ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (43 page)

“Major Pruitt,” he said. “Head of President Bourque’s advance security team.
Four others are here with me. May we come in?” He wasn’t really asking.

Rev. Hurbuckle pressed the button that buzzed open the door. “Yes, of course. I
was told you would be coming,” he said. “I’m up in the sanctuary—the stairs are
straight ahead of you. Please see me before you begin your work.”

Junior opened the storage closet and counted out five of the stacked,
wire-frame chairs. He lined up three of them on right side of the podium, and
slightly behind it, and put the other two on the left. The Kleenex box
went under the chair farthest to the left, visible but unobtrusive, even
innocent.

He’d just finished arranging the chairs when the Secret Service team appeared
at the far end of the sanctuary and, heads swiveling and eyes scanning as they
walked, made their way down to the stage to greet Rev. Hurbuckle and his
son.

“Good afternoon, Major Pruitt,” Hurbuckle extending a hand, which Pruitt
grasped briefly.

“Good afternoon, Reverend,” said the agent, holding out his hands
post-handshake, so his second-in-command could squirt them with Purel. “I’m
Major Pruitt, head of the SS detail.” His tone and manner were such that he
might have said General George
Washington.

“The SS?” Junior asked.

“Secret Service,” Pruitt said.

“I didn’t know the Secret Service had ranks,” Junior said.

“They don’t. Major is my first name. You can call me Mr. Pruitt.” He glanced at
Junior. “And just who are you?”

“My son,” Hurbuckle supplied.

“Okay, your son,” Pruitt said, but he continued to look at Junior. He didn’t
trust men with tiny eyes. “Are you the only people in the church at present?”

“Yes,” said the old man. “The door was locked when I got here and I locked it
behind me.”

“I came in the back door and did the same thing,” Junior volunteered.

“Good,” Pruitt said. “Of course, we’ll do a quick search of the building
anyway.”

“You will?” Hurbuckle asked.

“Standard operating procedure,” Major Pruitt said. “Afterward, two of my men
will be setting up metal detectors at both entrances. Brice, Tornquist and I
will do a quick check of the sanctuary itself.”

“A check? What for?”

“Any dangerous devices,” Pruitt said. “Explosives. Bombs.”

Hurbuckle chuckled. “I don’t think you’re going to find any of that stuff
here.”

“Our janitor vacuumed the entire sanctuary yesterday,” Junior added. “He would
have told me if he’d found anything suspicious.” His heart was pounding.

“Your janitor…”

“He’s been with us for twenty years,” the Reverend said. “I trust him
completely.”

“What is his race?” the Secret Service agent asked.

“He’s a nigger,” Junior said.

“I see,” said Pruitt. “Well, we have to search anyhow.” He nodded to his men,
who split up, one taking the left half of the sanctuary, the other the right.
They walked through each row of seats, checking the floor and beneath the
seats. They missed nothing.

Observing them, Junior found himself sweating. He glanced—unobtrusively, he
hoped—at the Kleenex box. He was desperate to push it a little farther beneath
the chair, but equally desperate not to call attention to it.

Major Pruitt strolled around the backstage area, casually it seemed, eyes
darting into every corner, behind every piece of equipment or furniture. He
pulled back curtains, checked boxes, peered inside a rolled up piece of
carpeting.

Then he started on the stage itself, walking up to the podium and examining it
closely, tapping the lectern with a fingernail as though he suspected it might
be hollow. Satisfied, he strolled past the chairs, glancing beneath them.

As Pruitt came to Junior’s chair, the young man bent down and managed somehow
to extract a single piece of Kleenex from the box. He blew his nose into it,
managing a very impressive—and distinctly repulsive—explosion of phlegm. He
stuffed the dripping Kleenex into a side suit pocket.

Pruitt looked at Junior with such intense distaste that his lips actually
curled. “You are ill?” It was more an accusation than a question.

“Yes,” Junior said, striking a nasal tone, “bad code.”

Pruitt touched a toe to the Kleenex box and regarded Junior with disgust. “Try
to keep it to yourself,” he said.

“That’s why I brought the Kleenex,” Junior said, not sure he should have
mentioned the box at all.

Pruitt walked on, poking at a set of drapes at the other side of the
stage.

