ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (21 page)

"No one's blaming you," Edmund Randolph said. "We all know you
did your best." He nodded to the next man, the one in the British suit.

"Miss Bourque, I am Dudley Claybourne," he said, fingering the gold
Phi Beta Kappa key attached to his vest. "You may have heard of me. I'm
the disagreeable one."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Claybourne. And I have heard no such
thing."

"Believe me, he's earned the title," said the pale, gnome-like figure
at the other end of the table, stubbing out his cigarette in the crystal
ashtray. "If it were up to him, we'd be working for the nigras, not the
reverse."

"Now, Francis," Randolph admonished. "We've agreed not to start
feuding again."

"We also agreed to lend each other money if we needed it," the gnome
said. He fished around in a jacket pocket, found a gold cigarette case and lit
up.

"Only if we had it to lend," Claybourne shot back.

"Gentlemen,
please
," Randolph said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to reopen old wounds," the gnome told
Claybourne, almost sounding sincere. He exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, then
turned toward Delphine. "Miss Bourque, I am Francis Buford, of Rainbow's
End, in Georgia. I am pleased to meet you."

Delphine offered her hand and he took it and, to her surprise, he kissed it.
"I visited Rainbow's End a few years ago," she said. "Lovely
place."

"Thank you," said the gnome. "Indeed it was."

Delphine took the chair Randolph was proffering and sat. As the men took their
seats, she studied them. There were seven of them and her—a very strange
casting of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, without anyone who could be even
remotely considered Dopey, Sneezy, Bashful, , Happy, Sleepy or Doc, although
the name “Grumpy” would fit several of them.

In her childhood, she'd thought of these men as giants—physically as well as
politically and financially. They did not look like giants now. They seemed
like shrunken shadows of whatever they had been, in various states of decline.
And not just old, but dispirited and threadbare.

Now, no one seemed ready to say the next sentence.

Delphine took the plunge. "You wanted to talk to me about my father?"
she asked Randolph.

"Yes, we all do. I'm sort of the chairman."

"The emissary," Claybourne hurried to correct.

"Yes, the emissary."

"About the outrageous meeting with that nigra President up North,"
Francis Buford said. His diction was abominable, the result of poor-fitting
dentures.

Delphine had anticipated the topic, of course. And she thought she had a pretty
good idea what they were about to say: cancel that meeting, stay away from
President Callaway. Or else. And if they acted together, she knew, they might
still be able to enforce their will.

And here she was, down a long tunnel, in a secret room, with seven men, seven
old but still powerful men, about to receive a message or a warning to carry
back to her father. Surely they did not intend to threaten her or harm her.
That was not how Southerners treated their womenfolk.

Dudley Claybourne smoothed back his black hair with both hands and took a deep
breath. "Miss Bourque…"

"Please, Delphine."

"Delphine, we are concerned about this meeting, about your father's
intentions and about the intentions of the NAU as well."

"Yes?"

"We want to know what he is planning," Edmund Randolph said. "We
feel we have the right to be informed."

Delphine smiled. "Yes, of course. I'm sure he intends to talk to all of
you."

"Why has he agreed to this m-m-meeting, Delphine?" Howard Aiken
asked.

"I think mainly he wants to improve relations with the North,"
Delphine said. "There's really nothing conspiratorial about it."

"That's too bad," Paxton Alexander said, blinking his watery eyes at
her.

"Too bad? What do you mean?"

Creighton Sinclair opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then
proceeded anyhow. "Delphine, we need help. We're circling the drain. The
whole South is circling the drain. We want your father to ask for long term
financial help, a major aid package, something like that."

She looked around the room and was surprised to see the heads nodding in
agreement. "You want him to ask Callaway for help?"

xxx
"Yes," Randolph said. "For some kind of deal.

Paxton Alexander interrupted. "Tell him we know there's going be a price
and that we're willing to pay it. We don't have any choice."

The grey gnome bestirred himself. "What Paxton is saying, Delphine, is
that if Bourque can get us enough money from the North, we'll agree to take our
boot off the nigras' necks."

Delphine studied Buford, who was not—by a long shot—known as a kind master or
political liberal. He was perhaps the most die-hard representative of the Old
South, the man who, in younger days, had fought ending slavery to a bitter end
and who almost singlehandedly managed to prevent Southern Blacks from getting
the vote. "You're serious, Francis?" she asked.

"You mentioned visiting Rainbow's End," he replied. "Remembered
how beautiful it was. Well,
was
is the right word. I can't maintain it
any more. It's fading away, just like I am. In a few years, it will be nothing
more than a big tract of land, overgrown with weeds."

