembers Sam saying something
about
mathematicians and military strategists and needing a place to
stand
in order to move the Earth. He argued,
convincingly, that
mathematicians
in military strategy were superfluous despite the
reputation
of Archimedes, and Sam had taken the opposition because
Sam
knew the rules - take a stance and stick to it. During such
arguments
CJ and Josh were philosophical, prone to giving over to the
other
side if the other side presented a better argument.
But
Josh was a freight train when he knew he was right. Maybe it was
Josh?
It was,
however, CJ who rescued them.
"To
campaign finance reform!" she said holding her glass high.
"Gays
in the military!" Sam added and they all drank again.
He was
singing "Old Man River". CJ applauded and Sam buried his
face in
his hands.
He
watched her drinking from a pint glass and he had that feeling that
came
over him like sleep, a feeling that he needed to touch a spot just
inside
the collar of her blouse.
He
thinks he might have told her this. He
remembers her standing
outside
the bar and laughing. They were alone and he can't remember
why,
whether they left the others inside or whether they were left.
He
kissed her. He claims later that all reason had flown from him after
the
third pint glass but he knows that he gave himself a choice. Act
now or
never act at all.
Later,
in her apartment, it was Archimedes' lever that came to mind as
he
unbuttoned her blouse and kissed that spot at the base of her neck.
The
lever that rests on the fulcrum that is needed to move the world.
He told
her how much he wanted her. That he's wanted her for years.
*
He
still wants her. Even when he knows she
is currently mid-flight to
Australia
for a series of speaking dates before she heads off to Europe
for
more of the same. Even when he has told
her otherwise.
But he
had to give her that. Something that
was final. An end.
He
kicks at leaves in his path outside his apartment. He goes to the bar
on the
corner everyday at the same time. He leaves when he's read the
Post
and downed his Scotch unless he manages to instigate an
argument
with the young female political science student working the
bar in
which case she'll pour him a second on the house just to shut
him up.
He was
sure he never saw a Washington autumn when they were in the
White
House. He used to joke that he hated the outdoors but it doesn't
seem so
funny anymore.
They
all left. Josh was in Wisconsin
insisting he was going to put the
first
woman president in the White House, Sam followed Josh
claiming
that Josh was nothing without him and everyone agreed he
was
probably right. Leo retired only to resurface in the DNC and CJ
waived
career making decisions and accepted invitations to speak on
women
and leadership around the world. The Bartlet's returned, as
everyone
knew they would, to New England.
They
left him behind to watch and wait.
There
are four flights of stairs to his apartment which he climbs rather
than
take the elevator because he tells himself he needs the exercise
but he
knows it's really because he hasn't been in a hurry for a long
time.
His
movements are steady in spite of the sound of the phone ringing
inside.
He unlocks the door at a leisurely pace before picking up the
phone.
"Yeah?"
"Hey
you," CJ's voice on the other end is tired, languid.
"Hey."
"You're
home."
"Have
I not been?"
"I
called you yesterday."
"I
have a machine."
"Toby,
I'm not talking to your machine."
"Then
it's fortunate you've caught me at home."
"I
guess so." A silence. "How have you been Toby?"
"Fine,"
he says too emphatically, "fine, I met with Danny yesterday.
He's
expecting to launch the thing next year." His voice is tinged with
annoyance.
He made it clear that he would frown on any publication
concerning
the Bartlet administration and then Danny had sought him
as an
advisor. He couldn't say no because he
knew she'd be angry.
"I
heard."
His
chest constricts a little as it sinks in that she contacted Danny
Concannon.
He thinks this is Washington to her now. The home of her
past
lives.
"How
are you CJ?"
"Fine.
I leave tomorrow for my world tour. It's a pity you're not
coming
along. I could use a support act."
He
smiles to himself.
"Maybe
some other time. How long are you gone for?"
"Three
months. I'll be back in time for Christmas."
"And
what will you do then?" He says the words without being able to
stop
himself.
