ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (47 page)

When Pickett finally concluded, and the applause began to build, Delphine stole
a look at her father. Tears were running down his cheeks as well. He
wiped his face, thinking he had not been observed, then turned to her. “I think
that boyfriend of yours just may have saved our bacon,” he said, his booming
voice now barely an echo of its former self.

“Boyfriend?” Delphine said.

“Come on, Delphine. I may be sick, but I’m not blind. I see how carefully the
two of you avoid each other’s glance and sit as far apart as possible. T’ain’t
natural. Can only mean one thing.”

Delphine decided not to argue. “How long have you known?”

Bourque shrugged. “Near on to a year now, I think.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Hell’s bells, Delphine, that woulda spoiled all my fun.”

“We were worried…”

“Yes, I know. You didn’t think our folks would take it all that well, the
President’s daughter and a Black man. Would have been a scandal in the
Confederacy, all right. But in America, it’s just a news item.”

“It might be a good idea to keep the secret until reunion is a
fait accompli
,”
Delphine said.

“As you wish, Darlin’,” said her
father.

*

The Foreign Relations Committee spent the rest of the day in debate, although
it wasn’t really a debate, just an exchange of statements, made for the media’s
benefit, for the Senators’ constituents and stake-holders, and to lay
down a marker for posterity, if it happened to be listening.

Finally, Sen. Poulos, the committee chairman, called the proceedings to a
close. “If there are no more comments, will someone move the vote?”

“So moved,” mumbled several senators. “And seconded,” said another.

They voted, one at a time, quite unpredictably—some thought to be certain
supporters of reunion voting against it, some considered staunch opponents
voting in favor. The vote began with the most junior members of the committee
and running along the rostrum until it reached Poulos and Wendell. By that
time, the count stood eight votes for reunion, seven votes against.

“I say nay,” said Wendell, with a token hand wave. That tied up the count,
eight to eight.

Poulos regarded Wendell with a sort of wonder. “You heard Pickett and you still
voted no?”

Wendell regarded Poulos with a sardonic smile. “Certainly you didn’t expect me
to change my mind as the result of an emotional appeal—did you?”

“One can always hope,” Poulos told him. Then he spoke to the committee. “I vote
in favor of reporting the bill to the full Senate. That makes it nine in favor,
eight against. The bill goes to the Senate. Meeting adjourned.”

He tapped his gavel and everyone began to file out of the room. Bu Poulos made
a point of engaging Wendell before they left. “You seem to have lost this
round, Oliver.”

Wendell shrugged. “That was just the preliminary. The main bout starts
tomorrow. And I will win that one, I promise you.”

“Even if you have to filibuster?”

“I intend to win, Thomas.”

“And you’re willing to thwart the will of the majority?”

Wendell smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those who thinks the majority is
always right.”

“Oh, hardly,” Poulos quipped. “After all, majorities elected
both
of
us.”

“Exactly my point,” Wendell replied.

Poulos nodded, resigned.

*

Senate Majority Leader, Ed Lockett, thinking it best to strike while the iron
was hot, began debate in the Upper House on Monday morning. All 78 Senators
were on hand, not to mention their several assistants, and every last seat in
the spectator’s gallery was filled. Nothing this consequential had reached the
Senate floor in decades, maybe ever.

What followed was one of the longest, nastiest and most contentious debates in
American history, during which normally well-behaved and respectful Senators,
both men and women, called each other liars, bigots and traitors, among other
things, causing Vice President Darren Garvey, who was presiding over the nearly
continual five-day melee to break a gavel, trying to restore order.

The misbehavior began in earnest on Monday afternoon, after a few inconclusive
skirmishes in the morning. It was triggered by the silver-haired Sen. Harold
Muntz (R-IN), who told the Senate that he was opposed to reunion because he had
determined that a large influx of Southern Blacks threatened to upset his
state’s somewhat fragile social harmony.

This was more than Sen. Timothy Eberstadt (D-OH) was willing to put up with. In
his impassioned denunciation of Sen. Muntz, he managed to call his esteemed
colleague a Neanderthal, and a racist.

To the amusement of those in the Senate chamber, as well as those watching on
television, Sen. Muntz demanded an immediate apology. Sen. Eberstadt not only
refused, he doubled down, calling Muntz “an old fashioned bigot,” which some
felt, given his initial remark, bordered on the redundant.

