*
Sam Rankin waited until he was sure no one was looking, then he rolled the tall, tracked ladder down to the molding bins and began to climb, slowly and carefully, making allowances for age and arthritis. This was one hiding place, he felt sure, that no one would ever discover, not that they’d ever found his other ones. Most of them.
He was about halfway up when he started to run out of breath. At the same moment, he heard someone coming—couple of guys, probably Pete and Bobby John. He drew on his reserves and scrambled up, managing to knock off his dirty “Brub’s Emporium” cap. Damned if he was going to back down the ladder to retrieve it.
Just before Pete and Bobby John turned into the narrow, dimly-lit corridor, Sam Rankin hoisted himself up into the moldings bin and flopped down, panting, on a rack of cavetto molding strips. He tried to remember exactly where he’d put it. Ah, in back, on the left, small flat bottle, plenty left.
Pete and Bobby John turned the corner and came into the moldings corridor. “Hey,” Pete said, picking up Sam’s cap. “What’s dis?”
“Looks like Sam’s.”
“Must be around here somewhere. Never seen ‘im without ‘is Brub’s cap.”
Pete stuck it under his arm. “I’ll give it to ‘im when I see ‘im.”
“Been payin’ ‘tention to da vote?” Bobby John asked.
“Which one?”
“Dae reunion one, dummy. Ya know dere votin’ up North.”
“Yeah, been listenin’ on da radio. Ain’t gonna be no reunion.”
“What makes ya so sure?” Pete asked.
“Last time I heered, it was 22 against, 20 aye. Only gonna worse.”
“Worse? You want reunion, Bobby John?”
“Me? Sure. I’d like real health care fer a change, not that stupid, useless Confedacare. But it’s not gonna happen.”
“Betcha $5.”
“Confederate money?”
*
Gribbish checked his register. “Mr. Merck,” he said.
Michael Merck (R-ID) was a lawyer who’d spent so many years representing chemical companies, some referred to him as the Senator from Monsanto. “Nay,” he said quietly.
“Mr. Merck nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Miller?”
Anthony Miller (D-NM) was one of the Senate’s few conservative Democrats, and he was always a problem for Sen. Lockett. They’d talked last night for nearly forty-five minutes and the Majority Leader still didn’t know how he was going to vote. “Pass,” said Sen. Miller. Lockett sighed.
“Mr. Miller pass,” Gribbish said, making a note on his register. “Mr. Milner.”
Lockett anxiously looked over his shoulder at Peter Milner, who was standing at his desk three rows back, looking professorial. Perhaps more than any other Democrat, Milner marched to the beat of a different drummer. He’d even refused to tell Lockett how he intended to vote and now he teased the entire Senate, by holding back for several seconds. Finally, he spoke. “Yea,” he said, and Lockett relaxed for a moment.
“Mr. Milner yea,” Gribbish intoned. “Ms. Milton.”
Samantha Milton (D-WV) was a long-time labor activist, a champion of the coal miners. She was a stocky, combative lady and when she attacked, which was often, her opponents generally tried to placate her. “Speaking for myself and my constituents,” she said, “I vote yea.”
“Ms. Milton, yea,” Gribbish said, making a note of it.
*
Squire Creek Country Club and Golf Course was a good three-and-a-half hours from Baton Rouge, up Route 15, but Kooter Barnes made the trip whenever he had a chance. He’d been a member since Squire Creek opened in 2002. There was no better course in Louisiana and the staff treated him like a king.
Of course, he’d expected to watch the vote with Buddy Bourque, but the President had told him that he and Delphine were going to watch it privately. “We’re making it a family affair,” Buddy had said. At first, Kooter felt slighted, even insulted. Then he realize he’d just been given another opportunity for 18 holes on a beautiful, sunny day. He could do without the tension of the vote.
But somewhere on the way to the 9th hole, where the woods were thickest, Kooter’s conscience started nagging at him. He should be with Bourque, today of all days, even if Bourque didn’t want him. And even if he wasn’t wanted, at least he should be paying attention. After all, it was his country too, his job, his life.
“Hey boy,” he called out to a young Black man who was tending the green, “How ‘bout you go running back to the clubhouse, find out how the vote is going, then hurry back and tell me.”
