ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (54 page)

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.

*

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. Mil
ner
.”

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 9
^th
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 R
egal 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 if 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.”