"Well
you know what they say. Turn the US on its side and everything
loose
falls into California."
"You
came loose?"
"We
all did Toby.
*
The
morning after the first time he hides in his office, feeling eighteen
again.
He never liked being eighteen. He didn't like lacking
confidence,
making mistakes and being unsure of himself.
He
hated making mistakes so he stopped making them. Until now.
And he
thinks this one might be the one that makes up for lost time.
CJ
doesn't challenge his privacy. The Press Room is a hive of activity
all day
and he receives word that Leo is cooking up a big finale. In the
mean
time he is asked to entertain his ex-wife and he finds himself
keen
for the diversion.
Their
meeting is conducted in good spirits. He even takes the news of
her
date jovially.
But
avoiding CJ is impossible. Later the all find themselves in the
residence,
Bartlet pretending to be furious when their devotion secretly
tickles
him.
She
corners him on the way back to his office.
"I'm
sorry," she says.
"What
for?" he feigns a casualness he doesn't feel.
"Whatever
it is that stops you from being able to look at me."
He
stops and looks at her.
"Let's
talk in my office."
She
nods.
He's
always been grateful for his education but never more so than
when he
has to think on his feet. It' s not
what he's learned it's how
he's
learnt it. Finishing a paper at 3 am because he spends too much
time
hanging out with friends, smoking and drinking coffee, taught
him to
exercise his mental faculties under duress.
He's
never ungrateful for the skill; he's just amazed at how often he
uses
it.
"What
would you like to talk about Ms Creig?"
"How
about the Gross National Product Toby, I think it's something
we need
to discuss right now."
"I'm
pleased your sense of humour is still intact."
"I'm
nothing if not amused Toby."
He
leans a hand on his desk.
"CJ,
I didn't think…I didn't think you'd want to make a thing out of
this."
"I'm
not making a thing Toby."
His
eyes shoot up to the ceiling.
"Help
me out here, CJ, what is it that you want?"
"I
don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
A
random thought flies to the night before when she moaned softly
against
his ear. He smiles ruefully.
"Believe
me, CJ, you are not that easy to forget."
She
sighs a full body sigh. Her shoulders slump.
"Toby,
you can't just say things like that."
He
throws his hands into his pockets and studies her. He is wrong and
he
can't figure out how.
"CJ,
I think we were both a little drunk last night and… uhm…things
were
said and we did something we probably both regret. And…" he
thought
for a moment searching for the right thing to say. It was
baffling.
"I'm sorry?"
"No,
I'm sorry Toby, I just didn't want you to assume you could just
have
your evil way with me and forget about it." She says 'evil' with
mock
seriousness.
He
frowns and looks at the floor.
"You
think I would do that?"
"No,"
she says after consideration. "No."
They
stand uncomfortable for a while. He
tries not to think about he
fact
that he knows she has scars that go all the way up to her thigh. He
tries
not to think of her back arching as he follows the scars up her leg
with
his tongue.
There
was a time when they all indulged in idle speculation over who
might
end up in bed with whom by the end of the campaign. On the
road
they fell asleep on couches, at desks and in the wrong beds. They
were
tired and they were worried and as Josh moaned from time to
time,
they never had any fun.
So why
now? Why not then when it was easy?
"Well,
goodnight," she says, and she turns to go.
"CJ?"
"Yeah?"
She turns around.
"CJ,
I didn't forget any of it. I couldn't."
She
doesn't say anything. She places her fingers to her lips and lets
them
sit there, deep in thought
"I
know," she says eventually, and then she is gone.
*
Andrea
visits when she's in town.
"How's
my favourite retiree?" she asks too cheerfully.
"I'm
not retired and I expect your father would take issue with your
favouritism."
"He
always suspected I liked you more than him."
"What's
not to like?"
She
ignores him and makes herself at home on the couch, throwing off
her
shoes and finding the remote control for the television.
"Hoynes
is speaking at Georgetown tonight."
"Turn
it off."
"You
don't want to see it?"
