ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  She looked up at Zolli, who was not watching her closely. “Yes,” he said, “that’s fine. But I wanna add another sentence.”

  Alice got out her notebook.

  “Add this and make it a new paragraph,” Zolli instructed. “If President Callaway does not break off all contact with President Bourque, Zolli said, the union will consider work stoppages in other locations and other industries. Among those under consideration are interstate trucking and the airline industry.”

  Alice continued writing in her notepad for several seconds, then looked up.

  “You got that?” Zolli asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Give it to the PR guy and tell him to send it out. He got questions, he should gimme a call.”

  *

  Phyllis Iserbyt shifted carefully in her desk chair, hoping to find a more comfortable position. Ever since she started the Our Country First crusade, her hemorrhoids—a lifelong problem—had been acting up. Today, she was in agony. She was about ready to call it a day and go home and soak in a steaming hot bath. That was the only thing that had ever helped. You could take all those creams and lotions and throw them down the toilet. And surgery—well, the thought made her physically ill.

  She was on the verge of getting up when there was a knock on her office door. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to forget the stabbing pain in her nether regions. “Come in,” she said, looking up again.

  The door opened and a woman in her late 50s walked in, another thin, grey-headed woman gone blonde, dressed in a bright red business suit and wearing lipstick to match. “Good morning, Phyllis,” she said. She was carrying a black leather briefcase.

  “Hello Sharon,” Phyllis said through clenched teeth.

  Sharon Hunt noticed the pained expression. “Bad day?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, I have some news that should make you smile.”

  “Fundraising is going better?” Phyllis asked. “That would be a relief.”

  “Still getting $10 and $20 donations for the most part,” Sharon said. “But something came in this morning…well, see for yourself.”

  She snapped open her briefcase, pulled out a FedEx envelope and handed it to Ms. Iserbyt, who took it and looked at it with curiosity.

  “What is this?” She said, suspicious.

  “Open it up, Phyllis,” Sharon instructed.

  Phyllis Iserbyt reached into the envelope and withdrew two pieces of paper, one a check, the other a note. She read the note out loud. “In support of your good works,” it said. “A friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Look at the damned check.” Sharon said recklessly. “Please.”

  Ms. Iserbyt fixed her fundraising chairman with a cold stare and a raised eyebrow. Then curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the check and took a look at it. And a second look and a third look. She held it up to the light, as if that might reveal something. “What is this?”

  “Well, to me, it looks like a certified check for half a million dollars. What does it look like to you?”

  Phyllis studied the check. “It looks like a certified check for $500,000.”

  “That’s exactly what it is, according to Morgan National Bank.”

  “You asked them?”

  “I called the main office as soon as I opened the mail. Read them the amount and the account number. Faxed them the signature. It’s perfectly legal and perfectly valid. In fact, the Vice President I talked to assured me that the account holder had a very large balance and often wrote checks of this size.”

  Phyllis looked at the check once again. “Frank Thomas? Who the hell is Frank Thomas? That can’t be anyone’s real name.”

  “No, I don’t think so either. But the Vice President wouldn’t tell me any more. Could it be another one of Metzger’s accounts?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “He doesn’t play games like that. He doesn’t need to. He gave us $1 million and 120 promo spots on INN and told me not to come back for more.”

  “Maybe this is his way of adding to your war chest without embarrassing himself.”

  “Mr. Metzger doesn’t get embarrassed,” Phyllis said. “No. This check comes from someone else and I want to know who.” She squirmed in her chair again, praying for relief, but not finding it.

  “Well, we’ve hit a dead end,” Sharon said, as if that was that.

  “You’ve hit a dead end,” Phyllis said tartly. “I haven’t.” She picked up her phone. “Get me Gwynn Aldrich,” she said. “The President of Morgan National Bank,” she explained to Sharon Hunt.

  That surprised the fundraiser. “You know Gwynn Aldrich?”

  “At my level,” said Ms. Iserbyt, putting a hand over the receiver, “we all know each other.” Then she pressed the speaker button and spoke into the phone. “Gwynn, it’s Phyllis Iserbyt.”

