ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  Pruitt looked at Junior with such intense distaste that his lips actually curled. “You are ill?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “Yes,” Junior said, striking a nasal tone, “bad code.”

  Pruitt touched a toe to the Kleenex box and regarded Junior with disgust. “Try to keep it to yourself,” he said.

  “That’s why I brought the Kleenex,” Junior said, not sure he should have mentioned the box at all.

  Pruitt walked on, poking at a set of drapes at the other side of the stage.

  By the time the Presidential convoy arrived—the customary three black Packards, carrying Bourque, Pickett and Delphine and the standard complement of Secret Service agents—the Glass Church’s vast parking lots were fast filling up, with their usual accumulation of ancient Birmingham-made sedans and station wagons, and a growing stream of worshippers was heading for the main entrance. Clearly, the Glass Church’s congregation was eager to be on hand for Buddy Bourque’s unprecedented—and well-advertised—personal appearance.

  The three black Packards pulled up to the church’s service entrance, as arranged, and the Secret Service agents hopped out. After they cleared everything with the agents manning the metal detectors they signaled their VIP passengers to exit their vehicle—which happened to be the first Packard in line—and they whisked them inside.

  Upstairs, Rev. Hurbuckle and his son met the President, his daughter and Roy Pickett at the stage door. Major Pruitt and two members of his team stood nearby, watching everyone and everything.

  “Glad to see you Buddy,” the Reverend said expansively, shaking hands with the President. “You’re sure looking sharp today. You too, Delphine. You always do.”

  Junior gazed at Delphine, forgetting everything else. “That surely is a beautiful dress, Ms. Bourque.”

  Delphine offered a modest smile. “Thank you, Junior.”

  “Well, Harlan,” Bourque said, “it’s a big stage,” Bourque said. “Gotta look our best.” He removed his Panama hat and looked around for a place to put it. Hurbuckle glanced at his son, hoping Junior would be attentive, but it took a couple of pats on the arm to draw his gaze away from Delphine.

  “Here, let me take that for you,” Junior said when he finally caught on. He smiled and took the hat from Bourque and tossed it onto a nearby hat-rack, reminding himself Bourque would never be wearing it again.

  Delphine went to check out the stage and the set-up. Pickett lingered.

  Bourque and Hurbuckle stood together at the edge of the stage, looking out at the parishioners gathering in the sanctuary. “Filling up nicely,” Hurbuckle observed.

  “I’m more concerned with their mood than I am with their numbers, Harlan,” Bourque said.

  Hurbuckle nodded, but he was surprised. He hadn’t often heard Bourque express doubt, especially before a speech.

  “They feel edgy to me, you know, nervous,” Bourque continued. “Unsettled.”

  “Well, they know what you’re going to be talking about, Buddy,” Hurbuckle pointed out, “but they don’t know what you’re going to say. They’re worried. Afraid, some of them.”

  “Understandable,” Bourque said. “So am I.”

  “They feel they don’t have any control over their fate.” Hurbuckle went on. “They feel like nobody’s been listening to them,”

  “Hmmm,” Bourque mused. “That’s a very insightful remark, Harlan. Bears thinkin’ about.”

  “I’ve prepared a short introduction,” Hurbuckle said. “Sweet but brief.”

  “Just how I like it.” Bourque said. He was still thinking about the Reverend’s earlier remark.

  “And I thought I might say a word or two afterward, you know, to second the motion.”

  “That’d be much appreciated, Harlan.”

  Delphine returned from the stage. “Everything’s all set, Daddy,” she said. “TV crew is waiting for our signal. Every last seat in the sanctuary is filled.

  “How do you gauge the mood of the crowd, Darlin’?”

  “It’s tense, Daddy. These people have a pretty good idea what’s coming and they’re worried. They want to be reassured.”

  Bourque considered this. “That’s my read as well.”

  “Should I give the TV people the two minute warning?” Junior asked. He could feel his heart pounding and he hoped no one else noticed that his breath was loud and ragged.

  “Yes,” Hurbuckle said. “Then dim the house lights.”

