ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (45 page)

“We’ve accepted the benefits of this delusion as though they are our God-given
rights. At the same time, we have grievously and unjustly shortchanged those
who, in our arrogance and our fear, we have deluded ourselves into believing
are our inferiors.

“We feel superior to them and we tell ourselves we occupy a higher rung on the
ladder of human development. But we believe that only because we’ve used our
greater wealth and power to perpetuate the illusion, to stop them from gaining
a truly equal education, from pursuing truly equal opportunity and truly equal
lives. Our higher standin’ is not a measure of our merit. It is an accident of
history that could easily have happened in the reverse.”

A bit short of breath, Bourque broke off the speech for a moment. He studied
the people in front of them, the sullen young men, the worn older women, the
open-eyed children. He looked at their faces, trying to see into their hearts.
They were quiet, serious, attentive, weighing his words, teetering between yes
and no. He decided to push a little harder, because what else could he do?

“The time has come time,” he said, “for us to surrender our illusion of
superiority. We haven’t done anything to earn it. We don’t really deserve
it. And they don’t deserve the position we’all have put them in. Come on.
Y’all know that. Y’all don’t need me to tell you that, do y’all?”

He smiled at the audience, as though he were the uncle who’d caught his nephew
robbing the cookie jar, but wasn’t going to tattle on him, and he was rewarded
by a few embarrassed smiles in the audience. Then he turned serious.

“My friends, my neighbors, my fellow Southerners, the time has come to abandon
this delusion. It has hog-tied
us
almost as much as it has the people
we’ve shut out.

We’ve lost the grace of their
friendship, their energy, their wisdom, their creativity and their humanity.
How do I know? Because of the stubborn coal of conscience.”

He stopped and let that sink in. He’d done his best to arouse their
self-interest. Now, he was trying to reach that stubborn coal of conscience he
was sure was within them, trying to awaken it and empower it.

“We have crippled ourselves—and them—for more than 200 years, and for every
year that has passed, a little bit of our humanity has leaked away, so that
today, it is not just our treasury, but our spirit that is tragically
impoverished.

“We must end this while there is still something left of us. We cannot wait any
longer. We can no longer comfort ourselves with half measures. The time for
that is long over, if there ever was a time for it.

“If you doubt that, even for a moment,” Bourque said, his voice strong and
compelling, “I ask y’all to look at the role Blacks play in the North. They are
doctors and lawyers and businessmen. They are musicians and policemen and
clerks. They live right next door to whites and go to the same schools. They
are taxpayers, productive citizens who contribute to their society in equal
measure.”

He stopped and looked back at Rev. Hurbuckle, who smiled and gave him a thumbs
up.

“Recently, the NAU elected a Black man President. Do you know why? Well, I’ve
spent a fair amount of time jawin’ with him, so I can tell y’all: he was the
best man for the job. He’s a big man, with a big mind and a big heart. He
understands the world. He understands his own country. He even understands us,
God help him. Yes he does. And his support for reunion demonstrates the depth
and breadth of his generosity. Yes, generosity. We’re not bringin’ much of a
dowry to this shindig, you know.”

Bourque chuckled and the audience laughed a bit as well. He felt like a defense
lawyer, trying to guess if he’d said enough, and said it well enough, to
persuade the jury. They weren’t against him. He’d be able to feel it if they
were. But they needed some more convincing, at least as far as he could tell.

“I know it won’t be easy for us to change,” he said. “Tain’t easy to conquer a
delusion. It’s hard to give up a privilege, even if you haven’t done anything
to deserve it. It takes courage, especially when it’s been passed down for
generations, especially when you’ve shared it with your friends and neighbors,
especially when it’s woven into the very fabric of our society. We’re going to
have to show great courage and great determination, and by ‘we,’ I mean y’all
and me too. Because I’m at least as guilty of believing in it as anyone who can
hear me now. Feels like it’s in my genes.” He looked at the television cameras
and grinned. “Don’t none of y’all ever forget that. Everything I’m askin’ of
y’all, I’m also asking of myself.”

He stood there and let them look at him, let them remember his grandfather, the
man who had turned a disconnected collection of rebel states into a real
country. He let them remember his father, who had ended slavery and won the
Confederacy membership in the League of Nations, as well as a seat at the table
among its fellow countries. He let them remember New Orleans and the wounds he
received in his victory against Miguel Garcia. He let them remind themselves
who they were listening to. Then he continued.

