ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  O’Neill put a forefinger to his ear and listened for a moment, evidently to his producer. “Arthur, I’ve just gotten word that Lori Newbold has located Senator Oliver Wendell, the Senate Minority Leader and the head of the anti-reunion effort in Congress and will try to get a statement from him. Lori?”

  A somewhat frazzled Lori Newbold appeared on the screen, standing near the front door of a fancy Washington, D.C. restaurant. “Good evening, Sean,” she said, “I’m here at Marcel’s Restaurant in Washington, where, I believe, Senator Wendell will be arriving momentarily. In fact, I think that’s his car now.”

  A big, black Mercedes pulled up to the curb. A finely-dressed Senator Oliver Wendell emerged from the driver’s side, and the restaurant’s liveried valet held the passenger door open for his wife, a glamorous, silver-haired woman in her 60s whose face seemed untouched by age.

  “Senator Wendell,” said Lori Newbold, intercepting him, sticking her microphone in his face, “could I have a word?”

  The Senator glared at pretty reporter as though he were being accosted by muggers. “I’m going to have dinner with my wife,” he said, in a tone of voice colder than liquid nitrogen His wife watched from a distance, equally annoyed.

  “I wouldn’t bother you Senator, but this is such an important issue…please…just one question?” Lori Newbold said. She was almost pleading.

  Wendell took note of the television camera and forced a smile. “Okay,” he said, sounding trapped, “one question.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “How do you think Canadia’s offer will affect the reunion vote tomorrow?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Wendell said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with my caucus yet. We’ll just have to see.” He took a step toward the restaurant, but Lori Newbold put a hand on his sleeve. He looked at her as though she were a disease carrier.

  “Another question, Senator, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “I do, but go ahead.”

  “You have often said that reunion will never take place as long as you live, and that you will lead a Senate filibuster against it. Is that still your intention?”

  Wendell smiled thinly. “Well, we’ll just have to see what happens tomorrow, won’t we?”

  Newbold wasn’t ready to let go. “Has Bowman’s offer changed your personal opinion about reunion?”

  “I have to give that some thought, but as you know, I have many objections to reunion,” Wendell said, pulling away. “Have a nice evening.”

  The camera lingered on the restaurant until Wendell and his wife had disappeared inside. “And there you have it, Sean,” said Lori Powell.

  On the screen, her image was replaced by that of Sean O’Neill “No doubt, Senator Wendell—and the White House as well—are looking at the polls, trying to gauge public opinion. Well, at INN, we have one of the best poll watchers in the business, Carl Raposo. What do the polls say about tomorrow’s vote, Carl?”

  The screen split, with Sean O’Neill face on one side and, on the other, the innocent countenance of young Carl Raposo, the network’s statistician, a recent college graduate. “Well, Sean, I can tell you that public approval of President Callaway’s reunion plan has been slowly fading and that yesterday, for the first time, it fell below 50%.”

  “Very interesting, Carl. What impact have today’s events had on the polls?” Sean O’Neill asked.

  “We’re not going to know anything until we get the overnights tomorrow morning, Sean.”

  “Could you give us your best estimate, Carl?”

  Raposo smiled, his cheeks bunching up with baby fat. “In my profession, Sean, estimates are a no-no. I’ll give you the numbers and I’ll tell you what they mean, but not before I have them.”

  For just a moment, Sean’s standard expression—that is, pleasantly objective—disappeared and his annoyance was clearly visible. But he caught himself and smiled. “Thank you, Carl. We’ll be looking forward to your next report. We’ll be back in a moment.”

  Sean O’Neill’s face faded out and a jaunty car commercial came on in his place.

  In the White House living room, Julia turned toward her husband. “Wendell didn’t look very happy,” she said.

  “No he did not,” Callaway said thoughtfully. “And that’s a good sign.”

  “Think he’s already talked to his caucus?”

  “Hah!” said Callaway. “He knows when his people need to take a pee.” He drained his glass and set it down on the coffee table in front of him.

  “More?”

  The President shook his head.

