ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  Katz leaned back in his chair and ran an index finger over his mustache again, wondering if he'd trimmed it too much. Then he laughed. "You certainly are persistent, Roger. But I'll answer your question. I'll consider the meeting a success if both Presidents come away with a better understanding of each other."

  Nelson perked up. He thought heard an opportunity here. "Better understanding—what do you mean?"

  Katz shrugged. "Well, there's really no intrinsic reason why we can't have a friendly, neighborly relationship with the Confederacy, just as we do with Canadia." He regretted the words before they were out of his mouth. This was going to be trouble.

  "You're comparing the Confederacy to Canadia?" Nelson asked.

  "There are a lot of differences. I know that," Katz said, trying not to sound defensive. "But we and the Confederacy don't have to regard each other with suspicion and disapproval. We can have differences and still be civil to each other. We can reach an understanding."

  "Really?" Nelson said, sounding skeptical. "The first Black man elected President of the North American Union and the leader of a country in which Blacks can't vote or serve on juries can reach an understanding? Remember, if it weren’t for Lincoln, we would have gone to war with the CSA.”

  Katz tried to duck the bean ball. "Well, it's no secret that they have differences," Katz admitted. "But they also have a lot in common. They're the leaders of two important countries. Neighbors."

  Nelson leaned forward and cut loose with another fastball. "Some have said," he began, "that Callaway's willingness to meet with Bourque is an endorsement—or at least an acceptance—of Confederate racial policies."

  "Not at all. It's Callaway's policy to talk with friends, enemies and everyone in between. It was one of his campaign promises."

  "Mmm-hmmm," Nelson said. He was running out of time. "One last question. We don't have any results here yet, but I'm sure the White House has done some polling to see how the American people feel about the meeting. Can you tell me what you've found?"

  "You're right, we have done some preliminary polling, nothing extensive of course, but the sort of thing we do on a daily basis about many issues," Katz said. He sat back, relaxed, on familiar territory. "Actually, we're pretty pleased with the poll results. We expected a favorable response, but what we got was much better than what we expected. Looks like the American people are looking forward to the meeting between the Presidents."

  Nelson smiled. Katz was a slippery one. He'd dinged him a couple of times, but no headlines would be coming out of this one. Well, maybe next time. "Thanks for coming, Marty," he said.

  "My pleasure," Katz replied, and he meant it. He'd managed to make every point he'd wanted to and, except for Canadia thing and the damned business with his comb-over, he'd gotten away scot-free.

  The show went to commercial. Nelson and Katz shook hands, smiling and Katz wandered off. He was about to leave the building when he remembered there was a bowl of sweet, cold, seedless red grapes in the Green Room, just asking to be eaten. He walked back behind the set into a hallway, reviewing the his performance, looking for the right door.

  Just before he opened it, his cell phone sang out a few bars of "Hail to the Chief."

  He flipped it open. "Hey Boss," he said, "what did you think?"

  "I thought you did very well," Callaway said. "Julia thought so too. You made our case."

  "You watched together?"

  "You were the main attraction in the Presidential bedroom this morning."

  "Well, that's a first," Katz said.

  They both laughed.

  "I could have done without the comparison between Canadia and the Confederacy, however," Callaway said. "You opened yourself up on that one."

  "I know. But I think I got away with it."

  "I agree," Callaway said. "Listen, Marty, I want you to come back and coach Eric a bit before he goes on the Evening News."

  "Okay. I'll be there in an hour."

  "Good. And, Marty, don't let on that you're coaching him, okay?"

  "Of course."

  They hung up. Katz entered the Green Room, selected a Petite Corona from his cigar case and lit up.

  *

  The next day, in Studio 1A, at the INN building on Sixth Ave. in New York, Jack Sullivan took his place on the set and tucked the rear flaps of his suit jacket underneath him, so his lapels wouldn't gap.

  Sullivan wasn't one of those performers who were troubled by stage-fright. He was eager to start the show. And tonight, after a long meeting with Metzger and INN's editor-in-chief Robert Eads, analyzing poll results and planning strategy, he felt like General Sherman, about to set fire to Atlanta.