“Maybe y’all think reunion will be a sacrifice, perhaps a great and painful
sacrifice. But I am convinced, my friends, to the very depths of my soul, that
the benefit will be far greater than the sacrifice—so great, in fact, that
y’all will soon see that y’all are making no sacrifice at all, that ridding
yourselves of this delusion is the route toward freedom, toward a greater
humanity and a common brotherhood. ”

Bourque leaned forward, both hands on the lectern, waiting for a wave of pain
to pass. And it did, but it left him feeling weak. He swallowed hard.

“I am speaking from my heart now,” he said softly, because he didn’t have the
breath for full volume. “This is what I truly and deeply believe—and what y’all
believe as well, if y’all will only listen to what your heart tells you…we’re
the same, you and me. We both have to see—at long last—the true nature of human
bein’s. We have to see the world as it really is. I know how difficult that is,
believe me. It’s as hard for me as it is for y’all. But we don’t have any
choice at all. The moment has arrived. The very instant is here. And if y’all can’t
see that, go sit in the truck and let the rest of us get on with it.”

Bourque took one hand from the lectern and reached into his pocket, seeking the
roll of Tums he’d planted there earlier, and he found it and used his
fingernail to detach one of the little pink lozenges. He pulled his hand out of
his pocket, concealing the Tum, coughed a couple of times and snuck it into his
mouth, where it began to dissolve.

“Tomorrow,” the President said, a little more forcefully, “your state
legislators will cast their votes on whether or not to petition the NAU on
reunion. By speakin’ out—or remainin’ silent—y’all will have the single chance
in y’alls’ lifetime to embrace the future or cling to a past that’s dissolvin’
beneath our feet. What should y’all be thinkin’ as you consider that vote?

“Y’all should be thinking of Reunion,” he said. “I want to repeat that word:
reunion
.
I want y’all to get used to it.
Reunion
. I want it to be music to your ears.
Its a short word, but it’s packed with meaning. It means safety. It means
growth. It means prosperity. It means strength and power. It means a great
future. Reunion.
E Pluribus Unum,
‘from many, one,’ and that one can
include us. It means a new world for all of us.”

The President could feel the sweat dripping down his body. His legs were
trembling slightly. But he was almost there. They were on the verge. He could
feel it.

“I wanna remind y’all that we face a dual threat,” he said, “and we don’t have
the resources to fend them off, not by ourselves. So we got two choices: Either
we slip into penury and find ourselves invaded by a country fulla foreigners, a
country just itching to hitch us up to the yoke and squeeze the last of our
energy and our resources out of us, or we take a chance on a country with whom
we share a common heritage and which would welcome us with open arms and help
us with great generosity. That makes me as nervous as a pig in a packin’ plant.
But there is no third choice—we simply can’t go on as we are. That possibility
no longer exists. This is a reality we must face, every one of us,
however much we wish it were not so.”

Bourque hung his head, in what seemed like a dramatic gesture, but was actually
the result of weariness and pain. After a moment, he looked up and scanned the
audience slowly again. A single drop of sweat rolled down his nose, hung there,
then fell on the lectern. He took a breath and resumed.

“I have been your President for 17 years now, following the death of my father.
I have dedicated myself to the safety and prosperity of our nation, no matter
what the difficulties, or what the obstacles. Today is no different. I am
speaking out of my love for our country. And I am asking for your help to
preserve the best part of us
.

“We’ve been offered the opportunity to join with our northern neighbor, to once
more become one with them, not as junior partners, mind you, but as
equals
.
We have been invited to become
Americans
, to let the trees of our two
histories intertwine again and become a single nation, to share in their
military power and their prosperity. We must accept this remarkable offer with
grace, with courage, with trust and with hope. May God bless you. May God bless
the Confederacy.”

Bourque stood at the podium, trembling, exhausted, hurting. That was it. He’d
given it everything he had. He was empty.

For a moment, there was no response from the audience. And then, from a distant
corner, from the back of the vast glass sanctuary, the applause begin. It
picked up in the opposite corner, getting louder, and it spread, gathering
speed, and soon the entire congregation was on its feet, young and old, men and
women, not just applauding, but cheering.

