"I wasn't sure we'd have a full house this morning," Hurbuckle said. "I didn't expect to see so many of you.."
A murmur of surprise wafted through the audience.
"After all, the subject of my sermon isn't exactly new. But then, nothing in the Bible is new. It is timeless. It is eternal." Hurbuckle stopped dramatically, allowing the audience time to murmur "amen" and "that's the truth."
Kooter and President Bourque both raised their eyebrows and exchanged amused glances, as if to say Haven't we heard this before?
"The other day," Rev. Hurbuckle resumed, mildly, "I saw a cartoon, in which a woman approached her pastor after a sermon very much like the one you are about to hear, and she asked him "Do I really have to love my neighbor? Couldn't I just, well, tolerate him?"
The congregation laughed appreciatively, but Hurbuckle silenced them with a stern look. "Do you think that's funny? I don't think that's funny," he said gravely. "I don't think it's the least bit amusing. I think the importance of the command to 'love thy neighbor as thyself' cannot be overstated."
He paused and gazed at the crowd intensely. "If you have your Bibles with you, you can follow me now," he said.
The audience was suddenly struck with an epidemic of Bible-opening, which couldn't have been better synchronized if it had been executed by a squadron of military cadets.
"Matthew 7:12," Hurbuckle intoned. "Jesus summarizes the importance of the Golden Rule by saying, this is the law and the prophets. Then, in Matthew 22:40, after he tells to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul and mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves, Jesus concludes, "On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."
In the President's study, Pickett and Delphine exchanged furtive glances and Pickett suppressed a sigh.
On stage, Hurbuckle casually turned his back on the congregation, then whirled like a panther, his voice rising in passion and power, "Said John, the Apostle, 'If a man say I love God and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen? And we have this commandment from him, That he who loveth God love his brother also. 1 John 4:20-21."
At that, Kooter roused himself, bent forward, grunting, and grabbed the remote control and hit mute. "Let's give this a rest for a few minutes," he said.
"A few minutes," Bourque agreed.
"Do you have any of the good stuff left, Buddy?"
Bourque smiled. "What do you think?"
"Pickett," said Kooter, "fix me up, okay?"
Pickett got a bottle out of a cabinet. He set out one glass, glanced at Bourque, who nodded, and got a second glass, filled them both and handed one to the President and the other Vice President, who took it gratefully.
"Sermon getting to you?" Bourque asked Kooter.
"Maybe a little." He maneuvered the glass around his mustache and took a sip.
"Don't know why it would," Bourque said. "You love your neighbors, don't you?"
Kooter shot him a look
"You said that Rev. Hurbuckle would be making an important announcement, Daddy," Delphine said. "Is he ever going to get to it?"
"In good time, I imagine," Bourque said. He took the remote control from Kooter and unmuted the TV.
At the Glass Church, Hurbuckle was delivering more of what they'd heard earlier, at a higher emotional pitch, if possible, leaping around the stage like an evangelistic Nijinsky.
"What I don't unnerstand," Kooter said, "is what y'all are waiting for. I've had just about all the preachin' I can swallow in one day. Is the good Rev. gonna say abracadabra or something and disappear in a puff of smoke?"
"I swear, Kooter," Bourque said, raising his voice, "you got less patience than a fruit fly. He'll be coming up on it real soon now, promise."
"I hope so," Delphine said.
At the Glass Church, Hurbuckle stopped in mid-stage, panting, then walked to the forward edge and sat down, facing the congregation, gathering himself. "Remember the woman in the cartoon, who asked if it was enough that she tolerate her neighbor? Well, the answer is NO! It is not enough merely to tolerate our neighbor, we must love them as we love ourselves, and we must do for them what we would have done unto us.”
Hurbuckle paused, satisfied. Then he went on, more quietly. "Every so often," he said, "we are privileged to witness first-hand a shining example of what it truly means to love thy neighbor. I have just had that privilege.