  “Hi, Phyllis,” said a cultured male voice, “what can I do for you today?”

  “Well, my organization—you know, Our Country First?—received a big donation and we don’t know who gave it to us.”

  “I see. So how can I help you?”

  “The signature on the check was Frank Thomas.”

  Aldrich didn’t respond.

  “Gwynn?”

  “Frank Thomas, you say?”

  “You didn’t hear me?”

  “No,” Aldrich said, “I heard you. I just wanted to be sure.”

  “Well, you’re sure now, right?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Phyllis. It’s strictly confidential. Big-time.”

  Phyllis turned coquettish. “Gwynn, you know me. I won’t say a word. I won’t tell anyone who told me.”

  “Phyllis, I can’t. I could get in trouble with the government.”

  “The government? Someone from the government signed this check?”

  “No. Well, not our government.”

  Phyllis exchanged glances with Sharon. “Oh, another government then.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Oh, of course not, Gwynn,” Phyllis purred. “Which country?”

  “Stop interrogating me, Phyllis. I can’t tell you.”

  Phyllis muffled the receiver with her hand. “It has to be the Western Hemisphere,” she said to Sharon. Then she spoke into the phone. “Just tell me this,” she said, “North of the border or South of the border?”

  “Damn it, Phyllis,” Aldrich said, “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Okay. But be sure to tell Rosalind I said hello,” Phyllis said. She made no move to hang up.

  More silence.

  “Gwynn?”

  “It’s the Mexican government, Phyllis,” Aldrich said, very quietly.

  “The government itself, not some wealthy Mexican?”

  “The government, Phyllis. And you didn’t hear it from me. We haven’t talked in months. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Gwynn. Haven’t seen you or heard from you in forever.”

  There was a click as Aldrich hung up. He hadn’t said goodbye.

  “I’m impressed,” Sharon said.

  Phyllis smiled. “I am not to be fucked with.” Then she winced and squirmed into a new sitting position.

  “But Mexico? What do you make of that?” Sharon asked.

  “Interesting,” Phyllis said. “Evidently, Mexico isn’t very happy with the Bourque-Callaway meetings either. I guess they want to leave Bourque twisting in the wind.”

  “Does that bother you?” Sharon asked. “I mean, Mexico helping us?”

  “Why should it? Politics makes strange bedfellows, isn’t that what they say? And this kind of help is going to rent us a lot of buses and let us print up a lot of signs and banners.”

  *

  The Forest Green ConfedEx Express van drove up to Goggins’ Tavern, a two-story, dilapidated wooden building on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia. It pulled in beside an old red Packard convertible that had a blue fender on the passenger side.

  After a moment, a gawky,
red-haired, generously-freckled young man hopped out of the van. He was wearing a Green ConFedEx uniform, summer version—that is, it had shorts pants and short sleeves.

  He checked the address on the slim cardboard envelope he was carrying. “The Association of White Confederate Patriots,” it read, “73414 ½ Peachpit Road, Atlanta, GA, 33091.” He tried to find a number on the tavern, and after a bit of searching came up with one: 73414. But where, he wondered, was 73414 ½?

  He walked around the building, observing the peeling blue paint that covered it, hoping to find a rear door or a basement entrance. What he found instead was a long flight of rickety wood stairs more or less attached to the outside of the structure, leading to a windowless door on the second floor.

  For a few moments, the young ConFedEx man looked around for an address, but soon saw his job was not going to be that easy. So he took a deep breath and started up the stairs, which swayed ominously with every step he took. Finally, he found himself on the landing at the top, facing the door, on which was stapled a white cardboard sign with amateurishly-painted black lettering: “The Association of White Confederate Patriots. National Headquarters.”

  The young man checked the address on the package again. It was a match. He lifted a hand to knock on the door, but, hearing noise coming from within, decided to listen for a moment. The TV was blaring—he could hear shouting and the roar of car engines. He could also hear, just barely, the squawking and beeping of a video game.

  He knocked. No response. He knocked again. Inside, someone turned down the television. “ConFexEx,” he yelled. “Hello?”