The President looked out at them, moved to the point of tears. He had asked—he
had
begged
—and they had granted him his wish. He’d been sure, well
almost sure, it would turn out this way—how else could this end? But the
reality of it was staggering. It was no longer something he imagined. It was
something that had happened.

He nodded, first to one side, then to another, forgetting the television
cameras. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.” But the applause persisted,
unrelenting. He nodded again and waved, then turned to go back to his seat.

At that moment, his left leg gave way. He would have fallen, except that
Pickett, who hadn’t once taken his eyes away from him instantaneously moved up
and grabbed Bourque’s arm, helping him to his seat. To the audience, it seemed
as though he were congratulating the President.

The Rev. Hurbuckle knew Bourque was in trouble, but gave no sign of it. Instead,
he smiled and shook his hand, and then returned to the podium. He let the
applause slowly die. He looked out at the audience, his audience, the
worshippers he had assembled and taught and captivated.

“Today,” he said, “y’all have made me very proud to be a citizen of the
Confederacy. With all of my heart, I join you in your support for President
Bourque. He saved us once and now he is saving us once again.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Roy Pickett and Delphine Bourque sat in the
darkened hallway outside of Buddy Bourque’s bedroom, on either side of his
closed door, trying not to look at each other, waiting impatiently for Dr.
Cohen to emerge.

“I can’t believe how fast this is happening,” Delphine said.

“That’s the way he wanted it,” Pickett replied. “Said the longer we wait, the
more people will find reason to be against it.’

“I just want him around to see it.”

After what seemed like the better part of an hour, the door opened and Dr.
Cohen stepped out, snapping his big black doctor’s bag closed and shutting the
door behind him. He looked pale and concerned.

It was Delphine who worked up the courage to ask. “How is he, Dr. Cohen?”

The doctor shrugged. “Better. For now. I gave him something.”

“Is he asleep?” Delphine asked.

Cohen removed his wire-rim glasses and stuffed them into a pocket. “Drousy,” he
said. “Comfortable. But not asleep.”

“He’s going to want to know the results of the state votes,” Pickett said.

“Yes, he was pestering me about that,” Cohen said. “Tell him what he wants to
know, but don’t let him get excited. His energy reserves are very low.”

“The speech was too much for him,” Pickett said.

“We couldn’t have stopped him from making it,” said Delphine, exchanging a
significant glance with Pickett.

“That’s true,” Pickett said. “I doubt anything could have stopped him.”

“I want him in bed for the next three days,” Cohen said. “Serve his meals to
him.” He patted his pockets to find his glasses and put them on again.
“And have him take these pills,” he said, scribbling on a prescription pad. He
ripped off the page and handed it to Delphine. “Three times a day.” His hand
was shaking.

Delphine smiled at the nervous little man. “I’ll see to it, Dr. Cohen.”

“So he’s going to be all right?” Pickett asked.

“For now,” Cohen said. “That old buzzard has nine lives. But I don’t like these
emergencies one bit. They rattle me. Please tell him to take it easy. And call
me immediately if there’s any change.”

Delphine took Dr. Cohen’s hand in hers, causing him to take a quick breath. She
smiled. “Dr. Cohen—Lester—I want you to know how grateful…”

“Don’t be silly, Delphine. I got a lot of years tied up in that Daddy of yours.
I’m not anxious to see him go.”

That brought another smile.

Dr. Cohen trundled down the hall, lugging his black bag. Meanwhile, Delphine
knocked quietly on the bedroom door.

“Yes?” The usual roar was muffled. “Come in.”

Delphine opened the door carefully, as though it were fragile, and peeked
inside.

“Don’t just stand there,” said her father, sounding stronger, “come in, come
in. No dead bodies in here. Not yet,”

Delphine walked in, Pickett following. Bourque was in bed, wearing striped
pajamas, looking pale and old. The thick burgundy drapes were closed tight
against the midday sun and the lights were turned low.

“How are you feeling, Daddy?” Delphine asked.

“Like I got kicked by a mule,” Bourque said. His words didn’t have much wind
behind them.

“Dr. Cohen says you’ll be spending the next three days in bed,” Delphine said.

Bourque managed a smile. “Like hell I will.”

“You’re not going to get past me,” Pickett said.

Bourque gave him the evil eye. “Lester loan you his medical degree?”

“Don’t be difficult, Daddy.” She picked through the pill bottles and packages
of Tums on his nightstand, found a water glass and handed it to him. He took it
with a slightly shaking hand and sipped from it.

