“Mr. Drinkwater,” Gribbish repeated.
Sen. Croft leaned toward his colleague and tried to rouse the old guy. This took several tries and only halfway succeeded. Two index cards had been pasted on Sen. Drinkwater’s desk to help him on occasions like this, one labeled “yea,” in Magic Marker, the other “nay.” Croft took Drinkwater’s wrinkled right hand and placed it on the “nay,” then tried to make contact with the man. For some reason, the effort paid off. “Nay,” Drinkwater said, much too loudly.
“Mr. Drinkwater, nay,” Gribbish said, ignoring the by-play.
Lockett caught Wendell’s eye and shook his head in disgust. Wendell encored his smile/shrug reaction.
“Mr. Eaton,” Gribbish said, inexorably.
So far as the press was concerned, Sen. Christopher Eaton was “the invisible man,” since he tended to vanish when TV cameras appeared. “Nay,” he said, and hardly anyone noticed—except Gribbish.
“Mr. Eaton, nay. Mr. Flowers,” Gribbish said.
Clarence Flowers of Maine was one of the Senate’s three Black members. He was a tall man with disconcertingly light-colored eyes who tended to say exactly what he thought, which had frightened both friends and enemies. “Yea,” he said.
*
They’d decided to watch the vote in the Situation Room, all three of them—Eric Wang, Marty Katz and Veronica Tennenbaum. “If this isn’t a situation, then I don’t know what is,” was how Veronica put it.
So now they were sitting in the room with the big table and the score of big LCD screens wallpapering the place. The largest of these, a 65” HD giant, was tuned to NBC, which, like all the other networks, was broadcasting the Senate proceeds.
“How did Flowers vote?” Wang asked, trying to hear the reporter. “I missed it.”
“Yea, but that’s what we expected,” Katz said. “Doesn’t mean anything one way or the other.”
Wang wasn’t satisfied. “So what’s the score now?”
“This isn’t a baseball game, boychick,” Veronica scolded.
“Ten to ten,” Katz said. “No surprises, except Connelly’s pass.”
“Yeah,” Veronica said. “What the hell is he up to? I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
Katz laughed. “My guess is that wouldn’t be very far.”
“Does anyone know a way to slow down my heartbeat?” Wang asked. “I think it’s going to bang its way right out of my chest.”
*
Gribbish checked the register. “Mr. Forbush,”
Sen. Richard Forbush (D-Or.), the surprise winner in an election fight with a three-term Republican incumbent, was one of the freshmen who’d given the Democrats their two-seat margin in the Senate. Lockett had reminded him of his duty last night in a phone call and now Forbush voted as instructed. “Yea,” he said brightly.
“Miss Fortsen,” Gribbish said, almost sounding bored.
Clarice Fortsen (R-ON), the junior Senator from Ontario, and only the third to be elected since Canada split and Ontario joined the union, was an attractive raven-haired woman in her middle 40s—a single woman, no less, which had seriously worried half the other Senator’s wives. “Nay,” she said.
“Miss Fortsen, nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Goldsmith?”
Vice President Garvey interrupted the clerk. “Just a moment before you proceed, Mr. Gribbish,” he said, looking at his watch. “I find that it is very nearly noon. Therefore, I move that we adjourn for lunch until 2 p.m. Do I hear a second?”
Garvey scanned the Senators, smiling, hope in his eye. No voice called out. No hands appeared. He conferred with the Parliamentarian, who was sitting nearby.
“I am informed that we can’t have a vote until we have a second,” Garvey said. “Now I know that you’re all getting hungry. I am. So who’s going to second my motion?”
Garvey surveyed the room again, slowly, smiling, pathetically optimistic. Nothing but blank looks. His confident smile began to fade.
Up in the gallery, Howard Exley got to his feet, grinning broadly, showing off his Steinway smile. “Better get on with it, Darren,” he called down to the Vice President, in the friendliest possible way.
Garvey stared up at Exley, flabbergasted, and he wasn’t alone. All of the Senators, shocked by the outburst, had instantly swiveled around to see who’d spoken, who’d been fearless enough to trash one of the Senate’s musty conventions. The rest of the gallery was peering in Exley’s direction as well, hoping for a news event.
“We all want to know how it’s gonna turn out,” Exley said. “We can eat later.”
