ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (53 page)

Vice President Garvey banged his gavel. “I would like to remind the esteemed
Senator that the time for debate has passed and that we are in the midst of a
roll call vote. Would the clerk please continue?”

“Mr. DaSilva.”

Senator DaSilva knew when he was being squelched, but he decided protesting
would be futile. “I vote yea,” he said, frowning.

“Mr. DaSiva, yea,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Drinkwater.”

Earl Drinkwater, the Senior Senator from Vermont, a Republican, was “91 years
young,’ as he liked to put it, and he had planned to stay in the Senate “until they
carry me out.” But the truth was, Sen. Drinkwater hadn’t really served in the
Senate for some time, what with his fading hearing and his increasing dementia.
Still, he sat in his chair every day, what was left of him.

“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.