ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (42 page)

But history would understand. History would see the result of his sacrifice. It
would be clear to future generations of Confederate citizens, and, for that
matter, to northerners. He would be seen as a savior, divinely directed. Junior
would be remembered as holier than his father had ever hoped to be. He would be
respected. He would be loved, even by those who did not immediately understand.

A single word flickered through his consciousness…failure. But the moment he
became aware of it, he suppressed it. He squashed it. It was an impossibility.
Without Bourque and without Harlan Hurbuckle, Sr., reunion could never happen.
And here were the means to stop them.

Junior rolled up his sleeves and looked at the diagram he’d downloaded from the
Internet. Then he began his work.

*

“Give me two minutes, then send him in,” President Callaway said into his
phone. He buttoned the top button of his shirt, tightened his tie and slipped
on his jacket. An empty coffee mug sat on his desk. He picked it up, looked for
some place to put it and eventually dropped it gently into his wastebasket.
Then he straightened some piles of paper, centered his desk and sat up
straight.

The door to the Oval Office opened and one of the White House’s efficient young
interns ushered a man inside. “Mr. President,” she said. “This is Mr. Anthony
Zolli.”

Zolli stood there, just inside the door, looking terminally uncomfortable in a
polyester Lockett pinstripe suit, a white shirt, a nondescript striped tie and
brown wing tips from another era. He craned his head around, eyes agape, as
though he was a loin-clothed Maori in Westminster Abbey.

“Mr. Zolli,” President Callaway said, standing, hoping to catch Zolli’s attention.
“Please come in and have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Zolli managed to say. He walked toward the President’s desk with
evident trepidation, his face set in what he intended to be an expression of
great determination, a demonstration that he would not to succumb to the
President’s vaunted charm and eloquence.

Callaway stood and reached down across his desk to shake the shorter man’s
hand. He gestured toward a guest chair in front of the desk and Zolli plopped
down into it. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Zolli.”

“Likewise I’m sure.”

“Thank you very much for taking time out of your busy schedule to come see me.
As my Chief of Staff told you, I want to talk to you about a very important
matter, on which I need your cooperation.”

“I see,” Zolli said, suspicious and not hiding it.

“May I call you Tony?”

Zolli shrugged. “Yeah, sure, why not. It’s my name.”

“Well, I want to talk to you about my meeting with President Bourque, Tony.”

“I wish y’would, Mr. President. The Truckers’ are very concerned about dat. We
tink it wasn’t a very good idea.” He sounded truculent.

“So I gather, Tony.” Callaway said, unfazed. “A few days ago, I had a phone
conversation with Mr. DuShain, from the New York Container Terminal. He told me
you’re worried what might happen if we came to an agreement with the
Confederacy and you had to deal with a huge influx of people looking for work,
which, of course, I already knew.”

“Yeah,” Zolli said, “dat’s right.” He sounded surprised that the President
understood. “An influx of uneducated Blacks. ‘Scuse me, sir, don’t mean nuttin’
by dat. But we’re worried about jobs and wages. We doan want no agreement.”

Callaway nodded sympathetically. “I want you to know we’ve given your needs and
the needs of your union very serious consideration.”

Zolli smiled, at least with the lower part of his face. “Y’know, Mr. President,
no disrespect, but in my bidness, that’s da kind of ting someone says just
before he stabs the odda guy in da back.”

“No one’s going to be doing any stabbing today, Tony,” Callaway said, smiling..
“I’ve called you in because I think I’ve found a way for us both to have what
we want.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. President,” Zolli said. His fleshy face was creased
with a sly smile, “but in my opinion, dat would be one neat trick. You some
kinda magician?”

Callaway held up a hand. “Hear me out, Tony. That’s all I ask.”

“Sure, sure. Dint mean to interrupt.”

“I have a couple of surprises for you, Tony, but you’re going to have to keep
them secret for awhile—a day or two. I have your word on that?”

Zolli couldn’t decide how to respond, wanting neither to seem submissive nor
defiant.. “Mr. President, I…”

Callaway met Zolli’s eyes and held them. “Tony, before I continue, I must have
your word that everything you hear in this conversation is between us and only
us.”

Zolli finally realized what he had to say. “You want dat I should take an oath,
Mr. President?”

Callaway chuckled. “No, Tony. That won’t be necessary. Your word will do. Do I
have it?”

“Yes, sir. This conversation’s just between us.”