  Junior did as he was told.

  “Ready to start?” Major Pruitt asked.

  “Just about,” Hurbuckle told Pruitt. “Okay, Junior, dim the stage lights.”

  Pruitt signaled his other team members to be alert. He took up a position at the edge of the stage, while Brice and Tornquist stood at the forward edge of the stage, in the wings, surveiling the audience.

  “All right,” Hurbuckle said, “let’s take our places. Junior will occupy the furthest chair. I’ll sit next to him, next to the podium. The President will sit in the chair on the other side of the podium, then Delphine and finally, Mr. Pickett here.

  “No,” Bourque said. “I want Pickett between me and Delphine.”

  “No problem,” said Hurbuckle.

  They walked onto the darkened stage, Junior leading the way, and sat down. Hurbuckle stepped up to the podium, flipped the switch that turned up the stage lights and hit the chimes button. Three notes sounded, low, melodious and compelling. The congregants, who’d been chatting quietly, fell into an expectant hush.

  Junior surreptitiously reached beneath his seat, searching for the Kleenex box and almost panicked when he was unable to immediately locate it. He took a deep breath, or tried to, and made another attempt, this one a success. After a quick glance around the stage—no one was paying the slightest attention to him—he picked up the box and carefully placed it on his lap. It felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

  “Gooood afternoon, everyone!” Hurbuckle called out cheerfully, sounding self-confident and overflowing with energy and good feelings. I’m delighted to see the sanctuary filled today, for this very special occasion, this historical moment, an address to the nation by our President, Buddy Bourque.”

  He paused to give the audience a chance to applaud, which it did, a bit tentatively. Then he continued.

  “For some time now, y’all have been hearing about the possibility of a reunion between the CSA and the NAU. Y’all have probably have read editorials on the subject, or heard television commentary. Y’all may have listened to the legislative debates, here and in the NAU.” Hurbuckle paused again, this time to let audience catch up and whisper agreement.

  Junior knew his father’s rhetorical tricks by heart and was increasingly impatient with them. It would only be a few moments now before the old man introduced Bourque and they would stand at the podium, together. For the very last time.

  Major Pruitt, whose eyes were sweeping back and forth across the stage like a closed circuit TV camera, ran over Junior, moved on, then backed up and returned to him. Pruitt knew the kid was a fidgeter—that came with the first impression and it didn’t necessarily mean anything. But now Junior’s left leg was jiggling rhythmically and he sounded like he was having an asthma attack. Something was up with this guy, Pruitt decided, but he had no idea what.

  While Pruitt was pondering, Hurbuckle resumed. “What y’all haven’t heard, is what our President and my dear friend, Buddy Bourque, has to say on the matter. Today, he has come to the Glass Church to deliver a national address on the subject, to share with you his feelings and beliefs. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce to you the President of our great nation, Buddy Bourque.”

  Hurbuckle held both arms high, as if proclaiming the Second Coming or indicating a touchdown, and the congregation reprised its modest applause.

  Bourque rose from his seat and took a step toward the Reverend and the podium. At the other side of the stage, Junior also rose, carrying the Kleenex box, one hand slipping through the disp
enser slot, the other cradling the end where the detonator button stuck out. He, too, took a step toward the podium, toward his father and President Bourque.

  Major Pruitt was puzzled by Junior’s actions. Why was he standing? Why was he moving toward the podium? And why in hell was he carrying his Kleenex box with him? This was decidedly odd, and Major Pruitt didn’t like oddities. He didn’t like Junior either.

  As President Bourque approached him, Rev. Hurbuckle extended a welcoming arm, evidently planning to put it around Bourque’s shoulders, a physical gesture intended to show his unconditional support. Junior approached both from behind, although neither his father nor the President noticed his presence.

  Pruitt noticed. He also noticed that Junior had taken his hand off the end of the Kleenex box and something was sticking out of it, something small and black and round. A button. As Pruitt started toward Junior, the young man stabbed the button with his forefinger, face expressionless.

  Nothing happened.