By the time the Presidential convoy arrived—the customary three black Packards,
carrying Bourque, Pickett and Delphine and the standard complement of Secret
Service agents—the Glass Church’s vast parking lots were fast filling up, with
their usual accumulation of ancient Birmingham-made sedans and station wagons,
and a growing stream of worshippers was heading for the main entrance. Clearly,
the Glass Church’s congregation was eager to be on hand for Buddy Bourque’s
unprecedented—and well-advertised—personal appearance.

The three black Packards pulled up to the church’s service entrance, as
arranged, and the Secret Service agents hopped out. After they cleared
everything with the agents manning the metal detectors they signaled their VIP
passengers to exit their vehicle—which happened to be the first Packard in
line—and they whisked them inside.

Upstairs, Rev. Hurbuckle and his son met the President, his daughter and Roy
Pickett at the stage door. Major Pruitt and two members of his team stood
nearby, watching everyone and everything.

“Glad to see you Buddy,” the Reverend said expansively, shaking hands with the
President. “You’re sure looking sharp today. You too, Delphine. You always do.”

Junior gazed at Delphine, forgetting everything else. “That surely is a
beautiful dress, Ms. Bourque.”

Delphine offered a modest smile. “Thank you, Junior.”

“Well, Harlan,” Bourque said, “it’s a big stage,” Bourque said. “Gotta look our
best.” He removed his Panama hat and looked around for a place to put it.
Hurbuckle glanced at his son, hoping Junior would be attentive, but it took a
couple of pats on the arm to draw his gaze away from
Delphine.

“Here, let me take that for you,” Junior said when he finally caught on. He
smiled and took the hat from Bourque and tossed it onto a nearby hat-rack,
reminding himself Bourque would never be wearing it again.

Delphine went to check out the stage and the set-up. Pickett lingered.

Bourque and Hurbuckle stood together at the edge of the stage, looking out at
the parishioners gathering in the sanctuary. “Filling up nicely,” Hurbuckle
observed.

“I’m more concerned with their mood than I am with their numbers, Harlan,”
Bourque said.

Hurbuckle nodded, but he was surprised. He hadn’t often heard Bourque express
doubt, especially before a speech.

“They feel edgy to me, you know, nervous,” Bourque continued. “Unsettled.”

“Well, they know what you’re going to be talking about, Buddy,” Hurbuckle
pointed out, “but they don’t know what you’re going to say. They’re worried.
Afraid, some of them.”

“Understandable,” Bourque said. “So am I.”

“They feel they don’t have any control over their fate.” Hurbuckle went
on. “They feel like nobody’s been listening to them,”

“Hmmm,” Bourque mused. “That’s a very insightful remark, Harlan. Bears thinkin’
about.”

“I’ve prepared a short introduction,” Hurbuckle said. “Sweet but brief.”

“Just how I like it.” Bourque said. He was still thinking about the Reverend’s
earlier remark.

“And I thought I might say a word or two afterward, you know, to second the
motion.”

“That’d be much appreciated, Harlan.”

Delphine returned from the stage. “Everything’s all set, Daddy,” she said. “TV
crew is waiting for our signal. Every last seat in the sanctuary is filled.

“How do you gauge the mood of the crowd, Darlin’?”

“It’s tense, Daddy. These people have a pretty good idea what’s coming and
they’re worried. They want to be reassured.”

Bourque considered this. “That’s my read as well.”

“Should I give the TV people the two minute warning?” Junior asked. He could
feel his heart pounding and he hoped no one else noticed that his breath was
loud and ragged.

“Yes,” Hurbuckle said. “Then dim the house lights.”

Junior did as he was told.

“Ready to start?” Major Pruitt asked.

“Just about,” Hurbuckle told Pruitt. “Okay, Junior, dim the stage lights.”

Pruitt signaled his other team members to be alert. He took up a position at
the edge of the stage, while Brice and Tornquist stood at the forward edge of
the stage, in the wings, surveiling the audience.

“All right,” Hurbuckle said, “let’s take our places. Junior will occupy the
furthest chair. I’ll sit next to him, next to the podium. The President will
sit in the chair on the other side of the podium, then Delphine and finally,
Mr. Pickett here.

“No,” Bourque said. “I want Pickett between me and Delphine.”

“No problem,” said Hurbuckle.

