Chapter 31
Good Hours
(originally posted June 16, 2010)

Part 1

August 28, 2000

“I understand today is your anniversary?”

“Yes, sir.  It’s also my mother’s birthday.”

Helen Belden, standing just behind her daughter, blushed as President Bartlet smiled and wished her a happy birthday.  She and her husband, along with Dan, had been invited to the White House for the private ceremony about to take place in the Oval Office.

Peter put his hand on the small of her back, a touch that never failed to both thrill and soothe her at the same time.  She caught the gaze of Dr. Abigail Bartlet—who had already insisted that Helen call her Abbey—and smiled warmly, mother to mother.   The First Lady had her arm around her youngest daughter’s shoulders.  Helen wanted to do the same for Trixie but her little girl looked so grown up at this moment—so professional and self-assured in her crisp navy blue suit, her normally unruly curls coaxed smoothly back into a barrette at the nape of her neck, her solemn expression carefully concealing her characteristic sparkle—that she was afraid she might embarrass her.

And she knew the ceremony itself was already making Trixie feel self-conscious.

Charlie Young was standing on Zoey’s other side, holding his girlfriend’s hand.  Dan stood next to Trixie.  Helen could see his fingers twitching, longing to take his wife’s hand in his but clearly feeling the same need for restraint his mother-in-law did.  Special Agent Ron Butterfield, Press Secretary C.J. Cregg, and a White House staff photographer rounded out the small gathering.

After he had arranged the group in precise spots for photos, the photographer nodded to C.J., who nodded to Agent Butterfield to begin.

“Agent Mangan, in recognition of your courageous and selfless devotion to duty on the night of May 17, 2000 in Rosslyn, Virginia, I hereby bestow upon you the Distinguished Service Award from the United States Secret Service.”

Helen had to strain to hear her daughter’s humble murmur of thanks as she shook Agent Butterfield’s hand and accepted the black box with the gold pin inside.  They both turned to the photographer, momentarily frozen in a congratulatory handshake as he snapped off a few shots.

Butterfield stepped aside so the Bartlets could move in for some additional photos.  As President Bartlet shook Trixie’s hand he said earnestly, “Your actions were directly responsible for saving the life of my daughter and most certainly they were indirectly responsible for saving the lives of White House staff, Secret Service agents, and innocent civilians as well.

“The ancient Samurai had a code of honor placing a very high importance on repaying debts.  To carry an on was to be indebted to someone, whether it be as minor as reciprocating by buying them a cup of coffee when they treated you last time or as large as repaying a personal vendetta on their behalf.  But there was an even more serious debt, one they called gimu.  A gimu is an on of such great magnitude that you can never truly reciprocate, no matter how hard you try.  Beatrix, your actions in Rosslyn were heroic in anybody’s book but the fact that it was my daughter whose life you saved means that I will carry your gimu for the rest of my days.”

Helen couldn’t see Trixie’s face from where she was standing but she saw her shift her feet uncomfortably at the effusive praise.  Dan reached up and placed his hand at the small of her back, at once stilling her nervous movement.

Helen smiled at the familiar gesture.  A tickling at her ear that was her husband’s mustache was followed by his deep whisper, “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

As Helen reached over to squeeze his hand, she saw Trixie doing the same to her husband.

September 4, 2000

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help you unpack?”

India swept her gaze around the dorm room.  One half was mostly bare, save for an unmade bed, an empty dresser and desk, and her boxes.  The other half already looked homey and lived in.  A brightly colored quilt was folded neatly at the foot of the bed and on the other end, propped against the pillows, was a stuffed penguin with a knitted red cap and scarf.  Family photos were taped to the wall around a large poster of Prince.  Bottles and tubes of make-up in various sizes were scattered on the top of the dresser.  The shelf above the desk was already stacked with textbooks and a closed laptop sat just beneath them.

