"I gotta agree with Tony," said Carl Pollack, the union secretary, a man with fading red hair and a chin covered with red stubble. "We gotta move against this and we gotta do it hard and fast. Otherwise that spook is gonna sell us all down the river. It's that Moses thing. I warned you, all of you."
"We all know where you're coming from, Carl." Sylvia said. "But try and separate the man from the meeting, if you can." Tony rolled his eyes at this remark, which Sylvia didn't miss. "Are you rolling your eyes at me, Tony Zolli?"
Tony tried to backtrack. "No, Sylvia. Not at all. It's just, well, I'm having a problem with Callaway."
"That monkey should never have been elected President. He doesn't have the brains or the guts for it," Carl said. "And us helping him was the woist mistake we ever made. I knew he was gonna get himself in trouble. It just happened faster than I taut it would." He examined a chicken bone, looking for but failing to find one last morsel.
Sylvia Pinchick scowled at Carl Pollack, her lips wrinkling like a drawstring bag, but she said nothing.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Yeah? Come in?" Tony said.
The door opened to reveal a bent old man in a white apron, smiling hesitantly. "Is it okay if I take your desert orders now?"
"No orders," Albert said, acting like the big man. "Just bring."
"Everything?"
"You know what to bring," Tony said. "Don't you?"
"Don't forget the espresso," Sylvia said.
The old man smiled uncertainly and backed out of the room, almost losing his balance. He closed the door behind him.
"I don't know why we're in such a hurry," Bill Walden said. "Maybe they'll meet and disagree. We should wait and see."
"I ain’t a big believer in waitin'," Tony said, glaring at Walden with his black, shirt-button eyes. "The early boid gets the woim."
"You know, Tony," said Mark Kapinsky, "it's always possible something good could come from this meeting." kapinsky was a trim man with salt-and-pepper hair and intense blue eyes. His plate was still full of lasagna, but apparently, he'd had his fill.
"Sumtin good?" Tony said, his tone incredulous. "Like what?"
"I don't know, maybe something that could help the Confederate Blacks, help the living conditions maybe. You know, poverty."
Carl Pollack snorted. "You really care about that shit?"
"Well, the Blacks in our country care." Kapinsky replied.
"You tell dem dat if we open our borders to deyr southern brethren, deyr jobs'll be the foist to go," Tony said. "Dell take half the pay. Tell dem that and then see how much they care." He idly speared a piece of tilefish and popped it into his mouth.
Pollack regarded kapinsky with hostility. "You know, Mark, if you support the meeting, if you welcome those people, you'll be giving aid and comfort to our enemy."
"That's a little strong, Carl, don't you think?" Kapinsky said "We may not be on good terms with the Confederacy, but they're not our enemy. We are at peace with them. Always have been."
"Yeah, right."
Sylvia Pinchick looked around from face to face. Only Tony Zolli refused to meet her eyes. "Do I have to remind you gentlemen that my husband Sidney made it possible for Blacks to join the union 30 years ago?
"And that was a wonderful thing," Walden said. "Sidney was a great man."
"Yeah," Tony said. "And we all loved him. So it would really be a tragedy if his widow opened da floodgates and destroyed everythin' we've done since den."
Ms. Pinchick opened her mouth to respond, then closed it without making a sound.
Pollack reached for another chicken leg. "Sylvia, Blacks are only 3 or 4% of our population now. What happens if they all come here, all of the Southern Blacks, looking for more money and better treatment? Imagine those people making up 10-15% of the population."
"I don't see what difference that makes," Kapinski said. "People are people."
"It wouldn't make any difference—if dey was like our Blacks, Mark," Tony said. " But deyr not gonna be the same at all. Dey won't be educated. Dey won't come from stable, middle-class families. Dell have different ways of livin' and different traditions. Deyr not gonna to fit in."
"I'll say it if no one else will," Carl said. "They're barely civilized. We all know that."
"And they're not gonna just come and take our jobs," Albert added. "They're gonna crowd up our schools and our churches and our neighborhoods. They're gonna change our country. Not for the better, neither."
