ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (2 page)

He sat down on the marble bench again. "Anyhow, Cady, I'd appreciate any
help you can give me. I mean, I know you can't do anything, well, tangible. But
maybe if you catch me gettin' a little wobbly, you can put some steel in my
spine. Like you used to, you know, when..."

Bourque stopped in mid-sentence. Something across the way had attracted his
attention. Pickett followed his gaze. The caretaker's ancient orange pick-up
was laboriously chugging its way up the hill, a feat which required every last
one of its horsepower.

The men in the raincoats moved swiftly to insert themselves between the
President and the approaching truck, a couple of them stealthily slipping their
hands inside their coats, ready to take sterner measures if necessary.

But the truck stopped. The driver's side door opened slowly and a bent little
old man in faded coveralls and wearing a battered straw hat stepped out
gingerly and began to make his way toward the President, limping. The rain coat
men formed a phalanx.

"Is that Buddy Bourque?" The old man shouted over them, in a raspy,
whiskey-soaked voice. "Is that Buddy Lee Bourque?"

"Yes it is," the President shouted back, drawing frowns from the men
in rain coats. "Who's that?"

"It's Chief Warrant Officer James Frontenot," the old man said. He
performed a surprisingly snappy salute.

Bourque stared at him for a moment, then got off the bench and headed his way
him, putting on his Panama hat. "Jimmy Frontenot?" He said, amazed.
"You still alive and kicking?"

"Damn right, Admiral Bourque. And ready for duty whenever duty calls. Can
I come shake your hand?"

"Course you can shake my hand, Jimmy. Come on over here, you old
coot."

The men in the raincoats, getting the idea now, let him through and the two men
started shaking hands and ended up hugging. "Damn it, Buddy," the old
man said, "it's good to see you again."

"Same here, Jimmy. They got you taking care of this place now?"

"Yeah. It's not bad. It's kinda like gardening."

Bourque grinned.

"But look at you," the old man said. "Mr.
President
."

"Yeah I know. Somebody had to do it," Bourque said.

"You like the job?" Frontenot asked.

"Things get any better, I'm gonna have to hire someone to help me enjoy
life."

"A lot quieter than the old days."

"Yeah, nobody shooting at us." Bourque agreed.

Frontenot laughed, then seemed to remember something. "You ever think
about that day?"

"That day? You mean on
The Heart of Dixie
?" Bourque asked.

"That's right," the old man said. "Now that was a day to
remember."

"And I got the scars to prove it."

"I know. I saw you get 'em."

Bourque smiled ruefully. "Shoulder still troubles me sometimes."

"You know, we weren't very impressed when you first came on board—all hat,
no cattle, most of us thought. None of us thought the President's son would
make much of an Admiral."

"'Spect not," Bourque allowed.

"Then when you got hit and commanded the fleet, lying on the stretcher,
going all Nelson and Farragut on us, we kinda changed our minds."

"Very white of you," Bourque observed.

"No cause to change 'em back since then neither."

Bourque turned toward Pickett, grinning. "You hear that, Roy? That's what I call a loyal
supporter."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Pickett said, extending a hand.

Frontenot looked at him with suspicion.

"He's all right, Jimmy," Bourque said. "He's my body man.
Carries my stuff. Opens doors for me."

"Long as he knows his place."

Bourque and Pickett exchanged glances, Pickett producing an obsequious little
smile.

"You shoulda seen your Boss during the war, boy," Frontenot said,
poking a finger into Pickett's chest. " He was a gen-u-ine hero, taking on
the Mexican flagship. We were outgunned two to one, y'know."

"I've heard the story," Pickett said.

"
La Revolution
was steaming north at about 25 knots. We were coming
south, down from the delta," the old man said, moving his hands to show
the ships' positions. "The Admiral here, he made us hold fire until the
last possible moment, then he ordered us to cut right across her path and give
her a full broadside—everything we had."

"Must have been terrifying," Pickett said.

"Not to him," Frontenot said, gesturing at Bourque. "Your Boss
has big brass ones,
y'know."

"Yes. I've heard them clanging," Pickett said, drawing a snort from
the President.