He
frowns at the dust in the coffee maker while Andrea yells at him
from
the living room. He serves them coffee
from matching cups he
bought
for a dollar each after Andrea left with the crockery.
He
spies the television still defiantly showing Hoynes waving to the
crowd.
"Turn
it off."
Andrea
ignores him turning the remote over idly in her hand.
"You
don't want to miss this."
President
Hoynes, looks healthy and vital. And
happy. He thinks it is
sinful
for Hoynes to look that happy.
The
applause from the throng continues longer that it needs to. Hoynes
smiles
and waves and feigns modesty.
"Son
of a bitch surfed our wave all the way to the sand," Toby
grumbles.
Andrea turns to look at him.
"A
surfing metaphor, Toby. You really are a man of the people."
"Flattery
will get you nowhere Congresswoman."
Hoynes
starts speaking and Toby finds himself transfixed by his
hands.
He is a gesticulator. The kind of speaker whose hands feel the
need to
provide constant accompaniment. He notes that the White
House
PR department has reeled him in on the hand actions because he
compromises
by keeping one hand close to his body as if holding
himself
in.
He is
reminded of CJ who gripped the lectern for reinforcement when
speaking.
"Turn
if off," he says again.
Andrea
sighs.
"Whatever."
She aims the remote at the television and the image
disappears. "You know you really need to get back
out there."
"I've
parted company with politics Andrea."
"Never
happen."
"I
have worked tirelessly in the service of the American people and I
have
earned my retirement."
"Now
you're retired?"
He
throws her a pointed look. This is Andrea's second extended visit
since
the end of the administration. At first he thought her intention
had
been purely to taunt him with their failed marriage as this was the
feeling
that resulted from her visits, however he now considers her
agenda
more sinister.
She
feels sorry for him.
*
The
second time comes without warning and like the shots fired at
Rosslyn,
nothing is the same afterwards.
The
White House began to breathe again with the news of Josh's
recovery
and CJ made meaning out of chaos in the pressroom. She was
the
first one to find a voice. He'd been impressed
As
usual, it was a feeling he buried. He looked typically dour in her
company
and admonished her for attempting to carry out her duties
under
obvious emotional stress.
"What
were you thinking?" he demanded.
"Well
the President said if I was bleeding…"
"He
was joking, CJ." He tried to make
light of the situation, to attach
a
levity he didn't feel. She didn't respond.
She
drifted.
She
became the collapsing centre. The one that brought them together
under
the pretence of a stability she did not echo.
He
hadn't known it then. He thought she needed space and he kept his
distance.
And
then Ginger spoke up.
"Carol
said that CJ isn't sleeping."
He
looked up at his assistant busily cross checking his receipts.
"She
told you that?"
"Yes."
"Why
did she tell you that?"
"She
was worried."
"I don't doubt that, Ginger, by why
you?"
Ginger
places the receipts on his desk and looks thoughtful.
"I
guess she thought I'd tell you."
"Exactly.
Why me?"
"Because
Josh is in hospital and Sam is visiting Josh in hospital?"
"So
you're saying I was her last choice?"
"You
were her only choice."
He did
what he thought he should do. He did the right thing only he
wasn't
sure it wouldn't look completely wrong coming from him. He
approached
her.
"Carol
says you're not sleeping."
CJ's
was writing. Making notes on a large pad of unlined paper. She
looked
up when he spoke.
"She
told you that?"
"No
she told Ginger who told … It doesn't matter.
Are you having…
problems
of some kind?"
She
stared at him blankly for a moment and then looked down again at
her
writing.
"Toby,
the whole reach out and touch thing isn't your style."
He
rolled his eyes to the ceiling and threw up his hands.
"I
don't do one night stands either, CJ, what's your point?"
She
took off her glasses and placed them on her desk.
"Shut
the door," she said, and he did as he was asked.
She
clasped both hands in front of her on the desk.
"It's
true," she said, "I've had one or two sleepless nights since the
shooting.