Kapinsky regarded Albert Zolli with open contempt. "Seems to me you're making a lot of assumptions, Albert. That meeting may come to nothing. And even if it leads to a negotiation, chances are it will have some kind of positive outcome."
"There's something none of you have considered," said Ms. Pinchick. "They'll be consequences if we succeed in stopping the meeting. We will be undermining Callaway, and he's the best friend labor has had in years. Dammit, we supported him."
"Exactly," Tony said. "We elected him. So he can't just ignore us. He has to listen to us."
At that moment, Sal Gargiulo and a pretty red-haired waitress, no doubt a daughter, entered the room with heaping platters of desert—tiramasu, zabaglione, crostata de frutta, ladyfingers, several flavors of gelati, a plate of amaretto cookies, and espresso and regular coffee.
The debate went on pause as the Executive Committee dug in, all of them except Sylvia Pinchick, who had long ago foresworn deserts of any kind.
Pollack downed a crostata de frutta in a single bite and licked his lips "So what's your plan, Tony? What do you want us to do?"
Tony Zolli, who had helped himself to several desert selections and was busy sampling them, stopped in the middle of his sugary feast. "What's my plan," he said, swallowing and wiping. "Dis is my plan: I want a mass mailing to all the members. I want demonstrations in all the big cities, marches wid at least 10,000 people. I want a series of prime-time TV ads. I want us to get onto the radio talk shows and make our case. I’m talkin' mass marketing here."
This didn't sit well with Kapinsky. "How much are you thinking of spending, Tony?"
"Whatever it takes--$25-$30 million should do it."
Kapinsky turned to Walden. "We have that kind of cash lying around, Bill?"
Walden was working on an amaretto cookie and took a moment to finish chewing. "I could find it," he conceded. "I know a couple of rocks I could look under. But I'm not convinced we should do it."
"The question isn't if we can afford it," Ms. Pinchick said. "The question is, should we do it? I think the answer is a definite and strong no. I think we should stay out of it altogether. We could be setting ourselves up to look like fools, especially if it happens despite our opposition."
Tony put down his fork and fixed his gaze on Ms. Pinchick. "We gotta make sure it doesn't happen, no matter what."
"And if we can't stop it, what then?" She persisted.
"We'll have to find a way," Albert said. He glanced at Tony, who nodded in approval.
"Well, I'm against it," Ms. Pinchick said.
Tony reached across the table, dipped a serving spoon in the pink-colored gelato and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. "Fair enough," he said. "Let's put it to a vote."
Sylvia Pinchick and Mark Kapinsky exchanged glances. They knew what was coming. They also knew they were powerless to prevent it.
Tony scooped himself another spoonful of gelato, this time the yellow stuff, and gulped it down. "Okay? Ready to vote?" He looked around the room and got the nods he was looking for. "Okay, I'll start. I vote in favor."
"Same here," Albert said.
"Okay, that's two," Tony said.
"Make it two to one," Kapinsky said. "I vote no."
Tony smiled tightly. "Okay, Mark. That's your privilege. How about you, Carl?"
"I’m with you, Tony," Pollack said. He picked up a ladyfinger and started licking the filling out of it.
"Okay, folks, that's tree to one," Tony said. "Your turn, Bill."
Wa
lden shook his head sadly. "I can't go along with you, Tony. I mean, what business is it of ours? We got our hands full with contract negotiations.. I gotta vote no."
Tony reached over the table and scooped up a spoonful of some purplish gelato. "Tree to two," he said. He took a taste of the gelato.
"Make that three to three, Tony," Ms. Pinchick said. "I'm voting no. In Sidney's honor."
All eyes turned to the only person who hadn't yet voted, the middle brother, Arthur Zolli, the twitchy one. He returned their gaze with obvious discomfort.
"You have the deciding vote, Arthur," Tony said. He smiled.
"Jeez, Tony, does it have to be me? Let's vote again only this time I'll go first."
Carl laughed. Ms. Pinchick reached out and touched Arthur's hand gently.
"That wouldn't make any difference," Kapinsky explained.