Callaway leaned back in his chair and found a stray paperclip on his desk. He
picked it up and twisted it open. “You won’t have to keep the secret long,
Tony. Just a few days and it’ll all be public knowledge.”

“Yes sir.” By this time, Zolli was starting to feel like a privileged
confidant. He leaned forward, so he wouldn’t miss a single syllable.

“Okay,” Callaway said, “First of all, we
are
on the verge of a deal with
the Confederacy. We’re going to try for
reunion
.” He smiled.

Zolli sat back, dumbfounded. “Reunion, y’say? Reunion? You mean, come back,
come back, all is forgiven? You think the American people gonna put up with
dat? With all due respect, Mr. President, I doan think so.”

“It’s not going to be the Confederacy as we know it, Tony. It’s going to follow
all of our laws and customs. It’ll just make America bigger. And stronger. And
eventually wealthier.”

“Y’can’t legislate morality, Mr. President, with all due respect.”

“You can’t legislate the way a person
thinks
, Tony,” Callaway admitted.
“But you can legislate the way he
acts
. That’s why most people obey our
laws against murder and running red lights. And when people get into the habit
of acting right, before you know it, they’re thinking right too.”

“Yeah, I see watcha mean,” Tony said. He sounded as though he’d just been told
elephants could fly.

“Laws work pretty well, even when they involve moral issues.”

“Maybe so,” Zolli said, meaning
you sure haven’t convinced me
. “But deyr
gonna come north, Mr. President. Ya can’t deny dat. We’re in for a tidal wave
of poor refugees, lookin’ for work, millions of ‘em, ready to take anythin’,
even for practically no pay. Union busting pay. What are we gonna do with ‘em?”

“Ah. That’s the second surprise, Tony,” Callaway said, with just the slightest
smile. “My people have been talking to a dozen of America’s largest
manufacturers—you know who I’m talking about—and persuaded them that the South
will be a new and lucrative market, if they develop it. They’ve seriously
considering building manufacturing plants in the South, factories that will pay
union wages.”

“You mean…”

“I’m talking about the car, airplane and electronics manufacturers, the heart
of our industry, Tony. And my guess is that many other manufacturers will
follow them.”

“You say deyv agreed to pay union wages, Mr. President?”

“Let’s just say they let us know they could be convinced, under the right
circumstances. And all those new workers down south, well, wouldn’t be much of
a surprise if they wanted to join unions, would it? Including the Truckers’’
Union.”

“Join unions,” Zolli said, contemplating the idea. “Join unions. Now
that’s—whadda ya call it?—the horse of a different color. Hadn’t thought of
that.”

Callaway watched with interest as Zolli struggled to calculate which was to his
greater advantage—a series of long, divisive and very expensive strikes, mirror
images of what was happening at the New York Container Terminal, or the picture
his President had just painted, of a bigger, stronger and definitely richer
Truckers’’ Union.

He decided to give the union leader one more nudge. “I think we’re going to see
a massive industrialization of the South, taking nothing from the North, but
serving new markets and providing new employment opportunities,” Callaway went
on. “It’s going to give new life to the unions. It’ll mean tens of thousands of
new members for the Truckers’. How does that sound to you, Tony?”

Zolli tried to come up with a fatal flaw in the President’s vision, but nothing
occurred to him. “Hmmm. Doan sound so bad when you put it dat way.”

Callaway smiled. It was time to ask for the order. “I was hoping you’d feel
that way, Tony. So I wonder if I could ask a favor.”

“Yeah?” The suspicion returned. “A favor? Such as?”

“Your strike at the container terminal. I don’t think continuing it will be
very useful to either of us,” Callaway said gently.

“Yes,” Zolli admitted. “I can see why ya might think dat.”

“So I wonder if you’d be willing to suspend it for a week or two, and cancel it
altogether if what I’m telling you turns out to be true. Of course, you could
still call a strike if things don’t work out the way I say they will, so you
wouldn’t lose anything. The delay might serve us both, Tony. And America as
well.”

Zolli put his chin on his fist and became a reasonable, if badly executed,
imitation of The Thinker. Callaway did nothing to interrupt the silence.
Finally, the labor leader looked up.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I’m an American before I’m a Trucker, and I see da
sense of what you’re saying. If everything turns out the way ya say, we both
get what we want, which surprises me considerably. So I’ll tell ya what I’m
gonna do. I’m gonna put a hold on any furder union action, ya know, take a wait
and see attitude. For da sake of my country and my union.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Tony,” Callaway said. “I think you’re making a very
wise choice. History—and your union—will judge you well for it.”

