ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  Junior looked embarrassed. "I know we talked about it, Daddy, I just didn't remember."

  "Well, there it is, Junior. It's 'Love Thy Neighbor.' Put it on the sign and light it up real bright, y'hear? Move along, now."

  "Yes, Daddy. I'll take care of it," Junior said, "But I don't know why you're giving that sermon again. The congregation has heard it so many times they must know it by heart."

  Hurbuckle sighed. "People want to hear it, Junior. They expect it around this time of the year. It comforts them."

  "I think the young people are bored with it," Junior persisted.

  "Well, they shouldn't be," Hurbuckle said patiently, "There's a lesson in it for them too. The next generation has plenty of lessons to learn."

  "That's just stupid," Junior muttered under his breath.

  "What's that?" Hurbuckle asked sharply.

  "Nothing."

  "Don't you sass me, boy. Get that sign going."

  "Yes, sir." Junior looked as though he had more to say, but let it drop.

  Hurbuckle closed the door and sat down again. "Sorry about that, Buddy."

  "So how's my godson doing?" Bourque asked pleasantly. "I mean, in general."

  "Aw, I don't know. I've given him the responsibility of managing the building, but sometimes I wonder if I've done the right thing."

  "Oh, he'll be all right, Harlan. Just give him a couple of years. He'll be just like his daddy."

  "From your mouth to God's ear," Rev. Hurbuckle said sincerely. "And speaking of children, how's Delphine?"

  "She's the apple of her old daddy's eye," Bourque said, beaming. "Got a new record out. I'll send you a copy."

  Hurbuckle nodded. "Buddy, seems to me you're about to ask me to do something political."

  "Just a mite," Bourque conceded.

  "Well, you know I don't cotton much to politics, Buddy," Hurbuckle said. "I have my hands full tending to my flock's spiritual needs. And I'm a big believer in rendering unto Caesar. That's why you and I have gotten along for all these years, just like two pups from the same litter."

  "I know, Harlan, and don't think I don't appreciate it. But this is one ditch I can't jump by myself. I need your help, I surely do."

  They looked at each other, remembering the years that had passed, the things they'd said to each other, the things they'd done together. "What do you want me to say, Buddy?' Hurbuckle asked.

  Bourque sat down again, tired, relieved. "How about this, Harlan: When the North contacted me, I immediately went to you to pray on it and ask for your guidance. And we prayed on it and God came to you and told you this was a wonderful opportunity for the Confederacy. So you gave me your blessing and told me that you trusted me without reservation."

  "Hmmm. You know, I could fold that right into tomorrow's sermon. It's a perfect fit."

  The grin slowly spread over Bourque's face. "That would be excellent, Harlan."

  "When is the official announcement?"

  "Tomorrow at noon, simultaneously from the White House and The Plantation."

  It was Hurbuckle's turn to grin. "So I'll scoop the networks by a couple of hours."

  "Exactly."

  Hurbuckle nodded thoughtfully. "Buddy, just how far are you going to go with this?"

  "You mean the meeting with Callaway?"

  "I mean the deal you're cooking up."

  "Dammit, Harlan, there's no fooling you, is there?"

  "How far?" Hurbuckle repeated.

  "No telling," Bourque said. "As far as I have to."

  "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "That's two of us." They both stood, and they shook hands rather formally. "I may be coming to you again, Harlan," Bourque warned.

  "I know," said Hurbuckle. "I'll be praying for you."

  Bourque put on his Panama hat, walked out of Hurbuckle's office and almost collided with Junior, who was on the way back in. "hello, Junior," he said.

  "You were in there with Daddy?" Junior asked, suspicious.

  "Yes. Just some business between old friends. But I'm glad I've run into you."

  "Yeah? Why?"

  "Well, your father tells me he's put you in charge of the building. It's nice to know you're working together."

  "Yeah," Junior sneered. "Daddy trusts me, even if you don't."

  "Please, Junior. I trust you just fine. But I couldn't take you on at The Plantation, like you wanted. I already have an assistant, someone who knows exactly what I need before I do. I couldn't fire him."

  "Yes," Junior said. "That nigra. The one who lives at The Plantation.

