ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Fasten your seatbelts, folks. We’ll be landing in about 20 minutes.”

  Bourque looked out the window and Pickett peered over his shoulder. Washington, D.C. lay just to the right of them, a few thousand feet down, the white government buildings gleaming in the midday sun. “I’m beginning to feel like a short dog in the tall grass,” Bourque said.

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

  Bourque laughed.

  Veronica Tennenbaum and a few State Department older hands were waiting for the Bourque party when it came down the stairs. The paisley lady hurried up to the arriving group, grabbed Kooter Barnes’ hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Welcome to the NAU, Mr. President,” she said.

  “Ah, no, no Mrs. Tennenbaum,” Pickett hurried to say. “Let me introduce the President. This is Virgil Lee Bourque, President of the Confederate States of America. I assume that you are Veronica Tennenbaum, NAU’s Secretary-of-State designate?”

  “The very same,” Veronica said, unembarrassed. She shook Bourque’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. President. President Callaway sends his greetings. He’s at the White House and he’s eager to meet you.”

  Bourque doffed his Panama hat, took Veronica’s hand and kissed it gallantly, much to her surprise. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Tennenbaum,” he purred.

  “I’m charmed,” Veronica said, clearly flattered. She turned to one of her State Department elders. “See, now that’s how a real gentleman greets a lady,” she said.

  Bourque then introduced Pickett, calling him his ‘chief factotum,’ and Pickett handled the other introductions. Then Veronica led the party, security detail included, about 100 yards across the tarmac, to a waiting Marine Corps VH 3D Sea king helicopter, at which stood two Marines in full dress uniforms, one holding a rifle at port arms.

  The air space between Andrews and the White House was normally restricted—had been since 1979, when some religious nut-job overflew the White House in a Cessna and fired a shotfgun at the West Wing. But it’s a different story for official helicopters. Fifteen minutes after take off, following a trip that included a stunning bird’s eye view of Washington sights that few people ever get to see, the Sea king landed on the South Lawn of the White House. Bourque turned to Pickett before they got out. “Curtain going up” he said.

  Eric Wang and Jewel Rogard greeted the new arrivals, while Pickett and Tennenbaum handled the introductions.

  “Mr. President,” Veronica said, “I want you to meet Eric Wang, the President’s Chief of Staff.”

  “Ah, Wang. Yes.” Bourque said, nodding. “We’ve howdied but we ain’t shook.” He held out a paw and Wang took it.

  “President Callaway had intended to meet the helicopter,” Wang explained, “but he had to take a last minute call. He’s waiting for you now in the Oval Office.”

  Bourque reckoned this might be a moment for levity. “Okay. So take me to your leader,” he said, grinning.

  The CSA’s security people joined forces with the NAU Secret Service detail and they went about their business, heading for a distant doorway, while Wang led Bourque and his party to the inner sanctum. The southerners tried their best not to rubberneck.

  At the Oval Office, all was warm handshaking, broad smiles and nervous small talk. Pickett watched, heart pounding.

  Bourque and Callaway were walking toward the President’s famous desk and conversing. They were a conspicuously unmatched set.

  “Nice place you got here,” Bourque told Callaway.

  “I’m sure Arcadia is a match for it,” Callaway said.

  “Tell me about that painting,” Bourque suggested, pointing to something from Revolutionary times. “We share a lot of history, you know.”

  Bourque and Callaway strolled toward the picture, still talking, and Pickett turned to look at the two Vice Presidents, who seemed an even less likely pair. They were examining a ship model in a glass case.

  “As I recall,” Barnes was saying, “you were a pretty spectacular athlete.”

  Vice President Darren Garvey responded with an ‘aw shucks’ expression. “Well, Mr. Vice President, the operative word in that sentence is were. It’s been quite a few years since I had the cleats on.”

  “What’s that?”

  Garvey raised his voice. “I said it’s been quite a few years since I threw a football in anger, Mr. Vice President.”

  “It’s Barnes,” said the Southerner, wiggling his walrus mustache. “George Barnes. But if you don’t call me Kooter, I’m going to get mighty riled up.”

  Garvey laughed. “Then Kooter it is,” he said, easily slipping into his good old boy persona, which happened to be where he’d spent most of his life. “Call me Darren.”

  Wang sidled up to Pickett. “Everyone seems to be getting along pretty well,” he observed.

  “So far,” Pickett agreed. “But that one worries me.” He pointed toward the rose garden window. Just out of their earshot, Gerard Pinckney was earnestly haranguing Marty Katz. Katz listened politely for a bit, then pulled out his cigar case, selected something about the size of a baseball bat and, disregarding the smoke alarm system, lit up with what appeared to be a miniature flame thrower. It took only two subtle but artfully-directed exhalations to send Pinckney, coughing, in search of liquid lubricant.

  Pickett realized he’d lost sight of Delphine, then spotted her on a couch, chatting happily with Veronica Tennenbaum. He moved toward them.

  “Not in the NAU,” Delphine was saying. “At least not yet. But if things go well with the President and my father, I’d love to do concerts up here.”

