ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (55 page)

“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.

“Mr. Sigorney, nay. Mr. Skinnerings.”

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.”

“I didn’t know that,” Cherry said, striking a tone somewhere between doubtful
and impressed.

“Well, it’s true. Now, could ya get back to my back?” Zolli said. “It’s all one
big knot.”

*

Alvin
Gribbish paused for a moment, looking for the next name.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, clearing his throat.

Senator Smith (R-NH), 69, a grey-haired man in a grey suit, with a nobby tie of
grey silk, rose from the second row on the Republican side. “I would like to
register my vote as nay,” he said in a quiet, crackly voice.

“Mr. Smith, nay.” Gribbish echoed. “Mr. Svenborg?”

Sen. Ingo Svenborg (D-MN), was a big-boned man with a handshake that could—and
sometimes did—crush walnuts. And many had experienced it, since he was one of the
friendliest bears in the Senate. He stood at his desk, but instead of
announcing his vote, he turned to Sen. Lockett, who was looking up at him, and
winked broadly. “I pass,” he said.

“Mr. Svenborg, pass,” Gribbish said without showing any sign of interest. “Mr.
Taft?”

Robert Taft III, like Robert Taft I and Robert Taft II, not only occupied a
seat in the Senate, he was a particular kind of Senator—the leader of that
august body’s fiercest tribe of Neanderthals. He’d made a career out of trying
to sabotage every progressive step the Senate tried to take, succeeding all too
often. He and Wendell, another pea in this particular pod, typically spent at
least three days together every week, pounding the bejeesus out of little
dimpled white balls. Everyone knew how he was going to vote now. “Nay,” he said
proudly.

“Mr. Taft, nay,” Gribbish said, with as much expression as someone announcing
the time. “Mr. Underhill.”

Mr. Underhill, a little man partial to brown suits, was a junior—and very
obedient—member of Taft’s clan. “Nay,” he said immediately on hearing his name.

“Mr. Underhill, nay,” Gribbish said.

*

The two of them—the Reverend Frederick Langston Baldwin and Amelia
Hansberry—sat in his office at the Heritage Baptist Church in Jackson,
Mississippi, both of them intently watching the ancient 10” black and white
portable TV perched at the back of his desk, its rabbit ears spread wide.

They were looked at a shot of the NAU Senate. “For the first time,” said a
news reporter, voice over, “the nays are up three, 33 to 30. With just 15
Senators left to be heard from, that just may be an insurmountable lead.”

Amelia tried to blink back the tears, but was finally forced to wipe her eyes
with the sleeve of her flowered dress. “I’m sorry, Reverend Baldwin. I’m afraid
we’re going to lose and it’s…it’s just too much for me.”

The elderly Black man offered her a comforting smile. “It’s not over yet,
Amelia. Don’t you forget. As long as we have God on our side, we’re gonna be
all right.” Who am I trying to convince? He asked himself.

*

Gribbish took a deep breath, stretched and called out the next name. “Ms.
Uvalde.”

Maya Uvalde (D-NY) was a strikingly tall Black woman of Massai heritage, a fact
she celebrated by wearing brightly color robes, even in the Senate chamber.
“Aye,” she said in a low, husky voice that never failed to catch male
attention.

“Ms. Uvalde, aye,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Volovitch.”

Sen. Bert Volovitch (D-MA), an unreconstructed liberal and one of the more
combative members of the Senate was frequently sneered at by Republicans, who
considered him low-class. But his constituents elected him again and again,
usually by large margins. “Aye,” he said.