  Bourque frowned. "Roy knows all my peculiarities, Junior. Besides, I do believe you're a lot more suited to religion than politics. It's in your genes, son."

  "Right," Junior said.

  Junior walked into his father's office and closed the door behind him.

  "Junior? Have you…"

  "Turned on the sign? Yes I have. You want to check up on me?"

  "Of course not, Junior. Thanks for telling me."

  "I just ran into ol' Buddy Bourque. Were you meeting with him?"

  "We talked for a bit."

  "About what?" Junior asked. It was not a friendly question.

  Hurbuckle sighed. "Well, Junior, it's confidential, you see. He was just asking for a little favor."

  "A favor? Why would the President of the Confederate States of America need a favor from you? He should be doing favors for you."

  "He's an old friend, Junior. And he's the South's greatest living hero. I think he deserves your respect."

  Junior scowled. "What did he ask you to do, Daddy?"

  Hurbuckle hesitated. “It’s just political business, Junior. Nothing for you to worry yourself about.”

  Junior held his father's gaze for several seconds, then offered the slightest possible nod of agreement.

  "He's working for us, son. He's working to protect our way of life." Hurbuckle opened a file folder and started paging through it, trying to find something. “We have to help him any way we can.” He failed to notice his son’s sudden, sharp hostile stare.

  Junior composed himself. “Yes, Daddy,” he said obediently.

  Hurbuckle finally found what he was looking for and caught Junior's eye again. "Do you want to help me update the 'love thy neighbor' sermon and listen to me rehearse it?"

  "Update it? How?"

  "Well, I want to put in a paragraph about Bourque's upcoming meeting with Callaway. I'll be breaking the news, you know. And that's quite a privilege."

  Junior understood. He knew the size of his father's ego. "I don't have time to help, Daddy. I'm interviewing replacement window washers in a few minutes. But I know you'll be wonderful. You always are."

  "Ah, window washers. That was a tragedy, what happened to that young man."

  "The building presents special problems."

  "Indeed. Well, I'm sure you'll choose a fine replacement. You're always in my prayers, you know."

  "And you are in mine," Junior said reflexively. He left the room, keeping his anger to himself. Outside of his father’s office, he paused to mull over what his father had told him. He didn’t like it, not one bit. He didn’t like the idea of Bourque imposing on his father. He didn’t like anything the man did.

  Delphine came to the airport to pick him up—well, not exactly to pick him up, but to bring the car, one of Arcadia's famous black Packards. She parked in the arrival lane climbed into the back seat and kept an eye on the revolving doors.

  Pickett emerged a few minutes later, carrying an overnight bag. He spotted the car almost immediately and hopped into the front seat, driver's side. A compartment on the door held a driver's cap, which he put on.

  Then he looked into the rearview mirror, saw her face, her shining green eyes and her loving smile and grinned. "Where to, m'am?" Pickett said, and she laughed. He slipped a hand between the seats and she grabbed it and held it.

  "Missed you," she said. "I hate it when I can't see you."

  "Same here," he told h
er, and squeezed her hand.

  "So how did it go?"

  "Better than I could have dreamed," Pickett said. He started the engine and drove toward the airport exit. “It took some convincing, but Callaway has agreed to meet with your father.”

  Just past the main terminal, a pudgy uniformed cop took one look at the vehicle and raised a hand in warning. "Hey, hey, hey," he said, and Pickett pulled up and stopped. The cop walked over to the driver's side window, arranging his face so as to appear annoyed and impatient. He signaled for Pickett to roll down the window. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he asked with undisguised malice. "Mighty fine car for a boy like you."

  "Ah'm jes th' driver, suh," Pickett said. "It's mah job."

  "Mmm hmm," muttered the cop, still suspicious. He stuck his head into the car, looking toward the back seat and flinched in surprise. "Ms. Bourque—I didn't know. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to delay you. I just saw the driver and…"

  "Don't worry about it," Delphine purred. "It's completely understandable. Can we go on now?"

  "Of course," the cop said, grinning ferociously, halting another car so they could go first and waving them on like royalty.

  "I'd almost forgotten about that sort of thing," Pickett joked.