This was followed by a moment of stunned silence in the room, then a universal outburst of laughter, from Senators on both sides of the aisle.
At the rear podium, Darren Garvey first turned dead white, then flushed red enough to substitute for a traffic light. He sat down, bewildered. After a moment, he realized everyone was looking at him, including Gribbish. He made a hand gesture toward the clerk. “Go on, Mr. Gribbish,” he said.
Gribbish took a single breath, then spoke. “Mr. Goldsmith.”
Sen. Donald Goldsmith (D-CT), 53, a former judge, and appropriately square-jawed and silver-haired, strongly agreed with the Majority Leader on this issue. “Yea,” he said, sounding quite definite.
“Mr. Goldsmith yea,” Gribbish repeated monotonously, “Mr. Graffenberg?”
“Yea,” said Senator Graffenberg (D-NM), speaking before the sound of his name had faded away. “And that’s a vote of confidence in our President,” he added.
Up on the rostrum, Garvey picked up his gavel but, seeing that Graffenberg was finished, put it back down. “Would the clerk please continue?”
Gribbish paused for a moment, to make sure Graffenberg had nothing more to say. “Mr. Lockett,” he said.
The Senate Majority Leader rose and delivered his “yea” without ceremony. Wendell made a tick on his list.
*
Phyllis Iserbyt looked through the reading material. Typical doctor’s office fare—celebrity gossip magazines, sheets, soft-core masquerading as women’s magazines, week-old newspapers, a couple issues of Proctology Today, none of which was going to take her mind off her agony. “Will Dr. Bagus be long?” she asked the chubby little red-haired receptionist, gritting her teeth.
“He’s with another patient,” the girl said with a sweet little grin.
“Yes, I know, but…”
The door opened and a heavy-set Black man of about 60 entered. He walked up to the receptionist, gingerly. “Edward Rasmussen,” he said.
The reception nodded. “Please have a seat.”
“Okay,” Rasmussen said. “Say, do you have a radio? I’ve been following the Senate vote on reunion and I want to see what’s happening.”
“Sure thing,” the receptionist chirped. She switched on an elderly black plastic Zenith on her desk.
“…And with Majority Leader Lockett’s vote,” said the announcer, “the total is now 14 to 11. And the yeas have their biggest lead—three votes. We may be seeing a trend.”
Ms. Iserbyt rose to her feet, her face red and wreathed in pain. “Will. You. Shut. That. Goddamn. Thing. Off?” Her eyes were aflame.
*
Gribbish consulted his register. “Mr. Greenleaf,” he said.
Sidney Greenleaf (R-IN) was the founder of a drugstore chain, which he had sold to Super Shop n’ Save a decade ago for many millions. He decided to use that money by going into politics, hoping to thwart the Democrats and the Liberals. “Nay,” he said, and smiled.
“Mr. Greenleaf, nay,” Gribbish, making a mark on his register. “Mr. Hubeson.”
Howard Hubeson (D-IL), that is the Rev.Howard Hubeson, the second of the Senate’s three Blacks, a sly, big-bellied buffoon, or so he pretended to be, who had somehow worked his way up from the street on Chicago’s South Side to become one of the most powerful men in Washington. “Yea,” said Sen. Hubeson.
“Mr. Hubeson, yea,” Gribbish said. He looked up from his register. “Mr.
Jefferson.”
Mr. Jefferson (D-NJ), was, at 39, the youngest Senator in Congress. He was former NFL wide receiver, a tousled-hair type with an endearing crooked smile, which he hoped he could parlay into the Presidency sometime in the next decade. He glanced at Lockett and, as they had pre-arranged, said “I pass.”
“Mr. Jefferson, pass,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Johnson.”
Sen. James Johnson (R-MI) had just written a best-selling book on Conservative political philosophy and was currently the darling of the Sunday TV talk shows. “I vote nay,” he said. “And if this dumb idea ever comes up in the future, I will vote nay again.”
“Johnson nay,” Gribbish said without inflection. “Mr. Jones.”
Kilgore Jones, a Democrat from Washington, had been around the block far too often. His knees were shot. His hips were shot. He was, as they say, in the winter of his years. He hadn’t wanted to run last time, but Lockett had convinced him he was the only sure bet. “God has a plan for you,” Lockett had said. Well, maybe this was it. “Yea,” he said more loudly than he had intended. “Yea.”
