"This is better than I thought, Roy."
"You have to say one thing for the North Americans," Pickett said. "They don't do things by halves. It's all or nothing with them."
Bourque closed his eyes and took a very deep breath. He seemed to slump in his chair.
"Sir?"
Bourque opened his eyes and sat up. "I'm fine, Roy. Just tired. They're coming at me from all directions."
"I understand."
"But you've just given me the best possible news. You're the only star in the sky, Roy, but you sure are burning bright."
When Pickett got back to Wang's office, Wang was just hanging up the phone. "Everything copacetic?" He asked. "That was my first look at your President. He seems to be feeling reasonably well."
"He's okay. Tired, but okay."
"Good. Listen, Roy, I've made a couple of calls, asked some people to help us out with the announcement. We'll be meeting with them here at 2 p.m. Now it's getting to be lunchtime. How about if I call down to the kitchen and have them send up some burgers?"
"Yeah, I'm getting hungry," Pickett said. "But if it's all the same to you, Eric, I wouldn't mind having lunch out. This is the first time I've ever been in Washington, you know. I kind of want to take a look at it."
"That could be arranged," Wang said.
"Arranged? We gonna need an escort? Secret Service."
Wang laughed. "No. If I had guards, everyone would want them. But it's a little nippy out there. That summer suit of yours won't do. I'll have to find you a jacket. Gimme a minute. I'll be right back."
Wang left Pickett sitting in his crowded, chaotic office, looking at the pictures on the walls—a fairly good reproduction of Starry Night; an autographed photo of a grinning Tom Brady about to throw a football; a big, slightly dusty shot of the Chrysler Building, gleaming warmly in the late afternoon sunlight; and an ancient, elaborately framed double-portrait of an elderly man holding a rake and an equally elderly woman wearing a floppy sunhat, the Asian version of American Gothic. These must be the great-grandparents, Pickett decided.
Then there was the desk, which was large and impressive, but had seen better days. Its top was scratched and worn, its legs scarred and dented apparently from several administrations' worth of passing shoes. A small, picture frame sat on one corner of the desk, displaying two male grade schoolers, one with missing front teeth; and behind the desk, a tall, cheap, glitzy tennis trophy protruded haphazardly from an open cardboard box. All of this was floating in a sea of books and stacked file folders.
Wang returned, carrying something bright blue and puffy.
"A pillow?" Pickett said. "You brought a pillow?"
"Nothing of the sort," Wang said. "The Assistant Press Secretary was kind enough to loan me his genuine L.L. Bean down jacket. Take off your suit coat and try it on."
Pickett did as instructed. The down jacket was a nearly perfect fit. "I look like the Michelin man," he said, swinging his arms.
"You'll thank me."
Wang slipped on his own down jacket—his was red—and led Pickett through the barely controlled bedlam of the West Wing and out of a side door, into the chilly crisp air of the Nation's Capital. The sidewalks and streets were clear, but a thin layer of snow lay on the grass. Pickett bent down, scooped up a handful and studied it.
"Never seen snow before?"
"Not since I've been an adult." Pickett rubbed his hands together briskly. "kind of crystalline," he said, intrigued.
"Sometimes," Wang said. "Sometimes powdery, or flakey. Or mushy."
"Your breath," Pickett noted.
Wang exhaled a stream of frosted condensation. "Yours too."
Pickett puffed out a little cloud. "Interesting." He shivered.
"Zip up your jacket, Roy. This isn't N'Oleans."
Roy zipped up, as did Eric Wang. Then they walked over to 17th Street NW and toward the creamy white spire of the Washington Monument, which contrasted sharply with a sky full of threatening dark clouds.
Pickett rubbernecked. "Impressive buildings," he said.
"Yeah," Wang said. "That's the Baker Executive Office Building and up there is the Corcoran. They have one of Gilbert Stuart's Washingtons."
They pulled into a nondescript deli a couple of blocks from the White House. "Doesn't look like much," Wang allowed, "but they have the best pastrami south of 2nd Avenue."
