“Well, I just…”
“It’s okay, Ed. I know you can’t help it.”
Poindexter managed to blush and frown simultaneously. “At any rate, everything is ready.”
The waitress brought breakfast: Raisin Bran for Phyllis Iserbyt, eggs, bacon and pancakes for the others. Ms. Iserbyt surveyed the table. Sometimes, sacrifices were necessary.
*
Wang hadn’t liked the idea. He claimed that Callaway looked much more comfortable at a podium looking composed and commanding. But Katz overruled him. He wanted to take advantage of the full majesty of the Oval office, sitting Callaway behind the magnificent oak desk, putting him in the dark blue suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie with an unobtrusive geometric pattern.
If they’d been able to choose, they wouldn’t have scheduled a nationwide Presidential address for a Saturday night, but they couldn’t do it before the Senate debate ended. And with the rally on Sunday and the vote the next day, this was the only window, the only time when Callaway wouldn’t have to compete with other events or speeches.
And so, after an early dinner, Callaway changed out of his Saturday clothing—sweatshirt and jeans—and donned the customary uniform of the Chief Executive, under the critical eye of his beautiful wife, who proved invaluable when it came to tying the Windsor knot preferred on formal occasions, because the leader of the free world happened to be a total klutz when it came to cravats.
“There,” Julia said, scrutinizing him at arms’ length, then flicking a flake of dandruff from his jacket shoulder. “Almost perfect.”
“Almost?” he asked.
“No one’s perfect,” she said, mischief in her eyes.
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, stop fishing for compliments. You’re going to be fine.”
Callaway flashed her a doubtful look. “We’ll see about that.”
“You’ve stopped fiddling with the speech? You know you always regret the last minute changes.”
“Gave it to the teleprompter guys before dinner,” he retorted.
“Well now,” she said, impressed.
“I’ve been over it so many times I’m sick of it.”
Someone knocked on the bedroom door. “Time to go, Mr. President.” Wang said.
Callaway gave his wife a quick kiss. “Watch me on TV,” he said.
“What? And give up ‘Dancing With the Stars’?”
They shared a nervous laugh.
Callaway and Wang then made their way downstairs to the Oval office, where Marty Katz and Veronica Tennenbaum were waiting. A two-man crew had set up a television camera, complete with a through-the-lens teleprompter, and a make-up lady was ready with a loaded powder puff. Callaway closed his eyes and submitted to the de-shining, then took his seat behind the desk.
At that moment, Katz came over and tucked Callaway’s suit jacket under his rear end. “So it won’t ride up,” he said, when Callaway looked up in surprise.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. President,” Wang called out.
“Break a leg, Mr. President,” Veronica said.
“Yes, but not until the speech is over,” said Marty Katz.
“Ten seconds,” said the TV director, and then he counted down. As he said “one,” he pointed to the President, who had just taken a deep breath. The teleprompter began rolling and Callaway started speaking, his tone serious, even grave:
“My fellow citizens. For the past week, you have been listening to an open debate in the United States Senate about whether or not to readmit the ten states of the Confederacy into the union.
“The previous week, the House of Representatives voted to approve the petitions of these states,” Callaway said, gazing into the television camera and fluently reading the words scrolling down the teleprompter screen. “But before they can rejoin the union, the Senate must also accept these petitions and when this Act of Acceptance reaches my desk, I must sign it.”
He paused for a moment, a signal to the teleprompter operator to slow the scroll down a bit. Then he resumed.
“As you might imagine, I have been following this process with the greatest possible interest and concern. Like many of you, I have watched the demonstrations, both for and against reunion. I have seen the subject discussed on television by pundits, politicians and ordinary citizens. I have closely followed the Congressional debates and read the editorials and letters to the editor. And my advisors and I have spent a great deal of time on the subject.”
He was listening to himself now, judging his tone of voice and his cadence as if someone else were speaking, trying not to spook himself by thinking of the millions who must be watching, and how important his words were.
“What will I do if the Act reaches my desk?” Callaway continued. “I will sign it into law, with confidence and with great satisfaction. I will sign it with gratitude for those who have spoken loudly and passionately in favor of it, and for those in Congress who approved it. I will sign it with renewed hope for the future of our great country. I will sign it to honor the citizens, the legislators and the national leaders of the CSA, especially President Bourque, who have set aside their differences and doubts to cast their fortunes with us.”
Callaway waited for the teleprompter to catch up to him, and for a moment he had the uncanny sensation of watching himself, sitting behind the President’s desk, addressing the nation, wondering how he had come to be here. Then the next paragraph came up on the teleprompter and he picked up where he’d left off.
“Why, you may ask, am I so eager for our two countries to become one? Why in the face of so many objections, so passionately delivered, am I nonetheless ready to sign the Acceptance Act just as soon as it reaches my desk?” he asked rhetorically.
“Well, I support reunion for what I believe are the best possible reasons, reasons that nullify all the counter-arguments and doubts. I believe that reunion will make our country far stronger than it is now. I believe it will greatly expand our economic base. I believe it will increase our international standing and make us a force to be reckoned with as never before. I believe it will heal an open wound that is 150 years old.