It wasn’t really a request, but the young man hesitated nonetheless. Kooter gave him a long, hostile look, then dug around in his pocket and came out with a $5 bill. “You hurry now,” he said.
“Yassuh,” the young man said, grinning, and gracefully loped across the fairway toward the clubhouse.
He was back in a little more than ten minutes. “The vote stands at 22 for, 23 against. They were watching on the clubhouse television.”
Kooter tugged at his mustache and thought about it. He’d better go watch it. If reunion went down, there was going to be a serious shitstorm. He’d finish this hole and go back to the clubhouse.
*
Gribbish checked his register and found the next name. “Mr. Mittendorf.”
“Nay,” Mr. Mittendorf (R-IA) piped up instantly. He was a nervous, birdlike little man who seemed constantly to be on the verge of apologizing for something.
“Mr. Mittendorf, nay. Mr. Mushadin?”
Raj Mushadin (D-NV) had been born in India and brought to America by his parents, who had amassed considerable fortune in the hotel business and had invested it in several Las Vegas casinos. How he would vote on any given issue, few could predict. This time he said “yea.”
“Mr. Mushadin, yea,” Gribbish said, “Mr. Mustov.”
“Da,” said Mustov, grinning, demonstrating his famously impish (and, to some, annoying) sense of humor. Sen. Lockett shook his head, exasperated, and ticked the box next to Mustov’s name.
“Mr. Mustov, yea,” Gribbish said, with a barely detectable hint of sarcasm.
*
Cecily Randolph stood at the door of her father’s study, surprised to see it closed. She knocked.
“Yes?”
When she opened the door, she saw her father, Dudley Claybourne and Everett Stokes arrayed around a bulky color television set from the Paleozoic Period. Each man had subsided into a worn and elderly green leather club chair, and each was holding a crystal glass containing—if the ornate, half-empty bottle on the table was any indication—a healthy amount of Chivas Regal 50-year Royal Salute. This was, she remembered, her father’s favorite Scotch. The last bottle.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, puzzled, even concerned.
“We’re having a party,” said Dudley Claybourne, slightly slurring his words. His fine British tweed suit, normally immaculate, was rumpled and stained.
“That’s right,” Everett Stokes put in. “We’re celebrating the end of everything. Care to join us?” He picked up a chocolate chip cookie from the plate in front of him and took a giant bite, very uncharacteristic behavior for a man who took pride in his pencil-thin figure.
Cecily didn’t know what to make of this. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t listen to Stokes,” said her father, who also seemed slightly drunk. “It all depends. It may be the beginning, not the end.”
The other men laughed in derision. “Your father is the village optimist,” Claybourne said.
“I still don’t understand,” said Cecily. Sometimes, she thought men talked in another language.
“It’s like this, Miss Randolph,” said Stokes. “The Senate of the North American Union is voting—right now, this very minute—on whether or not to reunify with the Confederate States of America. If they turn us down, as I think they will, we’re done. Finished. Caput.”
“But i
f they accept our petition,” Edmund Randolph told his daughter, “Then we have a chance to begin again. A real chance.” He didn’t sound very confident.
“Shhhhh,” Claybourne said, eye on the TV. “Another Senator has just voted.”
They listened to the television announcer. “And Senator Mustov’s yea vote ties the score again, at 24-24. But there are still 30 votes to go.”
“You see,” Randolph said, “there’s still reason to hope.”
“Or to despair,” Stokes added.
*
Gribbish took a long drink of water, then resumed. “Mr. Natterson.” He said.
Henry Natterson (D-kA), except for his off-the-rack department store suit, eerily resembled the farmer in American Gothic. “Yea,” he said.
“Mr. Natterson, yea.” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. O’Neill?”
Cap O’Neill (R-MA) was a Navy man, son of a Navy man, who was the son of another Navy man and it probably went back further than that. Tall, erect, auburn-haired, the very image of the destroyer captain he’d been not so long ago, he was already being mentioned as a possible Presidential candidate in the next election. “Nay,” said O’Neill, and his right hand moved slightly, in an unconscious impulse to salute.