Zolli came very close to blushing.

“You going to have trouble convincing your union officials to hold their fire?”
Callaway asked. “I can make some calls if you think it’s necessary.”

“No, Mr. President. I can handle my people.”

“I thought you’d say that, Tony. Just remember, this is between us.”

“I gave my word, Mr. President.”

“And I thank you for it, Tony. You are a real American.”

The President stood, and Zolli, following his lead, did the same. The door
opened and the intern appeared. “Thank you, Mr. President,” Zolli said,
realizing the audience had come to an end. Then he left the room, trying to
figure out what Callaway had done to him.

Chapter Twenty-One

The bomb, when he had finished with it, wasn’t all that big—four sticks of
dynamite, strapped together with adhesive tape, connected by wires to a
detonator about the size of a computer mouse.

Still, Junior realized, it was too big for any of his suit jacket pockets. And
it would make a huge lump if it were taped to his chest. So how was he
going to get it onstage at the Glass Church? This was a challenge he hadn’t
anticipated. He put the bomb on his dinette table and considered it.

The bomb would fit easily in a briefcase, a shoebox or an overnight bag, but if
he tried to get any of those past his father, he face awkward questions about
why he was carrying it, or why it was on stage.

Junior considered a cigar humidor, but rejected it for the same reason.
Likewise a plain cardboard box. It was maddening. He had the instrument of
destruction. He would soon have the opportunity to use it. He had the means to
change history, to rid the world of Buddy Bourque. But he had no way to get the
bomb and the opportunity together. He was stymied.

Of course, he’d get to the stage before the sanctuary doors were open. Maybe he
could hide the thing somewhere, tape it under a chair or the lectern. No, he
decided, neither of those would work either. The stage chairs were plastic and
chrome, unupholstered. A bomb would be obvious. The lectern didn’t have an
internal shelf. It was a single piece of wood on legs. No way to hide something
out of sight.

Junior swallowed. His throat hurt and his nose was starting to drip. He was
getting another one of his almost monthly colds, a bad one this time. He
grabbed the Kleenex box from the kitchen counter, pulled out a piece and blew
loudly. His sinuses bubbled as though they were filled with motor oil. He
attempted a jump shot, casually flipping the used Kleenex toward the waste
basket and, when it fell short, got up and put it in the can.

Junior picked up the Kleenex box again, to return it to the counter, then
stopped in mid-move. He put the box down next to the bomb and gazed at both
objects, together. After some thought, he picked up the box again and carefully
teased open one end of it, prying apart the four pieces of thin, overlapping
cardboard.

He pulled out a fistful of folded Kleenex and gently inserted the bomb into the
box. It was as though they were made for each other. There was only one
problem: if he closed up the box again and glued it shut, he wouldn’t be able
to reach the button on the detonator.

Junior stared at his Kleenex bomb, waiting for a solution to come to him. And
it did. He took the bomb out and punctured the other end of the box with a
pencil. Then he disconnected the detonator from the sticks of dynamite and
slipped it inside so that the button stuck out through the new hole.

He got the adhesive tape out again and cut himself three narrow strips.
Reaching deep into the box with his forefinger, he managed to apply one strip
to the detonator, so that the device fit snuggly against the cardboard. He
repeated the awkward maneuver twice more, fastening the detonator in place.
Next, he reconnected the wires.

Two steps remained. He took a dozen or so folded pieces of Kleenex from the
pile on the kitchen table, slipped them inside the box and spread them out over
the bomb, then pulled the top one partly through the plastic film of the
dispenser slot.

When he had it looking just right, he got out the Elmer’s glue and resealed the
box. Finally, he regarded his work. It looked like a totally normal Kleenex
box, ready to service the next sneeze. Junior hefted it—dynamite, it turned
out, was a good deal heavier than Kleenex. But that wouldn’t matter. He was the
only one who would be carrying it.

At that moment, Junior’s nose began leaking again. Without thinking, he reached
for a Kleenex, stopping himself just before he actually pulled out a piece. He
went back to the wastebasket, thinking he might be able to squeeze one more
nose blow into the one he’d just
used.

*

Delphine Bourque knocked on her father’s bedroom door. “You almost ready?”
She asked.

“Pretty nearly, Darlin’,” he called out. “Just putting on the finishing
touches. Come on in.”

