ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (52 page)

“Mrs. Wilkinson votes no,” Gribbish said, making a notation in his register.

*

Earlier in the morning, President Callaway had gone to his office, signed a few
papers, took a couple of calls, tried to concentrate on his job and failed. He
called Julia.

“You upstairs?”

“That’s where this telephone is, love.”

“Listen, I can’t do anything here. I’m going to come up. We can watch
together.”

He was upstairs almost before she’d hung up. They took up position in front of
the living room television and despite Julia’s suggestion that they watch the
vote on INN, chose CBS instead. Its broadcast was being anchored by Dina
Sheppard, the former Olympic swimmer, fashion model and Broadway star.

“So far,” said the beautiful and accomplished Ms. Sheppard, we have had three
‘aye’ votes. And now, Senator Wilkinson has given us the first ‘nay.’ And
we have an unexpected thread in an already complex story line. Will the
presence in the gallery of former President Howard Exley put any pressure on
the uncommitted Senators? Only time will tell.”

“Exley?” Julia said. “Did you know he was coming?”

“No. And I’d be just as happy if he hadn’t.”

*

Gribbish pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Mr. Arthur?”

An ancient, white-haired Senator on the right side of the room rose unsteadily.
“I vote no,” he said in one of those high, reedy voices that so often afflict
the elderly.

“Mr. Benglebee?”

The man who rose to vote was a country lawyer type—at least that’s the way he
presented himself to his Kentucky constituents. In the Senate, he was partial
to $4,000 Hugo Boss suits, which he wore with a bolo tie. “I vote nay,” he
said.

“Benglebee nay,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Bowdoin?”

Senator Bowdoin (R-ME) rose from his corner in the back of the room. “Nay,” he
said, giving it a Down East twang. If he’d voted the other way, the Senate
would have heard him utter one of his famous Maine “ayuhs.”

Senators Wendell and Lockett made ticks in their check boxes, then stole
glances at each other. Lockett had been hoping to lasso Bowdoin’s vote, but
Wendell had thwarted him. It was an occasion for more sly smiles and
unimpressed shrugs.

“Mr. Bowdoin votes nay,” Gribbish said.

*

Roy Pickett and Delphine Bourque had spent the night in the cabin, intending to
drive back to Arcadia to watch the vote with the old man. But Bourque had told
them Kooter would be there, and “a whole troop of gov’nors” and the Southern
Comfort would be flowing. He’d understand if they didn’t want to join the
crowd. In fact, he was insistent.

So they’d stayed at the cabin, in bed, which was not the worst fate either of
them could imagine, since there was no need to get dressed. And they’d watched
the little portable TV with the rabbit ears, which, given the lousy reception
in the bayou, would be painful, but good enough.

“Stop that,” she said. “They’ve started to vote.”

“Stop what?” he asked. “What vote?”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s three-to-three,” she said.

“You’ve been listening?”

That got another elbow.

“Hey.”

“This is the most important thing in our lives, you know,” Delphine pointed
out.

“Second most important,” Pickett said.

“Shhhhh!”

He obeyed she who must be obeyed, and the TV announcer’s voice became audible.
“…Now, with Senator Bowdoin’s vote, the nays take the lead for the first time,
four to three. Of course, it’s too early to make draw any conclusions. It’s
likely to see-saw back and forth for awhile.”

“I think the torture is just beginning,” said Delphine. Then, after a moment,
“I said stop that!”

*

Gribbish located the next name on his register. “Mr. Blecky?” he said, voice
breaking on the “k.”

Wally Peepers—or his exact double—rose from amidst the Democrats. “I vote yea,”
he said, with an odd mixture of determination and timidity.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” Gribbish called out.

Senator Bradshaw had risen to prominence by becoming the National President of
the Rotary Club, and once he arrived in the Senate, he deployed all the
characteristics that had won him that office: a perpetual grin, twinkly eyes
and a numbing handshake. “I vote nay,” he said, booming out the words in a
friendly baritone.

“Mrs. Brinkler,” Gribbish said.

Ann Brinkler (D-MT) was first of all a rancher, and only secondarily a Senator,
which she demonstrated by wearing cowboy boots at all times.. She’d been
appointed to the office after the sudden death of her husband Mark, who had
been Montana’s Senior Senator and the head honcho of the state’s largest
ranch. “Senator Brinkler, from the Big Sky state votes in the positive,
for reunion,” she said, quite comfortable with the third person.