“Nay for Mr. O’Neill,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Olsen?”
Norman Olsen (R-MI), a meek and mild man, would hardly have been known outside of Michigan if it hadn’t been for his daughter, who was a model for Veronica’s Secret. His colleagues practically begged him to bring her to Senate social functions, even offering voting favors, but he rarely agreed. “Nay,” he said
“Mr. Olsen, nay,” Gribbish repeated, “Mr. Pomano.”
Lewis Pomano (D-MD), former governor of Maryland, was one of Senate’s several freshmen and no one seemed to know where he stood on many issues, although he called himself a Democrat. “Yea,” he voted, causing Sen. Lockett to exhale in relief.
“Mr. Pomano, yea,” Gribbish repeated in his sing-song voice.
*
“’K, Dedrick, on three,” said Jermaine Brown. “One, two, three.”
He pressed the big red button on the control box and the platform on which they were standing smoothly descended along the outside east wall of the Glass Church. After it had moved downward about five feet, Brown hit the black button and the platform came to a stop, swaying slightly, the result of some momentarily sloshing in the water buckets at either end.
Dedrick Clemons looked toward the glass sheathing. “Hey,” he said, surprised. “I thought da place was empty.”
Brown shot his partner a look. “Whadda ya mean?”
“Look dere, through de corner window. Doan let ‘im see ya. Might spook ‘im.”
Jermaine Brown crouched down and peered into the window. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Da big man hisself.”
“Hurbuckle? What’s he doin’ here? Dis is his day off, ain’t it?” Clemons asked..
“He’s pacin’. N’sweatin’ N’watching his little TV.”
Clemons crouched carefully. “Man’s nervous as porcupine in a balloon factory.”
“He’s watchin’ that Senate vote up north.”
“Can ya hear what da announcer is sayin’?”
Brown pressed put an ear to the window. “TV says the vote’s tied, 26 all.”
“Hey,” Clemons said, “lookit that. He’s tryin’ to pour hisself a shot of whiskey. Hands shakin’ so much he cain’t hardly do it. Man’s scared shitless.”
“Dat’s not a shot glass, Dedrick,” Brown said, impressed. “Dat’s a fuckin’ drinkin’ glass.”
*
Alvin Gribbish opened his mouth to call out the next name, then hesitated. He fought back a sneeze and lost the battle. Then he blew his nose, then looked around the chamber, embarrassed. Finally, he spoke. “Mr. Postlethwait.”
One of Wendell’s closest allies, Postlethwait announced his vote without hesitation: “Nay,” he said.
“Mr. Postlethwait nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Poulos.”
Tom Poulos glanced in Lockett’s direction. He wished he had more than one vote. “Yea,” he said.
“Mr. Poulos yea,” Gribbish said, “Mrs. Rosenbush.”
Nina Rosenbush, 82, (D-KA) was a very cheerful, very friendly old lady who’d succeeded her husband in the Senate three years ago. Since then, she’d always asked Lockett how to vote and, to his great satisfaction, always followed his advice. “Yea,” she said.
“Mrs. Rosenbush yea,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Salkin?”
“I vote yea,” Sandy Salkin said. Another instant vote, surprising no one.
“Mr. Salkin yea. Mr. Santos-Epstein.” Gribbish said.
Sen. Santos-Epstein (D-WI), a good-looking young man who fancied himself the leader of the next generation, could always be counted on to cast a progressive vote.. “I say yea,” he said.
“Mr. Santos-Epstein yea,” Gribbish said, voice cracking at the hyphen.
*
El Presidente sat in his office, slumped in his chair, glumly gazing at the volcano, which was taking some time off—not even a wisp of smoke. It was a bad day, he thought, the culmination of a bad week and a bad month. He was beset by a cluster of unwelcome feelings: frustration, anger, depression, weakness.
Fortunately, he knew a sure—though temporary—way to snuff out moods like these: a woman. And, as it happened the perfect woman was sitting in his outside office right now, at her desk, willing and available, ass like a matched set of honeydew melons, breasts like artillery shells, and the rest of her wasn’t so bad either.