“I am insulted beyond words,” Muntz said. He rose from his seat and stormed out
of the Senate Chamber, in what, the media folk agreed, was a “full-blown
huff.” About twenty minutes later, he returned without a word, trying—but
failing—to enter unnoticed.

The next outbreak of verbal violence occurred mid-morning, on Tuesday. This
time, it was set off by Sen. Nina Rosenbush (R-KA), who, when it was her turn
to speak, asserted that the entire reunion effort was a plot by CSA President
Buddy Bourque to trigger a war between the North American Union and Mexico.

Sen. Etta Majewski (D-OH), who was often referred to as the Senate’s grandma,
shot to her feet when she heard that, and accused her “good friend from Kansas”
of an outright lie, in fact a despicable one, and intimating that she might be
representing the interests of the German Empire.

Sen. Rosenbush fired back, charging that Sen. Majewski was a well-known
Callaway “toady,” already campaigning for a job in the administration, in the
very likely event that her Senate re-election failed. Then she sat down and put
her fingers in her ears when Sen. Majewski denied the accusation.

On Wednesday, the fireworks was unwittingly set off by Sen. Wayne Postlethwait
(R-OR), a tall drink of water in his mid-40s, with a black mustache that didn’t
match his salt-and-pepper hair. “I worry how we are going to pay the CSA’s
debts and its Social Security shortfalls. Reunion makes no sense if we have to
impoverish ourselves to do it,” he said.

This mild observation, somewhat to the surprise of Sen. Postlethwait and Vice
President Garvey, caused a sudden outburst of booing and catcalls from the
gallery, several of the younger members of the audience calling Postlethwait a
traitor. Garvey signaled to the Sergeant-at-Arms, who directed his deputies to
eject the hooligans forthwith.

These weren’t the only unpleasant incidents to mark the debate, although they
were the most egregious. The others reflected bitter differences between the
Senators, as well as anger, frustration and fear. And this was not surprising.
Normally, Senatorial emotions, although detectable, are kept under control. Not
this time. Reunion was far too momentous an issue. Whatever decision the Senate
made, it would affect the lives of millions and determine the future of two
nations. It would change the world.

All during the debate, pundits and the prognosticators tried to publicly
predict the Senate’s final vote, with results that not only differed wildly,
but changed daily. The truth was, although they pretended otherwise, no one,
not even the Senate Majority Leader, Sen. Lockett, or his Republican
counterpart, Sen. Wendell, had any idea how this was going to end. And both of
them were sweating buckets.

None of the traditional alliances pertained, it seemed. Party loyalty seemed iffy.
Old alliances couldn’t be counted upon. Some Senators, of course, had announced
their positions. Others had been claimed by one camp or the other, without
their denials. But 29 out of the 78 sitting Senators were refusing commit
themselves.

Even worse, many of the uncommitted refused to participate in the debate,
further shielding their opinions—although not one missed a single minute of the
discussion and several took extensive notes. Of those who did join in the
debate, some made no speeches and argued no points. They merely asked
questions—and whether their questions hinted at their opinions or were of the
devil’s advocates variety, no one knew. They were like Supreme Court Justices.

In private, Lockett and Wendell put the arm on the undecided. They threatened,
cajoled, reasoned and guessed, but they couldn’t figure out who was going to
win this thing and who was going to lose. Callaway called Lockett at least once
a day for a new count. He never once hung up feeling satisfied. Jack Sullivan
and Helmet Metzger played much the same game, with the same result. The
frustration and foreboding was palpable.

The members of the media, ever resourceful, tracked down and questioned
legislative assistants, wives, children, ex-girlfriends and even former high
school teachers. During the week, they managed to strike three names from the
list of the uncommitted, but as the debate hurtled toward its end, 26 mysteries
remained, uncrackable.

Of course, Las Vegas knew, or thought it did. The odds were 3-2 in favor
of passage—at least on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. On Tuesday and Friday,
they were 3-2 against, and it was mighty hard to find someone willing to take
your money.

The late night comics, who couldn’t resist making fun of the uncertainty,
claimed people were studying Biblical passages, Nostradamus’s quatrains and
Mayan glyphs, as well as tea leaves and they would have examined the entrails
of pigeons if they’d had the stomach for it.

Would the NAU and the CSA reunite? How would the Senators vote? The Bill of
Acceptance required only a simple majority, although bringing the issue to a
vote required cloture—and that needed a three-fifths majority: forty-eight
yeses. But as the end of the debate approached, neither side had more than
thirty committed votes.

