Fraternity

Classification: Post-ep for ITSOTG. This is part of the series that includes "Written" and "Percussion,"
but it will stand alone without those two stories.
Summary: You're closer to Josh and Sam, and even Leo, in some incomprehensible
way, than to David, and regret has a stench all its own.

For Rose, who wanted to read it, for Ellen, who thought I should write it, for
jordan, who had to listen to me whine for the last two weeks about it, and for
Anna, who makes me try new things.

***

Your father used to wrap you both up, his boys, one on each side of him to guard
you against the chilly Brooklyn winds. He smelled of cigars, even on the Sabbath
when smoking was forbidden, because it was part of the fabric - warp and woof
and tobacco. In shul you'd be sheltered under the rough linen of his prayer
shawl. On the street he'd see his sons running up to him and he'd open his coat
to make a cocoon for you and David, his boys, his boys.

Then came the day you chanted your Torah portion and the congregation shouted
"Mazel tov!" and there was only room for one under your father's tallis because
you had your own.

You still have it. You finger its fringes, long gone from white to ivory to a
creamy beige. It's been years since you wore this, so many years since you stood
under the rickety chuppah with Andrea and promised not to let your marriage be
as unstable as the rented bower. You haven't had much use for it since.

The Reform tradition, which you've found more comfortable than the Orthodoxy of
your youth, doesn't include the tallis. It's not forbidden, just not required,
so it has spent a lot of time in a drawer with other relics of your youth. You
wouldn't leave for the hospital until you found it, and you aren't sure why.
Perhaps because you usually say a prayer when David's going up in the shuttle,
when he's sitting down on top of a huge bomb the day after promising to be home
in time for Leah's fiftieth birthday party. But four days ago it slipped your
mind, and your brother went up alone. And look what almost happened.

Sam sits two chairs over in the hospital waiting room, watching you with those
keen eyes. He looks at your fingers as they comb through the tangles in the
fringes, as they smooth over a spot where sweet red wine spilled. It's on the
left side, the same side as Josh's bullet wound, and the in your mind the sugary
fragrance of Mogen David mixes with the recent, acrid odors of gunpowder and
arterial blood.

It's been four days and a hundred hand washings, and you can still smell it.

"It's not your fault," Sam says for the millionth time and it's hard to resist
the urge to throw a magazine at him.

"If by 'not your fault' you mean 'you didn't pull the trigger,' then yeah, it's
not my fault." It comes out with a darker edge than normal, but what the hell is
normal about your lives right now?

"No, I mean about the shuttle."

"I don't work for NASA, Sam. It's not like I can make a speech and have the
situation go away."

"Okay. You should go see him, though." It's not like Sam to give up so easily,
but that's another symptom of his exhaustion. His is not the usual
no-sleep-for-forty-hours look, it's more like he's taken a long walk to the
gates of Hell and can't remember how to get back.

"David's fine," you tell him. "I talked to my sister this morning and she..."

"Sister?" Sam sits up straight. "Toby, you've got..."

"You should've been a reporter, I swear to God." You roll your eyes at him. "Of
the Mighty Clan Ziegler, there are four. Leah, Esther, me, and David, in that
order."

"Very Biblical."

"Yeah. Anyway, I phoned Leah last night and she'd gotten to talk to David for a
few minutes. I wanted to know how he was, she wanted to know how he was, he
wanted to know how I was. And we are all together."

Sam doesn't catch the reference. You sigh and look up at the clock. The waiting
room is empty except for the two of you. You're here way, way after visiting
hours because the President and his entourage got to go first and it's the only
way you can sneak in to see Josh. "What's taking so long?"

"The President and First Lady wanted to talk to him, then Leo's supposed to take
Donna home."

"Good luck to Leo. He's gonna have to pry her out of there with a crowbar."

"A big crowbar," Sam agrees as he leans his head against the wall and stretches
his long arms. "Mandy ever call?"

