Chapter Twenty-One
The bomb, when he had finished with it, wasn’t all that big—four sticks of dynamite, strapped together with adhesive tape, connected by wires to a detonator about the size of a computer mouse.
Still, Junior realized, it was too big for any of his suit jacket pockets. And it would make a huge lump if it were taped to his chest. So how was he going to get it onstage at the Glass Church? This was a challenge he hadn’t anticipated. He put the bomb on his dinette table and considered it.
The bomb would fit easily in a briefcase, a shoebox or an overnight bag, but if he tried to get any of those past his father, he face awkward questions about why he was carrying it, or why it was on stage.
Junior considered a cigar humidor, but rejected it for the same reason. Likewise a plain cardboard box. It was maddening. He had the instrument of destruction. He would soon have the opportunity to use it. He had the means to change history, to rid the world of Buddy Bourque. But he had no way to get the bomb and the opportunity together. He was stymied.
Of course, he’d get to the stage before the sanctuary doors were open. Maybe he could hide the thing somewhere, tape it under a chair or the lectern. No, he decided, neither of those would work either. The stage chairs were plastic and chrome, unupholstered. A bomb would be obvious. The lectern didn’t have an internal shelf. It was a single piece of wood on legs. No way to hide something out of sight.
Junior swallowed. His throat hurt and his nose was starting to drip. He was getting another one of his almost monthly colds, a bad one this time. He grabbed the Kleenex box from the kitchen counter, pulled out a piece and blew loudly. His sinuses bubbled as though they were filled with motor oil. He attempted a jump shot, casually flipping the used Kleenex toward the waste basket and, when it fell short, got up and put it in the can.
Junior picked up the Kleenex box again, to return it to the counter, then stopped in mid-move. He put the box down next to the bomb and gazed at both objects, together. After some thought, he picked up the box again and carefully teased open one end of it, prying apart the four pieces of thin, overlapping cardboard.
He pulled out a fistful of folded Kleenex and gently inserted the bomb into the box. It was as though they were made for each other. There was only one problem: if he closed up the box again and glued it shut, he wouldn’t be able to reach the button on the detonator.
Junior stared at his Kleenex bomb, waiting for a solution to come to him. And it did. He took the bomb out and punctured the other end of the box with a pencil. Then he disconnected the detonator from the sticks of dynamite and slipped it inside so that the button stuck out through the new hole.
He got the adhesive tape out again and cut himself three narrow strips. Reaching deep into the box with his forefinger, he managed to apply one strip to the detonator, so that the device fit snuggly against the cardboard. He repeated the awkward maneuver twice more, fastening the detonator in place. Next, he reconnected the wires.
Two steps remained. He took a dozen or so folded pieces of Kleenex from the pile on the kitchen table, slipped them inside the box and spread them out over the bomb, then pulled the top one partly through the plastic film of the dispenser slot.
When he had it looking just right, he got out the Elmer’s glue and resealed the box. Finally, he regarded his work. It looked like a totally normal Kleenex box, ready to service the next sneeze. Junior hefted it—dynamite, it turned out, was a good deal heavier than Kleenex. But that wouldn’t matter. He was the only one who would be carrying it.
At that moment, Junior’s nose began leaking again. Without thinking, he reached for a Kleenex, stopping himself just before he actually pulled out a piece. He went back to the wastebasket, thinking he might be able to squeeze one more nose blow into the one he’d just used.
*
Delphine Bourque knocked on her father’s bedroom door. “You almost ready?” She asked.
“Pretty nearly, Darlin’,” he called out. “Just putting on the finishing touches. Come on in.”
Delphine entered the room. Her father was standing there in his Sunday suit, charcoal with classic pinstripes, paired with a mostly red tie painted with a tiny grey polka dots.
“Looking good,” she said approvingly.
“Well, I’m gonna be talkin’ to the whole country,” Bourque said. “Might as well put on the dog.” He gave his daughter a big grin, enveloped her in a fatherly hug, then held her at arm’s length. She was dressed in green silk, a perfect complement to her glowing red hair. “I’m sure gonna have the prettiest daughter in the house.”
