Analecta

by: N. Y. Smith

Disclaimer: Not Mine

Category: AU (very), Josh/Donna Romance, Josh POV, Angst,

Spoilers: Through Season Three

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: Contains references to 9/11/2001. Amy-free universe.

Denouement

"Sometimes she and the international friends she made could be found huddled in the kitchen. Through their exchange of recipes, they shared a bit of themselves and their respective cultures."

Carolyn Quick Tillery

At Freedom's Table⁽⁵⁾

"Tell me again why this is a good idea," my wife looked up from fastening a black abayah, while our four-year-old son tugged at the hem. My mother held our pixie sleeping in her arms while trying to keep our older daughter corralled.

"It keeps the family together and I still get to do my job?" I squeaked over the jet roar while wrangling our younger son in the airline seats the flight crew had bolted forward of the cargo in the belly of an Air Force C-141 . Our older son bolted but ever-faithful Agent Lurcael nabbed the little escapee before he ran too far. Handing his weapon to another agent, he swung my boy around in the empty space in the hold between the seats and the cargo until the toddler collapsed in giggles.

Albie Duncan regarded us over the rim of his glasses but said nothing as my mom handed off the children to Donna while donning her own long robe.

Amidst this mayhem, the Protocol Attache from the Embassy cleared his throat. "Remember, you are in Saudi Arabia, Mrs. Lyman. Whenever you leave the house you should be wearing an abayah and, at least, an hijab covering all of your hair." He held out a scarf.

"What about the niqab over my face?" Donna asked as she and my mother helped each other arrange their scarves.

"No," I replied.

"It would be a sign of respect," Duncan argued.

"It would be a sign of disrespect to my wife and my mother, Albie," I disagreed. "The abayah and hijab will be enough."

"Mr. Lyman," the attache hesitated when the plane lurched, "the area around Riyadh is extremely conservative and..."

I cut him off, "What else?"

He gaped like a fish.

"Excellent," I said sharply. "Let's go." I scooped up my older daughter and followed Agent Lurcael down the ladder to the tarmac, then turned and helped Donna, who carried the pixie, and my mother, who herded the boys, down the steep steps. The embassy cars sat running about thirty feet across the pavement. I looked over to speak to her as we walked, but she had fallen behind me, several steps back. I paused for her to catch up. She shook her head but I turned around and walked back to her and whispered, "Full and equal partners, Donna. It's a promise we made before God and one I intend to keep from now on."

In an instant, the weariness vanished from her face. The uncertainty that had clouded her clear blue eyes lifted like fog in sunlight. Her long-unseen smile, at once both shy and bold, lifted her countenance and she joined me, walking side by side to the cars, my partner and my equal.

We never saw the photographer, but the picture of our not-so-little family, was picked up by Reuters and appeared in worldwide newspapers the next day-September 11, 2006. At first we lived in the Embassy, which Donna said was like living in a dormitory, but after a week we moved to a comfortable home near the Embassy. Celebrating the Shabbat meal on Friday evenings was, in the beginning, pretty scary because we were, in essence, breaking the Saudi law against the public practice of any religion other than Islam. Blessedly, the mutawah left us alone.

For the first few days of the peace conferences I endured the Arab equivalent of "hen-pecked husband" jokes but, within a week, the representative from Turkey had summoned his family and as the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into months, more and more representatives' families joined them. Donna had developed a serious case of cabin fever within the first two weeks so I wasn't surprised when she asked after the arrival of the Turkish representative's family, "Do you think we could invite them for dinner?"

Albie nearly had a heart attack when we informed him over a late supper. "Do you know what an adder's nest you could stir up? There's rules, boy, and if you..."

"Albie," I sliced through his argument, "my lovely wife, in addition to being the mother of four pre-school children and the wife of the Deputy Chief of Staff and a Senior Advisor to the Senior Staff, is the undisputed Queen of Research." She grinned at that. "I would not be surprised if she already has both the wife of the Ambassador and the Embassy Protocol Attache on speed dial and has befriended a sympathetic senior member of the mutawah." Her blush confirmed my suspicion. "We'll be fine."

Duncan looked only moderately relieved but he looked pleasantly shocked by the end of the actual dinner when the Turkish representative invited us to his home the next week. By the end of Ramadan, the families of more than half of the representatives had joined them.