El Presidente let his thoughts wander, which didn’t take much effort, now that he was thinking about something pleasant. Soon, he felt the life flowing back into his veins again, not to mention his arteries. He sat up. He adjusted his tie, re-pinned a crooked medal on his chest and took a deep breath.
He could summon her by intercom, of course. On late afternoons, he’d often done that. But today, well, he felt he wanted to impress her with his full presence. He wanted to see the respect in her eyes, the awe. After all, he was Miguel Garcia, conqueror of Texas and El Presidente for life of the proud Mexican nation.
El Presidente strode across his office broadloom, sticking out his chest like a great ape, trying to regain his confidence via the Stanislavsky method. He swiftly opened his office door and found Rosalita sitting at her desk, her short skirt hitched up practically to her navel.
She was not alone. She was chatting with Carmen Gomez, a friend from the Treasury Department. They were listening to the radio. “With Senator Santos-Epstein’s vote,” the news reader was saying, “the yeas are now three ahead of the nays, the biggest margin since the roll call began.”
Rosalita was startled by Garcia’s sudden appearance, and dismayed that he had heard her and Carmen listening to the reunion vote, since any reference to that subject had been strictly verboten. Her hand shot out to the radio and switched it off. “El Presidente,” she said fearfully. “I didn’t hear you open the door. What can I do for you?”
Garcia stood over her, eye glaring, face red as a beet. He drew back an arm with the clear intent of backhanding her with all his strength. Rosalita cowered in terror.
“Presidente!” Carmen Gomez shrieked, “no!”
Garcia scowled at the girl. This his face softened. He walked back into his office, shoulders slumping.
*
Alvin Gribbish peered at his register. “Mr. Sidney,” he said, calling the next name.
In the 12 years William Sidney (R-NE) had served in the Senate, no one had every been able to convince him of anything he didn’t already believe. “Nay,” he said. “Nay, nay, nay.” Wendell smiled.
“Mr. Sidney, nay,” Gribbish said, noting his register. “Mr. Sigorney?”
Sen. Sigorney (R-CO), who was prone to doze in his chair, even on important occasions, had to be shaken by his neighbors, one of whom put his hand over the mike and urgently told Sigorney what was up. “Nay,” Sigorney finally said, still in a daze.
Sen. Lawrence Skinnerings (R-UT), 74, was the brother-in-law of Thomas P. Coulton, the President of the Mormon Church, and many thought that the church influenced his votes, although they were typical for a conservative Republican. He stood at his desk when his name was announced. “Nay,” he said.
“Mr. Skinnerings, nay,” Gribbish noted.
*
Anthony Zolli was lying on the table face down, totally naked, fleshy, hairy, sweaty, a living carcass. “Do my back foist, Cherry,” he said, “you know, up near da neck.”
“Of course, Mr. Zolli,” the young lady said. She was a slender, auburn-haired waif with raccoon eyes and an assortment of studded piercings, swathed in a white smock. She swallowed, kinda winced, then placed her fingers on Zolli’s upper back, where the hair was thick enough to curl.
“Just a sec,” Zolli said. “You got a radio here, right? Turn it on, wouldja?”
“Sure thing.” Cherry went to a small Bose unit on a nearby shelf. “What kind of music?”
“No music. Just da news,” Zolli said. “Da Senate vote. It should be on a lotta stations.”
“Okay.” She fiddled with the dial and found a clear station.
A reporter was speaking. “With Senator Skinnerings’ nay vote, the tally is tied, 30-30—tied for the fifteenth time, according to my notes. Eighteen Senators are still to cast their vote, including those who passed, but it’s pretty clear that it’s going to be very close, no matter which side pulls ahead—unless we get some real surprises…”
“Ain’t gonna be no surprises,” Zolli told the masseuse. “Reunion’s a sure thing.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Da fix is in, dat’s how I know.”
Cherry seemed doubtful. “The fix?”
“Yeah. Da President told me. It’s all arranged.”
“The President? Told you?”
Zolli actually looked around the room, as if to make sure no one was listening. “Listen, doan spread it around, okay, but I’m one of Callaway’s advisors.”
“For real?”
“Damn right fer real. Been as close to him as I am to you. Right in da Oval Office.”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 51