I expect we all have. Carol picked up
some clothes for me
the
other morning because I had the misfortune to be here all night. It's
nothing
irregular. We've all done it. I'm fine. I'm just…" she looked
away at
a spot on the wall slightly to his left.
"I'm
fine," she repeated.
He
pushed his hands in his pockets and rocked back onto his heels.
"So…
did you sleep last night?"
She
looked at him expressionless for a few moments.
"No,"
she said finally.
"And
the night before?"
"Barely."
"CJ…" he paused. She was right. It
wasn't his style. His words felt
clumsy
and contrived. "CJ, is there anything I can do?"
Inside
its bowl, CJ's goldfish swam endless circles, oblivious to their
conversation.
Toby counted its circumnavigation while waiting for CJ
to
answer. Once, twice…
"Take
me home," she said eventually.
"OK,"
he answered.
Later
he noted that she slept soundly. Andrea had always said that sex
never
solved anything so he was surprised to learn, that in this
instance,
it solved everything.
*
Danny
shows him the book over lunch. Bartlet's face is enshrined on
the
cover but inside there are pictures of all of them.
Toby
frowns at yet another picture of him for public consumption that
makes
him look like a dour old English Professor.
Danny had a range
of
pictures of him to choose from and he was not smiling in any of
them.
"You
don't smile much," Danny says.
"I
smile all the time."
"Ok."
"You
don't believe me?"
"You're
not smiling now."
"I've
nothing to smile about now. "
"Smile
through the pain Toby, it's an art. 'Smile though your heart is
breaking,
smile even though its aching…'."
"Forget
I said anything."
"Ok."
Toby
places the book on the table. He's ordered the Thai salad because
Mrs
Landringham had achieved an office wide cholesterol watch by
the end
of the term. One of her many successes in the regulation of the
lifestyles
of the White House Staff.
Mrs
Landringham went back to New Hampshire. He swore he would
visit
her. He had a list of people he swore
he would visit. He made
Ginger
write one out a list of addresses for him. She raised an eyebrow
but she
added her own name to the list.
He
hadn't expected any of them, the pen, Charlie, the Press, Sam, to
insist
he look them up but he wasn't sure he had expected anything.
The
goodbyes he knew were never like that. They were never so final.
Danny
watches him shift spinach around his bowl with his fork.
"I
believe it's spinach Toby, but I can ask the waiter if you want me
to."
"I
went to Thailand. No one tried to serve me spinach."
Danny
ignores the remark.
"So,
have you got plans?"
He
dreams about sleeping in and taking the time to read. He hasn't
read a
work of fiction in years. The trouble
with the dreams is they
never
seem like him.
"Andrea
wants me on her staff."
Danny
pretends to be shocked.
"You
mean she's actually going to pay you to give her advice? You'll
be an
icon to ex-husbands the world over."
"You
have a better idea?"
"You
could tour with me. Be my opening speaker."
"What
an enticing prospect."
"Just
like old times."
Old
times were the endless hotel rooms with late night takeaway.
Styrofoam
cups of coffee and loud arguments. Insults evolving into
art. Danny on the phone to his editor asking to
delay the piece another
day
because something important was about to break when the truth
was
Bartlet had kept him up all night lecturing him on the role of the
press
in the Presidential campaign. That Danny continued to extol
Bartlet's
achievements after these sessions mystified everyone.
CJ
yelling at them because the latest debate had taken place in her
room
and she needed to change clothes, Abbey feeling sorry for CJ
and
driving them out of her room because Abbey had the tone of a
Four
Star General and everyone did what she told them to.
He
would sit with his elbows resting on his knees and watch the polls
on the
morning talk shows. Josh would burst in
if they were doing
well
but would knock quietly if they slipped.
At the
end of the day he'd allow himself his one cigar and count the
days
until it would all be over.
*
CJ
calls before Christmas.
"Happy
Hanukah!"
"Hanukah's
over CJ."
"It's
the festive season."
"How
was your trip?"
"Great.