The Senate debate was intended to decide the most momentous issue of modern
times. It was also intended to demonstrate to all of America, all of the
Confederacy, in fact all of the world that reunion had gotten a fair hearing,
so they would accept the Senate’s verdict as final and definitive.

Europe—especially Germany—was watching with fascination, the government denying
any attempts at influence, proclaiming itself absolutely and positively neutral
and offering its sincerest good wishes.
Presidente
Garcia, caught
off guard by an American reporter, was asked how he felt about a reunion
between the North and the South. “None of my affair,” he said. “I expect to
have friendly relations with my northern neighbors, however many of them there
are.”

On Friday, Sen. Lockett declared the debate closed. The Senate would reassemble
on Monday morning for the final vote.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Hay-Adam wake-up system roused Phyllis Iserbyt at 6 a.m. and the first
thing she did was to start the running the bath water in the room’s two-person
Jacuzzi, turning the “hot” faucet handle all the way up. Then she slipped out
of her pajamas.

When the tub was mostly filled, she gritted her teeth and put a toe in the
water, flinching with the heat. It was uncomfortable, but necessary. The heat
definitely helped numb the pain.

For a week now, Phyllis had been praying to God to reduce her suffering, to let
hemorrhoids regress, if only for this special weekend. And for a week now, God
had apparently been busy with other matters.

So, she told herself, she would just have to suck it up, with the help of her
little friend, Vicodin. But even with Vicodin and hot baths, her condition
presented problems. Should she go to the bathroom early tomorrow, and risk
making things worse. After all, the pain could affect her ability to speak
convincingly and sap her energy. But if she waited until after the speech, she
would be courting agony. And how long could she hold it, anyway?

Phyllis soaked in the tub for the better part of an hour, and when she got out,
she was feeling a bit better. The Vicodin, the bath and the anesthetic cream,
thickly applied, had given her some relief. But now she had to get dressed. Ed
Poindexter, her faithful second-in-command and Sharon Hunt, her closest friend,
would be waiting for her, as well as her team captains, her ‘ladies in
waiting.’

She picked out an outfit—her blue suit would be fine for today, she’d wear the
red one tomorrow—and as she dressed and fixed her hair, she opened the drapes
and looked out of her hotel room window. She’d paid extra for the view. Her
room overlooked Lafayette Park and Pennsylvania Ave. The White House was right
in front of her. It was a lovely summer day and little knots of sightseers were
already meandering past the famous buildings.

She tried to imagine what this area would look like tomorrow—jam-packed, she
hoped, filled with enthusiastic, sign-waving protesters. Almost directly below
her, and right across from the White House, she could see carpenters putting
the finishing touches on the stage from which she’d address crowd. She was
going to make history tomorrow. She was going to force a President to back
down. She was going to emasculate the man who thought he was the most powerful
person in the world. And in the process, she was going to personally establish
herself as a politician to be reckoned with. That was going to make up for a
lot.

Downstairs, her team was waiting for her in the dining room. “Good morning,
everyone,” she said, taking her place at the head of the table, wincing
slightly as her bottom made contact with the chair seat. Poindexter, Hunt and
the team captains returned the greeting.

“Any problems I need to know about?”

“It’s all going smooth as a baby’s bottom,” said Ed Poindexter, unaware of the
irony. “I’m almost worried that we haven’t had any real problems.”

Phyllis nodded, pleased. “And Sharon? The buses?”

“They’re already starting to come. All but a few should be here by dinner time.
The rest should be in before dark.”

“No bus problems?” Phyllis asked.

“We’ve had two breakdowns, one coming from San Antonio, the other from
Charlotte,” Sharon said. “But both are up and running again and on the way.”

“Excellent.” Phyllis turned to her trio of ladies-in-waiting, her eye settling
on Roberta Cornish, a chubby 50-year-old woman with the lowest female voice
she’d ever heard. “Accommodations?”

“Well, it’s going to be tight,” Roberta rumbled, “but enough of our suburban
members have volunteered to put up people that I think we’re going to make it.
Worse come to worse, some people can sleep in the buses.”

“The police won’t bother them?”

“We’ve rented parking lot space at the bankrupt Alexandria Mall,” Roberta said.
“That won’t be a problem.”