"Sure it will," Arthur insisted. "I won't have the deciding vote, which I never asked for and don't want."
"What do ya say, Arthur," Tony trying to hide his impatience. "Ya know my vote. Now, what's yours? You gonna vote your brother's way?"
"That's not fair, Tony," Ms. Pinchick complained.
"Don't we already know how he's going to vote?" Walden asked.
Arthur sat up straight. "No one says how I'm gonna vote but me."
"Okay," Carl said. "But vote already, won't you?"
"I vote yes. Wid Tony."
"Four to tree," Tony announced, pleased. "The anti-meeting campaign is on."
Sylvia Pinchik glared at Tony Zolli. "I think you're going to regret this, Tony. I think we're all going to regret it." She stood, slipped her purse over her shoulder, gave him one last angry look and marched out of the room, heels clicking on the wooden floor.
"I guess you can't please everyone," said the youngest Zolli, flashing what he hoped was an endearing smile.
"Yeah," said brother Arthur. "Some people."
"Gentlemen," said Big Tony, "'scuse me, I gotta see a man about a horse."
"Same here," said Carl Pollack, getting up to follow.
In the restaurant men's room, a study in hexagonal white tiles and black stall doors, the two men found themselves standing side by side at a pair of old-fashioned full-length urinals.
"I knew we were going to win," Pollack said.
"Oh yeah?" said Tony. "We ain’t won yet."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll win when Callaway cancels dae meeting."
Pollack finished and zipped up. "What if he doesn't?" He went to the sink, ran a few drops of water over his hands and shook them dry.
Tony zipped up. "Then we'll have to light a few fires," he said.
Chapter Ten
The Confederacy was a land of traditions, some so ingrained they seemed genetic. Among these was the Debutantes' Ball, a lavish cotillion during which society's most eligible females—meaning its richest and best-looking—were put on display and introduced to their mirror images of the opposite gender.
In decades past, such festivities had been annual events at dozens of Confederate plantations, reflections of customs that began in old England. They gave the CSA's upper crust—the people who owned all the lands they could see and hugely profited by the once slave-tended cotton, rice or tobacco grown on it—the chance to meet, mingle and steer their children into appropriate matches, the better to perpetuate and mix aristocratic fortunes and blood lines.
In the 19th century and even the first half of the 20th, these balls were exceptionally extravagant lavish events. Held in the great plantation houses with luxuriantly-planted grounds and ballrooms the size of field houses, they were attended by hundreds of guests, all of them dressed in the finest, most elaborate and most stylish clothing of the day, and served by flocks of handsome, smiling, elegantly uniformed Negro servants.
In these ballrooms, they danced the quadrille or Virginia Reel and, later, waltzes, polkas, tangos and foxtrots, to music provided by orchestras famous throughout the Confederacy. They ate the finest food, game and meats, the bounty of plantation-ground hunting parties. They were entertained by privately performed dramas starring the country's greatest thespians, and by the foremost orators and most popular vocalists.
It was in this capacity—and because of her many lifelong friendships among the sons and daughters of the plantation families—that Delphine Bourque, Daughter of the Delta and Songbird of the South, came to visit Westover Plantation, on Virginia's James River, and to share with the assembled guests her considerable talents.
But she had come for another reason as well—on assignment from Roy, on a mission that could be very important to her father and to her country. It was a heavy responsibility, and it had its risks. But she was determined to do the job and confident that she could carry it out.
Delphine flew into Richmond, arriving at about 2 p.m., carrying her guitar and a single suitcase. A uniformed Black driver, a smiling, round-faced, grey-haired man in his 60s, met her at the gate, picked up her suitcase—she held on to the guitar—and escorted her to a Westover limousine—a stately old Cadillac, imported in better days.
They rode along the James River, through the verdant countryside, arriving at the famous plantation in less than an hour. Coming around the north side of the great house, they entered the grounds though the famous iron gates, which featured the initials of the original owner, William Evelyn Byrd, the bird theme repeated with lead eagles on the gateposts.