“No, that’s all right,” she said.  Seeing the look of disappointment her mother tried poorly to hide, she quickly added, “I probably won’t do much unpacking right now, just what I need.  I’m pretty tired.”

Bronwyn smiled.  “I understand.  I went away to college once upon a time, too, you know.  I didn’t want my mother around when I met my roommate, either.”

India threw her arms around her mother, still torn between the little girl needing her mother’s protection and the young woman who had grown up much too soon.  With her head buried against her mother’s neck, she whispered, “I’ll always want you around, Mom.”  Pulling away, she smiled and said, “And I really am kind of tired.”

“It is getting late,” Bronwyn agreed.  “I’d probably better hit the road.  I want to try to get home before it gets too dark and I start feeling sleepy.”

“You’ll call me to let me know you got home safe?”

“Now who’s being an overprotective worrywart?” her mother teased.

They both laughed and India promised, “I’ll call every day.”

“Don’t be silly,” her mother replied, waving a hand in forced nonchalance.  “Once a week will be fine.  Unless, of course, you want to call more often.”

“You know I do.  And I’ll be home to visit a lot.  Maybe not this weekend but next weekend for sure.”

They shared one last hug and then her mother left India to her unpacking.

India put a box on the bed and tore off the packing tape then hurried to the window.  She waited until she saw her mother come out to the street.  Bronwyn turned and looked up and India waved broadly, making her smile as bright as possible so her mother would be sure to see it five floors up.  She watched until she got into the car and drove away.

“You must be India.  I’m Kendra.”

Startled, India jumped and turned to greet her new roommate.

Kendra Robinson was about the same height as India but there any physical resemblance ended.  Her skin was the color of cocoa cream, smooth and even-toned without the freckles that were the bane of India’s existence.  She had shiny black hair that was cut just below her ears and exploded outward in a mass of tight, tiny corkscrew curls.  Her dark eyes were almost perfectly round and glowed with interest as she asked India a million questions without ever giving her a chance to answer.

And as she bubbled on about her big family and how glad she was to be out of her crowded house at last, told India what classes she was taking, made India promise to let her know if she was hogging the bathroom, and the way too cute boys who lived on the fourth floor almost right below them, India started to wonder if a mistake had been made.  Surely, this outgoing bundle of positive personality didn’t have anything in common with her?

“So, the cafeteria’s closed already.  Are you hungry?  Do you want to get a pizza?”

India shook her head.  “Oh, no, that’s all right.”

“You don’t like pizza?”

“Oh, I do.  I just kind of like … well, I like weird stuff on mine.”

Kendra giggled and dropped onto India’s unmade bed, digging into the open box and handing things to her roommate to put in the dresser.  “Don’t worry.  They have a two-for-one deal at this place down the block.  I certainly wouldn’t subject anyone to my anchovies, pineapple and banana peppers fetish.”

India turned to face Kendra, a bemused smile starting to slide across her face.

“I know.  Gross, huh?” Kendra replied, handing her a stack of shirts.

“No, that’s what I like on my pizza.”

“No way!  You’re not just saying that, are you?”

India shook her head emphatically.  “No!  You can call and ask my mother if you want.  She hates it!  She won’t even let me eat it at the same table as her.”

Kendra laughed as she reached for the phone.  “Sounds like my younger brother.”

It was an odd thing to bring two strangers together but before the pizza had arrived, India and Kendra were well on their way to becoming best friends.

September 10, 2000

“You really like it?” Diana asked.

“Yeah, it’s great.” Tad assured her.

“It’s not too … bohemian?” She took another look around the loft she had found in Tribeca.

“What makes it bohemian?  The fact that there are no doors?”

“There’s a door on the bathroom,” Diana pointed out, trying not to pout.  “And there’s a terrace.  We could put our bed by the window next to it and get the morning light.  Or we could put it in that little alcove by the bathroom and that would give us a little privacy.”