"We'd h-hoped our children would take what we b-b-built and preserve it,"
said Howard Aiken.

"But there's precious little to preserve," said Creighton Sinclair,
steepling his fat fingers and sounding bereft of hope.

"And our children aren't interested in preserving anything," Randolph
said. "They're interested in squandering what little is left as fast as
they possibly can, the hell with tomorrow."

"For the first time in my life," said Dudley Claybourne, "I'm
glad to say that I won't be around to see what happens."

For a moment, they all fell silent, considering what Claybourne had said.

"W-w-will you deliver our message, Delphine?" Aiken asked.

"Of course I will," Delphine said. "And I can tell you that my
father already understands your situation. Our situation."

The meeting continued for the better part of the next hour, during which each
plantation owner described his own particular woes, whining and begging, but
only in the most genteel terms. Before they let her go, Delphine had to reassure
them repeatedly. Then, finally, Edmund Randolph led her away. As she headed
back down the tunnel, she could still hear them talking.

“I must say,” said Buford, “the girl surprised me.”

“H-how so?” Aiken asked.

“She seemed very self-possessed,” Buford said. “Especially considering her
age.”

“I think she genuinely understands our situation,” said Dudley Clayborne. “I
can only hope her father understands as well.”

“Pretty little thing,” said Paxton Alexander, his voice fading away as Randolph
and Delphine left the meeting room behind them and continued back through the
tunnel, toward the main house.

“Seems like you made a good impression,” Randolph said, smiling.

“I hope so,” said Delphine. But what she really hoped was that she’d fulfilled
her mission and that what she learned would help Pickett and her father.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, Delphine called Pickett and told him what the plantation
owners had said.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am," Pickett said. "I was
afraid they would oppose the meeting.”

"Not these men," Delphine said. "They're genuinely frightened.
They're hoping my father can save them."

"Yeah. So am I. So is he.," Pickett said. "So what's your next
stop?"

"The Dixie Club, in Savannah." Delphine said.

“Oh yeah,” Pickett said, remembering. Then he frowned. “Do you really think the
Dixie Club is an appropriate venue for the President’s daughter?”

“It’s Benny Hicks’ place,” Delphine said. “It’s a grand reopening after the
fire and it’s for charity.”

“Benny Hicks again?”

“Roy, if it hadn’t been for Benny’s TV talent show way back when, I wouldn’t
be
a singer.”

Pickett sighed. “I know, I know. He’s a good friend. But the Dixie Club doesn’t
exactly draw a high-class crowd. Maybe I should get you some security.”

“Benny will provide all the security I might need,” Delphine said. “Besides
that, this is a terrific opportunity for me to take the temperatures of
ordinary people. That’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm,” Pickett said, intending to mean neither yes nor no. “So how do you play
to do this temperature-taking, Delphine?”

"Dunno yet. I'll think of something."

Later that morning, Delphine flew to Savannah and took a cab directly to the
Dixie Club. The entryway was framed by giant photo-posters of her face and her
name was up in lights on the club marquee:
Tonight Only: Delphine Bourque,
the Songbird of the South.
Cover charge $15/person.

As she stood on the sidewalk, guitar case in hand, admiring the display, an old
red Packard convertible with a blue fender tacked onto the passenger side
rattled down the street and slowed in front of the building. The passenger
window wobbled open and a hand shot out, flinging a glass jar of red paint at
one of the posters. On impact, the jar broke open and red paint splattered all
over Delphine's picture.

”Down with nigger-lover Bourque!" someone shouted from the car and it
roared off down the street, muffler dragging and making sparks. For an instant,
Delphine thought the remark had been directed toward her. She’d been prepared
to hear it ever since she’d taken up with Roy Pickett. But no, she decided,
this time her father was the target.

The nightclub front door opened suddenly and Benny Hicks, thin and wild-haired,
rushed out, brandishing a yardstick. "You bastards!" He yelled,
threatening the car with his yardstick. "Next time I'll get you." He
frowned and looked up, above the marquee, at a primitive video camera. He
reached up and wacked at it with the yardstick. "Fuckin' thing worked for
24 hours, then nothin', " he said. Finally, he noticed that he wasn't
alone.

"Delphine!" he said.

She smiled broadly. "Hi, Benny."

They hugged. Then he saw the paint-smeared poster.
"God-fuckin'-dammit!" he said. "That's the third time since I
put up the original."

"You have more?"

"Got ten from last time. I was hopin' to hold on to them. Got a hunch
they're gonna be valuable.”

"I'll have my people send you another package."

"You're a doll, Delphine. You know that? A doll. Hey, come on in, We've
redecorated. Lemme show you around."

