ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

I face a choice no President would wish for--to set half
the nation against the other half, in all-out war, in order to preserve an
ideal that half of us no longer believe in…or, to let self-determination prevail,
preserving the life and limb of hundreds of thousands of young men, men who
represent the best hope for the future of both regions. I have made my choice.
I choose against bloodshed, I choose against death, I choose peace. I say to
the people of the South, govern yourselves according to your own conscience and
beliefs, as we in the North shall continue to govern ourselves, and let us hope
we shall both find harmony and a bright future, together or separately.

Abraham Lincoln

The Separation Manifesto, April 10, 1861.

Chapter One

President Virgil Lee "Buddy" Bourque groaned softly and gave a
try at opening his eyes. The fluorescent light was too bright. He turned his
head to the side. He didn't have the slightest idea where he was.

"Mr. President," said Dr. Cohen. "Are you awake?"

One eyelid popped open. "'Bout as much as a hibernatin' bear,
Lester," the President said, raising his head slightly, straining to see
the small, nervous redheaded man in the lab coat, a man who, his patients
agreed, looked a lot like Gene Wilder.

"When you feel up to it," said the doctor, "slip your clothes
back on and come see me in my office. We'll talk."

President Bourque let his head fall back on thin little paper-covered pillow.
He was a man of big features, considerable girth, and some age as well. His
throat was sore, but Dr. Cohen had told him to expect that. He felt a big burp
coming, but he'd also been warned about that. And farting too.

He groaned again and struggled into a sitting position. His head was starting
to clear now. "Nurse," he said. "Nurse?" He was alone in
the antiseptic little room, with its arcane medical contraptions hanging from
the ceiling and extending out from the walls. The instrument of torture was
coiled up on top of a cabinet, all chrome and white plastic tubing, a bit
slimy.

Bourque swung his legs over the side of the bed, and detected an odd sensation
on the back of his right hand. A small bandage covered the spot where the IV
had been. Lester had told him to expect a mild burning in his lower
chest, just above his bulging belly, and yep, there it was, hot but bearable.
The roll of Tums in his pants pocket should be able to tame it.

He carefully planted his stocking feet on the cold linoleum floor and rose to
his full height, steadying himself with a hand on the bed frame. That wasn't
too bad, he decided. No, not if you considered everything.

Bourque slipped on his shirt and started fastening the buttons, surprised to
see his fingers were trembling slightly. If he were at home, he'd slip on his
pants gracefully, standing in the middle of the room. Here, he braced himself
against a wall. He reached into a side pocket, found the Tums and popped one
into his mouth.

Well, there he was, together again. Appearance-wise, anyhow.

Carefully opening the door, the President peered up and down the hallway. No
one in view, as Cohen had promised. The doctor's office was at the end of the
hallway, and when Bourque walked in, Cohen was sitting behind is desk,
shuffling papers.

"Please have a seat, Mr. President."

Bourque sighed and sat down in the guest chair. "Lester," he said,
"we've known each other a coon's age. What do I have to do to get you to
call me Buddy?"

Dr. Cohen just shook his head, embarrassed. "How are you feeling, Mr.
President," he asked. "Any problems as a result of the
procedure?"

"I'm fine," Bourque said, his deep voice resonating with
self-confidence. "All ready for the next test."

Cohen smiled painfully. "That was the last test, Mr. President. I think we
have a definitive diagnosis."

"Definitive, eh?"

"I see you've been chewing Tums," Dr. Cohen said. "Heartburn
still bothering you?"

"Damn it, Lester, are you psychic? How in God's name did you know I was
using Tums."

"The white particles at the corners of your mouth, Mr. President."

Bourque wiped his mouth. "You said you had a definitive diagnosis?"

Cohen opened a thick folder and awkwardly slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed
glasses. He held up a single piece of paper, which contained a fuzzy image.
"When you first came to me, Mr. President, I performed an ultrasound
examination of your pancreas. The outline, I thought, was somewhat
irregular."

"Yes, yes," Bourque said impatiently.

"And so I had you come in for a CT scan and an MRI. These too were
suggestive, but not definitive. But the endoscopic retrograde
cholangiopancreatography..."

"Stop counting the cards, Lester. What's the verdict?"

Dr. Cohen looked up at his patient, owl-eyed. "It's what we feared,
Mr. President. There's no question of it."

"Cancer."

"
Pancreatic
adenocarcinoma
, yes. Fourth stage."