They walked onto the darkened stage, Junior leading the way, and sat down.
Hurbuckle stepped up to the podium, flipped the switch that turned up the stage
lights and hit the chimes button. Three notes sounded, low, melodious and
compelling. The congregants, who’d been chatting quietly, fell into an
expectant hush.

Junior surreptitiously reached beneath his seat, searching for the Kleenex box
and almost panicked when he was unable to immediately locate it. He took a deep
breath, or tried to, and made another attempt, this one a success. After a
quick glance around the stage—no one was paying the slightest attention to
him—he picked up the box and carefully placed it on his lap. It felt like it
weighed fifty pounds.

“Gooood afternoon, everyone!” Hurbuckle called out cheerfully, sounding
self-confident and overflowing with energy and good feelings. I’m delighted to
see the sanctuary filled today, for this very special occasion, this historical
moment, an address to the nation by our President, Buddy Bourque.”

He paused to give the audience a chance to applaud, which it did, a bit
tentatively. Then he continued.

“
For some time now, y’all have been hearing about the possibility of a
reunion between the CSA and the NAU. Y’all have probably have read editorials
on the subject, or heard television commentary. Y’all may have listened to the
legislative debates, here and in the NAU.” Hurbuckle paused again, this time to
let audience catch up and whisper agreement.

Junior knew his father’s rhetorical tricks by heart and was increasingly
impatient with them. It would only be a few moments now before the old man
introduced Bourque and they would stand at the podium, together. For the very
last time.

Major Pruitt, whose eyes were sweeping back and forth across the stage like a
closed circuit TV camera, ran over Junior, moved on, then backed up and
returned to him. Pruitt knew the kid was a fidgeter—that came with the first
impression and it didn’t necessarily mean anything. But now Junior’s left leg
was jiggling rhythmically and he sounded like he was having an asthma attack.
Something was up with this guy, Pruitt decided, but he had no idea what.

While Pruitt was pondering, Hurbuckle resumed. “What y’all haven’t heard, is
what our President and my dear friend, Buddy Bourque, has to say on the matter.
Today, he has come to the Glass Church to deliver a national address on the
subject, to share with you his feelings and beliefs. Ladies and gentlemen, it
is my great honor to introduce to you the President of our great nation, Buddy
Bourque.”

Hurbuckle held both arms high, as if proclaiming the Second Coming or
indicating a touchdown, and the congregation reprised its modest applause.

Bourque rose from his seat and took a step toward the Reverend and the podium.
At the other side of the stage, Junior also rose, carrying the Kleenex box, one
hand slipping through the dispenser slot, the other cradling the end where the
detonator button stuck out. He, too, took a step toward the podium, toward his
father and President Bourque.

Major Pruitt was puzzled by Junior’s actions. Why was he standing? Why was he
moving toward the podium? And why in hell was he carrying his Kleenex box with
him? This was decidedly odd, and Major Pruitt didn’t like oddities. He didn’t
like Junior either.

As President Bourque approached him, Rev. Hurbuckle extended a welcoming arm,
evidently planning to put it around Bourque’s shoulders, a physical gesture
intended to show his unconditional support. Junior approached both from behind,
although neither his father nor the President noticed his presence.

Pruitt noticed. He also noticed that Junior had taken his hand off the end of
the Kleenex box and something was sticking out of it, something small and black
and round. A button. As Pruitt started toward Junior, the young man stabbed the
button with his forefinger, face expressionless.

Nothing happened.

Junior pushed the button again, confused, frustrated, puzzled.

Again, nothing happened.

Except that the button was no longer sticking out of the Kleenex box. The first
push, evidently, had been forceful enough to dislodge the detonator from its
position at the end of the box, where it had been held by nothing more than
three short strips of adhesive tape, old adhesive tape.

Junior finally realized what had happened and he stuck his finger inside the
Kleenex box, hoping the detonator was now backed up against the dynamite, and
that he could successfully depress the button. He felt around with a finger
tip, trying to find the button, but the detonator was now flopping around
inside the box, unanchored.

At that moment, someone snatched the Kleenex box snatched from his hand, and
spun him around, so his back was to the audience. Then, a thick, boney knee
smashed into the pit of his stomach. He started to fold up, like a Jenga stack
from which the wrong tile had been removed. But he did not fall. A strong arm
encircled his waist and led him off stage and out of sight.