A fresh-faced young waitress appeared and took their breakfast orders, while
another server poured steaming cups of coffee or decafe, as requested.

Next up was the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting, Carla Hendrickson, a slender
brunette whom Phyllis several times had been forced to warn about wearing sexy
clothing to the Our Country First headquarters. “Are the electronics in place,
Carla?” She asked.

“Everything but the flat screen TVs,” Carla told her. “We don’t want them out
overnight. Too risky.”

“That’s probably wise,” Ed Poindexter put in, “although I don’t think any
thieves are going to have vans big enough to cart them off.”

“Well, it might rain,” Arthurerta said.

“If it rains,” Phyllis said, “my meteorologist friend will have to go into the
witness protection program.”

Polite but uncertain laughter followed, the group being wary of Phyllis’s
temper.

“Now,” she said, showing no trace of a smile, “how about food?” She looked at
the third of the ladies-in-waiting, Betty Mellon, a tall, patrician,
well-coiffed auburn haired woman in her mid-40s, third in line to inherit a share
of the Mellon steel fortune.

“We’ll have 250 private vendors in the area,” Betty said, “and in addition to
that, I’ve hired two big catering firms to provide craft services for our staff
people. It’s all set.”

“When did you last talk to them?” Phyllis asked.

“This morning, before I came down for breakfast,” said Betty Duke.

“Good. No problems, right?”

“Right.”

“Listen, if you’re worried about anything, even something small, this is the
time to tell me, while I can still do something,” Phyllis said. “If something
goes wrong tomorrow that you could have anticipated today, I’m going to be very
unhappy. Do I make myself clear? Tomorrow has to be
perfect
.”

She surveyed her breakfast companions, all of whom nodded in assurance. Then
she had another thought. “Ed, are the INN people up to speed?”

“Their team is here and they look ready for tomorrow,” Ed said. “I talked to
their reporter, Lori Newbold I think her name is.”

Phyllis raised an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised that you know her name?”

“Well, I just…”

“It’s okay, Ed. I know you can’t help it.”

Poindexter managed to blush and frown simultaneously. “At any rate, everything
is ready.”

The waitress brought breakfast: Raisin Bran for Phyllis Iserbyt, eggs, bacon
and pancakes for the others. Ms. Iserbyt surveyed the table. Sometimes,
sacrifices were necessary.

*

Wang hadn’t liked the idea. He claimed that Callaway looked much more
comfortable at a podium looking composed and commanding. But Katz
overruled him. He wanted to take advantage of the full majesty of the Oval
office, sitting Callaway behind the magnificent oak desk, putting him in the
dark blue suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie with an unobtrusive geometric
pattern.

If they’d been able to choose, they wouldn’t have scheduled a nationwide
Presidential address for a Saturday night, but they couldn’t do it before the
Senate debate ended. And with the rally on Sunday and the vote the next day,
this was the only window, the only time when Callaway wouldn’t have to compete
with other events or speeches.

And so, after an early dinner, Callaway changed out of his Saturday
clothing—sweatshirt and jeans—and donned the customary uniform of the Chief
Executive, under the critical eye of his beautiful wife, who proved invaluable
when it came to tying the Windsor knot preferred on formal occasions, because
the leader of the free world happened to be a total klutz when it came to
cravats.

“There,” Julia said, scrutinizing him at arms’ length, then flicking a flake of
dandruff from his jacket shoulder. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?” he asked.

“No one’s perfect,” she said, mischief in her eyes.

“You can say that again.”

“Oh, stop fishing for compliments. You’re going to be fine.”

Callaway flashed her a doubtful look. “We’ll see about that.”

“You’ve stopped fiddling with the speech? You know you always regret the last
minute changes.”

“Gave it to the teleprompter guys before dinner,” he retorted.

“Well now,” she said, impressed.

“I’ve been over it so many times I’m sick of it.”

Someone knocked on the bedroom door. “Time to go, Mr. President.” Wang said.

Callaway gave his wife a quick kiss. “Watch me on TV,” he said.

“What? And give up ‘Dancing With the Stars’?”

They shared a nervous laugh.

Callaway and Wang then made their way downstairs to the Oval office, where
Marty Katz and Veronica Tennenbaum were waiting. A two-man crew had set up a
television camera, complete with a through-the-lens teleprompter, and a make-up
lady was ready with a loaded powder puff. Callaway closed his eyes and
submitted to the de-shining, then took his seat behind the desk.