"Well, man, let's cut it right out of there," Bourque said.

"It's already spread," Cohen said gently. "Surgery is not an
option."

"I see," said President Bourque. He shifted his weight in the chair,
trying to find a comfortable position, and smoothed down his hair. "Sounds
like I'd better get myself one of those scalp rugs."

"Radiation isn't an option either," Cohen said.

Bourque considered that. "Hmm," he said. "I guess that leaves
chemo."

Cohen tried to look at his patient directly. He shook his head in the negative.

"You're saying I'm out of options?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. President."

This time, Bourque had nothing to say. He pursed his lips, scratched his chin
with an index finger, and found something distant to look at.

"I can make you comfortable," Cohen said apologetically. "We
have some wonderful new medicines..."

"So this thing's gonna kill me, right?"

Cohen winced. "I wouldn't put it..."

"Who cares how you put it? That's plain fact, ain't it?"

There was no way out of this one. "Yes, Mr. President. Your condition is
terminal."

President Bourque made a sour face and shifted his weight again. "I guess
I kinda figured that's what you'd be saying."

"I could arrange for a second opinion," Cohen offered timidly.

"Lester. Please. You been my doctor for 20 years. You know my body
better than my wife did. Where am I gonna find another doctor I trust as much
as I trust you?"

"Well, it's part of my professional duties to..."

"How long have I got, Lester?" Bourque asked.

Dr. Cohen took off his glasses. "I can't say exactly. No one can. A year,
maybe. Last few months aren't going to be much fun, but I think I can keep you
comfortable."

"That's a relief," Bourque said, smiling grimly.

"I'll make sure you have a private floor at Duke. I mean, when the time
comes."

"No. I don't want to make a public spectacle out of myself. I'll have a
room fitted out at Arcadia."

"As you wish."

Cohen thought a moment. He bent down and pulled the white plastic liner out of
his wastebasket, then unlocked the low oak cabinet behind his chair and started
dumping pharmaceutical samples into the liner. When it could hold no more, he
handed the bag to his patient. "You probably won't be needing these for a
few months," he said, "but just in case."

"You know I never cottoned too much to pills."

"Don't be a hero. Take them when you need them."

"Okay, Lester. If you say so."

"Anything else I can do for you, Mr. President? Can I call someone?"

Bourque laughed. "Ain't nobody to call, Lester. Roy Pickett's out there in
the waiting room and I got me a passel of Secret Service guys in the escort
vehicles. I can get back to The Plantation okay."

Dr. Cohen took a very deep breath. "Mr. President, I can't tell you how
sorry I am, how badly I feel. I wish I'd caught it earlier."

"Would that have made any difference?"

"Probably not."

"So there we are, Lester. Nothing to apologize about."

"It's going to be a terrible blow to the country, Mr. President. You are
loved by so many. And needed."

Bourque smiled. "Nice of you to say that, Lester. I appreciate it. I
really do."

He rose and stuck out a hand, which
Dr. Cohen shook awkwardly.

"Call me any time, Mr. President. Day or night."

"Thanks, Lester. I'll try not to be too much of a burr under your
saddle."

Bourque donned his white Panama hat, walked back through the hallway and into
the waiting room. A tall, handsome, well-dressed Black man in his late 20s was
sitting by the door, reading an old magazine. He rose to greet the President,
who handed him the plastic pill bag.

"Roy,
could you keep some of these on your person from now on?" Bourque asked.

Pickett looked into the bag. "Viocodin," he said, brow furrowing.
"Oxycodone?" He met Bourque's eyes. "How bad is it?"

"The good Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be able to sit up
and take nourishment for another year. Maybe." The President said.

Pickett just stared. "A year?"

"That was Lester's best guess."

Pickett sat back down again, stunned. When he looked up there were tears in his
eyes.

"Stop that Roy,"
Bourque said gruffly. "Tears are about as worthless as tits on a boar hog.
Anyhow, it's no surprise."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell the boys I'd like to get going directly."

"Back to Arcadia?"

"Naw. The Plantation
can wait. I'm fixin' to pass by St. Mary's. Gotta have a talk with Cady."

"Sir—are you up to it?"

"Who's pluckin' this chicken, Roy, me or you?"

Pickett spoke a few quiet words into a miniature microphone on his lapel.
"They'll be coming around in a couple minutes," he told Bourque.

