Characters belong Aaron Sorkin genius. Story belong me, please ask
before archiving.
The idea for this one just occurred to me, so I wrote it in one sitting
as a wild 'what if' story.
Written and posted 8th April 2001. Sort of vague spoilers for season
two, which I haven't yet seen. Thanks for assistance, Heidi, Lynn,
Stephanie and Erin.
In Vino Veritas.
by Michelle Hiley.
cat@hiley.demon.co.uk
Josh said it to me himself once. I had an Irish Bostonian background. A
drinking problem back then wasn't a drinking problem.
It was of course. It lead me into the worst betrayal of my life. I wish
I could tell you it was love, but truth was, it was a bottle of single
malt whisky, and the fact her husband was away on business.
I didn't plan it. I'd gone round there because he'd called me, and asked
me to check up on them. Back in the 1960s, we tended to be more
protective of women. Guys didn't think a woman could manage on her own,
especially not a young woman with a small child.
So I'd called in, with the best of intentions, to see if she needed any
lightbulbs changing or chores doing. She'd been grateful to see someone,
stuck in the house all alone with a kid, and asked me to stay for
dinner. Why not? I was just being friendly. Really - I was. I had no
idea what would happen. I don't think she realised either - she was just
lonely. He needed to work away a lot back then, for a week or two at a
time. It was tough on her. She wanted an adult to talk to, something
more than just the child's talk she got.
Later, with her daughter tucked in bed sleeping, the two of us had sat
in the main room, watching TV and sharing a drink. Laughing. I still
remember the show, one of the old Lucys. They still run it sometimes. I
can't ever watch it. It brings back the taste of the whisky in my mouth,
and her sitting by me, so pretty in that pink and white dress. My
friend's young wife. Giggling, at the show, at the amount of whisky we'd
shared.
Afterwards, we stared at one another for a few minutes, before she got
up and started pulling her clothes on. I didn't stop her, didn't say
anything. I reached for my own pants, got dressed, and left without
saying a word. I was very young. I know it's not much of an excuse...but
it's true. Neither of us meant to hurt anyone. We were just two kids,
who got drunk, and made a really dumb mistake.
We did everything we reasonably could to avoid one another after that.
Not easy, when her husband and I were such friends, but I pleaded study
pressure, and he accepted it. I didn't see him for a few months, but
when I did, he was bursting with excitement. With news.
I did the math. Next time I saw her, my eyes were full of questions.
Questions she refused to answer. She looked away, made a point of not
being alone with me. I got the message. It didn't matter if it was mine
or not - she was married. This was polite society East Coast America, in
the 1960s, not the free love society of California. For everyone's sake,
the truth had to be kept hidden.
If it *was* the truth. He was only away for a week or so after all. She
probably never knew for sure. But she suspected. The way she avoided my
gaze....oh, she suspected all right.
And then one afternoon, I got a call from a new father, and a bunch of
us went out to celebrate, while Dad handed out the cigars. I paid a
dutiful hospital visit, and held the baby in my arms, making all the
right complimentary noises and I wondered. Christ yes, I wondered. It
killed me to have to say nothing. But the woman in the bed gathered her
baby back into her arms, and smiled at her delighted husband, and then
gave me a look. Oh yeah, I got the message. Stay away. It can make no
difference now.
So I did. It sounds callous, but there wasn't a lot I could do, except
go back to my own life. I did a tour in Vietnam. The drinking went on,
and I discovered the delights of a few other substances as well. Despite
this, my own personal and professional life went from strength to
strength. A wife, a baby daughter, a political career.
I kept in touch though. Occasional visits over the years, as the
children grew. Christmas cards. An awful funeral, while a group of us
stood in the rain, watching as a coffin was lowered into the grave, and
I patted her shoulder in brief sympathy, and asked my old friend if
there was anything I could do. He'd thanked me, and I'd watched him walk
away, hugging his child, his other arm around his wife. She'd glanced
back at me then. I'd turned, and found a bar, and drunk myself stupid.
But even then, I'd kept track of them, unwilling to lose that link,
strengthening it when I could.
And then finally, the White House. Sobriety. Everyone I care about
finally close by. And unexpectedly, my world comes crashing down. Jenny
leaves me, and the Press find out about my past. Well, some of it.
Jed stands by me though. Jed is a good friend. I've had lots of good
friends in the past, though I've often been a lousy friend back. I face
the Press, and read them a statement. I tell them that I deeply regret
the pain this has caused my family.
Even the ones who don't know they are.
They're good kids, the pair of them. They stood by me, one out of
daughterly love, and the other out of friendship, and like I told him,
it meant a lot to me. I was lucky there though - Mallory chose to ask
out Sam Seaborn. Thank God. If she'd chosen a little differently...if
she'd....I'd have had to say something. But Sam's OK. He's not her half
brother, which puts him ahead in my book for a start.
I wonder sometimes if Jed knows. I don't think so. After the shooting, I
was pretty upset, but everyone was, so it didn't matter. No, I don't
think anyone knows. And everything will be OK now. Donna's a good girl,
she'll take care of him.
And while I have a job, he has a job.
*****