"Nope. Margaret said she faxed her letter of resignation the night of the
shooting. Rumor has it she just got in her car and drove back to New York."

He's full of righteous indignation. "She never even asked about him, Toby."

"She's a bitch, Sam. And now she's a bitch in some other zip code and she's no
longer our problem."

"Well, damn. I mean, because we don't have enough problems to keep ourselves
busy these days."

"Ah, sarcasm. You are learning, Grasshopper."

"Shut up." Sam curls up into himself and his breathing deepens a little. David
could always do that, grab a catnap in the most unlikely places. He'd keel over
in the car like a defective Weeble and his head would land in your lap or
Esther's. David's hair was black, like Sam's, with that same resistance to
order.

You curse the mercilessly slow advance of the second hand until one of the
Secret Service guys comes in. "We're ready for you, Mr. Ziegler."

"Thanks. Look, don't wake Sam up - but when he does wake up, send him down." The
agent agrees at once. Power for the powerless, you think as you brace yourself
for what you're about to encounter.

You haven't seen him since the first night and to your eyes, he doesn't look
significantly better. His skin is clammy, with a yellowish tinge you hope is a
reflection of the fluorescent lights. Someone's shaved him and combed his hair,
but already there's stubble on his lip and sweat-soaked curls are hugging his
neck.

What bothers you most is how inanimate he is. The Josh you know is pure energy,
a barely-contained form of nature, an element all his own. You've seen him
twisting in his sleep on Air Force One; even slumber's powerful grip is not
enough to hold him still. It's wrong for him to lie so quietly.

It's wrong that you ignored the Secret Service and ordered the canopy down. You
didn't pull the trigger, but you gave them a clean shot.

You didn't break David's arm when he was four, but you didn't stop him from
climbing that damn tree, either.

You sit down in one of the two chairs. It's still warm from Donna's vigil. You
put your palm on Josh's forehead, which is cool and slightly damp. "Josh, it's
me," you whisper, not knowing if you should wish for him to sleep through your
visit or for him to wake up and stop the dangerous pounding of your
guilt-infused blood.

Josh mumbles something unintelligible but his eyes don't open. You stay at his
side, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The tallis is on your lap
and you hold on to it as you try to remember the appropriate prayers.

You watch him in his uneasy sleep for nearly an hour, almost dozing off as you
breathe in time with him, as your heart slows down to his drugged pulse rate. A
contraption off to the side of the bed catches your eye. It's a sort of box
connected to a tube and it is counting down time, twenty-something minutes, but
you can't read it clearly from where you're sitting. When you flick your gaze
back to Josh he's stirring at last, moaning softly.

"Josh?"

His eyes are black, the pupils vast. "Hey...Toby..."

"I know you were expecting Donna. I'm probably a bit of a shock."

"Yeah." He struggles toward alertness. "What happened to her?"

You find yourself using the same hushed tones as Josh. "She's fine," you murmur,
"just tired, and Leo took her home to get some sleep. C.J. drove your mom to the
hotel."

"She's been amazing...needs to rest..." He moans again, his eyes shutting hard
against whatever pain is tearing at him.

"Should I call the nurse?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "Gotta wait."

Now you realize what the box is - it's the morphine or whatever they're giving
him for the pain and it's on a timer. Damn, there's almost twenty minutes left.
You try to distract him. "Hey, were you awake when the President was here to see
you?"

"Yeah. He named...all the arteries..." Josh tries to smile but the pain is
overtaking him.

"We should bribe the doctors, get them to anesthetize him again. Maybe for a
week." You laugh and you see Josh trying to laugh but he puts his hands on his
chest in a spasm of pure agony. "I'm sorry. No jokes, Josh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He struggles to catch a good breath.

You want to help him, but he shakes his head when you try to adjust his pillow.
His hand clutches the sheets and his fingers are white. Did they give him blood?
It doesn't look as if he has enough in his body.