By the time they got to the clinic's front door, the motorcade had pulled
up—four identical gleaming black and brand-new 2011 Birmingham-built Packards
the size of ocean liners. Men in suits, trench coats and sunglasses hopped out
of three of them and formed a corridor. Bourque and Pickett walked through it
and boarded limousine #4, both of them sitting in the back.

A third man, a clean-shaven but heavily-bearded fellow with horn-rimmed glasses
and a prominent bald spot was sitting across from them, on a jump seat.
"Mr. Pinckney," Bourque said, greeting him. "Sorry to keep you
waiting."

Pinckney nodded at Bourque deferentially and got out a small notebook.
"Took a little longer than I thought it would," he said, writing
something.

"I made a mistake and asked Lester about his grandchildren, Gerard,"
the President lied. "That's when the photo albums came out. He could talk
the ear offn a dog."

"I hope the test turned out all right," the man said, the concern in
his voice disguising a request for information.

"Acid reflux, Pinckney," Bourque said. "That's what he found. He
said it was the worst case he'd ever seen."

"Acid reflux?" Gerard Pinckney asked skeptically. "That's all it
was?"

"Yeah," Bourque said. "But it gave me a pretty good ride on the
rollercoaster."

Pinckney caught Roy Pickett's eye at a tender moment and saw the truth, but
knew better than to call the President's bluff.

"I don't think it deserves a mention in that there biography you're
writing you're writing about me," the President continued. "Nothin'
rare about heartburn."

"Of course not," Pinckney said, slipping the notebook back into his
pocket.

"Gimme a Coke, Roy," said the President.

Pickett opened the fridge built into the door. "What do you want?"

"There a root beer in there? None of that diet shit, now."

"Yes sir." Pickett pulled a can out of the fridge and handed it to
Bourque, who popped the top and drained it.

Twenty minutes later, the motorcade approached St. Mary's, a picturesque rural
cemetery nestled in a stand of live oaks. The only other vehicle in sight was a
rusty orange pick-up truck, parked haphazardly beside the caretaker's shed.

The motorcade took the left fork of the driveway, tires crunching the gravel,
coming to a stop on a low hill amidst a field of small white tombstones, placed
almost randomly. Three limousine doors sprang open and men in raincoats
sprinted out onto the lawn, sniffing for danger.

One of them gave a thumbs up signal, then the right rear door of the last
limousine opened, and President Bourque planted his feet on the ground and
pulled himself out of the vehicle, Roy Pickett close behind him, Pinckney
electing to stay in the car. Bourque took Pickett's arm and they slowly walked
up the hill, through the thick green grass.

They headed toward a modest grave, marked by a short, rough-hewn slab of
rose-colored marble, into which had been chiseled a few short words: "Cady
Mae Bourque, much beloved wife of Virgil Lee Bourque, 1957-2005.
A Beautiful
Light, Extinguished Far Too Soon
." A low marble bench crouched beside
the tombstone.

Bourque dropped Pickett's arm, bent down, found a small stone in the grass and
carefully placed it on top of the marker. Then he doffed his Panama hat and
held it in one hand. "Afternoon, Darlin’," he said quietly.
"It's a beautiful day, kind of day that always makes me think of you. I
hope you're listening. I got a heap of stuff to tell you."

Pickett brushed the twigs and leaves from the marble bench and bade Bourque to
rest. The President sat down heavily and regarded the tombstone quietly for a
few moments.

"Cady, I've been mulling over the dream we used to prattle on about. You
know the dream I mean—the impossible one."

Bourque paused and reached into his pants pocket. When he failed to find what
he was looking for, he glanced toward Pickett, who had already anticipated his
Boss's needs and had Tums at the ready. Bourque stuck one into his mouth and
started chewing.

After he swallowed, he went on. "The fact is, Cady, this just might be the
moment for it. If I'm cunning enough and I have enough time, I just might could
make it happen."

Pickett look at Bourque curiously, but the President was gazing at the
tombstone.

"I gotta do it right away, though, afor my body gets the best of me.
Lester tells me I'm falling apart pretty quick, Darlin’. So I just got this one
chance."

Bourque got to his feet, went to the tombstone. adjusted the small rock he'd
placed on top of it. And stood, looking down.

"Thing of it is, Cady, we've gotten ourselves into a pretty bad fix. If I
can't make this dream of ours come true now, well, the future looks pretty grim
for all of us—and I don't just mean me and Delphine. I mean
all
of
us."