  “You’re already famous here, you know,” Veronica told her. “I’m told your CDs are good sellers. If you were to perform in the cities, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, I think…

  Pickett glanced toward Bourque and Callaway, who had strolled back to the desk.

  “So where’s the Missus?” Bourque was saying. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”

  “She’ll be down for lunch,” Callaway said.

  “Ah, lunch,” Bourque said. “Lovely word.”

  That got a smile from the President. “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  The President’s wife was waiting for them in one of the White House’s smaller private rooms, wearing something powder blue, simple but chic, looking beautiful as always. She, the White House chef and the Chief Protocol Officer had agreed on a light, delicious and uncontroversial menu of pasta salad, crisp chicken with a mustard sauce, homemade potato chips and white chocolate cheesecake, supplemented by fruit drinks and sodas, including a full range of imported Coca-Cola products to make the guests feel at home.

  The two Presidents were the first to drift into the little dining room.

  “Mr. President,” Callaway said, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Julia.”

  Bourque regarded Mrs. Callaway with enough warmth to heat the entire room. “My honor and my pleasure, m’am,” he said gallantly, taking her hand and raising it briefly to his lips. “I must say, you certainly do live up to advanced billing.”

  “As do you, Mr. President,” Julia said smiling, doing something like a curtsy. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Kooter Barnes, who was entering the room with Vice President Garvey, witnessed this little exchange and stopped momentarily, beset by cognitive dissonance. His brain contained no nook or cranny into which he could fit the image of Buddy Bourque kissing the hand of a colored lady, even a beautiful one.

  But no one was better—or faster—at making adjustments than the Kooter. He cleared his mind of conflicting feelings and greeted Julia in a fine imitation of his Boss, ad libbing a graceful compliment. “Your pictures don’t do you justice, Mrs. Callaway. Smiles like yours make the old feel young and the poor feel rich.”

  She beamed, pretending she didn’t know that Barnes did not habitually compliment people of the Negro persuasion. Then she turned to greet the others as they entered the room�
��Pinckney, who was something of a surprise, and Delphine and Pickett, about whom she’d heard a great deal.

  While they all stood near the door, schmoozing, Pinckney wandered over to the large round table in the middle of the room, unobserved, and began checking out the place cards. Yielding to temptation, and ignoring Herrera’s instructions, he switched places, putting himself between Delphine and Julia.

  A millisecond later, the little crowd at the door broke up and headed for the table. Julia sat down first and Pinckney went to sit beside her. “Wait,” she said, “something’s confused here.” She gave Pinckney a sharp look. “The place cards are all wrong.” She snatched Pinckney’s card, walked it around the table and plunked it down in front of a vacant chair between Katz and Veronica Tennenbaum. “There,” she said with a smile. “That’s better.”

  What followed was a little more than an hour of slightly bizarre small talk, frequently interrupted by eating and drinking, the comestibles brought and the empty plates taken away by a young wait staff notable for its invisibility.

  “That’s the best vittling I’ve done since the hogs et grandma,” President Bourque allowed, touching his napkin to his lips and grinning. He fumbled around in a pocket and came up with half a roll of Tums. “Just need an after dinner mint,” he confided to Callaway.

  “Those help?” Callaway asked.

  Bourque shot a look at his counterpart. He smiled. “Not much.”

  Delphine, who was sitting on Bourque’s other side, suddenly thought to examine the china. “Did you see this, Dad?” She asked. “The Presidential Seal is imbedded in every dish.”

  “Mighty handsome,” Bourque agreed, glad of the distraction.

  “We have whole pantries full of the stuff,” said Julia Callaway. She was sitting on Delphine’s left.

  “Must be amazing to live here,” Delphine said.

  “Would you like a tour?”

  “Do they let the public…”

  “No, silly. I’ll be the tour guide.”

  Pinckney, paying close attention, thought he saw a way to insinuate himself into the party. “I’ve always wanted to see the White House,” he piped up.

  Julia looked around and caught Marty Katz’s eye. He looked away, but not quickly enough. “Marty, didn’t you say…”

  To his credit, Katz made no further effort to escape his fate. “Oh yeah. Gerard, why don’t you come back to my office? We need to talk about what you’re going to say about this meeting, you know, in the biography you’re writing.”

  “Couldn’t we…”

  “Next couple of days are a little crazy for me. But I have some open time right now.” He touched the left side of his comb-over to make sure it was doing its job.

  “He’s always very generous to writers,” Veronica Tennenbaum said helpfully. She was sitting next to Katz and hadn’t missed a thing.

  “You know, all the libraries in the NAU will want copies of your book,” Katz said, sounding sincere.

  “Really?” Pinckney said, pleased with the idea. “I didn’t realize that.”

  Katz stood. “Come on, Gerard. My office. I got lots of ideas.”

  He walked toward the door and out of the room, Pinckney padding after him obediently.

  “Ready for the tour?” Julia asked Delphine.

  “Absolutely.”

  The women said their goodbyes and left, the men watching them go, Veronica Tennenbaum watching the men. She let them gaze a moment, then clinked a fork against a crystal goblet. “Gentlemen,” she said. “Unless my memory has failed me—again—I’m pretty sure we all have a meeting to go to.”