"The best what?"
"I'll order for you."
And there he sat, Roy Pickett, black, Southern and about as out of his element as a toad on a birthday cake, eating a pastrami on rye so thick that he could barely keep it together, using both hands.
"Hey, Eric!" The greeting came from a slim man with a triangular face, shiny black hair and one of those pencil thin mustaches that were fashionable in the 1930s. He was wearing an excellent suit and grinning mostly with the left side of his face, as if the right weren't so pleased.
"Mark. How have you been?"
"Not as good as you, Eric." Mark nodded toward Pickett. "Who's your friend?"
"I'm…"
"An old college buddy." Wang interrupted.
"Always good to get together with old friends," Mark said, performing a double-entendre, low degree of difficulty.
Eric offered a chilly smile.
"I would love a half hour with the President, Eric. Even 15 minutes," Mark said. "I mean, to the country's benefit. And the industry's of course. I admit it. I just want to make sure he knows the facts, you know. It'll help when he starts to work on the pipeline bill."
"How about if you send me something? Got a brochure? A press release?"
Wang caught Pickett's eye and grinned.
"Well, of course I could send you something. Will you read it?"
"It'll go on the top of the pile."
"Good," said Mark, without asking exactly which pile Wang meant. "It'll be on your desk within an hour."
Wang stuck out a hand and Mark, having no choice, shook it. "Nice to see you Mark."
"Same here," said Mark, with his disconcerting half smile. He wandered off.
"You get that a lot?"
"He's the first one today, but I expect a hundred more before the week is over. Doesn't happen to you?"
"Rarely. They don't like asking Negroes for favors."
Wang nodded. "I wish they felt that way about Korean-Americans."
"What are these?" Pickett said, pointing to a pair of thick, amoeba-shaped blobs on his plate.
"Potato latkes," Wang said. "You eat them like a pancake. Smear 'em with the applesauce or the sour cream."
Pickett dipped a spoonful of applesauce, smeared it on a latke, took a tentative bite, then quickly cleaned his plate.
Meanwhile, Wang managed to flag down a waiter, which was no mean feat in this place. "Two cheesecakes," he said.
Despite the enormous sandwiches, it took them less than 90 seconds to finish off their cheesecakes.
"We don't have anything like this in the Confederacy," Pickett said. "At least I've never come across it."
"Well, you'll just have to spend more time up here," Wang said. "And speaking of time, we have an hour before we have to get back to the office for the meeting. Time to wander. What would you like to see?"
"You're the doctor."
They paid, zipped up and walked out into the Washington winter, down 17th Street to the Mall. "Let's go down to the west end—the Jefferson Memorial—and head back East," Wang suggested.
They walked past the Reflecting Pool, talking. "You've known the President for a long time?" Pickett asked.
"Since he was a Representative," Wang said. "How about you and Bourque?"
"I was born in Arcadia," Pickett said, bending into the chill wind. "My mother was chief cook at The Plantation. So I've known President Bourque all of my life."
"You continued to live at The Planation?"
"Never lived anywhere else. Went to school there with the children of Bourque's cabinet members, and his daughter."
Wang kicked
a clump of ice. "That explains it," he said.
"What?"
"You're an educated man—and a Black man from the South. Usually, it’s one or the other, not both."
"That's true," Pickett said. He stopped, bent down, scooped up a handful of snow and packed it into a ball.
Wang held up both hands. "No throwing, please. I get enough of that with the twins."
"Your boys?"
"Yes. They're relentless. And their aim is deadly."
Pickett smiled and tossed the snowball at a stone post, just grazing it.
"You're married, I assume?"
"Kerry. Ten years. You?"
"No."
"Girlfriend?" Wang asked.
"Well, there's…no one I can really talk about."
"I see."
They came up to the Jefferson Memorial, with its circular marble steps and portico, and the famous circular colonnade of Ionic columns, topped with a shallow dome. The bronze figure of Thomas Jefferson could be seen standing inside, under the dome. Pickett led the way up the steps.