Tad stepped to her side and put his arms around her waist.  “I’m just kidding.  I really do like it.  It’s not far from my new office and that’s great, too.  Besides, we could get a cardboard box down in the Bowery and I’d be happy, as long as we’re together again.”

Diana frowned and said facetiously, “Well, I wouldn’t be happy in a cardboard box.  There probably wouldn’t be any place to plug in my hair dryer.”

“So where am I going to put my Chicago Bulls memorabilia?

Diana pulled away and began walking around the apartment, studying the exposed brick walls and tapping one finger on her chin as she carefully considered it.  Suddenly, she snapped her fingers.  “I forgot!  We get a small storage closet in the basement with our lease.  That’s the perfect spot!”

“Hey!” Tad yelped.

“You’re in Knicks country now, Tadster.  Deal with it.”

“The Knicks suck.”

“Tad!” Diana said in shock.  “And you a native New Yorker.”

“I’ve been converted to Jordanism.”

“But didn’t he retire a year or two ago?  And haven’t the Bulls had a couple of really lousy seasons since then?”

Tad smiled in bemusement at his girlfriend’s unexpected knowledge of professional basketball.  He shrugged.  “What can I say?  I’m loyal.  They’ll turn it around.”

Diana shook her head.  “This isn’t the cult of Michael Jordan you’ve been sucked into.  It’s the cult of Chicago sports fans who stick with their teams even when they suck ... like the Cubs.”

Tad’s jaw dropped.  “Is that any way to treat me on my birthday?”

“Let’s get this lease signed and I’ll give you a real birthday treat,” Diana purred in a voice she knew Tad would recognize and appreciate.

October 22, 2000

“Dr. Belden?”

Brian sat up on the couch in the doctor’s lounge with a weary sigh.  “Yeah?”

“A woman just came in with her son, approximately one year old.”

Brian stood, rubbed his bloodshot eyes and raked one hand through his hair.  “What’s the injury?”

“No injury, doctor,” the nurse replied with a smile.  “They asked to see you.”

She stepped aside and Honey and Matthew came into the lounge.  Honey held a cupcake with an unlit candle on it in one hand, stretching it out as far from her body as she could to keep it out of her son’s eager reach.

“Happy Birthday, darling,” she greeted warmly.

Brian’s fatigue vanished as he took the cupcake and placed it on the table, turning back to take his wife and son into his arms for a group hug.

“Thank you.  You guys are the best birthday present a tired doctor could ask for.”  He gave Honey a kiss then took Matthew into his arms and tossed him up into the air, catching the giggling little boy and giving him a bear hug.

“I wish you didn’t have to work on your birthday,” Honey said sadly.

“Me, too.  But you wanted to do the whole, extravagant family birthday party thing for Matthew next week, right?”

He set the little boy down and let him explore the doctor’s lounge, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he toddled around the small room, putting his hands on anything he thought might support him as he made his unsteady steps.

Honey looked carefully into Brian’s mischievously twinkling eyes.  “You think I’m silly for making a big to-do over a one-year-old’s birthday, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, leaning over to give her another kiss.  “That’s why I love you so much.”

“He’s only going to turn one once,” Honey insisted.

“He’s only going to turn every age once, sweetheart.  This party is for you, not Matthew.  He won’t even remember it.”

“Everybody’s going to be there, even Trixie!”

“I’m not saying it won’t be perfectly perfect.  I’m just guessing there will be far more adults than children there.”

Honey crossed her arms over her chest and feigned a pretty pout.  “If you don’t stop teasing me, you won’t get your birthday present.”

Brian grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, slipping his hands into her coat pockets and inside her coat as he pretended to search for his gift.

“I didn’t bring it with me, silly,” she laughed.  “It wouldn’t be appropriate at work or in front of a little boy’s innocent eyes.”

Brian waggled his dark eyebrows.  “That sounds promising!”

Honey tilted her head up and gave him a gentle peck on the lips.  “No matter what time you get home tonight ... wake me up.”