"Yesterday morning, our beloved President Buddy Bourque came to me and told me that he'd had a most unusual request. The President of our neighbor, the North American Union—yes, the newly-elected Black man—had asked our great leader to visit him, to come to his aid. 'I don't yet know the details,' our President told me, 'but I know that the request was sincere and urgent.' And, good people, I could see that our friend, President Bourque, was deeply touched.
"He had come to me not to seek my advice or counsel. He had already made up his mind, which is only right, since the decision-making is his responsibility and burden. He had come to ask me to pray that he had made the right decision, the decision God wanted him to make, the decision that would benefit all of us. He had decided to go to Washington, D.C. and talk with President Callaway."
Hurbuckle paused and the audience broke out in an excited buzz.
"And I asked him…" the buzz abruptly faded... "I asked him why he was doing this. And do you know what he told me? He told me he was going because Jesus told him to love his neighbor as himself."
"Amen!" said a woman in one of the upper rows, and her outcry was followed by a ragged chorus of "amens" scattered through out the sanctuary.
Hurbuckle was on his feet now, and he was sure of himself. "And I said to President Bourque, you have made the decision God wants you to make, and I will pray for your success with my whole heart."
Half the audience reacted with a hearty "Amen," and the second half joined in, albeit belatedly. Only one man, who was standing at the back of the auditorium, seemed unmoved: Harlan Hurbuckle, Jr.
"Let us pray for the Godly man who leads our nation," Hurbuckle said. "Let us pray for his success." He bowed his head, his lips moving soundlessly, and the entire congregation imitated him exactly. Finally, he look at them again, all smiles. "I thank you for your prayers," he said, "and I know President Bourque is grateful as well. And now, we come to the close of the service, the laying on of hands."
Bourque grabbed the remote control and clicked off the TV. "So? What do you think? You like the sendoff?"
"I'm impressed," Pickett said. "That was truly wonderful. The old guy is still amazing."
"You're going to see President Callaway, Daddy?" Delphine asked, acting surprised.
"Seems so, Darlin'," Bourque said with a twinkle. Then he glanced at the Vice President, who seemed stunned. "You okay, Kooter?"
"I'm not sure. Are you really gonna do this, Buddy?"
"I am," Bourque admitted. "The public wants me to—you heard them. Right, Roy?"
"I did, sir. I did."
"You might have given me a little warning," said Kooter, draining the rest of his drink. A drop had settled on his mustache and he snaked out his tongue to retrieve it.
"Aw, Kooter," Bourque said. "If I had, you probably would have tried to argue me out of it."
"Damn straight. Negotiating with the North? That's a stone wall nobody's ever clumb over."
"Maybe so," Bourque said. "But they want to talk. Don’t you want to know why?"
"I'm damn curious," said Kooter, peevishly. "And suspicious. They view us with contempt. And we loathe them. I can't see what good could come from it. Y'know, they're bound to make demands."
Bourque laughed. "Demands? Demands? I'll make demands right back at 'em. I'll make demands they couldn't imagine. I'll drown 'em in demands."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Kooter said. "They're the snakes and you're the mongoose." He held out his glass for a refill and Pickett hurried to oblige. "Just don't go making any deals. That juice jus
t ain't worth the squeezing."
"Why not?" Delphine asked.
"Well, missy, there ain't a single white Southerner that don't love Buddy Bourque. But if he goes treating with the enemy, he could get unpopular real fast."
"The people at the Glass Church sure seemed to approve," Pickett said.
"Yeah, but that was before they had time to think about it, while old Hurbuckle was casting his spells," said Kooter. "But after it sinks in—after you actually meet Callaway, and especially if you sign any papers—the good ol' boys aren't going to be happy with you."
"How unhappy do you think they'll be?" Bourque inquired.
"Depending on what happens at the meeting, I can see some loud complaining, maybe some protests…"
"Well, if that's the worst…" Bourque began.
"It's not," Kooter interrupted. "Some of the farmers and country folks are gonna feel you're threatening they way of life, giving aid and comfort to the enemy. They're going to call you a traitor, some of 'em."