“I believe this not simply because I want to, or because of my optimistic nature. I have reached my conclusions after listening to some of the world’s foremost economists, trade authorities, diplomats and military experts. They are unanimously and strongly in favor of reunion. I believe them not just because they make good sense. I believe them because it is impossible to come to any other conclusion.”
Callaway paused. He decided to let the next paragraph of his speech roll by on the teleprompter without reading it. It would have exposed to the public the deal between Garcia and Zimmerman and revealed that Mexico was on the verge of invading the Confederacy. But now, seeing the words in front of him, Callaway spontaneously rejected them. He didn’t want to use fear or anger to sway public opinion. He wanted the American people to support reunion for the simple, honest reason that it was the right thing to do. He took a breath and went on.
“It has not been easy for the Confederate states to ask to rejoin us,” he said. “It means the end of the CSA as an independent nation, and the individual states have had to rescind the Articles of Succession they passed 150 years ago. It means the Confederate states are once again ratifying our Constitution and all of its amendments and that they are agreeing to honor and abide by every Federal law and regulation.
“Most importantly, and most impressively, it means that they are volunteering to abandon the way of life that divide us so many years ago. That doesn’t mean they will be completely transformed overnight. But it does mean the laws that support second-class citizenship for Negroes—or worse--will be immediately stricken from the books and Southern society will start down the road to equality. Having traveled it ourselves not so very long ago, and not yet having reached the end of it, perhaps we can tolerate their struggles and point the way.”
Callaway paused. It was an important point and he wanted it heard a
nd considered. After a moment, he went on.
“Will we still have our differences? Yes we will, even after equality has been achieved—just as Nevadans have their differences from Vermonters and Kentuckians have their differences from New Yorkers, just as the old have their differences from the young, the Catholics from the Protestants, the men from the women.
“We are a nation of differences, and they are our strength. We are like a dozen coats of lacquer, or multiple plies of wood, or the alloys of different metals. The combination gives us strength. It also gives us the widest possible vision and the greatest scope of talents. By accepting—and celebrating—our differences, we allow each other to contribute our piece of the truth to the greater good. We become finer and stronger. We live our values.
“One hundred and fifty years ago, Abraham Lincoln, in his wisdom, accepted the division of the United States of America. And by doing so, he saved the countless lives that would have perished in a conflict between us. Much has happened since then, however. Both of us have new problems. Both of us face new threats. We need each other as never before.”
Callaway paused again. He was coming into the homestretch now and each word had to count. This was when the hearts and minds were won or lost. He waited for the words to start rolling on the teleprompter screen again, but nothing happened. He took a breath and kept waiting. And waiting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the camera operator desperately trying to get the teleprompter working again. And he realized there was no helping it. If he were going to continue, if he were going to finish the most important speech of his life, he was going to have to remember the concluding paragraphs by force of will. There was no other way.
He took another breath and began to speak, and the words tumbled out of his memory and onto his lips. “I believe we were always meant to be one people and one nation, because I think that the acts of secession—and our tolerance of them, understandable as it was—was the greatest mistake in our history,” he said. “With reunification, our country, undivided, will take its rightful place among the nations of the world – strong, prosperous and, once again, whole. One nation, under God, all of us Americans, as we were meant to be.
“On Monday, the Senate of the North American Union will vote on whether or not to accept the petitions of the Southern states. It will be a vote for or against reunion. Either way, it will be the most momentous vote in my lifetime, perhaps the most momentous vote in our country’s history. I ask for your support, not for my sake, but for your own, for the good of the country we all love so much.
“Thank you.”
He held the pose for a couple of seconds, then the cameraman said, “and out.”
The teleprompter screen was still blank.
Then Wang, Katz and Veronica approached. They’d all been standing behind the TV camera, off to the side, where they would not be a distraction.
“Well done, Mr. President,” Wang said, shaking his hand.
“I liked the omission,” Katz said. “The speech was stronger without the Mexican and German stuff.”
Veronica had been studying Callaway with interest, as though something had surprised and intrigued her. “You ended it differently than you’d rehearsed it,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted, and was about to explain when she went on.
“That long pause before the conclusion,” she said. “It was very dramatic, very compelling, totally spontaneous. I think that may be the most effective speech you’ve ever given.”
Callaway smiled, a bit embarrassed, but not inclined to explain. “Thank you, Veronica. Coming from you, that means a lot.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
They came in cars. They came in buses. They came in airplanes and minivans and SUVs. They would have come in Conestoga wagons and ox-carts if that’s all they had. They came by the thousands, the tens of thousands and the hundreds of thousands, if their count could be believed.
They came, on this sunny Spring Sunday, to Washington, to the White House, to demonstrate against reunion. They came alone, in families and in groups, from cities, towns and villages, mostly from the Midwest, but really from everywhere.