Finally Josh is able to breathe again, although it's shallow and fast as he
watches the countdown. "Your brother's shuttle landed, right?"

Your brother is in this bed, you think, and asleep in the waiting room, and in a
car being fatherly to a scared young woman. You're closer to Josh and Sam, and
even Leo, in some incomprehensible way, than to David, and regret has a stench
all its own. "He's fine, thanks for asking."

"Go see him. You never know...when..." Josh's words are interrupted by a short
coughing fit that leaves him in breathless tears.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." Panic. You can't do this. There's kleenex in a box on the
bedside table and you grab a handful, enough to mop up a coffee spill, and you
put it in his trembling hand but he's too debilitated even for this simple task.
Your own hands shake as you wipe away the tears and the sweat, and you know
you're going to lose it any second.

And he has twelve minutes to go before he can get any relief.

Every sarcastic remark you ever made to him, every cutting word, every dig,
comes back up into your memory like bile and you wish your brain could vomit
them out like food poisoning. Word poisoning. You stare down at Josh and you
must look guilty as hell because he gives you a wan smile.

"Toby, it's okay."

Your head feels like it's going to fall off when you nod at him. You put your
hand over his and just rest it there, like you did for David when the doctors
had just set his arm and he needed your touch. "Sam's coming in any minute."

"He's all right?"

"Yeah, he's all right. He saved C.J., did anyone tell you that? He pushed her
down and out of the way."

"Good. That's...good."

But no one saved Josh. He was just far enough behind, back by the gates, out of
the way of security and in the way of maniacs who were just as happy to take out
a Jew as a black man. Unthinkable, yet it's all you can think about.

Sam knocks on his way into the room. "Hey, you're awake," he says to Josh. He
looks marginally better than he had in the waiting room and you envy him his
nap.

"Can't sleep. Toby's cracking jokes."

"He's a maniac, Josh." Sam pulls up the other chair and sits on the opposite
side of the bed. The pair of you look like parents hovering over a sick child.

Sam's tousled comeliness is incongruous in this place and you almost resent him
until you look, really look, into his eyes and see not the azure but the
anguish. He's peering down at Josh as if trying to read fine print without his
glasses. "You need something?"

"He has to wait until it's time for the next...thing." You don't know what to
call a self-administered injection of narcotics, so you settle for the
unofficial code word.

Sam blinks a couple of times then nods as he understands what you're talking
about. He scoots closer to the bed. Josh gives him a weak smile, a ghostly
parody of the mocking Lyman grin. "Don't look at me...like that."

"Like what?" Sam opens his eyes innocently but it only calls attention to the
pooling tears.

"Like that." Josh swallows and presses his lips together in a tight seal against
whatever noise he wants to make. A tear falls from Sam's eye to Josh's forehead,
a baptism, and Sam smooths it away with his thumb. So tender, such a good man,
such a good brother is Sam.

There's no small talk as Josh struggles to hold the pain at bay. It's almost
unbearable to watch him burying his cheek in the sweat-dampened pillow. "How
long?" he asks.

"Three minutes, Josh. You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine." You sound so
inane, a man whose words have gotten him through everything but this. You're on
the side without the IV lines so you clasp his hand in yours like a Roman
centurion. His grip is feeble. You tighten your own fingers around his wrist and
hold on because he cannot.

Sam stands up, slides his hand under Josh's head, and watches the seconds tick
past. "Almost there. Just breathe, Josh."

"Sam, I'm not in labor," Josh grouses, with a flicker of a real smile this time.
He scrabbles around on the bed for the button, watching as the numbers go to two
digits, then one. He pushes the button and winces. "Ahh, God, it burns..."

His breathing evens out and his face relaxes. You expel a long, shuddering
breath and hear that Sam is doing the same. "Are you okay?" you ask as his
fingers release your wrist.

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that." His voice is soft now, the words not punctuated by
gasps. "It's actually better tonight. Last night was kinda rough."