  "I guess two days up North can change a man," Delphine said.

  Pickett laughed. "It's different all right. I could get used to it."

  "You'd leave me here?" She teased.

  Pickett looked back over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. "I don't know," he said. "There's plenty of redheads up there." Delphine slapped him sharply on the back of the head.

  They drove out of the airport and into the country, through thick stands of magnolias, beeches and blue ashes, toward Bayou Bartholomew. Pickett told Delphine what had happened in Washington and what was going to happen next.

  "I hope he can pull it off," she said.

  "How's he been feeling?"

  "Seems all right, but I keep finding Tums wrappers wherever he goes."

  "Yeah," Pickett said. "I'll bet the arm rest ashtrays are full of them."

  She looked. "Yep. Stuffed."

  "Delphine, you're going on the road again tomorrow, right?"

  "Yes, but we still have the rest of the day and tonight, Roy."

  "I'm glad, but that's not why I asked."

  "Oh?"

  By now, they were deep in rural territory, with few signs of civilization except for the occasional farmhouse and even more occasional one-pump gas station.

  "Where are you going to be for the next week or ten days?"

  "Too far away for us to…"

  "Yes, I know that, but where exactly?"

  She thought about it. "Just making a couple of stops—Westover, then the Dixie Club in Savannah.”

  "Westover? Can't stay away from the plantations, can you?" Pickett teased.

  Delphine defended herself. "You know I have friends at the plantations."

  "I know, I know," Pickett said, retreating. "But it's a good variety—a plantation, then a big club. Puts you in contact with a broad cross-section."

  "Oh? Why does that matter?"

  "Delphine, I need your help."

  "My help? How can I help? You want me to sing some northern country music?"

  They laughed, hers being much more musical than his.

  "We need feedback. We’ll be announcing the meeting tomorrow and we need to get a handle on what our people think about it."

  Pickett turned off the two-lane street and onto a narrow, tarred fire road. Loose pebbles clattered against the vehicle's undercarriage.

  "So you want me to do some spying," Delphine said.

  They came to an unmarked intersection with another fire road and Pickett turned left. "Don't go all cloak-and-dagger on me, Delphine. And for God's sake, don't do anything that would make people suspect you're on some kind of secret mission. Just ask a few innocent questions, listen to the answers and tell me what you heard.”

  Pickett glanced into the rear view mirror just in time to see Delphine salute. "Yes sir, Mr. Pickett, sir. Should I use invisible ink?"

  "You should call me every night before you go to sleep," Pickett said.

  "Wait a minute," said Delphine. "Don't I already do that?"

  "Not always," Pickett said. "Sometimes I call you."

  He took another turn, onto an unmarked dirt road deep in the bayou. It had been fifteen minutes since they'd seen any sign of human habitation, but there, a few hundred yards in, and almost invisible, was a small cabin near the water. Pickett parked the car on the far side of the structure.

  Although the sermon was set for 9 a.m.—and Hurbuckle always started a few minutes late, to make sure the stragglers had found seats—it was just past 7 a.m. that the vast parking lot began to fill up with its characteristic collection of old pick-up trucks, beat-up sedans and rusting station wagons, each of them disgorging its share of hopeful housewives, good ol' boy husbands and butter-faced children in hand-me-down clothing. Everyone wanted a front seat. Everyone wanted to be as near as possible to Rev. Hurbuckle.

  The good reverend glanced at the video monitor on his desk, checking out the accumulating crowd in the sanctuary. Junior was at the main door, greeting the parishioners. All was well down there. But up here, he was pondering a literary problem and the time to solve it was growing short.

  He had written, he was sure, a perfectly splendid paragraph to tell his parishioners about Bourque's upcoming journey into the jaws of the beast. It would make his friend sound like a combination of Gandhi and Mother Theresa. But the question was, should the paragraph come at the beginning of the sermon or at the end?

  Hurbuckle weighed the pros and cons. 'Love thy Neighbor' was one of his milder sermons—light on fire and brimstone and practically timeless, yet very persuasive. If he knew his congregation, and he certainly did, it would leave them feeling so guilty they could hardly wait to start baking cakes and pies for their neighbors, or inviting them to parties.