It was ninety-five degrees in Sydney and minus five in
London. Do you have any idea of the stress that
places on your
hypothalamus?"
Toby
takes his phone out onto the balcony. In the night view he can
see the
monument lit up like a burning spear.
He met Andrea below
the
monument last week and it had been scaffolded for renovations. He
was
late, stuck in traffic.
Traffic
passes on the road beneath him and he can hear tires screeching
to a
halt. A near miss. Washington, he muses, is full of tourists and no
one
knows where they are going.
"Travel
is nothing without extremes of weather. It gives you
something
to write on your postcards, which, I might add, were not
abundant
in my mailbox during your absence."
"You
wanted a postcard?"
"I
can live without postcards," he concedes.
"I
bought you a present."
He
smiles in spite of himself.
"You
shouldn't have."
"Oh
I know I shouldn't have. I did. When will you be in San
Francisco?"
His
breath catches in his throat.
"How
did you know I was going to San Francisco?"
"Danny…"
"Concannon?
You spoke to Concannon before you spoke to me?"
"I
spoke to Danny from London, Toby. He's
the political editor for
the
Post, he fact checks with me on occasion, and why the hell does it
matter
anyway?"
He
feels like an idiot. An overbearing, jealous idiot. He chides himself
for
being weak and, more importantly, for letting her see it.
"We'll
be there in March."
The
other end of the phone is silent. In his head he counts lights in the
sky and
tries to determine whether they are planes or helicopters. He
reaches
four before she responds.
"I
missed you, you know."
Two of
the lights are circling erratically and he expects they are
helicopters.
One set of lights is ascending. Someone is leaving.
Someone
is going home.
He
doesn't always say the right thing but he always writes it. He thinks
it
should have been him who sent the postcard.
"I
missed you too."
And
sometimes the words are there before he can stop them.
*
The
last time is after Bartlet announces he will not run for a second
term. He thinks they may have had weeks left in
the White House but
it may
have been months. Time flew by in the West Wing.
He had
become used to taking her home when she was tired, frustrated
or on
edge.
They
played at being a couple sometimes. They went to a movie, went
out to
dinner, read the papers together on Sunday morning and argued
about
towels on the floor in the bathroom.
They
played at being in love sometimes too.
He spent an afternoon
watching
her hands in the oval office that culminated in him later
taking
her hand and kissing her wrist. He
remembered that she said
nothing
but unsuccessfully tried to hide her face from him so he would
not see
her blush.
For his
birthday she bought him a copy of "Showboat" - the 1936
version
rather than the 1951 version because the woman in the
'classics'
video store told her it was the better remake.
He was
moved.
"I
didn't know you could get this version," he said and at the time it
had
been enough.
He
wondered whether it was practice he lacked. If he'd been given
more
time he would have perfected the art of relating. He'd been
married.
He could lay claim to experience there, but he was unused to
their
quietude. They were pieces that fell
together but did not fit.
They
took one step forward and one step back but never more than one
step.
It
wasn't what he was used to. He doubted she was used to it either.
That
night, they made love as usual. It was
slow and lazy. After their
earlier
frenzied couplings driven by an unanticipated and unequivocal
lust
they had advanced to a slow and languid pace, taking time to
savour
the moment.
He
indulges the memory. He lets himself
think about it too often. He
endows
it with an ethereal quality so that it glows against the dull
backdrop
of the final days in the White House.
Afterward
she had mentioned his family in New York, his mother who
called
regularly to berate him for neglecting her.
"You
should go home," she said, "your family misses you."
He was
tempted to chastise her tendency to lecture him on his
estrangement
from his family when her words sank in.
"You're
going to Napa," he said quietly.
"I
have family that misses me too."
"What
will you do in Napa?"
"Visit
my parents. Get some sleep. Eat
breakfast in bed. Have a life."
"I
give you a year."
"A
year?"
"One
year before you're backing the next Democrat out of California
touting
education reform."
"I
give you six months."
"To
back a Californian Democrat?"
"Before
you're back in politics. That's if you leave."