Leo sounded weaker with each daily phone call, "Hoynes is losing ground, Josh," he rasped, "Announcement of a treaty sure could go a long way towards making it up in the few days before the election."

"I know, Leo," I swallowed hard. "You sent me over here to make this happen and I can't even..."

"Just do it right, Josh," he interrupted, "no matter how long it takes." Static popped across the line. "How's everybody? The kids?"

I smiled at his lighter tone. "Growing so fast I'm not sure you'd recognize them."

"That's what kids do. How about your ladies?" "Ladies" was his collective name for Donna and my Mom.

"They have become quite the social doyennes. The wives of the representatives have organized play dates, shopping trips, moms' day out, dinner parties-Sunday night we're fixing cabrito for the Saudi delegate who happens to be a grand-nephew of the king."

"What in the hell is cabrito?"

"Barbecued goat," I explained. "Hoynes sent his recipe."

"Can they eat goat?"

"We're substituting lamb, just to be sure."

"You do that," he warned. "How's it going, with you and Donna, I mean?"

"Good, Leo. For the first time, in a long time, it feels like we're really together."

"You two make a good team," he blurted.

I chuffed. "It's a shame I had to come half-way around the world to make it right."

"Well, don't screw it up."

"Donna and me or the treaty?"

"Both," he replied gruffly and hung up.

The cabrito went over well, the Sheikh was impressed. The evening had been pleasant and, while our children played together, we talked of family, school, home-everything but the peace talks.

As his family was leaving he turned and shook my hand, "I was wondering, Mr. Lyman," his English bore traces of Oxford, "if you would join me in my family's private mosque for mid-morning prayer tomorrow?"

"But, I'm Jewish," I stammered.

"Do we not pray to the same God?" His expression was earnest, open.

"Yes, we do," I replied after a long moment's thought.

"We look forward to seeing you, then."

I nodded and, the next morning-Election Day in the United States-- I stood, praying, beside members of the Saudi household. When the time ended, as I stuffed my grandfather's yarmulke in my pocket and folded his tallith before slipping it into my backpack, the Saudi delegate turned to me and said, "These negotiations have taken long enough, don't you think?"

I nodded, dumbstruck, and followed him into the conference room.

Leo was too ill to make the final trip to Riyadh so I joined his best friend on that fateful journey. It was not lost on me that, as the lead White House official on the negotiating team, my status as a Jew had never been more important. I was Joshua (who succeeded Moses), crossing over into Canaan. Shaking hands with my counterpart from the Saudi delegation, I breathed the word I'd prayed to use, "Salaam, my friend."

He smiled and responded, "Shalom."

When I called Leo to tell him it was over, that the terrorism was over, he sighed, "Thank God." Breathlessly he paused before continuing. "You did it."

"You did it, Leo," my protest beamed across a secure satellite uplink.

"Your father, your grandfather would be proud of the legacy of peace you've given your children, Josh."

I tried to protest but the words caught in my throat.

"I'm proud of you, too, you know." Static popped across the line, but his voice was stronger than it had been since... "No man could have asked for a better son, Joshua." He hurried as the signal faded. "I'll see you later."

"Leo!" I cried out, but he was gone. I stared at the mute phone, tears coursing across the creases the war had imprinted on my face.

"Later," I promised, knowing that the next time I saw him he would not be suffering anymore.

With his beloved Mallory by his side, he left us that night. Somewhere over Europe, Ireland I was to later learn, my phone rang. I hesitated before taking the phone from Donna's quaking hand, but as soon as I heard Sam's quavering voice, I knew. Vainly Donna and I tried to comfort each other before settling for simple "I love yous." I paused before the door to the Presidential salon, asking myself just how you tell someone his closest friend and confidant was gone. As I stepped through the door I knew there was little else to say. "Sir, he's gone."

The President looked up, disbelief quickly replaced by relief then grief. His thick glasses made him look like a mole and failed to hide the tears welling in his eyes. "When?"

I perched on the edge of the chair next to his. "Just a few minutes ago, sir."

He fidgeted idly with the report he'd been reading. "Mallory was with him?"

I nodded. "And Jordan."

His shoulders slumped, his head drooped and his voice thinned. "I should call Abbey." He reached for the phone. "Oh, Josh?" he called and I poked my head back in the room. "Why must each victory come with such terrible loss?"

Chapters - Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

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