“Mrs. Brinker votes yea,” Gribbish said, unimpressed.

*

Dr. Lester Cohen gazed at Buddy Bourque, lying in bed, eyes closed, thinner,
looking a little yellow. He took a deep breath and then grasped the President’s
wrist, keeping an eye on his watch. Too fast, he thought, much too fast.

Bourque opened his eyes and regarded his doctor as though he wasn’t certain who
the man was. But it came to him. “How am I doing, Lester?”

“You’ve had better days. You in pain?”

“Not any more. But I’m floating. Am I dreaming?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You’re sure? Feels like I’m dreaming.”

“Pretty sure.”

Bourque adjusted his position.

“Another pillow?” Dr. Cohen asked.

“Why not.”

Cohen slipped a pillow under Bourque’s head. “Better?”

“Hard to say.” Bourque hunched his shoulders and tried to adjust his position.
“So, Lester, how much longer?”

“I don’t know. Not much, I think.”

“Hate to be a botherment.”

“No bother, Mr. President. Anything but.”

“’Bout time you called me Buddy, don’t you think?”

Dr. Cohen smiled. “It’d be an honor, Buddy.”

“Oh, don’t go all high hat on me,” Bourque said.

“Hah!”

Bourque sought out Lester Cohen’s eyes. “I want to see how the vote turns out,”
he said.

“Oh, you will, you will. Not gonna be
that
soon.”

“And Delphine. She’ll be back tonight.”

“You’ll be around.”

“Good. Now could you turn on the TV?”

Dr. Cohen did as he was told. The Senate Chamber appeared on the screen. “Sen.
Brinker’s vote makes it five to five,” said the announcer.

“Well, that don’t tell me much,” said Bourque. He was annoyed.

*

Alvin Gribbish looked at his register, trying to focus. “Mr. Browning.”

The handsome Mr. Browning, who had made millions in real estate, rose from
amidst the Republicans. “Nay,” he said, displaying a perfect set of expertly
whitened teeth.

“Mr. Bushnell,” Gribbish said without looking up.

Ed Bushnell (R-CA) stood up. He was a laconic, rail-thin fellow with an unkempt
thatch of yellow hair and intense bright blue eyes. Some of his
colleagues believed he might not be completely sane. “I vote yea,” he
announced.

“Mr. Bushnell, nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Capposetto?”

No one answered. The Senators began looking around and whispering. A moment
later, the rear door of the Senate chamber burst open and a small, round,
dark-haired man bounded into the room. “I’m coming,” he assured everybody as he
scurried down the aisle toward his desk, which was on the Democratic side.
“Getting there,” he said, gasping for breath, pushing into his row. “I’m here,”
he announced as he reached his desk. His chubby face was flushed and he was
sweating.

Gribbish had been watching patiently. Now he repeated himself. “Mr.
Capposetto.”

“This is the vote, right?” Capposetto said, still standing. “Yea or nay on
reunion, right? Well, I vote yea.” He sat down heavily.

“Mr. Churchill?”

Churchill sprang to his feet. He was man made of spring steel, with energy
enough for two, and he could barely contain himself. “I vote yea,” he said, or
seemed to. No sound came out of his mike. He banged on it. “I vote yea,” he
repeated, but no sound emerged. He wacked the mike again. “Motherfucker,” he
muttered. This time, the sound was amplified throughout the room with startling
clarity. Churchill glanced around the room. Well, he thought, no way to it that
back. He sighed. “I vote yea,” he said, and this time the mike worked just
fine.

“Churchill yea,” said Gribbish without further comment.

*

The Prime Minister of Canadia, Gordon Bowman, stepped off the pebbly sandbar
into the slow current of the Elk River, his boots and navel-height rubber
waders keeping him dry. He peered into the water. Rainbow trout were lurking
there, he knew, and steelheads and probably salmon.

He reared back with his graphite rod and made a beautiful, well-practiced
overhand cast. About 30 feet of yellow line floated through the air, with a
wooly bugger at the end of the leader. It settled onto the water like it was
alive.