  Sullivan heard the director's voice over the studio loudspeaker and took a deep breath. "On air in five…four…three…two…one…now." He assumed a grave expression and, at the exactly right moment, gazed into the camera and began speaking.

  "Good evening. This is Jack Sullivan. Welcome to The Edge, where we unflinchingly ask the hard questions about the most important issues of the day. The subject tonight: the historic—and potentially transformative—meeting between President Charles Callaway, of the North American Union, and President Virgil Lee Bourque, of the Confederate States of America.

  "And here are my questions: What's the real reason behind this unprecedented meeting? What's Bourque's hidden agenda? Why did Callaway agree to meet with him? Does he have a hidden agenda? How could an agreement affect us economically, socially, religiously… racially? Or is this, as the White House would have us believe, nothing more than a harmless attempt to 'improve understanding'?"

  Sullivan gazed into the camera and paused dramatically, as if what he'd said was of critical importance.

  "To help answer these questions, I’m going to talk to several people with expert knowledge of the subject. And at the close of the show, I'll have an Edge Editorial on the subject."

  "First up, Dr. Dexter P. Kimball, Professor of Confederate Studies at Liberty University, the leading NAU expert on President Bourque and all thing southern. Good evening, Professor.”

  The view switched to a full-screen shot of a gaunt blond man with thinning hair and pale, watery blue eyes. He was wearing a threadbare tweed jacket with a deerskin gun patch on one shoulder. "Good evening, Mr. Sullivan," he said, in a wheezy treble voice, which was tuned to a particularly annoying frequency.

  "Professor Kimball, could you tell us what you think this meeting is really all about?" Sullivan asked.

  "Well, I can tell you what it's not about," Kimball said. He had a snippy, sarcastic, know-it-all way of speaking. "It's not about a better understanding, or whatever the White House is claiming. It's about money and power."

  "Money and power," Sullivan nodded, musing. "Power and money. Interesting. Why do you say that?"

  "Because money and power is all Buddy Bourque understands," Kimball said, as though it were obvious. "He's meeting with Callaway either because he's in danger or because he's broke—that is, the CSA is broke."

  "And he's coming to us for money?"

  Kimball smiled, an exercise in condescension. "Mr. Sullivan, by my calculations, the CSA has been in a recession for the last four years. The personal bankruptcy rate is astronomical. And then you add crop failure to that. I think the whole country is on the edge of unrest. So, I guarantee you that Bourque is worried. And then there's Reverend Hurbuckle."

  "The Baptist leader?" Sullivan asked, in a fair approximation of surprise. "But he's a man of religion…"

  "In the Confederacy, there's a very thin line between politics and religion," Kimball said. "Hurbuckle is the second most powerful man in the Confederacy, and Bourque's natural rival."

  "You make it sound as though President Bourque is in a pretty precarious position," Sullivan observed.

  "Well, he is."

  "What can you tell us about Virgil Bourque? What kind of a man is he?"

  The camera was on Kimball again. "First of all, he is not Virgil Bourque, although that's hi
s legal name. He is Buddy Bourque. Buddy Lee Bourque, no less, a direct descendent of the Confederacy's first President, Robert E. Lee, who convinced Lincoln to let the South go and who most Southerners consider the father of the Confederacy.

  "Second, 'Buddy' is one of the folksiest, down-home, good ole' boys you will ever meet. That's the persona he shows to the world, at any rate. The truth is that he is one of the shrewdest, most tenacious, most opportunistic, and most amoral people in public life. No one in our country is remotely comparable to this man."

  The camera switched to a split screen, Kimball on the right Sullivan on the left. "So he's a tough man to negotiate with?" Sullivan prompted.

  A snide smile appeared on Kimball's face. "If President Callaway tries to negotiate with Buddy Bourque," he said, "I think he'll be lucky to hold on to his underpants."

  Sullivan laughed. "That's a pretty unpleasant prospect. But of course, what the White House announced was a meeting, not a negotiation."

  "Perfidy," Kimball said. "Pure political perfidy. They can call it whatever they like, but it will be a negotiation. Buddy Bourque is not coming here to see the Washington Monument."