Delphine entered the room. Her father was standing there in his Sunday suit,
charcoal with classic pinstripes, paired with a mostly red tie painted with a
tiny grey polka dots.

“Looking good,” she said approvingly.

“Well, I’m gonna be talkin’ to the whole country,” Bourque said. “Might as well
put on the dog.” He gave his daughter a big grin, enveloped her in a fatherly
hug, then held her at arm’s length. She was dressed in green silk, a perfect
complement to her glowing red hair. “I’m sure gonna have the prettiest daughter
in the house.”

Delphine just smiled. ‘You know,” she said, “I would have been just as happy if
you’d made the speech from the studio. It’d be more comfortable and you
wouldn’t have to travel.”

Bourque shook his head. “Can’t do it this time, Darlin’. This one’s too
important. I gotta see the faces. I gotta see the reactions—if they’re with me
or agin’ me, if they’re buying what I’m saying or I have to find some other way
to win ‘em over. Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance.”

Delphine put her hand on her father’s. “I understand, Daddy. And you think that
at the Glass Church…”

“At the Glass Church, Harlan will be there to warm up the parishioners.
Television audience too.”

She smiled. “You don’t miss a trick do you?”

“Not all that many,” he admitted, grinning.

“So,” Delphine said, “You’re ready to go? You ate lunch? You have your notes?”

“Lunch, yes,” he said. “My notes?” He patted his side pockets in increasing
panic. “They’re in here somewhere.” He peeked inside his breast pocket,
revealing some folded papers. “Ah, here they are.” He offered an mischievous
grin.

Delphine didn’t mind being teased. “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”

“Best not count the crop ‘til it’s in the barn,” he said. He dipped into a
pocket, found himself a Tum and tried to slip it into his mouth
surreptitiously.

“I saw that,” Delphine said. “Are you feeling okay?”

Bourque shrugged. “I’ll do.”

She studied him.

“I’ll rest tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? When the state legislatures are voting?”

“I’ll lie in bed and listen to the results.”

She laughed.

Bourque picked up the phone. “Sophie, get me Pickett.”

Pickett answered. “Yes, Boss?”

“I’m in my bedroom with Delphine. Come up, I want to talk to you.”

Delphine looked at her father in surprise. Every time he summoned Pickett in
her presence, she worried.

“I have plans for him,” he said, inadvertently reassuring her. There was a
knock on the door. “Ah, there he is. Come in.”

Pickett entered the bedroom. “Well,” he said, ‘You’re looking spiffy, Boss.”

Bourque shrugged. “You know how I feel about fancy clothes, Roy. You can dress
up a dog, but you can’t keep his tail from sticking out.”

Pickett made as if to look at Bourque’s behind. “I don’t see any tail, Boss.”

“Two things, Roy,” Bourque said, getting down to business. “First thing, I
don’t want you to call me ‘Boss’ anymore. Not in private, not in public.”

Pickett was taken aback. “You want me to call you ‘Buddy’?”

“Let’s not go overboard,” Bourque said, waving him off. “But ‘Mr. President’ or
‘Mr. Bourque’ would be just fine.”

“I’ll take ‘Mr. President’,” Pickett said, looking at Delphine, who shrugged,
mystified.

“Good,” Bourque said. “Now, number two. I want you to be with us at the Glass
Church.”

“You already told me you want me to come with,” Pickett said.

“Yes, but I don’t want you hanging around backstage, or sitting in one of the
back rows. I want you on the stage with Delphine and me.”

“Behind?”

“Beside.”

Pickett’s head tilted in curiosity, dog-like. “Really?”

“I think it’s about time” Bourque said, “especially considering what I’m going
to say in my speech.”

“That makes me just a little uncomfortable,” Pickett said. “The audience might
not like it.”

“Don’t worry,” Bourque said. “By the time I’m finished, they’ll be coming up to
you and shaking your hand. I hope.”

“Hmm,” Pickett said. “Well, me too, I guess.”

“Gentlemen,” Delphine said, checking her watch. “We’d better get going.”

Bourque grabbed his Panama hat and they left.

*

Junior gussied himself up in his blue seersucker suit, slipped into his
white, patent-leather shoes and put on the black bolo tie, the one with the
silver tips. Then he examined himself in the mirror on the bathroom door.

The suit was a little wrinkled—he hadn’t bothered to get it pressed since last
time. And there was scuff mark on the toe of his right shoe. But it would
do. Daddy was likely to be so wound up about Bourque’s appearance at the church
that he wouldn’t notice the imperfections.