Bourque nodded, as though he'd expected no less. "Think I can change their minds, Kooter?"
"Depends on what you say. Depends on you not getting yourself killed by some psycho. We have plenty of 'em, you know. And shotgun sales are up this year."
Delphine glanced at Pickett, concerned. All he could do was to shrug helplessly.
"I'll have the boys keep an eye on the psycho list," Bourque said.
Kooter grinned. "Okay," he said, "But who'll keep an eye on the boys?"
This time, Bourque ignored him. "Kooter, I may need your support…"
"Oh sure. You got a blank check handy?"
"Not that kind of support."
"I know."
"I'm gonna try to get something good out of this," Bourque told Kooter. "And when I bring it home, it could be a hard sell."
"That's putting it mildly," Kooter said.
Bourque turned toward Barnes, touched his hand and looked into his eyes. "Are you gonna fight me on this, Kooter?"
Kooter smiled weakly. "Oh, don't you fret. I'll come around."
"I know you will," Bourque said warmly, squeezing Kooter's hand. "Now how about walking me around the Plantation and helping me break the news to the troops?"
There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Bourque called.
Gerald Pinckney entered the room, timidly. "Have I missed anything?" He asked.
Precisely at noon, the governments of the North American Union and the Confederate States of America officially announced the upcoming meeting between their two Presidents.
For the CSA, this amounted to the distribution of a one-page press release. The NAU put out a nearly identical press release, but as it happened, the daily press conference took place at the same time.
It was conducted by Jewel Rogard, Callaway’s Press Secretary, the very same tall, gawky blonde assigned to write the press release announcing the Bourque-Callaway meeting, the one with the too-short skirt and pipe cleaner legs who, because of her appearance, people tended to underestimate.
Jewel stepped up to the press room podium with a smile, while an assistant passed out copies of her meeting announcement press release. She smiled. “Good morning everyone. I’ll give you a moment to read the release, then take your questions.”
In general, journalists aren’t easily shocked or surprised, and the White House Press corps, having seen just about everything, is particularly phlegmatic. This occasion was different. There were audible gasps. Seasoned reporters looked at each other, dumbfounded. Blood rivals started talking to each other. Some disobeyed the iron clad "no cell phones" rule and frantically tried to call their offices.
"No cell phones," Jewel reminded them, as though they were naughty children. “I'll take your questions now." Forty hands shot up simultaneously. She pointed to a tall, handsome man with greying temples.
“Jewel, unless I am badly mistaken, you just announced an event the likes of which we have not seen for more than 100 years—a meeting between the two Presidents of the former United States…"
"That's true," she said. "You have a question?"
"I do indeed. A two-parter: What in God's green Earth is behind this meeting? And what does our new young President hope to gain from it?"
Jewel nodded. "I'll take the second part first. The President hopes that the meeting will result better relations between our two countries."
One of the reporters interrupted. "Why would we need…"
"And the answer to the first part of your question is pretty much the same," Jewel said. "They're meeting to discuss a number of issues that affect both of our countries—trade tariffs, air and water pollution, global warming, energy issues, action to protect endangered species, that sort of thing."
Jewel looked at the raised hands and pointed to a dowdy-middle-aged brunette in a dark blue business suit, who was sitting in the back row.
"Thank you, Jewel," the woman said, standing. "Could you tell us how this meeting came about? Whose idea was it?"
Jewel smiled as though she were grateful for the question. "Well, the President has always been eager to improve relations with our neighbors and I believe he's been thinking about such a meeting for some time. And evidently, President Bourque had the same idea."
Sitting toward the front of the Press Room, a portly man in his 50s, bald and wearing rimless glasses, waved his hand with offensive persistence. He deserved to be ignored, or at least called on last, but Jewel couldn't stand it. She looked his way, took a deep breath and produced something like a smile. "Your turn,” she said.
The reporter stood and ostentatiously pointed his tape recorder at Jewel Rogard. "Miss Rogard," he said, "I believe you're misleading us. I think you've left out something crucial."