  "I see," Sullivan said from his side of the split screen. "Well, you say that Bourque will be after money. What is he likely to offer in return? Why would it be worth bargaining with him?"

  Kimball cocked his head, thinking. "It isn't," he said "Bourque doesn't have anything to bargain with. Cupboard's bare. GNP is down, poverty is up."

  Sullivan interrupted. "Isn't that a little strong, sir?"

  "I'm not sure it's strong enough," Kimball said. "I don't see how any good can come of it and I think there are all kinds of opportunities for trouble. Real trouble."

  Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"

  Professor Kimball paused a moment before speaking. "Riots, strikes, racial violence—the kind of trouble you get when you involve yourself with the most corrupt and racist country in the Western Hemisphere."

  Sullivan looked into the camera. "Words of wisdom, words of warning," he said, as though chanting a mantra.

  The two men thanked each other, then it was back to a one-shot of Sullivan.

  "Well there you have it," he said, "the opinion of our leading expert on President Bourque and the CSA. When we come back, we'll be hearing from Leigh Wilkinson, the ranking minority member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

  After nearly two minutes of thigh-master and car wax commercials, Jack Sullivan's face appeared again, full frame. "Welcome back," he said. "And now let me welcome Leigh Wilkinson, Delaware's senior senator."

  The screen split again. Wilkinson was on the left, a handsome woman with salt-and-pepper hair, sparkling blue eyes and the confident smile of someone accustomed to power and privilege. "Thank you Jack, always glad to be here," she said, sounding even more like a TV anchorman than his host.

  Sullivan took a deep breath. "Senator, could you tell me what you think about a meeting between President Callaway and President Bourque?"

  "Well, to be frank, I think it's one of the dumbest ideas I've heard in my 25 years in the Senate," said Wilkinson, who had a well-deserved reputation as a blunt-talker. "But of course, our President is very new to the job and this is the kind of mistake inexperienced people make."

  "I assume that President Callaway sought the advice of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee before making a commitment," Sullivan said.

  "He most certainly did not. No one on my committee had any idea he was going to do this—not even the members of his own party," Wilkinson said. "He should have consulted us before making the announcement. We could have provided wise counsel, I think. But he did not even inform us."

  "Why do you think that is?" Sullivan asked.

  "I guess he thinks he can do it all himself," Wilkinson replied. "Don't get me wrong. I like the President. He seems like a very nice fellow. But he's way over his head here.”

  "Ah," Sullivan said, "so you think Bourque is dangerous?"

  "Dangerous?" Wilkinson said. "Dangerous? He is the most brutal, most corrupt, most racist dictator in the Western Hemisphere. Damn right I think he's dangerous."

  Sullivan nodded gravely. "I understand," he said.

  "I hope Callaway understands," Wilkinson said, sounding a bit angry. "I also hope he understands that the Senate will scrutinize any agreement he makes with Bourque with a fine-tooth comb.”

  "So you think this meeting might be the first step toward some kind of treaty?" Sullivan asked.

  "Of course. They're not meeting just to share family pictures. Both of them have a deal in mind, I guarantee you."

  "What kind of a deal?"

  Wilkinson threw up her hands, frustrated. "That's the point—no one knows. I'm just afraid that they're going to hold secret meetings, come to some kind of an agreement and present us all with a fait accompli."

  Sullivan nodded sagely. Then another question occurred to him. "One thing puzzles me,” he said. “Bourque could have asked Exley or any other President for a meeting. Why did he wait until Callaway was in office?”

  Wilkinson pounced. "You've raised a very interesting question, Jack," she said. "I'll tell you why: He was waiting until we had a Black President."

  "Interesting," Sullivan allowed. "Why would that make a difference?"

  Wilkinson looked at Sullivan as if he had just gotten off the short bus. "Come on, Jack—think about it. Bourque is the top dog in a society that thinks Blacks are in every way inferior to whites. He has contempt for all Blacks, including Callaway. He expects to dominate him, to intimidate him. He sees Callaway as an opportunity.”

  "I hadn't thought of it that way," Sullivan said.

  "Neither has Callaway. Callaway lives in a tolerant society and he's had all of the advantages. He's never been treated like a field hand. He simply isn't going to be psychologically prepared for Buddy Bourque."