  “Leave it by the door,” someone shouted.

  “No can do,” he said. “This one needs a signature.”

  He waited. No response. He knocked again. “I have a package for you,” he said loudly.

  This time, the door opened almost immediately, and the young man from ConFedEx found himself face to face with another young man, an unshaven fellow wearing jeans and a wife beater and sporting a short, greasy ponytail. The pungent odor of marijuana had followed him out the door.

  “Yeah?” Said the man with the ponytail.

  “Package for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, for the Association of White Confederate Patriots,” the ConFedEx man said, reading off the envelope. “That you?”

  “It surely is,” said the pony tail man. “Ah’m Louie Devereaux, da organization’s President. What kin ah do fer ya?”

  The ConFedEx man held out the envelope, indicated an attached paper slip, and offered a pen. “You can sign there.” He tried to wave away the marijuana smoke, which was now creeping out of the room like fog over the Golden Gate.

  Devereaux signed the slip, took the envelope and examined it with curiosity, looking for but failing to find a return address. “Thanks, bub,” he told the ConFedEx man, who headed back down the stairs. Then Louie closed the door and walked back inside the national headquarters of the Association of Confederate Patriots.

  It was not exactly a deluxe facility. It consisted of a single large room, plus a half bath. The walls were covered in cedar-ish faux wood paneling and decorated with signs proclaiming the superiority of white people and deriding the Bourque-Callaway meeting. Two pairs of naked fluorescent light hung from the low ceiling, which was covered with sooty white acoustic tiles.

  “Hey, Earl,” Louie said, to a thin, young, redheaded man sitting in a torn lounge chair, smoking a joint and watching ‘Dukes of Hazzard’ on television, volume on high. “Earl! You hear me?”

  Earl realized, finally, that he was being addressed. He pointed the clicker at the TV and turned down the volume a little. “Yeah, what?”

  “We got dis ConFedEx package chere. You know anything about it?”

  “Lemme see,” Earl said, remaining seated, but holding out a hand.

  “Why don’t ya get off yr big bohunkus n’ come over heah?”

  “Caws Ah’m comfertible where ah am.”

  Louie shrugged and brought the envelope to him and Earl examined it briefly, without result.

  The activity finally attracted the attention of the third person in the room, a chubby, blank-faced fellow in his mid-20s perched at an elderly computer. He’d been transfixed by a game, but the conversation had distracted him. “Let me open it,” he said.

  “Uh-uh. Dat’s fer me t’do, Waymond,” Louie said. “Ah’m da president of dis here association, ain’t ah?” The young man’s name was actually ‘Raymond,’ but he pronounced it ‘Waymond,’ and so did everyone else.

  “Ya surely awe da president,” Waymond admitted. “And ah’m da tweasurah.”

  “Ya doan have to remind me,” Louie said, and he found the opening tab on the cardboard envelope and gave it a quick tug. The tab tore off in his fingers and he resorted to ripping at the perforated strip with his fingernails. He succeeded in getting into the envelope, but only after he’d made a total mess of the thing.

  Meanwhile, Waymond stood at Louie’s elbow, trying to look inside the envelope, barely restraining himself from snatching it away from his friend and pulling out whatever was in it. “Come on, Louie,” he whined. “What’s in deh?”

  “Yeah, Louie,” Earl said. “Stop foolin’ around.”

  Louie pulled out a piece of expensive stationary, folded in thirds.

  “Whats it say, Louie?” Waymond asked in innocent impatience. “Weed it.”

  Louie gave Waymond a dirty look. “Dats what ah’m fixing to do, Waymond, ifn you’ll just gimme a chance.”

  “Okay, okay,” Waymond said. “But weed it, k?” He was practically begging.

  “K. To da gennelmen at da Association of White Confederate Patriots. Please accept da enclosed contrib-ution wit my best wishes. It is my hope dat you will use it to furder your campaign against da Bourque-Callaway meetings. It’s signed your friend, Frank Thomas.”