You and Sam exchange a quick glance. Rougher than this? And Donna's been here
through it all. It had literally taken the President's order to get her to leave
Josh's side. God bless her, she's stronger than the two of you put together.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, his hand stroking the wet hair at Josh's nape. He
helps you turn the pillow over to the dry, cool side and Josh settles back in
with a grateful sigh.

"Thanks." His eyes are clearer now but the lids are heavy. "It puts me to sleep.
Sorry."

"That's okay, we're good," you assure him. "We want to talk about you behind
your back, anyway."

Josh's attempt at a smirk is a failure. He gives you a drowsy boy's smile.
"Great...I must be doing better..."

You and Sam watch him close his eyes and it's so different from that night, when
you were the one cradling his head and death, not sleep, was beckoning.

Sam carefully moves his hand and sits back down, looking over your shoulder at
the guards out in the hall. "There's somebody out there, Toby."

"The hell?" You get up and when you turn around you see David's concerned,
haggard profile in the window. "It's my brother."

"Really?" Sam Seaborn, one of the most powerful men in the nation, twists around
in his chair to gawk at an astronaut. You have to hide your smile. "He doesn't
look much like you."

"He has all his hair, rat bastard," you grumble, but you have always thought
that David is a handsome man and for some absurd reason you're as proud of that
as you are of his accomplishments. "I'm gonna..."

"Yeah." Sam's attention is refocused on Josh, so you're safe to get up and see
your brother.

He spots you through the window and gives you a grin. You go into the hallway
and the two of you shake hands, almost like strangers. "David, what are you
doing here?"

"I made Esther track you down."

"No, I mean why aren't you at NASA being debriefed or decaffeinated or whatever
they do when you come home from one of these?"

David laughs. "Ever since the news came on that night I've been so obnoxious
that they released me early."

"Ah. The Ziegler Method."

"Exactly." David looks at you, his expression neutral to mask his concern.
"How're you holding up, Toby?"

"I've been better." It's a non-answer, one of many you've given him in your
adult years as the fraternal thread frayed to its last strand. "I wasn't hurt,
David. You knew that from the news, and from talking to the girls. You didn't
need to come all the way out here."

"Well, you didn't need to come out to NASA but Leah said you had a ticket all
ready before...this happened." He gives you his lopsided grin. "Why don't I buy
you a drink, and we'll catch up?"

You remember what the President said, and Sam. See your brother. Josh's implied
warning. Before it's too late.

"I'm gonna make sure Sam's ready to stay the night, then I'll come along. Hang
on." When you get back inside the ICU you find that Sam's already asleep, his
head pillowed on his arms, inches from Josh's shoulder. Sam shivers a little in
the overchilled air. You take off your jacket and put it over him, patting his
back softly.

Then you see your tallis lying at the side of the bed. Josh will know what this
means. He'll understand that it's a blessing you can't say aloud because you're
a man of words but not that kind of words. Carefully, reverently, you thread one
end through the space below Josh's neck so that the folds lie across both
shoulders. The words of the Shema come out of your mouth, softly, and you smooth
down his hair before you leave the room.

David's eyes are soft as he pulls you into a bear hug. He smells like wool and
airplane food and the breeze of an unseasonably cool evening.

"You're a good brother, Toby," he says, and you realize what he must have
suffered when the first vague reports of a shooting came in. "A very good
brother. I just wanted you to know that."

You cast a glance back at the ICU, where Sam and Josh are both asleep. Safe.
Protected. Warm. It's what men do for their brothers. What David is offering to
you, now. You put an arm around his shoulders as you head for the door.

There will be drinks, and memories, and cigar smoke, and if that unseasonably
cool evening air touches you, then maybe your brother will wrap you up in his
coat.

***

END

Feedback is like poetry - [email protected].
Back to West Wing.

First Place - "Outstanding Characterization of Toby."
Thank you so much!