  Junior pushed the button again, confused, frustrated, puzzled.

  Again, nothing happened.

  Except that the button was no longer sticking out of the Kleenex box. The first push, evidently, had been forceful enough to dislodge the detonator from its position at the end of the box, where it had been held by nothing more than three short strips of adhesive tape, old adhesive tape.

  Junior finally realized what had happened and he stuck his finger inside the Kleenex box, hoping the detonator was now backed up against the dynamite, and that he could successfully depress the button. He felt around with a finger tip, trying to find the button, but the detonator was now flopping around inside the box, unanchored.

  At that moment, someone snatched the Kleenex box snatched from his hand, and spun him around, so his back was to the audience. Then, a thick, boney knee smashed into the pit of his stomach. He started to fold up, like a Jenga stack from which the wrong tile had been removed. But he did not fall. A strong arm encircled his waist and led him off stage and out of sight.

  The congregation, of course, had seen everything. Fortunately, it had understood nothing. And it had no trouble accepting Hurbuckle’s next words, which were uttered smoothly and with truly admirable self-control: “Boy told me his stomach was bothering him something fierce,” he said, grinning now for all he was worth. “I guess his lunch was about to make a second appearance.” This got a little chuckle from the audience.

  “Anyhow,” Hurbuckle continued, determined not to think about what had just happened and why, at least not yet. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine—and mightily annoyed with himself for missing this historic speech. But I’ll apologize to you on his behalf for the little interruption. And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you someone whom I am honored to call my friend, President Buddy Bourque!”

  The congregation reprised its applause for the second time, with somewhat less enthusiasm, and Buddy Bourque took his place at the podium, grinning, waving and pointing to friends in the audience real and imagined, ignoring the tentative nature of the applause. He reached into a pocket and spread his speech notes out on the lectern.

  At the same time, Rev. Hurbuckle sat down and looked anxiously into the wings, to where he’d last seen his son. One of the Secret Service men gave him a thumbs up, which was reassuring although not particularly informative.

  Bourque cleared his throat. “Mornin’ everyone,” he said. He peered out into the sanctuary, trying to see the congregants, but the sun backlit them all, and turned the faces into featureless blobs. He shaded his eyes, with no useful result.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, Harlan,” he said, “how do you turn the houselights on?”

  “It’s the button on the left,” Hurbuckle whispered.

  “Thanks,” Bourque said, pressing the button. The lights came up in the sanctuary. “There,” Bourque said, pleased with himself, “now I can see who I’m talking to. Or is it ‘whom’? Never been sure about that one.” He grinned and slowly scanned the crowd, stopping frequently to make eye contact.

  Just behind the podium, stage right, Delphine and Pickett exchanged glances, as if to ask each other the same question: “Do you know what he’s doing?” to which they both responded with puzzled shrugs.

  “Okay,” Bourque said. He looked down at the podium and pawed through his notes, then he looked up. “This is my speech,” he said. He shuffled the papers. “Pages out of order,” he explained, still shuffling. “Well,” he said at last, “no matter.” He picked up his notes and tossed them over his shoulder, the whole bunch of them, to the absolute astonishment of just about everyone in the room.

  Pickett scrambled to pick up the papers and Delphine got down on her knees to help, but Bourque didn’t notice. In fact, no one noticed. Every eye was on the President, wondering what he was going to do or say next.

  “I guess y’all are getting the idea I’m not going to give the speech y’all expected,” Bourque said. “Well, it wasn’t the right speech. I was going to tell you the way things were gonna be and ask you to applaud. But that won’t do.” The governors were one thing, he thought. He could bully and cajole those guys and get them to do what he wanted. The people—the nation—well, that was a very different story.

  He looked out into the audience.. He could see them all now, quite plainly, the young families with a herd of kids, desperate, grandma and grandpa, hoping he could save them, the young men and their girls, doubting the present, unable to even consider the future.

  Of course, millions more were watching on television, but he knew the sanctuary audience reflected them pretty accurately—their hopes and fears, their beliefs and attitudes. If he won over the people he could see, he thought, he would also win over those he could not.