  “I was surprised Raposo didn’t have new poll data,” Julia said.

  “He probably does. But he doesn’t have any confidence in it,” Callaway said.

  “Like us,” Julia observed.

  Callaway gave his wife a look. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite so smart.”

  “He’s back on,” Julia said, pointing to the television set.

  “Reunion,” Sean O’Neill was saying. “Yea? Or nay? Let’s go back to Arthur Nixon at the White House. Arthur, I believe you mentioned two stunning developments in connection with the reunion, Arthur. The Canadia proposal was the first. Could you tell us about the second?”

  “Certainly, Sean,” Nixon said. “I’m going to ask the cameraman—Herb?—to pan over toward Pennsylvania Avenue, to the iron fence that surrounds the White House. At the moment, you can see a few people walking down the street, a bit of light automobile traffic, but just a few hours ago, you would have seen one of the largest demonstrations in the history of Washington, D.C., an estimated quarter of a million people at the Our Country First demonstration against President Callaway’s reunion plan.

  “This morning, you would have seen this huge crowd, watching and listening to Ms. Phyllis Iserbyt’s passionate anti-reunion address on the loudspeakers and the enormous television screens set up along Pennsylvania Avenue, a speech which was being broadcast nationally on the INN and several other networks.”

  While Nixon spoke, INN rebroadcast a clip from the rally, showing thousands attentively listening to Phyllis Iserbyt, then to the Gordon Bowman’s special announcement. In the next shot, the crowd puts down its signs and begins to dissolve.

  “And then, suddenly, Gordon Bowman in effect interrupted Ms. Iserbyt’s speech and she lost the crowd’s attention, then the crowd itself. It was a highly dramatic and totally unexpected end to the rally.

  “And what impact do you think that might have on the reunion vote?” O’Neill asked.

  Arthur Nixon shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll know that until tomorrow.”

  The image of Sean O’Neill filled the screen again. “We tried to contact Ms. Iserbyt to talk to her about this,” he said, “but she was not available for comment. However, her organization, Our Country First did issue a statement.” He picked up a piece of paper. “It reads as follows: Our Country First was thrilled with the record turnout at our Washington rally today. America spoke and we are confident that every member of the Senate will heed its voice.”

  O’Neill looked directly at the camera again. “What we have here,” he said, “is not only one of the most important stories of our time, but also one of the most dramatic. Three nations are waiting to find out what happens Monday.” He paused. “And now to the other news of the day…”

  Callaway grabbed the remote control and turned off the television set. “Enough,” he said.

  “It was a fair report, for a change,” Julia said.

  “Caught INN at an off moment,” Callaway said. “I’m sure Jack Sullivan will make up for it tomorrow night.”

  “Maybe he’ll try to,” Julia said, “but the vote will be in by then.”

  Callaway looked at his wife, really looked at her, for the first time that night. “You know,” he said, smiling, “you’re right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Senate Majority Ed Lockett (D-Pa) was among the first to arrive in the Senate Chamber on Monday morning, the 27th day of June, 2012.
He’d been in politics for forty years, the better part of his life. Still, every time he stepped inside this particular room, especially when it was empty, he found himself taking an extra breath. For some reason, it had just never become routine.

  This was a majestic place—there was no other word for it. First of all the room was huge, more than 100 feet deep and twice as wide, the massive floor covered by semi-circular rows of burnished wooden desks, the ceiling 30-feet high to the top of the recessed oval in its center. Then there were the rich green marble panels and great swaths of blue and gold carpeting and a gallery running around the room at balcony level.

  The way he felt now---this is how the ancient Greeks must have felt when they entered the Parthenon, he thought. They must have been almost overcome by awe and by the weight of responsibility. True, there was nothing openly religious about the room where the Senate did its business. But it was a kind of modern equivalent of the house of the gods and goddesses.

  Today, he had an additional reason for feeling the weight of responsibility. On this day, the Senate would be deciding the fate of two nations, three really, a decision that would impact millions of people and possibly change the world. Did any of Athena’s priests have to confront decisions of that magnitude, he wondered. Well, maybe they did, or thought they did.