Inside, he stood in front of the 19-foot bronze sculpture, and gaped. Wang joined him. "I'm told he wasn't quite that big in real life," Wang joked.
"He had a big impact, though," Pickett said. He pointed toward the southwest interior wall, into which was engraved a passage from the Declaration. "We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men." Wang kept an eye on Pickett. "Powerful stuff," he observed.
"Very," said the Southerner.
They walked back toward the Washington Monument, Pickett still rubbernecking.
"So tell me about President Bourque," Wang prompted.
"Okay," Pickett said, circling around an icy spot on the sidewalk, "Virgil I. ‘Buddy’ Bourque Jr., born on May 15, 1951, son of Big Buddy Bourque, President of the CSA from 1964 to 1984, when he stroked out. His only son, the man we're now talking about, became President of the country in 1996, a year after the he became a hero in the Battle of New Orleans."
"Wait," Wang said. "That I could have looked up. In fact, I did. What kind of man is your Boss—that's what I want to know."
They circled around the Washington Monument, slipping through a gaggle of well-bundled and multi-colored 4th grade field trippers, and found themselves on Jefferson Drive SW, with snow-covered grass on one side and imposing classical government buildings on the other.
"Bourque is a very colorful man. He never met a metaphor he didn't like," Pickett said. "But he's also blunt to the point of rudeness. He says what he thinks, no editing."
"That's good," Wang said. "I can deal with the truth."
"Truth," Pickett said with a laugh. "He's devious as a snake. And that's no secret. He'll tell you so himself. He's also got a lot of courage. That, he won't tell you."
"You admire him?" Wang asked.
"I'd give my life for him."
Wang cocked his head, impressed. "Well, I guess that answers my question."
They passed the Smithsonian Institution castle, its reddish orange brick façade beautiful against a lawn of white snow. Pickett paused, interested.
"Not now," Wang said. "Maybe next time."
Then, just past the Hirshhorn, they came up on the huge bulk of the National Air Museum. Wang looked at his watch. "Let's go in for a minute—there's something really worth seeing here."
Wang led Pickett into the museum's grand hallway, in which a variety of famous airplanes hung in midair, wired to the distant ceiling. At the center, in the place of honor, was a large, moth-like structure with two sets of rectangular wings, one behind the other, both covered in nearly transparent silk.
Pickett gawked. "So that's it? The real thing, not a model?"
"Yes. That, my friend, is Aerodrome #6, built by Samuel Langley, the first piloted heavier-than-air flying machine and the direct ancestor of all the planes that have come since, including the one you flew in on."
"That was a Messerschmitt D-40 passenger plane with four jet engines," Pickett said, craning his head upward. "But this is a wonderful relic. It's an honor to stand in its presence. But it had a steam engine, right?"
Wang stepped forward and read the plaque. "Yes," he said, "a 58-horsepower steam engine. You know the story, right? They must teach it in the Confederacy. In 1896, Langley's machine was catapult-launched from a houseboat in the Potomac and Charles Manley flew it for almost a mile. Changed the world."
"It's odd, when you think about it."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, you guys invented airplanes, but it took Germany to develop them."
"That's true," Wang said, professorially. "But if it weren’t for the Great War, we might have beaten them. They poured millions into warplanes, then used the same technology to create commercial aircraft. But Boeing is working on a new jetliner that might show the Europeans a thing or two."
"Hah!" Pickett said. "Best of luck on that one."
"Yeah. It's a longshot."
Pickett turned toward the plane hanging beside Langley's Aerodrome. "Anyhow, you did beat them with this one."
"The Spirit of St. Louis? Yes, that was quite a triumph. But it was the man as much as it was the machine."
"Looks like you could gas it up and fly it away right now," Pickett said.
They gazed at the plane for a few moments, then strolled into the west gallery. There, suspended from the ceiling and completely choking the cavernous space, hung the giant, bulbous, silver-colored airship, the Elyria, the nearly 800-foot long sister to the illfated Akron, whose loss in tropical storm in the South Atlantic in 1937 with 73 aboard, ended America's effort to compete in long-distance airship passenger service.