He led her into the club, a huge, cave-like place with a mostly carpeted floor,
a low ceiling covered with track lighting and fifty glass tables with chrome
chairs.

"Very shiny," Delphine observed.

"Art Deco," Benny insisted. "The designer is an actual German.
What do you think?"

Delphine suffered a moment of panic. What could she say? "It's quite a
modern look," she told him, knowing how lame that sounded.

"The customers like it," Benny said. "We're pretty close to full
most nights. And tonight, well you know, we'll be beatin' them away with a stick.
Delphine Bourque and charity? Unbeatable combination. And thanks for coming. I
know this is way down-scale for you.”

She smiled. "Don’t be silly, Benny. I’m glad to be of service."

"Well, it’s a long way from a concert hall. And I should warn you,” he
said, pointing to the paint-smeared poster, “there've been a few
incidents—nothing serious, mind you. But maybe enough to pay attention
to."

"Incidents?"

"Yeah. When I was on stage last night and I mentioned your visit, some
idiots in the audience started booing, and believe it or not, a fist-fight
broke out."

Delphine stopped short. "An actual fight?"

"A little one. We got it under control quickly. Still…"

"That is disturbing."

"Maybe tonight I don't mention your father when I introduce you and you
don't say anything controversial."

She laughed. "Me? Controversial?"

"Sorry, I'm just being dumb," Benny admitted.

Then Delphine had a thought. "Should I be worried about tonight?"

"Naw. I'll be at the line, and I got some muscle guys inside. I'll keep
the goobers on the outside lookin' in. It's gonna be a nice, peaceful night, no
rhubarbs. Everybody's gonna love you, like always."

Delphine spent the rest of the afternoon in her dressing room, working on new
songs. She had Chinese delivered, and stole glances at the one-way mirror as
the club filled up. It was a young, middle-class crowd, dressed up for the occasion,
some married couples, lots of singles—exactly her kind of audience.

The band—five pieces, locally well-known—came out at about 8 p.m. and started
playing, mostly country classics. A few couples ventured out through the haze
of cigarette smoke onto the little dance floor. Pretty young waitresses in
French maid's outfits brought a steady stream of drinks to those sitting at the
tables, who were lubricating themselves, she hoped, to get into the mood for
the main attraction—her.

Around 9 p.m., Benny Hicks bounded onstage, hair flying, wearing a red shirt,
green pants and white cartoon gloves. He did 10 minutes of pratfalls, sight
gags and slapstick, mingled with outrageous wisecracks, filthy asides and other
assorted drollery. By the end of his set, he had the audience roaring.

Then he stopped and turned on the charm. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, it's
time to get a little serious. We have a very special treat for you tonight, my
favorite singer and yours, the Darlin' of the Delta, Miss Delphine Bourque.
Give a big hand to the Songbird of the South!"

Benny extended a welcoming hand and Delphine stepped up onto the little stage,
clutching her guitar. The audience burst into enthusiastic applause. But not
just applause. From the back, the darkest part of the room, came a small but
clearly audible chorus of boos, and they were soon joined by derisive shouts.
"Tell your Daddy he’s wanted at home!" "Buddy Bourke is a nigger
lover!" and "We don't need your kind in Georgia!" And these
shouts were countered with their opposites: "Sit down and shut up!"
"Let the lady sing!" "Take it outside, bigots!"

Two very large men—Mr. Clean and his younger brother—rolled toward the sources
of the invective, apparently intent on squelching it, or them.

"Wait," Delphine called out to the audience. "Let them
talk." She turned toward the hecklers, fire in her eyes. "You have
something to say? Then stand up like men and say it." She waited, hands on
her hips, ostentatiously tapping a foot on the stage. No one spoke.

"C'mon you cowards," Benny said, "this is your chance. Your last
chance."

"Why is your father going to meet that nigger President in the NAU?"
It was a woman's voice, harsh and angry.

"Yeah," a man said, with equal anger. "Is Buddy Bourque a nigger
lover?"

"My father," Delphine said, shaking with anger. "Loves this
country more than any of you. He's put his life on the line for it more than
once. He is the heart and soul of the Confederacy."

"So why is he meeting with Callaway?" asked a tall, pimply-faced man,
fiercely gesturing with a lighted cigarette..

"To help
us
," Delphine shot back. "To improve the
relations between our two countries, so we can help each other, cooperate on
mutual problems."

"Tell him don't bother to come back," came another shout from the
audience.

"He's just another fuckin' traitor!" another man called out, his
words slurred with drink.

Benny grabbed the mike, his furious expression belying his clownish outfit.
"If you can't be civil," he said coldly, "you can get out.
Now."

Silence, for a moment.