  The other Senators began slowly to filter into the chamber and Lockett’s reverie was interrupted by an almost endless stream of handshakes and hellos, some of the greetings quite awkward when they came from anti-reunion Senators or those unwilling to reveal how they would vote.

  At the same time, the television camera crews were finishing their setup. The entire proceeds would be broadcast not only on C-SPAN2, but on every existing American broadcast and cable network, with the exceptions of the Animal Channel, the Golf Channel and the Cartoon Channel, as well as by several foreign networks. Hundreds of millions would be watching.

  Lockett sat down, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it down over his desk. This was the list, the famous list the media kept joking about—all the Senators’ names, accompanied by boxes, some of them checked, some with question marks, some unmarked.

  Lockett figured he had maybe twenty-eight sure votes in favor of reunion—five more just last night, after the amazing offer from Gordon Bowman. . He needed twelve additional votes for a simple majority—40 out of 78. But if Wendell made good on his filibuster promise, he’d need nine more. Worst case: he’d have to reel in 19 out of the 22 who still hadn’t announced. Even in the best case, he’d need twelve, assuming none of the others came unstuck.

  The one bright spot in this dismal picture, Lockett reminded himself, was that his esteemed friend and colleague, the leading contender for the title of the Senate’s most arrogant member, that is Oliver Wendell (R-Ok), the Senate Minority Leader, who recently lost the Presidential election to Charles Callaway, was facing almost exactly the same problem. In fact, if all of Lockett’s scribbled calculations were right, Wendell was one vote behind.

  At that moment, Wendell walked past Lockett’s desk. He paused. “Good morning, Ed. Having fun yet?”

  “Getting a lot of pressure from the White House, Oliver,” Lockett said. “They want to know how this thing is going to turn out.”

  “Hah!” Wendell said. “Let me know when you find out.”

  He walked on.

  The Senate was really beginning to fill up now, on both sides of the center aisle that separated the opposing parties. Lockett watched, trying to assess the mood and he wasn’t happy with what he saw—uneasiness, grumbling, confusion, earnest conversations between Senators each trying to figure out how the others intended to vote. He had a nagging feeling this was going to be a very bad day.

  Lockett surveyed the galleries. Despite having to go through the metal detectors, the visitors already were beginning to fill the place. It was a highly eclectic group—young and old, black and white, male and female. He wondered if there would be any shouting today, or people hanging signs from the railings. Those fools were forever sabotaging their own cause.

  And then, there he was, the man himself, Vice President Darren Garvey in the flesh, an athletic, if not august, presence. The big grinning blond, glad-handing everyone within reach, including the clerks sitting at the marble-paneled podium at the edge of the well. It was a rare moment, seeing him here. He only presided on special occasions.

  It was a funny thing about Vice Presidents. According to the Constitution, they had only two duties—to take over if the President died or was disabled, and serve as President of the Senate, sans vote, except in case of a tie. And this time, Lockett realized, Garvey’s tie-breaking vote could be absolutely critical. So he might be dependant on man. And wasn’t that just swell?

  Lockett watched as Garvey ascended to the highest point on the main floor, the rostrum against the front wall, all the while nodding, smiling and occasionally pointing, in recognition real or feigned. The Vice President sat down in the big chair and assessed his kingdom. They were all there now, seventy-one men, mostly in well-tailored dark suits and red ties, the majority in their sixties, plus seven women of the same age, in either red or blue. All but three Senators were white.

  Lockett checked his watch. Wouldn’t be long now. He felt a hand on his shoulder—Tom Poulos. “Hey,” Lockett said.

  “How does it look?”

  “Thunderstorms, chance of hail. What’s your take?”

  “About the same. We gonna make it, Ed?”

  “Damned if I know, Tom. Half our guys have lockjaw. I know we have defectors, but I’m not sure who or how many.”

  Sandy Salkin sidled up to the Majority Leader and his second-in-command. “Gentlemen,” he said. He took a closer look at the two men. “Ah, so it’s not a done deal.”