She maintained the smile. "Is that a question?"
The reporter scowled. "No. The question is this: Since we all know that the CSA is in financial trouble, isn't it true that Bourque intends to ask for a loan or foreign aid and that President Callaway—by agreeing to a meeting—is signaling that he intends to deliver?"
The room grew quiet again. "I've heard nothing about loans or foreign aid," Jewel said. "If that changes, I'll be sure to inform you."
The reporter sat, still scowling.
Jewel scanned the room. Arthur Nixon, INN's man in Washington, was sitting in row four, against the left wall. He was a man of the species homo rodentia, sharp-faced, sharp-nosed, with prominent incisors and beady eyes. He held up a hand with calculated timidity and tried to catch her eye, hoping to charm her. He was like the driver, asking to be let through a line. Once the signal was caught, there was no refusing it.
"Mr. Nixon," Jewel said, unable to avoid noticing him, and resigned to hearing his question, "I believe you're next."
He stood. "Thank you. My question is this: How can our new President—a Black man himself--justify holding talks with the leader of a country that treats Blacks like subhumans?" He sat.
"Well," Jewel said calmly, "I don't know that I entirely agree with your characterization, but I think the President would say that anything that contributes to our mutual understanding would be valuable."
"I see. Thank you," Nixon said, flashing her that annoying smile of his.
Jewel ignored it and pointed to a young Black woman in the back of the room, an NPR reporter. "Will President Callaway talk to Mr. Bourque about the civil rights of Southern Blacks? Will they discuss the border incidents, and the people shot down trying to escape from the Confederacy?"
Jewel took a deep breath. "We're still working on the agenda, but I'm sure it will include everything of mutual interest. Nothing's off the table. And, oh yes, I might add I don't think there've been any violent border incidents in the last decade."
"So you're saying yes to talking about civil rights and the border?" Ms. Carter asked, not willing to let it go.
"I don't know how much time will be spent on those things, but I'm sure they'll come up," Jewel said.
The NPR reporter opened her mouth to ask
a follow-up, but Jewel didn't give her a chance. "In the back row," she said, pointing to a tall, blond man she'd never seen before.
"Rolf Theissen, Der Spiegel," he said. The German accent was barely noticeable. "Will President Bourque be bringing his own security team?"
Jewel gave him one of her warmest smiles. "I'm sorry, Herr Theissen, but I can't discuss the CSA's security plans."
The German wasn't finished. "Can you at least tell us if we'll be putting in place any special security arrangements?"
"As a matter of fact, I can't." She smiled again and checked her watch. "Sorry, that's it for today. See you all tomorrow."
Someone shouted out one last question: "Will the President and the CSA leader have a joint press conference?"
Jewel was already three steps from the podium and scurrying. She glanced back toward the reporters, threw up her hands in a who-knows gesture, then left the room, even though the questions kept coming.
Back at the President's study, Callaway and Wang were watching the whole thing on television. "She handled herself very well," Callaway said.
"Yeah,” Wang said. ‘It wasn't as bad as I expected."
Callaway’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. "Yes? Sure, send her in."
A thoroughly outraged Veronica Tennenbaum strode into the President's study. "Did you hear what that son-of-a-bitch did?" She asked.
"Which son-of-a-bitch is that?" Wang inquired mildly.
"Your co-conspirator in the Confederate States of America," Ms. Tennenbaum said.
"Pickett?"
"No. Mr. President Virgil Lee Buddy Bourque," she snapped. "Our great and good friend."
"What did he do?" Callaway asked, alarmed.
"He scooped our announcement," she said. "Or, rather, he had his pet preacher Harlan Hurbuckle announce it from the alter of the Glass Church, to a live audience of 5,000 and a nationwide television audience."
"Very colorful," Wang said. "And here I thought it was going to be a press release. Isn't that what we agreed on, Mr. President?"
"Goddamn right it is."
"Oh, the CSA put out the press release, as agreed, but Rev. Hurbuckle broke the news 10 a.m. this morning."
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 12