  Hurbuckle knew that the phrase love thy neighbor as thyself was frequently, if not usually, misunderstood. It wasn't intended just to describe the people next door, but strangers near and far and even more importantly, enemies. That's why Hurbuckle thought this particular sermon was a perfect fit with Bourque's trip.

  He'd make it a remarkable, even noble example, Bourque demonstrating to them what it really meant to love thy neighbor. There would be gasps of appreciation and, no doubt, applause. And Buddy would love it.

  First to arrive in Bourque's office that morning was Kooter Barnes, the President's genial poker-playing companion and drinking buddy from South Carolina, and the Vice President of the Confederate States of America. Even though he could no longer button it, Kooter was wearing the rust-colored plaid jacket he favored for official Presidential meetings.

  "So what's up, Buddy?" Kooter asked, his walrus mustache wiggling as he talked.

  "All in good time, Kooter," Bourque said.

  "I knew it was something like that," Barnes said. He planted his considerable rear end on its customary resting place, the big red leather couch on the wall opposite the TV set.

  Bourque had forgotten how deaf Kooter had become. He repeated himself, louder.

  "Oh that's fine," Barnes said, trying to give the impression he'd understood the first time.

  There was a knock on the door. "Come on in," Bourque said, startling Barnes.

  It was Delphine, dressed in something light green, rather short and fine-spun. "I hope I'm not late, Daddy," she said, giving him a hug.

  "Right on time, Darlin’," Bourque said. "Wish I could say the same about our friend Mr. Pickett."

  "Mornin' Ms. Bourque. You sure do light up a room," Kooter oozed. "It's always a delight to see you."

  Bourque turned on the big screen TV and an image of the Glass Church sanctuary came up, bright and colorful. The enormous room was nearly full, the last members of Hurbuckle's congregation still maneuvering for good seats. Junior could be seen on the hexa
gonal, red-carpeted speaker's platform, adjusting the glass teleprompter screens. His father, the reverend, was nowhere in sight.

  At that moment, Roy Pickett came into the room. "Really sorry," he said to President Bourque. "Stayed at Mama's last night and she decided to let me sleep. You know how she is."

  "I do indeed," Bourque said.

  "Good morning, Mr. Vice President," Pickett said, "hello, Ms. Bourque." Their eyes met for the barest fraction of a second, then Pickett took a seat as far from Delphine as he could get.

  "So we're going to watch a Hurbuckle sermon?" Kooter asked, puzzled.

  "Ah, yes," Bourque said, speaking loudly for Kooter's benefit, "but it's not just any Hurbuckle sermon. He's going to say something I think you'll all find interesting."

  "Interesting?" said Kooter, "interesting how?"

  "I'll let him say it," Bourque said.

  Kooter shrugged and smiled uncertainly, his mustache wiggling as though he was fighting back a sneeze. "Well, I always enjoy a Hurbuckle sermon. Keeps me on the straight and narrow."

  Pickett stole a glance at Delphine, who was making a point of looking elsewhere.

  "Really?" Bourque teased. "Since when do you keep to the straight and narrow?"

  "Whenever I hear a Hurbuckle sermon. Briefly," said Kooter, bantering.

  "When's the last time you actually went to one?" Bourque asked loudly.

  "Lemme see now," said Kooter. "Aught-six, I think it was, or maybe aught-seven. A'course, since color TV, I've been watching mostly at home."

  They all turned toward the television screen. Sunlight was pouring through the Glass Church's vaulting glass canopy, illuminating the crowd in the sanctuary below. Every one of its 5,000 cerulean theater-style seats was occupied now. The room's shimmering glass walls amplified the attendees' quiet chatting into a low hum.

  Then the chimes sounded—three notes, low, melodious, strangely compelling. An expectant hush fell over the congregants. A moment later, the Rev. Harlan Hurbuckle bounded onto the stage, smiling, self-confident and full of energy. "Goood morning, everyone!" he called out, cheerfully, his amplified voice easily reaching the sanctuary’s topmost row.

  "Good morning, Reverend Hurbuckle," roared back the combined voices of every man, woman and child in the audience.