  Lockett shrugged.

  “We’re working on it,” Poulos said.

  “I see. Has the Canadia thing helped?”

  “Some,” Lockett said.

  “You knew about it in advance?” Salkin asked.

  “Not me. I guess I wasn’t one of those with a need to know,” Lockett said.

  There was a buzz from the gallery and the three Senators glanced up. “Good grief!” said Tom Poulos.

  An elderly man, with a hayloft of orangish-brown hair, a color nature had never imagined and probably abhorred, was finding a seat in the gallery’s front row. He was accompanied by a patrician, silver-haired woman in a turquoise suit, obviously his wife. Two standard-issue, black-suited Secret Service agents were playing bookends..

  “That’s Howard Exley!” Sandy Salkin said, astounded. “Did we know he’d be here?”

  Lockett gaped at the man in the gallery. “No,” he said slowly, “we most certainly did not.”

  “The last thing we need,” Poulos said, “is a cheerleader for the wrong side.”

  Up on the high rostrum, Vice President Garvey had also spotted the former chief executive, looking larger than life. He smiled broadly and pointed. Exley chose not to acknowledge him.

  Garvey shrugged and checked his watch. He put his hand over his microphone. “Time to get this show on the road,” he said to the recording secretary sitting at the podium below him, a dark-haired man in his 40s, whose white shirt was much too big for his neck. “Yes, Mr. Vice President,” he said, getting a nod from the clerk. “All set here.”

  Garvey stood, extending himself full height. He banged the gavel once, making little impression on either the Senators at their desks, conversing with each other, or the gallery crowd, which was equally restive. He banged again. This attracted the attention of a few Senators, who disengaged themselves from each other and adjusted themselves in their chairs.

  Vice President Garvey—President of the Senate Garvey on this occasion, he reminded himself—banged the gavel again, louder this time. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into his mike, “It’s 10 a.m., time to begin.” He banged the gavel a fourth time and was pleased when the room finally went silent and all eyes were on him.


  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I declare the Senate of the United States in session. I am Darren Garvey, the Vice President, and I will be presiding. On the docket today is a vote on the Bill of Acceptance, House #2845, which provides for approval of the petitions of the ten Southern states and would result in the reunion of the North American Union and the Confederate States of America, individually. Clerk, have any Senators requested a hold on the vote?”

  This was a crucial moment. Senator Lockett, who, as Majority Leader, occupied the first seat in the first row on the left side of the aisle, leaned forward unable to contain his anxiety. He didn’t expect a hold. He hadn’t heard that anyone was going to put a hold on the legislation. Still, if someone did, at this—the very last minute—the vote would be postponed until who knows when.

  “We have no holds, President Garvey,” said Alvin Gribbish, the chief clerk. He was a little grey, elderly-looking man of the sort who had probably been born old. Adolescence had failed to complete its job with his voice, which was high and squeaky

  “Okay,” Garvey said, “the Chair will now entertain a motion to proceed with the vote. Do I hear such a motion?”

  Lockett rose from behind his desk. “I move that we proceed on House #2845. I ask for the yeas and the nays.” He said, speaking rather loudly.

  “Is there a sufficient second?” Garvey inquired, pro forma. He glanced around the room and saw several Senators briefly raise their hands. “Okay, we have a sufficient second. Now let us proceed to vote. The clerk will read the roll.”

  This was the second crucial moment. Any Senator who wanted to—and Oliver Wendell in particular—could rise now and ask that the debate be extended. Because of Senate rules, this would stop everything until and unless proponents could muster forty-seven votes for cloture. It was filibuster time, if there was going to be one.

  Even the gallery realized what would happen if someone moved to extend debate, but nothing of the sort occurred. No one rose in an attempt to prevent the vote. Either those inclined to filibuster were confident they had enough votes to defeat the bill and prevent reunion, or they’d decided they couldn’t win a filibuster vote. Ed Lockett glanced at Oliver Wendell, trying to figure out which was the case, but Wendell just smiled cryptically.