For Delphine Bourque, this was something of a homecoming. As a child, she'd frequently visited the Westover Plantation, befriending the even younger Cecily Randolph, daughter of Westover's current squire, Edmund Randolph, one of William Byrd's several great-grandsons. The girls had chased puppies over those vast green lawns and ferreted out oatmeal cookies from the pantry cabinets, while the plump Negro cooks looked on indulgently.
The limousine passed through the ancient boxwood hedges that enclosed Westover's serene formal gardens, then pulled up at the front door of the imposing brick mansion beneath the overhanging branches of the ancient tulip poplars. The driver got out, scurried around to the limo's back door and opened it. Delphine stepped out into the bright sunlight, while the driver handed her suitcase to a slender Negro houseboy, a teenager.
"Miss Delphine?"
"Yes, young man," She said, smiling.
"I'm to take you to your bedroom, in the west wing."
"Lead on."
They walked into chaos—purposeful chaos. To the left, in the grand ballroom, a troupe of colored workers were moving flower pots into position, putting up drapes, hanging decorative lanterns from the ceilings, teetering on high ladders,. In one corner of the room, a pair of bartenders were setting up shop. To the right, in the dining room, the catering staff was spreading linen over the huge round plywood tables, along with fine china, silver and crystal.
For Delphine Bourque, it was walking into a scrapbook from her childhood. Not so many years ago, she'd been presented to the South's finest young beaus at a party just like this. And since then, she'd been a guest at a dozen similar glamorous soirees at plantations in Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Louisiana and the rest the South. And she'd loved every one of them.
"This way, Ms. Delphine," said the young servant, and he headed up the great oak staircase, which spread wide at the bottom and narrowed toward middle, then spread out again at the top, dividing into three branches, one leading to the west wing, another to the east wing and a third to the second floor rooms of the main house. She stashed her guitar in a closet and followed.
The servant led Delphine to a nice, bright room on the second floor. "Where will I find Cecily?" She asked. "We're old friends."
"I'll take you to her, Ms. Delphine," the boy said. He led her to Cecily Randolph's bedroom, on the second floor, directly over the mansion's main entrance.
Delphine knocked on the door and opened it the moment Cecily answered. The next few minutes were a blur of hugs and kisses, obligatory but heartfelt—two old friends seeing each other again af
ter a long separation. Then they stood back and regarded each other.
"You've turned into quite a beauty, Cecily," Delphine said, looking with approval at her tall, blue-eyed, brunette friend. Cecily was a girl with exquisitely delicate features, who could have made a career out of modeling anything from high fashion to lipstick.
"Look who's talking," Cecily said.
Reunion was followed by reminiscing and reminiscing was followed by gossip, which led directly to the Big Question.
"So Cecily," Delphine said, eyes twinkling, "anyone special in your life?"
Cecily turned shy.
"Come on, fess up."
"Well now," she finally said coquettishly. "As a matter of fact, yes. His name is Malcolm Mayback. He's gorgeous. His father is…"
"The Royhattan Plantation Mayback?"
"The very same."
"I assume it's mutual."
She nodded, blushing.
"Flying pretty high, young lady."
That got a big smile. "And what about you, Delphine?"
She should have anticipated that, but she hadn't. "Well, there is, um, someone."
Cecily lit up. "Tell," she instructed.
"Ah, hmm—it's at a, uh, delicate stage. I don't want to jinx it."
"Is he handsome?"
"What do you think?"
"Rich?"
"Not exactly, but…”
"I think you have a beau too."
“Well, perhaps,” Delphine said coyly, surprising herself with an imitation of Cecily’s impish manner. Suddenly, she was struck by how little her friend had changed over the years. Cecily remained girlishly innocent and unsophisticated, having never really left the fairy tale world of her youth, remaining sheltered by parents, plantation and tradition.
Delphine, as she now reminded herself, had traveled far and wide, and closely watched her father grapple with the Confederacy’s difficulties. She’d seen politics at its ugliest. She’d fallen in love, God help her, with a Black man. What would Cecily say if she knew about Roy Pickett? Would the friendship survive? Or would she go running to her father, who would then order Delphine to leave and never darken his doorstep again.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 17