Delphine just smiled. ‘You know,” she said, “I would have been just as happy if you’d made the speech from the studio. It’d be more comfortable and you wouldn’t have to travel.”
Bourque shook his head. “Can’t do it this time, Darlin’. This one’s too important. I gotta see the faces. I gotta see the reactions—if they’re with me or agin’ me, if they’re buying what I’m saying or I have to find some other way to win ‘em over. Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance.”
Delphine put her hand on her father’s. “I understand, Daddy. And you think that at the Glass Church…”
“At the Glass Church, Harlan will be there to warm up the parishioners. Television audience too.”
She smiled. “You don’t miss a trick do you?”
“Not all that many,” he admitted, grinning.
“So,” Delphine said, “You’re ready to go? You ate lunch? You have your notes?”
“Lunch, yes,” he said. “My notes?” He patted his side pockets in increasing panic. “They’re in here somewhere.” He peeked inside his breast pocket, revealing some folded papers. “Ah, here they are.” He offered an mischievous grin.
Delphine didn’t mind being teased. “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”
“Best not count the crop ‘til it’s in the barn,” he said. He dipped into a pocket, found himself a Tum and tried to slip it into his mouth surreptitiously.
“I saw that,” Delphine said. “Are you feeling okay?”
Bourque shrugged. “I’ll do.”
She studied him.
“I’ll rest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? When the state legislatures are voting?”
“I’ll lie in bed and listen to the results.”
She laughed.
Bourque picked up the phone. “Sophie, get me Pickett.”
Pickett answered. “Yes, Boss?”
“I’m in my bedroom with Delphine. Come up, I want to talk to you.”
Delphine looked at her father in surprise. Every time he summoned Pickett in her presence, she worried.
“I have plans for him,” he said, inadvertently reassuring her. There was a knock on the door. “Ah, there he is. Come in.”
Pickett entered the bedroom. “Well,” he said, ‘You’re looking spiffy, Boss.”
Bourque shrugged. “You know how I feel about fancy clothes, Roy. You can dress up a dog, but you can’t keep his tail from sticking out.”
Pickett made as if to look at Bourque’s behind. “I don’t see any tail, Boss.”
“Two things, Roy,” Bourque said, getting down to business. “First thing, I don’t want you to call me ‘Boss’ anymore. Not in private, not in public.”
Pickett was taken aback. “You want me to call you ‘Buddy’?”
“Let’s not go overboard,” Bourque said, waving him off. “But ‘Mr. President’ or ‘Mr. Bourque’ would be just fine.”
“I’ll take ‘Mr. President’,” Pickett said, looking at Delphine, who shrugged, mystified.
“Good,” Bourque said. “Now, number two. I want you to be with us at the Glass Church.”
“You already told me you want me to come with,” Pickett said.
“Yes, but I don’t want you hanging around backstage, or sitting in one of the back rows. I want you on the stage with Delphine and me.”
“Behind?”
“Beside.”
Pickett’s head tilted in curiosity, dog-like. “Really?”
“I think it’s about time” Bourque said, “especially considering what I’m going to say in my speech.”
“That makes me just a little uncomfortable,” Pickett said. “The audience might not like it.”
“Don’t worry,” Bourque said. “By the time I’m finished, they’ll be coming up to you and shaking your hand. I hope.”
“Hmm,” Pickett said. “Well, me too, I guess.”
“Gentlemen,” Delphine said, checking her watch. “We’d better get going.”
Bourque grabbed his Panama hat and they left.
*
Junior gussied himself up in his blue seersucker suit, slipped into his white, patent-leather shoes and put on the black bolo tie, the one with the silver tips. Then he examined himself in the mirror on the bathroom door.
The suit was a little wrinkled—he hadn’t bothered to get it pressed since last time. And there was scuff mark on the toe of his right shoe. But it would do. Daddy was likely to be so wound up about Bourque’s appearance at the church that he wouldn’t notice the imperfections.