Junior got into his car—a 1987 DeSoto rattletrap—and gently set down the
Kleenex box on the passenger seat. On the way to the Glass Church, he stopped
at Luigi’s and scarfed down a couple of slices of pepperoni pizza. By the time
he got to the church, his father had already arrived—his gold Packard was
parked in the VIP visitor’s space nearest the main door.

Normally, Junior would have parked right next to the old man. As building
manager, he considered it his right, and his father had never objected. But
this time, he drove around back and left the car in the employees’ lot, near
the service entrance.

He slipped the Kleenex box under an arm and walked briskly to the service
entrance, wanting to avoid being seen. He needn’t have worried. It was still
more than two hours before the big event and, except for Daddy, he was the
first to arrive.

Junior unlocked the service entrance door, and let it close and lock behind
him. Then, it was up the backstairs, toward the sanctuary. He had to get the
room ready. Also, he had to find a place for the Kleenex box. It wouldn’t do to
keep carrying it around. He had to put it on the stage somewhere.

He paused for a moment and allowed himself to think of what he was planning.
With this innocuous little Kleenex box, he was going to change history. He was
going to save the Confederacy from the greatest traitor in its history. In one
blazing moment, he was going to rid the country of this detestable man, as well
as his collaborator, Junior’s own father. It would cost Junior his own life,
but even Moses never saw the Promised Land.

At the back entrance to the sanctuary, Junior allowed himself to gaze at the
fan-shaped room. It was, he admitted to himself, a truly glorious sight, the
almost endless rows of cerulean seats, the high, shimmering glass walls, the
sunlight streaming through the vaulting glass canopy. His father liked to say
it was one of God’s favorite houses, and that seemed right, especially today.

The old man was already there, adjusting the lectern. He was dressed in his
trademark blue seersucker suit, identical to junior’s except that it was
freshly pressed, and his shoes could have been brand new. This was hardly
surprising. Reverend Hurbuckle’s closet was stuffed with a dozen similar
outfits, and shoeboxes filled with white patent leather slip-ons. Looking at
him, Junior felt a wave of hatred sweep over him.

“Ah, Junior,” said the old man, in his comfortingly resonant voice, “I’m glad
you’re here. There’s a lot to do. I want you to set up the stage a little
differently today.”

“In what way?”

“Well, we’ll need five chairs.”

“Five? There’s you and me plus the President and his daughter. Sounds like four
to me.”

Hurbuckle sighed. “We’ll need five. President Bourque’s assistant will be
joining him and Delphine on stage.”

“His assistant? Who? The
nigger
?”

“Roy Pickett, yes. The Black man who travels with President Bourque.”

Junior couldn’t hide his disgust. “We’re gonna have a nigger on stage? Since
when are we willing to do that? This ain’t a nigger church.”

“President Bourque asked me,” Rev. Hurbuckle said. “And I wasn’t about to
refuse him. So put out five chairs, Junior.”

He hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said. This wasn’t the time for rebellion.

“Wait, what’s with the Kleenex box, Junior? You got one of your colds again?”

“Yeah, Daddy. Real bad one.”

“Well, just don’t bring it on stage.”

“I gotta bring it with me, Daddy. I’ve been sneezing and my nose is really
stuffy. You don’t want me wiping it with a ratty old handkerchief, do you?”

Hurbuckle considered that. “Hmm. I guess not. But I don’t want to see crumpled
wet Kleenexes litterin’ the carpet, y’hear?”

“Course not, Daddy. They’ll go right into my pocket.”

“Good. Now after you set up the chairs, I want you to check out the
microphones. And the TV crew should be here at any moment. Everything’s set up
in the studio balcony, of course, but I want you to make sure there aren’t any
problems. It’s going to be a national broadcast.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, and the back hall needs vacuuming. Charlie should be here soon. Tell him
to start there.”

“You got it,” Junior said. He remembered that he was holding a bomb in his
hand, and in his mind, he ran through the coming events as objectively as he
could. His father would speak briefly and introduce Bourque. For an instant or
two, they would be standing side by side. For Junior, that would be
his
moment. Two steps to the podium, Kleenex box in hand, press the button.

The main door chime sounded both Junior and his father glanced at the nearby
backstage closed-circuit TV monitor, which displayed images of several
well-built and nearly identical men in black raincoats were visible. One of
them, a tall, square-jawed fellow in sunglasses that covered not only his eyes,
but most of his cheeks, held a badge up to the camera.