"What's that, boy?"

"I mean I know he does."

"We woulda sunk that Mexy ship if she hadn't seen the hurricane coming and
turned tail on us," Frontenot recalled.

"And thank the Good Lord for that hurricane," Bourque said.
"That's what really saved New Orleans,
y'know."

"Don't you go sellin' yourself short now," the old man insisted.

Bourque squeezed Frontenot's shoulder. "Ain't no chance of that," he
joked. "You take care of yourself, y'hear?"

The two old war horses bade each other goodbye and the President and his body
man headed toward the limo, while Frontenot reclaimed his pick-up.

"Did you really remember him?" Pickett asked.

"Hell, no," Bourque said, getting into the car. "Didn't want to
let the old coot down, though."

"Seems to remember the battle of New
Orleans pretty well," Pickett said, sliding in
beside his Boss.

"The Second Battle of New Orleans," Bourque corrected. "Well, we
all do, all of us who were there—how old were you then, Roy, 14?"

”Sixteen—and old enough to know what would happen if we lost."

Pinckney had his notebook out again. "Who was that you were talking
to," he asked the President.

"Old shipmate," Bourque told him.

Pinckney made a note.

"That was quite a victory, sir," Pickett said, hoping Bourque would
launch into one of his wonderful war stories."

"Indeed it was," Bourque. "Practically perfect."

"Practically?"

"Well, if we'd managed to sink
La Revolution
, we wouldn't have
El
Presidente
Miguel Garcia to deal with."

"He was on the Mexican ship?"

"He was the
captain
of the damn thing," Bourque said.
"Most folks don't know that."

For the rest of the trip—the better part of an hour—Bourque was silent. He just
sat there, on the Corinthian leather, intensely staring out the window at the
passing scenery, as though he were looking for something.

When the motorcade arrived at Arcadia,
the guards stood aside and the huge iron gates swung open. Instead of circling
around the stand of magnolias on the vast front lawn and stopping at the famous
columned portico, the motorcade drove around back, between two rows of live
oaks, thick with Spanish moss, and into the fluorescent-lit expanse of the
underground garage.

Bourque, Pickett and Pinckney exited the limos and entered the building, which
was vibrating with activity—dozens of eager young men in polyester suits
scurrying through the hallways and up and down the stairs and a like number of
Southern beauty contestants, outfitted like secretaries, rushing in and out of
offices with file folders and piles of papers, all accompanied by the low buzz
of urgent conversation and the intrusive audio from half a dozen TV sets tuned
to the news channel.

Being used to seeing the President in their midst, few took notice of him and
he returned the favor. Bourque stopped at the Vice President's office suite, hoping
perhaps to check in with his second-in-command, George "Kooter"
Barnes. But the man was nowhere to be found.

"You know," Bourque said to Pickett—Pinckney hanging on every word,
"it was once said of another vice presidency that the job wasn't worth a
bucket of warm spit. What he actually said was 'piss,' but no matter. Anyhow,
in this case, it's the man who isn't worth a bucket of warm spit. I am
surrounded by lunkheads and nincompoops."

Pinckney jotted this down in his notebook, after which Bourque casually
snatched the notebook from his biographer's hand, tore off the first page and
stuffed it into his pocket, and handed back the notebook, leaving Pinckney
open-mouthed and blinking.

"Roy,
could you come into my office for a few minutes," the President said. He
smiled at Pinckney. "I'll catch up with you later, Gerard."

Bourque and Pickett got into a tiny elevator. Pinckney stood there, excluded
and embarrassed.

The elevator closed and the President turned toward Pickett. "I don't know
if I'll ever forgive you for saying yes to that doofus," he said.

"As I recall," Pickett said pointedly, "you were the one who
said yes."

The President frowned.

"Anyhow, what's up?" Pickett asked.

"Just need to talk over something with you."

The elevator door opened on the second floor, which was much calmer than the
first. The President nodded perfunctorily as he crossed paths with some of his
senior assistants, and walked Pickett into the famous hexagonal office, closing
the big oak door behind them. Pickett reached into his pocket and handed
Bourque a couple of Tums without being asked, and they both sat down.