“Have we heard anything yet?” Bourque said, handing back the glass. “Newspapers
say anything?”

“The
Times-Picayune
loved your speech,” Delphine told him. “It said the
reunion plan was a very courageous idea.”

“Mmm hmmm. Courageous,” Bourque said. “That and $3 should get me a bowl of
grits.”

“Miami Herald said you should have started working on it ten years ago,”
Pickett said. “But they’re behind you.”

Bourque laughed. “It’s always the last one to the party who complains it didn’t
start early enough. But what about the Richmond
Times-Dispatch
editorial?
What did it say?”

Pickett frowned. “Carrington didn’t run an editorial. Just a news story.”

“Damn Carrington,” Bourque growled. “He’s one of the most contrary men I ever
knowed. If you throw’d him in the river, he’d float upstream.”

“Maybe he was too busy working the legislature,” Delphine said.

At that moment, the phone rang. Delphine picked it up. “Hello,” she said,
“Delphine Bourque.”

After a long pause, Governor Curtis Babineaux spoke. “Delphine? The switchboard
musta misconnected me. I was trying to reach your daddy.”

“This is his room, but he’s resting,” Delphine said, pressing the speaker
button. “Could I take a message for him?”

“Well, hmm, well, okay, I guess so.” He could now be heard by everyone in the
room. “Tell him that the Louisiana State Legislature passed the reunion plan.
It was 98 in favor, 30 against, 12 abstentions.”

“That’s wonderful, Governor Babineaux. He’ll be thrilled. I’ll tell him as soon
as he’s awake.”

“Any of the other votes come in yet?” Babineaux asked, eager not to be first,
or the only one.

Delphine recognized the man’s need for reassurance. “Not yet, Governor, But we
should be hearing very soon now. I’m sure you’ll be in good company.”

“Of course, of course,” Babineaux said. “Good talking with you, Delphine. Give
the Old Man my best.”

“Will do,” she said. She hung up and told Pickett and her father what Babineaux
had said.

“Don’t much like the abstentions,” Bourque grumbled.

“You did get 70% of the vote,” Pickett reminded him.

“Yes, but that was Louisiana. I’m not as sanguine about Virginia. Or North
Carolina.”

Someone knocked on the door and Pickett went to take care of it. He came back
with three telegrams.

“Well?” Bourque asked.

Pickett quickly leafed through the telegrams. “It’s a ‘yes’ from Mississippi,”
he said, “but no vote tally. Alabama also said ‘yes,’ but they had to defeat
four amendments. Tennessee also voted in favor, but the margin was pretty slim—78
to 62.”

Bourque attempted to sit up and Delphine stuffed a pillow behind his head.
“What’s that? he said drowsily, “Three in favor?”

“Four,” Pickett said. “So far.”

“Nothing from Virginia, Roy?”

“Not yet, Boss.”

Bourque closed his eyes.

Delphine thought a moment, then turned to Pickett. “What’ll you do if Virginia
votes ‘no’?”

“We have a contingency plan, Ms. Bourque. Your father flies to Richmond and
speaks to the legislature. Then they vote again.”

“A second vote? How are you going to do that?”

“It’s a parliamentary trick,” Pickett said. “It works this way—you get one of
your supporters to vote against the bill. When the bill fails, he has the right
to call for a new vote.”

“Couldn’t someone who voted ‘yes’ make the same request?”

“Nope. Doesn’t work that way, Ms. Bourque. You gotta be on the winning side.”
Pickett smiled and Delphine smiled back.

Bourque opened an eye. “What are you two chewing the fat about?”.

“Roy is giving me a lesson in parliamentary procedure,” Delphine said.

“He sure knows a lot ‘bout that kinda stuff,” Bourque admitted.

The phone rang again and Bourque made an ineffectual reach for it. Pickett got
it instead. “President’s room,” he said. “Roy Pickett speaking.”

“Oh hello, Roy. Judge Sidbury here. Put him on.” Pickett put a hand over the
receiver. “Sidbury,” he whispered to Bourque, who shook his head.

“He’s indisposed at the moment. But I’m supposed to take messages.”

“Rather talk to him directly, but, oh hell, tell him Georgia voted yes on his
Goddamned reunion bill. We’re all in the quicksand together now.”