  “Yes indeed,” Wang agreed, standing. “Let’s adjourn to the small Presidential Conference Room. I’ll lead the way.”

  They reassembled in the conference room just down the hall, to which some faceless public servant had brought everyone’s briefcase and set up a simple, but state-of-the-art audio recording system.

  The room was dominated by a oval mahogany table, around which were arrayed eight big black leather and rosewood Eames chairs, the most comfortable seats ever devised by the hand of man. A side table held coffee, soda, pastries and the inevitable box of Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “Please,” Callaway said to Bourque, gesturing at the chair at one end of the table.

  Bourque eased into it, sighing with pleasure. “Roy,” he said, “order me up a raft of these things for the Plantation.”

  Pickett flipped open his notebook and just down a few words. “They’re expensive,” he said.

  “I’m sure,” Bourque said. “Maybe our friend Wang can get us a discount.”

  Wang laughed. “Just let me know how many you want.”

  They all took seats, Callaway at the other end of the table, Barnes and Pickett on one side, Garvey, Tennenbaum and Wang on the other. Wang and Pickett put their cell phones on the table, which also held conference calling equipment.

  President Callaway smiled at his Confederate counterpart. “Your serve,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Bourque said. “Roy, why don’t you pass out copies of the agenda?”

  Pickett snapped open his briefcase, removed a stack of papers and passed them around the table. Bourque picked out a cruller from the Dunkin’ Donuts box. Silence prevailed for a few moments, while everyone read the meeting agenda:

  The Confederate States of America

  Office of the President

  AGENDA

  CSA-NAU meeting

  1. Environmental issues

  Global warming

  Water pollution

  Air pollution

  Wetlands Preservation

  2. Cultural Exchanges

  Reciprocal sports contests

  Musical performances

  Theatrical performances

  Scholastic exchanges

  3. Trade and Tariffs

  4. Health Agency Cooperation 1

  5. Energy Issues

  6. Transportation issues: Roads, railroads, air travel

  7. Bilateral Military Cooperation

  8. Bilateral Economic issues

  9. Bilateral Political Cooperation

  10. Arms sales and purchase

  11. Immigration

  12. Border Control Issues

  2

  “That’s a prodigiously long list, Buddy,” Kooter Barnes observed. “We thinking of settin’ up housekeepin’ somewhere hereabouts?”

  “I don’t ‘spect we’re going to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s this time out, Kooter,” Bourque said, chewing his cruller, “but I’d like to get at least a running start.”

  “Wait a minute,” Garvey said, looking straight at Bourque. “What’s this bilateral stuff? You got three items with that word. Exactly what does it mean?”

  Barnes squinted at Garvey, then looked at Pickett. “I didn’t get that. What did he say?”

  “He was asking about the meaning of bilateral,” Pickett told Barnes, loudly. Then he turned to Garvey. “It’s a, uh, technical diplomatic term. Just means two sides. Ours and yours.”

  “Oh. I see.” Garvey said. “Well, I wish you hadn’t used jargon. It just makes me wonder, you know?”

  “Nothing to wonder about,” Wang said. “It’s standard language.”

  “For you, maybe,” Garvey said. “Not for me. I prefer plain English.”

  Wang shook his head, but Pickett was the only one who noticed.

  President Callaway was studying the agenda. “This is a pretty full plate,” he said, looking at Bourque.

  “It’s a six-course dinner if you count the ice cream,” the Confederate President admitted, “But I ‘spect we’ll have leftovers.”

  “Hmm,” said Callaway thoughtfully. “Maybe there are some things we can parcel out.”

  Bourque was momentarily confused. “Well, we can prioritize, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I think he’s talking about a division of labor,” Pickett put in.

  “President Callaway,” Bourque said, grinning,
“same dog bit me.”

  “How about this,” Wang said. “Why don’t we let our very capable Vice Presidents deal with some of these items, and the Presidents work on the rest?”

  Garvey was suddenly alert. “Yeah, but which would be which?”

  Barnes leaned toward Pickett, his jacket button popping open. “What did he say?”

  “He suggested we divvy up the agenda,” Pickett told Barnes, raising his voice. “You and Vice President Garvey take charge of one part, the two Presidents and maybe their assistants handle the rest.”

  Barnes caught Bourque’s eye. “What do you think?”

  “Depends on who’s cutting the pie, I guess,” Bourque said. He pulled another Tum out of the roll and slipped it between his lips.

  Veronica Tennenbaum raised a meaty arm. “Maybe I should give it a try,” she said. “After all, I am the most senior diplomat here.” She smiled and glanced around the room, as though she were hoping someone would challenge her.

  “Sounds like you already have something in mind, Veronica,” President Callaway said.

  “I do,” she said, picking up the agenda. “Now look, the agenda has 12 items. Let’s say that the Vice Presidents handle the first six and the Presidents handle the rest. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  They all started re-reading the agenda, except for Pickett and Wang, who exchanged glances. Wang winked owlishly behind his circular glasses and Pickett struggled to stifle a smile.