“Mr. Jones, yea,” Gribbish repeated.
*
The lower reaches of La Penitenciaria Federal de lost reclusos Especial were dank, dark and grim, usually lit only by greasy lightbulbs at either end of the corridor. But this morning, the flickering bluish light of an ancient TV set helped pierce the gloom.
Something was happening, Hector Herrera realized. The guards had brought in a television set—not for the prisoners, but for their own entertainment. He wondered why. He couldn’t see the picture, even with the little hand mirror his friends had smuggled in to him. But he could hear the audio quite clearly.
“With the aye vote of Senator Kilgore Jones,” the news reader was saying, “the total stands at 16 in favor of reunion, 13 against—a three vote margin again. Of course, the roll call isn’t even half over, but in a contest this close, three votes could be conclusive. We may be seeing reunion become a reality.”
Herrera laid down on the thin, lumpy pad the prison passed off as a mattress, and he listened, smiling. Yes, the plan to conquer the Confederacy had failed, and it had landed him here, in this hell hole, thanks to El Presidente’s evil temper. But if the announcer is right, Herrera thought, I will have my revenge.
*
Gribbish checked his register. “Mr. Karker?” he asked.
Sen. Sheldon Karker (R-IL) was an ordained minister, and also one of the Senate’s biggest horndogs, a fact that—fortunately for him—had not yet become public. “Nay,” he said.
“Karker, nay,” Gribbish said, “Mr. Kesterman.”
Mr. Kesterman (R-PA) was elected on the notion that the less the government did, the better. As a result, he voted against almost everything, unless it directly benefited Pennsylvania.“Nay,” he called out.
“Mrs. Klinger.”
Ruth Klinger (D-Ak) stood at her desk. She was wearing bright red today and her archaic blonde bee-hive gleamed as if had been shellacked, which it probably had. “Mrs. Klinger, representing the great state of Alaska votes yes.”
“Mrs. Klinger, yea,” Gribbish said, scribbling on his register. “Mr. Koplowitz?”
Sen. Koplowitz, the former mayor of Omaha, a Democrat in a heavily Republican state, was always a problem for Majority Leader Lockett, since he was constantly torn between keeping his job and voting his conscience. In this case, the job won. “I vote nay,” he said.
Wendell ticked a box on his list and glanced at Lockett, who, he was pleased to see, was frowning.
“Mr. Koplowitz nay,” Gribbish said, making the obligatory register note.
*
They figured it would be the old red Packard’s last trip—nearly two thousand miles from Atlanta to Las Vegas, where they’d pick up new wheels, new clothes and, they truly believed, women appropriate to their bankrolls.
“How much further?” Louie asked.
“Dunno,” Earl said, checking the odometer. “Eight, nine hunnert miles. We’re still in da middle of Oklahoma.”
“Leastwise we dint no any trouble at da border,” Louis said.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “Pays to be white.”
“Woulda been faster to cut through Texas,” Louie said.
“Mexys woulda got us,” Waymond pointed out. He switched on the car radio, looking for some good country tunes, but all he could find was talk. He stopped turning the dial for a moment. “Koplowitz’s nay is an unpleasant surprise to the pro-reunion side,” a news reader was saying. “It makes the vote 17 in favor, 16 opposed.”
“Turn off that shit,” Earl said.
“But it’s the weunion vote,” Waymond protested.
“Who gives a fuck?” Louie asked.
“Right,” said Earl. “Who gives a fuck?”
Waymond shrugged. “Look, dere’s a wibs place. Let’s stop. I’m weally hungwy.”
*
Gribbish found the next name. “Mr. Kortenbush.” he said with an unintended squawk.
Mr. Kortenbush (D-MT), a big man with a bad cold, blew his nose loudly and stood up to speak. “I say yea,” he announced nasally.
“Mr. Kortenbush yea,” Gribbish noted, “Mr. Lafayette.”
The world was moving too quickly for Lionel Lafayette (R-VT), a gentleman of the old school but he claimed that age gave him perspective. He stood and bent toward the mike. “Nay,” he said.
“Mr. Lafayette, nay,” came Gribbish’s clerkly echo. “Mr. Lewis.”