"Bourque's trying to make a deal with someone who hates us," a young
dark-haired woman said, from the left side of the room.

"Hates us? What do you mean hates us?" Delphine said, genuinely
puzzled.

"They
all
hate us," a young man piped up from the other side
of the club. "They say we're racists."

"Not just racists," someone else chimed in. "They think we're a
bunch of brainless rednecks."

"Married to our brothers," his girlfriend added. "Or sleeping
with our fathers."

"Yeah," someone else shouted out, voice dripping with scorn.
"I'm my own grandpa!"

"They act like their shit don't sink. I mean stink." This time, it
was a drunken businessman, sitting at a table close to the stage.

Delphine shook her head, frustrated. "You know, we're all people. And
we’re a lot alike," she said. "Don't you see it? We all want the same
things. We all love our families. We all want to live in peace and harmony. We
all want to make a decent living. They even like the same music—my records sell
pretty well up North, you know."

A pretty young woman in the middle of the room shot to her feet.
"Delphine, that's all bullshit and you know it. They're nothing like
us."

"That's just not true," Delphine insisted. "We share a lot
of history with them—the Declaration of Independence, the Revolutionary War,
the War of 1812. We have the same birthday, the same Founding Fathers, and we
come from the same basic political philosophy."

"We may have started out together," said the pretty girl's boyfriend,
a young man with a scraggly beard, "but we've gone our separate ways. They
don't think like us anymore or act like us. And they sure don't want anything
to do with us."

"Really?" Delphine replied. "Then why did they agree to meet
with us? How do you explain that?"

"Because of the secret deal," said a man in the back, waving a
cigarette.

"What secret deal?" Delphine asked. "There is no secret
deal."

"Either you're lying or Daddy didn't tell you." The man replied.

Benny nodded to Mr. Clean's younger brother, who was standing by the club
entrance, pointed to the man who'd called Delphine a liar and gave the thumb
signal. The Bouncer padded over to the heckler and put a heavy hand on his
shoulder. The man rose and left the club without further persuasion.

"Getting rid of him doesn't change anything," said another fellow at
the same table, a tall, blond man wearing an expensive suede jacket.
"Everybody knows about the secret deal."

"What secret deal?" Delphine persisted.

The blond man sighed, as if being forced to repeat something obvious to
everyone. "Well, it's not much of a secret," he said. "They're
going to give us a trillion dollars and we're going to tear down the wall and
give the niggers the vote. And pretty soon, we'll have a nigger President just
like they do."

"There isn't any such deal. There's no deal at all," Delphine said,
asking herself how she had become the ambassador to the unwashed and hoping the
duty would be over soon. "It's just a contemptible lie, put out by people
who hate my father, who've always hated him, jealous and spiteful people."

A man in a grey business suit stood up, near the middle of the room, drink in
hand. "If there's no secret deal," he said, "why doesn't
President Bourque just stay home and work on the problems we have here. There's
just no call for him to go gallivanting around to foreign countries."

"Even if it will help the Confederacy?" Delphine asked. "Maybe
save it?"

Benny stepped up to the mike again. "I think we've had enough questions
and answers," he said. "Delphine Bourque didn't come here to hold a
press conference or get questioned like a criminal. She came here to sing. I
hope you came to hear her. If you did not, or you are unhappy with what she's
said or what her father is doing, you got my permission to trot right over to
the exit and leave."

He paused, and half a dozen people, mostly young men, got up and headed out.
Mr. Clean and his younger brother followed close on their heels, herding them
toward the door. And that was fine with Delphine. She’d gotten a pretty
good idea of the common people’s temperature. But enough was enough.

"Now," Benny said, forcing a grin, "As I was saying…" He
paused, and was rewarded by a few chuckles and titters. "As I was saying,
I am pleased to introduce one of my very favorite singers, the songbird of the
south, Delphine Bourque."

The applause was genuine and prolonged. Delphine bent toward Benny and kissed
him on the cheek, which caused him to wiggle his eyebrows lasciviously, Groucho
Marx-style, at which the audience broke into laughter.

Delphine smiled at the club-goers and let them simmer down. "Good evening,
everyone." And they returned the greeting. "Tonight, I've decided to
sing three different kinds of songs—some of them old, some of them new, some of
them borrowed, some of the blue. And if any of you young men and young ladies
happen to get any ideas from that—well, please don't blame me…"

*

Pickett decided to drive to Jackson. It was only three hours away, and taking a
plane would make him too much of a target for some cracker looking to harass a
Black man. He considered wearing a driver's uniform and taking one of the
Packards, but in the end concluded that work clothing and the battered old
Dodge pickup would be safer. Besides, the pickup bore the Acadia logo, which
afforded some protection.