  "Well, I think we can assume he's been well-briefed…"

  "By whom?" Wilkinson said. "By his advisors? Did you hear what his closest advisor said on television the other day? He compared the Confederacy to Canadia.

  Can you believe that? How naïve can you get?"

  "I understand your concern Senator, but what can you do about it?"

  "I can appear on your show, Jack, and I can shine a bright light on everything Callaway wants to keep secret. I can warn the nation. I can demand that the White House consult the Senate. That's what I'm doing right now."

  "I'm glad to give you the opportunity," Sullivan said. "Thanks for coming.”

  "My pleasure, Jack."

  Then it was back to a one-shot, Sullivan looking directly into the camera. "We'll be back in a moment," he said.

  Two minutes of commercials followed: cashing in your old gold, Log Cabin steakhouse restaurants, and the Men's Closet, which was offering banker's quality wool-blend suits for 30% off. The final commercial faded away and it was replaced by a full-face close-up of Jack Sullivan.

  "Welcome back, everyone," Sullivan said. "It's time now for our weekly newsmaker segment, and today, we have a man who's making news about the meeting between President Callaway and President Virgil Bourque, leader of the Confederacy.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, please meet Anthony Zolli, President of the IBT, the International Brotherhood of Truckers’, which yesterday afternoon passed a resolution asking President Callaway to cancel the upcoming meeting."

  The view went to a waist-up shot of Anthony Zolli, a short, stout, jowly man with a Neanderthal brow, thick black hair that could have benefited from a tim and a permanent five-o'clock shadow. His dark eyes seemed no bigger than shirt buttons, as if drawn by a child still learning the proper facial proportions. The lower half of his face was smiling grandly, while the upper half seemed hopping mad. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, and a vintage wide tie, a polyester blend clumsily knotted.

  "G'evenin' Jack," Zolli said, grinning and gritting his teeth at the same time.

  "Good evening, Tony,"
Sullivan said. "Let's start by talking about your union’s resolution. Why do you want the Callaway-Bourque meeting cancelled?"

  The view went to split screen. "Mainly because it's dangerous. It could hoit da country," Zolli said from the right panel.

  "Hurt? How so?"

  "Look, everybody's got it all wrong about dis meeting," Zolli said bluntly. "Dey all tink it was Bourque who asked for it, because he wants money or somethin'. But dat’s just plain wrong."

  "Really? You think the request came from Callaway? What would he have to gain?"

  Zolli shook his head sadly, jowls flapping. "Jack, I'm really surprised you dint see it before I did. Ya usually do," he said. "Y'see, Callaway is a man on a mission—a great, big hu-man-itarian mission. He tinks he's Moses, born all over again. He tinks God made him President so he could force da Pharaoh into letting his people go."

  "So Bourque is the Pharaoh?" Sullivan asked, enjoying himself.

  "Yeah," Zolli said enthusiastically, double chins wobbling. "''Xactly! And the Blacks are da Israelis."

  "I see," Sullivan said, nodding. "But how is Callaway going to set them free?"

  "He's goin' to make a deal. What kinda deal, I doan know, but I can feel it coming. Money, arms—sompin Bourque needs desperately, desperately enough to tear down dose armed border crossings and let 'em all out."

  "Let 'em all out, you say?" Sullivan said, slightly surprised.

  "Yes. And wunst deyr out, ya know where deyr goin'?" Zolli asked.

  "Where?"

  "Here. Dat’s where deyr going. Right here. By da thousands, by da tens and hundreds of thousands, by da millions," Zolli warned.

  "Well yes," Sullivan said, "I can see how that could happen. They'd want to escape the racism, the oppression, the mistreatment, the lack of opportunity…"

  "Which is all well and good," Zolli interrupted. "We all understand dat. But tink of what’ll happen here, Jack. Deyr gonna sweep over us like a goddamned tsunami. Deyr gonna flood our cities. Deyr gonna to pour into our neighborhoods, our schools and our churches. Dell be a torrent of cheap labor, takin' our jobs and demandin' more social services dan we can afford." He was breathing hard now.