Sen. Carlton Lewis (R-SD) made as if to rise, but somehow got his feet tangled in his chair legs. Instead of going up, he went down, face first, grabbing at his desk, pulling papers down on top of him and generally making a spectacle out of himself.
At first, the other Senators and some people in the gallery thought that he’d had some kind of attack, a stroke perhaps, or a heart attack. But he soon struggled to his feet, waving off the colleagues who had rushed to help. He took hold of the mike. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just clumsy.” This drew a nervous little laugh from the others in the chamber. “I vote nay,” he said.
“Lafayette, nay,” Gribbish repeated as though he’d noticed nothing. “Mr. Lindell.”
Harry Lindell (R-ID), ex-COO of Calkin Foods, the agricultural giant, liked to say that he was just a family farmer. That didn’t fool anyone in Washington, but he’d ridden the image to victory in three straight elections. “Nay,” he said, as expected.
“Mr. Lindell, Nay,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Linscott?”
Jamison Linscott rose. He was a dead ringer for the cartoon character Daddy Warbucks, tall, bald nearly to the point of hairlessness, and big-eyed. Having a unenthusiastic view of most government activities, his negative vote had been widely anticipated and he delivered as expected.
*
From his window on the fourth floor of Shadybrook, Junior Hurbuckle could see the great, green rolling lawn of the Confederacy’s most luxurious loony bin, or, as it advertised itself, “restorative resort.”
If he behaved himself, he’d been told, he might someday have access to the beautiful swimming pool off in the distance or perhaps even the tennis courts. But he knew what “someday” meant. It meant years. He would have been better off dead.
Junior permitted himself the fantasy—himself blown to pieces, but not just himself. Buddy Bourque as well. And the great Rev. Harlan Hurbuckle. Flesh and blood and bones and brain everywhere. And all chances of reunion blown to pieces as well.
It wasn’t so bad to be locked up here, not really. The mattress was comfortable, the reading matter plentiful and the food edible. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all, nothing to regret, except his abject failure. He’d had a calling, a God-given mission, a chance to do something spectacular, something noble and unselfish. And he’d failed.
Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” he said reflexively, momentarily forgetting that the right of entry was not his to give nor to deny. The lock turned and a sturdy, smiling young Black man, a servant,
entered the room, bearing a plastic tray with a bowl of cereal, a cup of skim milk and half a grapefruit.
Junior peered at the servant’s name tag. “Lucius, may I ask you a question?”
“Yassuh, of course.”
“I’m curious about the NAU vote on reunion. Have you been following it?”
“Yassuh, I have.”
“So, tell me, what’s the count?”
“Well, suh, just afor I stepped into the room, it was 20-18.”
Junior tried to control himself. “For or against?”
“Against reunion, suh. Looks like it’s going to lose.”
“Well, whatta ya know?” Junior said gratefully. “Isn’t that just too bad?”
“Yassuh, it is,” said the Black man.
*
Gribbish steeled himself. The next name was always difficult for him, and he very much wanted to get it right. “Mrs. Majewski,” he said, stumbling slightly.
“The Senate’s grandmother,” as Mrs. Majewski was known, stood at her desk, although at her height—4’9”—the gallery could hardly see her. “Mr. Clerk,” she said, “the Senior Senator from Ohio votes yea.”
At the clerk’s podium, Gribbish recorded her vote. “Mr. Markoff.”
The man from San Francisco, the Senate’s first openly gay member, buttoned the middle button on his jacket and stood. “Yea,” he said.
“Mr. Markoff, yea,” Gribbish echoed. “Mr. McClellan.”
Mr. McClellan (R-ON), a nice young man who became a Senator after the last election, rose a bit uncertainly and uttered a timid “Nay,” after which he glanced at Sen. Wendell to see if he’d said the right thing. Wendell nodded with approval.
“Mr. McClellan, nay. Mr. Mckenzie?” Gribbish prompted.
Sen. Mckenzie (R-kY), or, as he preferred to be called, “Major” Mckenzie, although he had never served a day in the armed forces, rose, smoothed down his white goatee, paused, smiled and said “nay.”
“What?” asked Sen. Lockett, who’d been sure he’d stolen this vote from Wendell.
Gribbish glanced at Sen. Lockett. “Mr. Mckenzie, nay,” he said.
Lockett made an “x” near Mckenzie’s name, and studiously avoided looking at Sen. Wendell.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 50