“Voted yes,” Pickett said, both to Sidbury and Bourque. “And what was the final
tally?”

“It was 75 to 65—a little close, but I pulled it out. Took a bit of sweat.”

“Ah, 75 to 65,” Pickett repeated so Bourque could hear. “Well, that’s certainly
good enough. Congratulations, Judge.”

“Yeah. Well, have him call me, Pickett. I want him to hear it from my own lips.
He certainly pushed me hard enough.”

“Yessir, I will.”

Pickett hung up. “Well, that’s five,” he told Bourque. “We’re halfway there. No
surprises so far.”

“Thank God for little favors,” Bourque said. He signaled for his water and
Delphine answered the call. She watched her father’s hands shake as he took the
glass and drank.

“Are you in pain, Daddy?”

“Nothin’ I can’t handle, Darlin’,” Bourque said.

Delphine considered that for a moment, then turned toward Pickett, “There’s one
thing that bothers me, Mr. Pickett,” she said, “I know it’s unlikely. I’m sure
you and my father and the governors have everything under control, but what
happens if two or three or even four states say no? Are we going to send Daddy
flying here, there and everywhere, making speech after speech.”

“Damn right we are,” Bourque put in. “And I can do it too.”

“Let’s hope you don’t have to,” Pickett said. He met Delphine’s eyes. They both
knew Bourque didn’t have much left, at least given the way he felt now.

There was another knock at the door. “Jeezus,” Bourque said, rousing himself,
“what is this, Grand Central Station?”

Pickett opened the door and Kooter Barnes bounded in. This time, his plaid
jacket was an obnoxious mixture of grey, blue and orange. “Have you been watching,
Buddy? You see what happened in Arkansas?” He paused, realizing Bourque was in
bed, then looked around. “No TV in here?”

“It’s my bedroom, Kooter,” Bourque said. “I sleep here. I watch TV in the
parlor. But what’s up?”

“Well, you just got the Arkansas vote, Buddy,” Kooter said, grinning. “But it
was damn close. Wouldn’t have made except for the amendment.”

“The amendment,” Bourque said, confused, “what amendment? There can’t be any
amendments. Either Arkansas votes to petition the NAU for admission into the
union or they don’t.”

“Well, you know ole Russ Tompkins…”

“The mouth of the South.” Bourque said.

“The very same. Well, he took the floor and said he was going to vote against the
bill unless his amendment was passed. And that would have killed it.”

“Don’t tell me his amendment passed,” Bourque said. “I don’t think I could
stand it, not after everything that’s happened.”

“It did,” Kooter said, “but it’s harmless.”

Pickett threw up his hands. “Harmless? How can that be? It’s going to wreck the
whole deal.”

“I don’t think so,” Kooter said. “Tomkins’ amendment said that if any other one
of the 10 states of the CSA failed to pass the reunion bill, passage in
Arkansas would be null and void.”

Bourque thought a moment. “That’s meaningless,” he said. “It was always all ten
or nothing.”

“Yeah, I knew it was harmless,” Kooter said, “but it was sure exciting to watch
‘em fight over it. They all thought it actually meant something.”

“I love the legislative process,” Pickett said.

“Don’t knock it, Roy,” Bourque said. “It’s a fine way for damn fools to get
together and do and say foolish things. Keeps them out of trouble.”

“That’s six votes for reunion,” Delphine said. “Four to go.”

Bourque raised himself up and found a roll of Tums on his nightstand, peeled
off a couple and started chewing. “I’m starting to get impatient with
Virginia,” he said.

“Church ain’t out till they quit singing,” Kooter said, trying to reassure him.

Bourque laughed. “Now you’re stealing
my
lines.”

“He has a point, Daddy,” said Delphine. “No news is, well, no news.”

The phone rang again and everybody went for it. But this time Bourque got to it
first. “Bourque here,” he said.

“Oh, um, hello, Mr. President, this is Eric Wang. I understand you’ve been a
little under the weather. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Still alive and kicking, Mr. Wang, and I intend to go on doing that for quite
some time to come.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. President, and I’m sure President Callaway will
feel the same way.”

Bourque put his hand over the receiver, “It’s the Chinaman,” Bourque said.
“Chang.”

“Wang,” Pickett corrected.

Bourque waved him off. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wang?”

“I’m just checking to see how the voting is going.”