Knowing

Cath


He wasn't a profound man. Profound men had wisdom to offer at times like these, insight that lifted them above the desperation of the people around them. He was merely one of the people, he mused, one of the few who shared in this knowing, this interminable waiting. He had nothing to offer his friends by way of explanation, of comfort, or of levity. He had only this knowledge, this knowledge that they shared. He moved his chin slightly in his hand, an elbow on his desk. It came down to this. He merely knew.

In the moments after he'd been told, after the President had looked at him with an expression he'd been unable to name until he'd felt the weight of a similar sadness on his own face, in those moments he'd wished he'd known sooner. He wished he could have asked as he did right then, shoes sinking in the thick pile of the carpet as he stood, if there was pain, or suffering, or something he could have done. He was his mother's son to imagine, even for that moment, that he could have altered this situation by some act, some deed, some word he hadn't said.

There'd been assurances, shaken heads, a smile of understanding, and a handshake he swore there were times he could still feel. And then it was done, the door closed behind him, and he'd found himself staring at the children's handprints that formed a flag on the outer office wall. He'd taken his own hand out of his pocket, meaning to hold it up against them, to see the difference in shape and size. But it didn't take comparison to know his hand was larger, and he'd pushed it back in his pocket as an ache built at the back of his throat and his eyes remained resolutely dry.

He closed his eyes now, sitting in his office, waiting in his overcoat with his elbow on his desk. He could still feel the bitter shadows of his anger. It had followed so swiftly on that initial feeling of loss that he'd stood in that outer office, bewildered. He hadn't possessed the ability to walk out of there, to go back to his desk, to ask Toby why he'd been the last to know. It had consumed him, that fury, then cooled. He remembered the taste of it, the feel of it, the sound of it, a howling. But it no longer consumed him, and he was thankful.

In its place lived a myriad of unconnected thoughts. They had less than two years. He should check on his mother. He'd begun a crossword that morning, or was it the day before? He had cleaning to pick up, three shirts, two suits. At least CJ had understood, grasped part of his frustration. Were there still mint lifesavers in the drawer of this desk? He'd sent the folders back down to Babish, finished the speech. Brown would want the figures for the entire year, not just to date. Toby liked Scotch better than beer, preferred it on every occasion. If he flew from National, he could be there in less than eight hours. New pencils. New pencils, new notepad, new start.

As he stood, he wished he had more wisdom. He wished he knew more than the sum of what he'd written on countless scattered legal pads, locked in a basement room. He wished he knew what schoolboy part of himself wouldn't believe in the finality of the night. What part of him insisted it could change when he knew, without wisdom, without insight, that it couldn't?

He stood, smoothed his tie, and walked through the hallways with purpose. He perhaps knew only this. He would stand shoulder to shoulder with the people he cared for. He would stare past the flashbulbs and ignore all the questions and come back here tonight, and start over again.

He would stand at his friend's doorway, and wait for him to pull on his coat. And in that moment there'd be a truce, an acknowledgment that neither of them had wanted it to work out this way. Who had known when had ceased to matter. It was enough, right now, that they among all others, knew.

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