Junior got into his car—a 1987 DeSoto rattletrap—and gently set down the Kleenex box on the passenger seat. On the way to the Glass Church, he stopped at Luigi’s and scarfed down a couple of slices of pepperoni pizza. By the time he got to the church, his father had already arrived—his gold Packard was parked in the VIP visitor’s space nearest the main door.
Normally, Junior would have parked right next to the old man. As building manager, he considered it his right, and his father had never objected. But this time, he drove around back and left the car in the employees’ lot, near the service entrance.
He slipped the Kleenex box under an arm and walked briskly to the service entrance, wanting to avoid being seen. He needn’t have worried. It was still more than two hours before the big event and, except for Daddy, he was the first to arrive.
Junior unlocked the service entrance door, and let it close and lock behind him. Then, it was up the backstairs, toward the sanctuary. He had to get the room ready. Also, he had to find a place for the Kleenex box. It wouldn’t do to keep carrying it around. He had to put it on the stage somewhere.
He paused for a moment and allowed himself to think of what he was planning. With this innocuous little Kleenex box, he was going to change history. He was going to save the Confederacy from the greatest traitor in its history. In one blazing moment, he was going to rid the country of this detestable man, as well as his collaborator, Junior’s own father. It would cost Junior his own life, but even Moses never saw the Promised Land.
At the back entrance to the sanctuary, Junior allowed himself to gaze at the fan-shaped room. It was, he admitted to himself, a truly glorious sight, the almost endless rows of cerulean seats, the high, shimmering glass walls, the sunlight streaming through the vaulting glass canopy. His father liked to say it was one of God’s favorite houses, and that seemed right, especially today.
The old man was already there, adjusting the lectern. He was dressed in his trademark blue seersucker suit, identical to junior’s except that it was freshly pressed, and his shoes could have been brand new. This was hardly surprising. Reverend Hurbuckle’s closet was stuffed with a dozen similar outfits, and shoeboxes filled with white patent leather slip-ons. Looking at him, Junior felt a wave of hatred sweep over him.
“Ah, Junior,” said the old man, in his comfortingly resonant voice, “I’m glad you’re here. There’s a lot to do. I want you to set up the stage a little differently today.”
“In what way?”
“Well, we’ll need five chairs.”
“Five? There’s you and me plus the President and his daughter. Sounds like four to me.”
Hurbuckle sighed. “We’ll need five. President Bourque’s assistant will be joining him and Delphine on stage.”
“His assistant? Who? The nigger?”
“Roy Pickett, yes. The Black man who travels with President Bourque.”
Junior couldn’t hide his disgust. “We’re gonna have a nigger on stage? Since when are we willing to do that? This ain’t a nigger church.”
“President Bourque asked me,” Rev. Hurbuckle said. “And I wasn’t about to refuse him. So put out five chairs, Junior.”
He hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said. This wasn’t the time for rebellion.
“Wait, what’s with the Kleenex box, Junior? You got one of your colds again?”
“Yeah, Daddy. Real bad one.”
“Well, just don’t bring it on stage.”
“I gotta bring it with me, Daddy. I’ve been sneezing and my nose is really stuffy. You don’t want me wiping it with a ratty old handkerchief, do you?”
Hurbuckle considered that. “Hmm. I guess not. But I don’t want to see crumpled wet Kleenexes litterin’ the carpet, y’hear?”
“Course not, Daddy. They’ll go right into my pocket.”
“Good. Now after you set up the chairs, I want you to check out the microphones. And the TV crew should be here at any moment. Everything’s set up in the studio balcony, of course, but I want you to make sure there aren’t any problems. It’s going to be a national broadcast.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, and the back hall needs vacuuming. Charlie should be here soon. Tell him to start there.”
“You got it,” Junior said. He remembered that he was holding a bomb in his hand, and in his mind, he ran through the coming events as objectively as he could. His father would speak briefly and introduce Bourque. For an instant or two, they would be standing side by side. For Junior, that would be his moment. Two steps to the podium, Kleenex box in hand, press the button.