He
rolled onto his back to look at the ceiling. CJ moved from her
position
on her side to mimic him. They lay like
that for a while. He
watched
his hands, clasped on his chest, rise and fall.
"You
could come to Napa," she said quietly.
He
remained fixed on an unseen point on the ceiling weighing his
words
carefully.
"You
want me to come to Napa?"
"Why
not?"
He
rolled back onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.
"CJ,
do you want me to follow you to California?" He'd said it so
quietly
he barely heard it himself.
She
didn't move but she looked at him from the corners of her eyes.
"Maybe,"
she said weakly.
He
flopped onto his back again. He found
the bedclothes suddenly
stifling
and he shifted within them. He looked
at his suit neatly
hanging
against the bedroom door and wondered whether 1 am was
too
early to arrive at the White House for work.
The
truth was, it was never too early. It was just unnecessary now.
"Are
we going anywhere with this, CJ?" he said finally.
She
sighed and smiled nervously.
"I
don't know. I just… I thought it would be nice if you were there."
She
looked like she was going to say more but she didn't. Her eyes
were no
longer on him but on the far corner of the room. Her thumb
was
stroking the bed spread in rhythmic patterns as if she were
deriving
pleasure from the friction she created with the movement.
"CJ,
I think what we have here is a habit. And, as you probably are
aware,
one of the most effective means of breaking a habit is to change
the one's
environment." He paused in his speech. He didn't have proof
that
her offer was not genuine, but his instinct had always shouted
louder
than evidence. He thought, and when he looked back on it he
knew
this it had been risky to think so, that she wanted a way out.
And he
thought he had to offer her one.
"You
know I have work to do here CJ."
"Yeah."
At the
end of the lever the world tipped to one side sending him out
into
space.
*
The
habit proved easy to break. It was the last time.
Other
habits are not so easy. He lights a cigar and drinks his third
scotch. The flight has been delayed another
hour.
Hoynes
is on the television above the bar. He indulges a slight
paranoia
that tells him Hoynes is mocking him by following his
movements
around Washington.
The
Bartender groans at the sight of Hoynes and changes the channel.
The
glass is soon empty and he orders again.
There
is a clock next to the television that reminds passengers of just
how
late their flight is. For Toby it tells him he will arrive in
California
closer to 4 am than 3 am and he really needs to sleep on the
plane
when he knows he won't.
He
ponders drinking until he forgets why he came. He could stumble
out
into the grey morning, fling himself into the back of a cab and be
home
before sunrise, just in time to sleep the day away.
He
can't remember when he became scared, when he lost hold of his
orbit
and came loose. Whether it was the first time or the last.
His
momentum propels him forward and he gets on the plane. By 4
am he
has checked into his hotel room. He spends a long time in the
shower
feeling the water hammer against his head until it becomes
deafening.
In the
morning he is awakened by the sound of his own name.
"Toby?"
The
hotel linen feels crisp and clean against his cheek. His mouth is
dry and
his head feels heavy and sore.
"Toby?"
"CJ?"
He
rolls over because he is used to finding her beside him. He reaches
out to
find nothing more than empty space at his fingertips. He opens
his
eyes to stare at the vacancy beside him.
"Up
here."
She is
standing just inside the room. The Concierge is behind her and
she
waits for CJ to nod before leaving.
"I
was waiting downstairs. They told me you didn't answer your wake
up
call."
He
groans and lies back against the pillows.
"What
time is it?"
"11.30."
He
groans again.
"You
drank on the plane?"
"Delayed…delayed
for an hour. I drank in the flight lounge." He rubs
his
hand across his forehead. It doesn't help.
"And
on the plane," he adds as an afterthought.
"Toby
it's been almost a year and you decided to catch up over a
hangover?"
"I
thought you'd appreciate the irony," he says, his hand still on his
forehead
shielding his eyes from the light of the room.
She
sees the chair by the window and moves to sit down.
He
lifts his hands off his eyes to look at her. "CJ can you not sit by the
window?"