Brian pulled her close and nuzzled her neck in response, his hands wandering back inside her coat.

“You’re as bad as Matthew and that cupcake!” Honey squealed, wriggling away from his eager hands.

Matthew was grasping the edge of the table, unable to even see the cupcake but somehow knowing it was up there, just out of his reach.

“What can I say?” Brian admitted.  “My son and I both have excellent taste.”

October 31, 2000

“...Happy Birthday, dear Matthew!  Happy Birthday to you!”

Dan and Mart leaned their heads together and dramatically warbled, “And many moooore!”

Everybody clapped and the second Honey loosened her gentle grip on her son to join in, his small hands were in the frosting that covered the elaborately decorated jack o’ lantern cake.  A burst of laughter and flashbulbs surrounded the little boy as grandparents, aunts and uncles took a flurry of photos while Matthew, unfazed, dug into his birthday cake wholeheartedly.

“Wait!  Oh, wait a minute!” Honey exclaimed in dismay, trying to rein in her impatient son.  “I haven’t lit the candle yet.  He has to make a wish.”

“What on earth would a one-year-old possibly wish for?” Tad ribbed.

“Duh ... cake!,” Bobby answered, sticking his finger out and sweeping a glob of orange frosting into his mouth.

“Bobby!” his mother scolded.

“What?  Matthew’s doing it!”

Diana handed Jim some plastic plates and forks to set on the table and said, “Matthew also wears a diaper.  You’re not going to start that, are you?”  She tousled Bobby’s blond curls affectionately as she went back to the kitchen to retrieve napkins.

“He also eats bugs and dirt and other things he finds on the floor,” Matt Wheeler joshed.

“He does what?” Honey asked in horror.

“Nothing, dear,” Matt replied, planting a kiss on his daughter’s head.  In a stage whisper he added, “I’m building up my grandson’s immune system.  She’ll thank me later.”

Honey groaned and handed Matthew over to Sally so she could cut the cake.  Brian took a damp cloth and wiped the baby’s sticky fingers.

Peter Belden dropped a scoop of chocolate ice cream on each plate as it was passed to him and Honey’s mother handed the plates out to the party guests.

Despite her father’s teasing revelation, Honey thought the party was perfectly perfect.  Everybody she loved was in the same room and she was so blissfully happy that she didn’t even notice the slight shadow of sadness that came and went over Trixie’s face as Matthew reached out for his Aunt “Tissy”.

November 23, 2000

“I still can’t believe we’re here,” Trixie said in disbelief.

“Trixie!”

“I’m sorry, Honey!  I don’t mean that it’s not perfectly perfect.  It’s just that we’ve always had Thanksgiving at Crabapple Farm and it’s just different.  Great...” she assured her best friend, taking the plate of cranberry sauce from her and spooning some onto her plate to be polite, even though she hated cranberries.  “...just different.”

“You may not remember it,” Brian put in, “but I do know of at least one Thanksgiving when Moms and Dad didn’t have the open house.”

“When?” Trixie demanded.

“The year you were four and Mart was five, he brought home chicken pox from school.  They had to cancel the open house.”

“I don’t remember that,” Mart said before directing his attention to the bowl of mashed potatoes Diana had handed him.

“I’m sure you don’t.  You brought it home and got like three pox.  I had a pretty normal case but poor Trixie had them everywhere—in her scalp, in her mouth, nose and ears, all over her face and arms and legs.”

“I do have a faint memory of that suffering,” Trixie acknowledged.  “I just didn’t remember it being at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s probably because you didn’t have the open house,” Dan said.  “And I’ll bet your mom didn’t even make a traditional Thanksgiving feast.”

“We missed the open house another time, too,” Diana reminded her.

“When was that?” Sally asked, taking a seat after she had helped Honey get all the dishes of food to the table.