"Amazing," Pickett said. "I assume they built the museum around it?"
"No. They left one end of the building open and stuffed it in, slowly and carefully, and inflated it."
Pickett smiled. "I imagine that caused a bit of comment."
"You have no idea."
They spent another 10 minutes at the museum, walking the length of the dirigible and back, Pickett gawking, Wang explaining.
Then it was back out in the cold. "Thanks," Pickett said, "that was memorable."
By now, a light snow was falling. "Wanna take a cab back?"
"Let's walk, if we have the time."
They walked, briskly, past the National Gallery of Art, past the National Museum of Natural History, the snow falling harder with each block, and blowing into their faces. Pickett did his best not to let it distract him. "So," he said, "tell me about President Callaway. What kind of a man is he?"
Wang put up his hood and pulled the drawstring and Pickett awkwardly followed his example. "Charlie likes everyone to think he's a pragmatist," Wang said, "but he's really an old-fashioned idealist. He's bent on leaving the world better than he found it. That's the real reason he gave in on the Bourque meeting."
"Well, your idealist is going to be dealing with the ultimate opportunist."
"That should be interesting."
By the time they got back to Wang's office, it was past 2 p.m. Marty Katz was already there, cigar in hand, occupying the chair Pickett had cleared. He stood when Wang and Pickett walked in. "Jesus, you two been to the North Pole?"
"Just to the Mall," Wang said. "Showing my guest the sights." He brushed the snow from his jacket and Pickett did the same.
"Care to introduce us?"
At that moment, the President's Press Secretary, Jewel Rogard, appeared at the door. She was a tall, gawky, bottle blonde in her late forties, wearing a skirt too short for her age. "I hope I'm not too late," she said, looking for someplace to sit. Pickett saw her predicament and cleared off a chair for her, earning a smile that was more gums than teeth.
"Here," Wang said, removing the stack of papers from the remaining guest chair. "Have a seat, Roy."
"Jewel—Marty—this is Roy Pickett from N'Orleans. He is an emissary from the President of the Confederate States of America, Virgil Bourque." He paused for reactions and he got them—a gasp from Ms. Rogard and a disbelieving laugh from Katz.
"No, really," Katz said.
"Yes, really," Wang assured him.
"I'll be damned," Katz said.
Ms. Rogard tilted her head coyly. "Well, hello," she said.
Wang explained—as best he could—Callaway's decision to meet with Bourque, surprising Katz and increasing Ms. Rogard's fascination with Pickett.
"I am very impressed," she said, "that a Black man could achieve such influence in the CSA, especially someone so young and…" She let the sentence dangle.
Pickett, who was not subject to blushing, smiled modestly.
"Do people in the South know how close you are to Bourque?" Katz asked. His cigar choose that moment to go out. He re-lit it automatically and took a big drag.
"Well, of course everyone at Arcadia knows, but many are under the impression that I act as Bourque's body man, his personal servant. I don't correct them."
"I can't imagine you as anyone's servant," Ms. Rogard said sweetly.
"So, Eric," Katz said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and blowing one of his patented smoke rings, "Why have you sent for Jewel and me? How can we help?"
Wang leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers behind his head and stretched, then snapped back to an upright position. "The first thing we have to do is announce the meeting to the public. I need you to help me figure out what to say."
"That's going to be tricky," Katz observed. He looked around for an ashtray, but found nothing.
"Yes," Wang said. "If we do it wrong, the whole thing is going to come back and bite us. We need to be smart and careful."
"When are we going to let this cat out of the bag?" Ms. Rogard asked.
"Tomorrow," Wang said, and the press lady gasped again.
"This could be trouble," Katz said, still searching for an ashtray and getting a little anxious.
"Which is why we're all here," Wang said.
"Well, let's analyze this," said Ms. Rogard, untwisting her legs and retwisting them in the other direction, to the discomfort of the men in the room. "Who's going to like this and who's going to hate this?"
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 9