This was the way Gordon Bowman dealt with stress. He surrounded himself with
the natural world. True, the NAU Senate was voting and the future of North
America hung in the balance. But nothing he could do or say would change what
was going to happen today, not any more.

Anyhow, he could listen in on it. The little music player in his shirt pocket
had a radio. He turned it on with his free hand. “…Senator Churchill’s vote
makes it eight to six yea,” said a newsreader.

It was at that moment that the fish struck. He couldn’t tell what it was, but
it was big. And it was running. Bowman pulled in the line, while raising the
rod top, setting the hook in the fish’s mouth. Then he began to reel in the
slack, using his off hand to act as a drag on the reel.

The fish soon tired and Bowman began to reel him in. God, it’s a big one, he
thought—maybe twenty inches, five pounds. A rainbow trout. He reached behind
himself, for the landing net in his pocket and bent over to scoop up the fish.

“Next up,” said the radio announcer, “Senator Mack Connelly, a Republican from
Connecticut.” Then the radio slipped out of Bowman’s pocket. He tried to grab
it and hold onto the fish at the same time, but the radio disappeared into the
Elk River with a soft plop.

He landed the fish, then went after the radio, quickly finding it on the bottom
among the water-smoothed pebbles. It came up dripping and silent. He tried to
get it to work. No luck—and for an instant, he was infuriated. Then he thought
better of it. Gonna turn out the same way whether or not I’m listening, he told
himself. Besides, he had a rainbow trout to tend to, a beauty.

*

Gribbish looked up from his register. “Mr. Connelly?”

Senator Martin Connelly, a member of the Connelly banking clan in Connecticut,
a key Republican leader rose from his first row seat on the right side of the
Senate. “Mr. President,” he declaimed, “With respect, I pass.”

“Mr. Connelly, pass,” Gribbish noted. He tried to record the vote in his
register, but to his dismay, his treasured antique fountain pen had run dry. He
scratched at the register several times, shook his pen and even whacked it
against his desk. No joy. Another clerk handed him a ball point pen, which he
examined with disdain but finally put to use.

“Mr. Crane,” Gribbish called out.

Ralph Crane (D-IN) was grey-haired and slightly stooped and his warm brown eyes
were framed with the sort of bushy eyebrows that hint at benign mischief. The
man behind the eyebrows, however, was a strictly by the book kind of guy, a guy
who abhorred change of any kind. “Nay,” he said, standing. “I vote nay.”

“Mr. Crane, nay,” Gribbish said, voice cracking again. “Mr. Croft.”

In Oklahoma, the Croft name signaled power and wealth. In the early years of
the 20
^th
century, Isaiah Croft had brought in gusher after gusher,
creating one of the country’s great oil fortunes. His great-grandson
Robert had inherited the money, some of it, but he had the charisma of the
average flight attendant. “Nay,” Robert said quietly.

*

By now, Gerard Pinckney was fairly sure they weren’t coming for him. He’d
failed. He’d embarrassed Herrera and no doubt infuriated Garcia. But that had
been weeks ago. He’d been scared of shadows, hesitant to start his car and on
several occasions was sure he was being followed, but evidently they’d
forgotten about him, thank God.

But if today’s vote in the NAU went wrong—if Bourque and Callaway somehow
managed to pull it off, Garcia would remember all right. He’s remember the spy
who misled him. And he’d come looking for him.

Pinckney shivered, and turned to the TV set. One of those bland reporters was
telling his audience what had just happened, as if they’d just tuned in.
“Senator Croft’s vote against reunion brings the nays even with the yeas, eight
to eight.”

The biographer/spy sighed deeply. He was the sort of person who always imagined
the worst and now he couldn’t stop thinking about Garcia and what
El
Presidente
would do to him if the reunion thing went against him.

Pickney suddenly realized he had to go to the restroom.

*

Gribbish ran his finger down the register to the next name.
“Mr.
DaSilva,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. He was more occupied with
refilling his pen than he was with the roll call.

Harrison “Harry” DaSilva (D-NY), a tall, silver-haired man with a deep voice,
an actor who had played Caleb Dunbar, wagon master, on The Oregon Trail TV
series. He still liked to maximize his lines. “Mr. President,” he declared, “I
have carefully considered the issue at hand and I have come to the conclusion
that our nation would greatly benefit from the addition…”