  “Who da fuck is Frank Thomas?” Earl asked. “Ah doan know no Frank Thomas. And what did he mean ‘contribution’?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Louie dipped a hand back into the ConFedEx envelope and came up with a check. He looked at it and laughed. “Dis can’t be real,” he said. “Somebody is tryin’ to put somethin’ over on us.” He handed the check to Earl. “Take a look at dis, Mr. Vice President.”

  Earl took a good look. “Ah’ll betcha dis be Orry’s work,” he said. “Half a million dollars. Hah!”

  “What do you mean half a million?” Louie said, startled. He snatched back the check and counted off the zeros, eyes wide with surprise. “Ah thought it said five thousan’ dollars.” He said

  “It’s jes a joke,” Earl assured him. “A stupid prank.”

  “Lemme see dat,” Waymond said. He grabbed the check from Louie’ hand and gazed at it, perplexed. “This heh check is cewtified,” he said.

  “So what?” Louie asked.

  “So I tink it’s da weal deal,” said Waymond.

  “Whadda ya know about certified, Waymond?” Earl asked with contempt. “How many certified checks you ever see?”

  “Lots. My mom used to get ‘em from da lawyeh. You kin jes go into da bank and dell give you money, no questions axed.”

  “Dis here’s a check for $500,000,” Louie breathed, staring at it. It was just starting to sink in. “Half a million fuckin’ dollahs!”

  “Lemme see dat,” said Earl. Louie passed him the check and he studied it with great care. “Dey made this with a check machine, y’know.”

  Louie screwed up his face. “What? What da fuck is a check machine?”

  “It’s a gadget where you stick a blank check in, set the numboos and cwank it and it pwints the numboos on the check,” Waymond explained. “Owy don’t have one. Nobody has one, ‘cept big offices.”

  “Whachu sayin’?” Louie asked. “You sayin’ dis ting is fer real?”

  “Sure looks like it.”

  “Half a million buckos,” Louie said. “Can’t be fer real.”

  “Ah been tellin’ ya, Louie,” Earl
said. “Waymond been born on crazy week.”

  “Was not,” Waymond insisted.

  “Well, dere’s an easy way to find out,” Louie said. “We take it to da bank. Da First Confederate. Dat’s da name on da check.”

  “Dat’s the name of ah bank too,” Waymond said.

  “We have a bank account?” Earl asked.

  “Yep. Doan you wemembeh? When we stawted the club. Got tooty-nine dollahs in it. And fitty cents.”

  “Look,” Earl said, “dis is all stupid. No one’s gonna jes give us half a million dollahs.”

  “’Cept Frank fuckin’ Thomas,” Louie said, laughing.

  “So let’s try t’ deposit da ting,” Earl said. “Worse dey can do is say it’s phony.”

  Louie had a sudden thought. “Waymond, dere any way dis could get us in trouble? We doan wanna get in trouble again.”

  “Twouble?” Waymond said, considering the idea. “I doan see how. We ain’t stealin’ anyting or tryin’ to.”

  “Doan you fret,” Earl said. “Ifn da bank cashes da check, its on dere heads, not ourn.”

  “’Zactly,” Waymond said.

  “Okay,” Louie said. “Les not argufy anymore. Les go make a deposit,” said Louie. “Dell prob’ly laugh us outta da bank, but it oughta be fun.”

  “Crank up da car,” Earl said. “We’ll all go.”

  Ten minutes later, the AWCP’s three elected officials, President, Vice President and Treasurer, entered the front door of the First Confederate Bank, Elm Street branch. Except for a middle-aged bald man at a desk and a couple of tellers—a matronly woman in a navy suit, her hair in a bun, and a pretty, perky young girl with a golden ponytail, the place was devoid of people.

  The Patriots chose the young woman, no surprise, and walked up to the counter together.

  “’Morning, shug,” Louie said. “We-all got a check to cash.”

  “Happy to oblige,” said the young lady, in a high musical voice. She waited expectantly. “May I see the check?”

  Louie fished it out of the ConFedEx envelope. “Of caws ya can” –he checked out the nameplate on the counter– “Mz. Pendleton.”