At that moment, Katz came over and tucked Callaway’s suit jacket under his rear
end. “So it won’t ride up,” he said, when Callaway looked up in surprise.

“Thirty seconds, Mr. President,” Wang called out.

“Break a leg, Mr. President,” Veronica said.

“Yes, but not until the speech is over,” said Marty Katz.

“Ten seconds,” said the TV director, and then he counted down. As he said
“one,” he pointed to the President, who had just taken a deep breath. The
teleprompter began rolling and Callaway started speaking, his tone serious,
even grave:

“My fellow citizens. For the past week, you have been listening to an open
debate in the United States Senate about whether or not to readmit the ten
states of the Confederacy into the union.

“The previous week, the House of Representatives voted to approve the petitions
of these states,” Callaway said, gazing into the television camera and fluently
reading the words scrolling down the teleprompter screen. “But before they can
rejoin the union, the Senate must also accept these petitions and when this Act
of Acceptance reaches my desk, I must sign it.”

He paused for a moment, a signal to the teleprompter operator to slow the scroll
down a bit. Then he resumed.

“As you might imagine, I have been following this process with the greatest
possible interest and concern. Like many of you, I have watched the
demonstrations, both for and against reunion. I have seen the subject discussed
on television by pundits, politicians and ordinary citizens. I have closely
followed the Congressional debates and read the editorials and letters to the
editor. And my advisors and I have spent a great deal of time on the subject.”

He was listening to himself now, judging his tone of voice and his cadence as
if someone else were speaking, trying not to spook himself by thinking of the
millions who must be watching, and how important his words were.

“What will I do if the Act reaches my desk?” Callaway continued. “I will sign
it into law, with confidence and with great satisfaction. I will sign it with
gratitude for those who have spoken loudly and passionately in favor of it, and
for those in Congress who approved it. I will sign it with renewed hope for the
future of our great country. I will sign it to honor the citizens, the
legislators and the national leaders of the CSA, especially President Bourque,
who have set aside their differences and doubts to cast their fortunes with
us.”

Callaway waited for the teleprompter to catch up to him, and for a moment he
had the uncanny sensation of watching himself, sitting behind the President’s
desk, addressing the nation, wondering how he had come to be here. Then the
next paragraph came up on the teleprompter and he picked up where he’d left
off.

“Why, you may ask, am I so eager for our two countries to become one? Why in
the face of so many objections, so passionately delivered, am I nonetheless
ready to sign the Acceptance Act just as soon as it reaches my desk?” he asked
rhetorically.

“Well, I support reunion for what I believe are the best possible reasons,
reasons that nullify all the counter-arguments and doubts. I believe that
reunion will make our country far stronger than it is now. I believe it will
greatly expand our economic base. I believe it will increase our international
standing and make us a force to be reckoned with as never before. I believe it
will heal an open wound that is 150 years old.

“I believe this not simply because I want to, or because of my optimistic
nature. I have reached my conclusions after listening to some of the world’s
foremost economists, trade authorities, diplomats and military experts. They
are unanimously and strongly in favor of reunion. I believe them not just
because they make good sense. I believe them because it is impossible to come
to any other conclusion.”

Callaway paused. He decided to let the next paragraph of his speech roll by on
the teleprompter without reading it. It would have exposed to the public the
deal between Garcia and Zimmerman and revealed that Mexico was on the verge of
invading the Confederacy. But now, seeing the words in front of him, Callaway
spontaneously rejected them. He didn’t want to use fear or anger to sway public
opinion. He wanted the American people to support reunion for the simple,
honest reason that it was the right thing to do. He took a breath and went on.

“It has not been easy for the Confederate states to ask to rejoin us,” he said.
“It means the end of the CSA as an independent nation, and the individual
states have had to rescind the Articles of Succession they passed 150 years
ago. It means the Confederate states are once again ratifying our Constitution
and all of its amendments and that they are agreeing to honor and abide by
every Federal law and regulation.

“Most importantly, and most impressively, it means that they are volunteering
to abandon the way of life that divide us so many years ago. That doesn’t mean
they will be completely transformed overnight. But it does mean the laws that
support second-class citizenship for Negroes—or worse--will be immediately
stricken from the books and Southern society will start down the road to
equality. Having traveled it ourselves not so very long ago, and not yet having
reached the end of it, perhaps we can tolerate their struggles and point the
way.”