Policemen were everywhere, of course, on foot, in cars, on horseback. But they weren’t really necessary. This was not a violent crowd. All they were doing, really, was marching in circles, waving frequently misspelled signs and rhythmically chanting slogans such as “No Reunion! No!” “Impeach Callaway!” “Down With the South!” “Let Bourque Rot!” “Who Needs ‘Em & Who Wants ‘Em?” and “Our Country First, Last and Always!”
They came at the impassioned request of Phyllis Iserbyt and her high-octane organization, Our Country First. They came because they were afraid their country was changing, and in ways they feared or didn’t understand. They came because they felt helpless. They came because they felt cheated, somehow. They came because they were thoroughly pissed.
They came to show the President that he could not alter the country so profoundly without consulting them, without getting their approval. They came to make pests of themselves, and on national television. And in this, they were succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.
Some came not because of ideology but because they scented profit. Hawkers had set up stands to sell “Our Country First!” and “No Reunion!” Tshirts and copies of Ms. Iserbyt’s many published polemics. Others were pushing hot dog carts through the crowd or offering drinks and ice cream. Then there were the sign vendors, selling slogans printed on cardboard and mounted on sticks for those who couldn’t be bothered to make their own.
No less than 84 video and still news photographers from all the major US networks and cable news stations, and some European networks as well, were stationed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, and double that number of reporters were on scene, ready to show and tell America about the massive protest. And the rally organizers had supplied a plethora of porta-potties.
At the heart of the demonstration, on the far side of Pennsylvania Ave., but directly in front of the main gates in the tall iron fence that surrounded the White House, Our Country First had built an elaborate speaker’s platform, on which were now sitting Phyllis Iserbyt, her chief deputy and political advisor, Ed Poindexter, known to the press as ‘his royal baldness,” and her three ladies-in-waiting, formidable women all.
The main INN video camera, tripod mounted so that it could sweep above and across the entire crowd, was manned by a short, dark-haired fireplug of a man, Herb Czeckjo, of whom it had been said that if a nuclear explosion occurred in his vicinity, he would keep shooting it until either he or his camera melted, whichever came last.
Czeckjo was joined, on this occasion, by reporter Lori Newbold, 27, blonde, beautiful and able to pronounce most English words. It was her job to describe the scene in the most glowing terms she could imagine. She was in direct touch with INN headquarters in New York, and subject to the instructions of the network’s top producer, Michael Flaherty, who was, of course, subject to the instructions of Helmut Metzger.
The dauntless Ms. Iserbyt figured that she’d wait until 11 a.m. before she stepped up to the microphone and began breathing fire. She wanted the maximum crowd. She wanted the cameras to see and savor the maximum crowd. If it all went as well as she hoped, she might finally achieve the political lift-off of her fantasies.
Actually, the entire event had been set up to achieve exactly that result. Ms. Iserbyt had been imagining herself as a governor, or perhaps a senator. Oh, other speakers would appear on the platform, briefly, but she had set it up so that she would be the most prominent, most remembered, most quoted. Her appearance would be projected on eight giant TV screens mounted on flatbed trucks and spread out along Pennsylvania Ave. from 14th Street to 18th Street. She imagined her triumph, trying to forget she felt like she was sitting on a cactus.
At a small window on the second floor of the White House, President Callaway and his Chief of Staff, Eric Wang, stood watching the commotion on Pennsylvania Ave
nue. The crowd noise was audible, but not overwhelming.
“We ought to close Pennsylvania Ave. someday,” Wang mused.
“They’d just pop up somewhere else,” Callaway said. “How many do you think there are?”
“Estimates differ,” Wang said. “The INN says a quarter of a million. The police chief thinks it’s about 50,000, give or take.”
“Still, it’s a good crowd. And if you’re so inclined, you can watch every minute of it on television.”
“It’s about as interesting as golf,” Wang said.
Callaway smiled. “Eric, just because you don’t like the sport…”
“Sport? Who said anything about sport? I was talking about golf. It’s a game, not a sport.”
“Your feelings on that subject are well known.”
“Put it on INN,” Callaway said. “I want to see exactly how they cover this.”
A screen-filling high-def image of Phyllis Iserbyt appeared on the TV set. She was alternately chatting happily with Ed Poindexter or her ladies-in-waiting, making notes on a manuscript of her upcoming speech, or surveying the crowd, with a grin that would have impressed the Cheshire cat. “She looks ready to eat her young,” Wang observed.
On television, the view switched to the ever-blonde Lori Newbold, mike in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, raising her voice so she could be heard over the din, “the excitement here is about to reach its peak. In just a few minutes, Phyllis Iserbyt, the President of Our Country First, will address this enormous and peaceful assembly. But right now, Ed Poindexter, Ms. Iserbyt’s second-in-command is stepping up to the podium. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
Callaway and Wang exchanged glances. “He’ll introduce her,” Callaway said.
The camera panned to the podium, where a thin, bald man in a loosely fitting tan suit was taking his place. “Good morning everyone,” he said in a high-pitched voice, holding up a hand in hopes of quieting the crowd. “Good morning my friends and fellow Americans…”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 45