“Brian’s and my senior year in high school,” Jim answered.  “The Bob-Whites went out to Arizona to Diana’s uncle’s ranch for the weekend.”

“Moms and Dad still had the open house,” Brian said.  “We just weren’t there.”

“Ahh, no dishes to wash, no cleaning, no cars to park, no stacking chairs,” Mart remembered.  “It was a pretty great Thanksgiving lounging by the pool and going on desert trail rides.”

Trixie snorted as she passed her brother the rolls.  “You never cleaned or did the dishes.  I always got stuck with that.”

Honey giggled.  “Brian and Mart do a lot of work for the open house and you know it.”

“Which is probably why Moms and Dad decided to forego the open house this year,” Mart added.  “Bobby’s the only one left living there to torment.”

“They foregoed it because they went on a cruise,” Trixie corrected.

“Foregoed?” her husband teased.

“Whatever.  Forewent?  Anyway, we’ve all been moved out for several years.  I just hope they’re not giving up the open house for good.  It’s tradition.”

“Well, I don’t care who has Thanksgiving,” Tad said as he surveyed his heaping plate and tried to decide where to start, “as long as there’s plenty of great food.  Honey, everything looks terrific!”

Their hostess blushed prettily as Tad’s thanks was echoed by all and tried to deflect some of the praise.  “Brian did the turkey and Diana made the broccoli casserole.  And Trixie made all three pies—pumpkin, pecan, and apple.”

“So much for dessert,” Mart teased with a mock groan.

“Trixie bakes very well,” Dan said, earning a kiss on the cheek from his wife.  “As long as she stayed away from the gravy, we’re okay.”  He laughed as Trixie “took back” the kiss by wiping his cheek and putting the kiss back on her lips.

“One time I burned the gravy and he never lets me forget it.”

“Babe, you didn’t just burn it, you seared it to the bottom of the pan, blackened the backsplash over the stone, and set off the fire alarm.  It took a week to get the stink out of the apartment.”

Trixie flushed as the others laughed but she quickly joined in as well, happy to be surrounded by loved ones on Thanksgiving.

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Author's Notes

Part 1 (3,372 words)

Thanks, as always, to my wonderful editors, Annette, Heather, and Ruth!  Thanks to your speedy review of this long chapter, I was able to post a bit early and get myself back on my self-imposed schedule (which got a little waylaid thanks to Jim, Hallie and Simon).

Though I do have a document cleverly titled “Important Dates”, I did not note that Helen Belden’s canon birthday is August 28 (per Gatehouse) when I wrote Dan and Trixie getting married (both times) on that day.  Ah, well.  My brother got married on my grandmother’s birthday and my sister got married the day after my birthday, so maybe it’s subconscious.

Seven New York Secret Service agents received a “Distinguished Service Award” for their actions on 9/11.  I haven’t found any other evidence of this award being given, so I’m not sure if it was created solely for that event or if I’m just not finding any more recipients.  And I have no idea what type of award (medal, pin, certificate, etc.) was given.

My apologies if I (or rather President Bartlet) used the Japanese terms on or gimu incorrectly.  I got my information from several different websites and they all phrased things just a bit differently.

President Bartlet, Abbey Bartlet, Zoey Bartlet, Charlie Young, Ron Butterfield, and C.J. Cregg belong to Warner Brothers and Aaron Sorkin and are being borrowed lovingly and with great respect.

Information about NYU student housing was found at Wikipedia.

I have this flair at Facebook that says, “Sometimes you just have to say ‘Screw canon!’”.  That’s what I’m doing here.  I know Mansion says Brian and Mart had chicken pox when they were toddlers, but you know what?  How would they have gotten it?  They lived out in the country with no neighbors, they weren’t in school or daycare.  Nah, screw canon.  The distribution of chicken pox Brian mentions is what happened to me and my siblings.  My brother was Mart (brought it home, hardly was affected), I was Brian (normal case) and my sister was Trixie (horrible, horrible case).

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