  “I know y’all don’t know what to make of my meetings with President Callaway and all the reunification rumors y’all have been hearing. Y’all don’t know what’s gonna happen and y’all don’t know how—or whether—it’s gonna affect your lives.”

  Bourque paused and surveyed the audience. His eyes fell on a big woman in a brightly flowered dress, sitting in the tenth row, left. She was staring at him intently. He nodded and panned on a little further and found himself meeting the eyes of a thin, grey-haired man in coveralls, arms tightly folded over his chest. He nodded again.

  “I know you have questions and I’m gonna answer them, plain and direct, no fancy talk. And if you more questions after that, I’m gonna answer those too, until you know as much about this whole thing as I do. I’m gonna tell y’all what’s on my mind, and I’m gonna ask y’all what’s on your minds.”

  They were all watching him now, with that mixture of hope and despair, looking at him like he was their daddy and they were his children and there wasn’t a problem he couldn’t solve. He felt the weight of it, and it was quite heavy.

  “First of all, you’re askin’, Buddy, why in God’s name did you go north and sit down with that nigra President? It’s a good question. I’d be askin’ it if I wasn’t up here, talkin’ to y’all.”

  He kept his eyes on the audience, stopping first at one congregant, then another, and then another, trying to make them all feel he was talking to each of them, as individuals, not part of a crowd, trying to make them forget a huge television audience also watching, sitting at home, with exactly the same concerns.

  “Okay, here’s why I went north. I went north intending to ask for hep. Financial help, that was my first thought. I don’t have to tell y’all why. Our economy is failin’. Has failed. We are bankrupt. I could go into the reasons, but ‘cuses are like backsides. Everybody’s got one and they all stink.”

  A mild titter swept through the sanctuary, and Bourque found that encouraging.

  “The plain truth is we just can’t pay our bills anymore, and I mean includin’ Social Security and medical care. I’m gonna be honest with y’all. We haven’t been able to pay our bills for a couple of years now. We’ve been livin’ on borrowed
money and we just can’t borrow any more. No one’ll give us any. The cupboard is bare. I’m not talking about tomorrow or next week or next month. I’m talking about right now.”

  Bourque looked out at the congregation, taking stock. Every eye was on him. The room was dead silent. He knew he was scaring them, but they had to face reality, and he knew of no better way to make that happen. He took a breath and continued.

  “But money wasn’t the only reason I went north, lookin’ for hep. We have another problem and it’s just as bad as the first. I’m taking about Mexico and our great good friend El Presidente. We all know he’s itching to attack us, invade us, and annex us, just like he did Texas. He’s the second reason I went north looking for hep.”

  Bourque studied his audience. He was seeing nods of understanding, even approval. Well, El Presidente was Satan, as far as the Confederacy was concerned, so getting the audience to side with him against Garcia wasn’t evidence of much.

  “Now there’s something else I gotta tell y’all,” he continued. “When I got to Washington, I got a pretty rude surprise. I was given in-contro-vertible proof—hard evidence, photographic pictures I mean—from people with no ax to grind one way or t’other—that Garcia is getting’ a huge invasion fleet together right now, and he could ambush us at any moment. I’m tellin’ you, I’ve seen the photographs of his ships, and they are as evil as the man himself.”

  President Bourque paused once more. He could see the fear in their eyes and he hated himself for putting it there. He was the President. He was supposed to shield them from things like this, even from knowing about them. But now they had to know. If they didn’t, they’d never accept the next step.

  “So now y’all are asking another question. Y’all want to know what happens if Mexico invades. Could we beat ‘em off by ourselves? I don’t know. No one knows. What I do know is this: Mexico is mostly Catholic. We’re mostly Baptist. Mexico speaks Spanish. We speak English. And that’s all right, I don’t mind them being different. But I’ll tell you this, I don’t want to wind up bowin’ to the Pope and sayin’ muchas gracias ‘stead of thank y’all. I don’t think none of y’all want to do that. Do you?”