The main door chime sounded both Junior and his father glanced at the nearby backstage closed-circuit TV monitor, which displayed images of several well-built and nearly identical men in black raincoats were visible. One of them, a tall, square-jawed fellow in sunglasses that covered not only his eyes, but most of his cheeks, held a badge up to the camera.
“Major Pruitt,” he said. “Head of President Bourque’s advance security team. Four others are here with me. May we come in?” He wasn’t really asking.
Rev. Hurbuckle pressed the button that buzzed open the door. “Yes, of course. I was told you would be coming,” he said. “I’m up in the sanctuary—the stairs are straight ahead of you. Please see me before you begin your work.”
Junior opened the storage closet and counted out five of the stacked, wire-frame chairs. He lined up three of them on right side of the podium, and slightly behind it, and put the other two on the left. The Kleenex box went under the chair farthest to the left, visible but unobtrusive, even innocent.
He’d just finished arranging the chairs when the Secret Service team appeared at the far end of the sanctuary and, heads swiveling and eyes scanning as they walked, made their way down to the stage to greet Rev. Hurbuckle and his son.
“Good afternoon, Major Pruitt,” Hurbuckle extending a hand, which Pruitt grasped briefly.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” said the agent, holding out his hands post-handshake, so his second-in-command could squirt them with Purel. “I’m Major Pruitt, head of the SS detail.” His tone and manner were such that he might have said General George Washington.
“The SS?” Junior asked.
“Secret Service,” Pruitt said.
“I didn’t know the Secret Service had ranks,” Junior said.
“They don’t. Major is my first name. You can call me Mr. Pruitt.” He glanced at Junior. “And just who are you?”
“My son,” Hurbuckle supplied.
“Okay, your son,” Pruitt said, but he continued to look at Junior. He didn’t trust men with tiny eyes. “Are you the only people in the church at present?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “The door was locked when I got here and I locked it behind me.”
“I came in the back door and did the same thing,” Junior
volunteered.
“Good,” Pruitt said. “Of course, we’ll do a quick search of the building anyway.”
“You will?” Hurbuckle asked.
“Standard operating procedure,” Major Pruitt said. “Afterward, two of my men will be setting up metal detectors at both entrances. Brice, Tornquist and I will do a quick check of the sanctuary itself.”
“A check? What for?”
“Any dangerous devices,” Pruitt said. “Explosives. Bombs.”
Hurbuckle chuckled. “I don’t think you’re going to find any of that stuff here.”
“Our janitor vacuumed the entire sanctuary yesterday,” Junior added. “He would have told me if he’d found anything suspicious.” His heart was pounding.
“Your janitor…”
“He’s been with us for twenty years,” the Reverend said. “I trust him completely.”
“What is his race?” the Secret Service agent asked.
“He’s a nigger,” Junior said.
“I see,” said Pruitt. “Well, we have to search anyhow.” He nodded to his men, who split up, one taking the left half of the sanctuary, the other the right. They walked through each row of seats, checking the floor and beneath the seats. They missed nothing.
Observing them, Junior found himself sweating. He glanced—unobtrusively, he hoped—at the Kleenex box. He was desperate to push it a little farther beneath the chair, but equally desperate not to call attention to it.
Major Pruitt strolled around the backstage area, casually it seemed, eyes darting into every corner, behind every piece of equipment or furniture. He pulled back curtains, checked boxes, peered inside a rolled up piece of carpeting.
Then he started on the stage itself, walking up to the podium and examining it closely, tapping the lectern with a fingernail as though he suspected it might be hollow. Satisfied, he strolled past the chairs, glancing beneath them.
As Pruitt came to Junior’s chair, the young man bent down and managed somehow to extract a single piece of Kleenex from the box. He blew his nose into it, managing a very impressive—and distinctly repulsive—explosion of phlegm. He stuffed the dripping Kleenex into a side suit pocket.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 39