"Roy,"
said the President, kicking off his shoes and putting his stockinged feet up on
his massive walnut desk, "What do you think of my family?"

"Your family?"

"You know. My sister’s boys. My nephews..”

“Okay,” Pickett said. He clasped his hands over his head and took a deep
breath. “Nice boys, both of them.”

Bourque sighed. “Don’t hold back, Roy.”

Pickett shrugged. “All right. I’l start with Beau, the eldest. Let’s see. He’s
35, hasn’t worked a day in his life. But he’s an excellent golfer and he’s
always got a pretty girl on his arm. Knows his wines.”

The President held up a hand. "Okay, you made your point. How about Johnny
Lee?”

"Boss, please..."

"How many DUIs we hushed up for him?"

"Just a couple."

"Six."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, there’s Delphine—she’s a daughter any father would be
proud of,” Pickett said.

Bourque beamed. "And I am, believe me. Lord, if she was 50, or if she was
a man, we wouldn't have a thing to worry about."

"What are you driving at, Mr. President?"

"Like I said, Roy.
Lunkheads and nincompoops. You're my only bright light."

"Me? If I'm the only bright light around, you've got real trouble."

"Let's be serious, Roy.
You've got brains and you've got guts. And I can trust you."

"Well, you can trust me, anyhow. That part's true."

"Keep in mind, young man, that I've known you all your life. I was there
in the room behind the kitchen when your Momma birthed you."

"So you keep reminding me."

"By the way, how is your Momma?"

"Outside of the rheumatism, just fine."

Bourque smiled. "Damn, I miss her jambalaya."

"I'll see if I can get her to cook you up a pot."

"Think you can sneak it past the Secret Service? They don't like people
bringing food into Arcadia,
y'know."

"I have my ways," Pickett assured him.

Bourque took a long look at his assistant. "I'm procrastinatin'," he
admitted.

"I know. Might as well get to the point, though."

The President took his feet down and sat up straight. "Roy, it's time to talk about the
future."

"The future? Whose future?"

"Mine. Yours. The country's."

"Ok."

"I've been thinking about what happens when I'm gone," Bourque said.

"Sir, I think it's a bit early for that..."

"Stop shitting me, Roy. Doesn't do either of us any good." Bourque
extended a hand and Pickett dropped a couple of Tums into it. "I'm gonna
die and Kooter Barnes is going to be President and I don't think he can hold
the country together."

Pickett opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it.

"What do you think is going to happen to our credit rating when I'm
gone?" Bourque continued. "Do you think the Germans are going to lend
money to Kooter Barnes?"

"He's well-liked..."

"He's an empty-headed glad-hander and everyone knows it. Not worth a
crooked nickle."

Roy didn't
bother to dispute that.

"Then there's
Presidente
Garcia, waiting to swallow us up the
moment he thinks our defenses are down."

"But the Bourque Line is impregnable. The enormous pillboxes..."

"Are crumbling. No rebar. The guns getting rusty, and most of the
ammunition is stale. If it weren't for oratory and deception, the Mexys would
march out of their Texas garrisons, overrun
our Louisiana borders, and sweep right across
the country to the Atlantic Ocean."

"No rebar? I didn't know that."

"Neither does
Presidente
Garcia, thank God."

"I didn't realize it was that bad," Pickett said.

"I'm putting it in the best light I can."

"I don't understand," Pickett said. "Our border defense—the
Bourque Line—is legendary..."

"The Bourque Line is crap," said the President. "It was never
much more than a bluff, and we haven't been able to repair the pillboxes or buy
new guns for the last five years."

"Because of the cotton crop failures," Pickett said. It wasn't a
question.

"Yes, and because of nylon, rayon and goddamn polyester. Don't get me
started on polyester. They're killing us, Roy. You know that. I don't know how
much more the Germans are gonna loan us, even I go to Berlin to beg in person."

"One question," Pickett said.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you make Kooter Barnes Vice President?"

"Roy, you
know why. 'Cause I had to have someone from Virginia on the ticket and he was the best
of a bad lot."

There was a knock on the office door.

"Enter at your own risk," Bourque called out cheerfully.