ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (10 page)

"Yeah, I'm getting hungry," Pickett said. "But if it's all the
same to you, Eric, I wouldn't mind having lunch out. This is the first time
I've ever been in Washington, you know. I kind of want to take a look at
it."

"That could be arranged," Wang said.

"Arranged? We gonna need an escort? Secret Service."

Wang laughed. "No. If I had guards, everyone would want them. But it's a
little nippy out there. That summer suit of yours won't do. I'll have to
find you a jacket. Gimme a minute. I'll be right back."

Wang left Pickett sitting in his crowded, chaotic office, looking at the
pictures on the walls—a fairly good reproduction of
Starry Night;
an
autographed photo of a grinning Tom Brady about to throw a football; a big,
slightly dusty shot of the Chrysler Building, gleaming warmly in the late
afternoon sunlight; and an ancient, elaborately framed double-portrait of an
elderly man holding a rake and an equally elderly woman wearing a floppy
sunhat, the Asian version of American Gothic. These must be the
great-grandparents, Pickett decided.

Then there was the desk, which was large and impressive, but had seen better
days. Its top was scratched and worn, its legs scarred and dented apparently
from several administrations' worth of passing shoes. A small, picture
frame sat on one corner of the desk, displaying two male grade schoolers, one
with missing front teeth; and behind the desk, a tall, cheap, glitzy tennis
trophy protruded haphazardly from an open cardboard box. All of this was
floating in a sea of books and stacked file folders.

Wang returned, carrying something bright blue and puffy.

"A pillow?" Pickett said. "You brought a pillow?"

"Nothing of the sort," Wang said. "The Assistant Press Secretary
was kind enough to loan me his genuine L.L. Bean down jacket. Take off your
suit coat and try it on."

Pickett did as instructed. The down jacket was a nearly perfect fit. "I
look like the Michelin man," he said, swinging his arms.

"You'll thank me."

Wang slipped on his own down jacket—his was red—and led Pickett through the
barely controlled bedlam of the West Wing and out of a side door, into the
chilly crisp air of the Nation's Capital. The sidewalks and streets were clear,
but a thin layer of snow lay on the grass. Pickett bent down, scooped up a
handful and studied it.

"Never seen snow before?"

"Not since I've been an adult." Pickett rubbed his hands together
briskly. "kind of crystalline," he said, intrigued.

"Sometimes," Wang said. "Sometimes powdery, or flakey. Or
mushy."

"Your breath," Pickett noted.

Wang exhaled a stream of frosted condensation. "Yours too."

Pickett puffed out a little cloud. "Interesting." He shivered.

"Zip up your jacket, Roy. This isn't N'Oleans."

Roy zipped up, as did Eric Wang. Then they walked over to 17th Street NW and
toward the creamy white spire of the Washington Monument, which contrasted
sharply with a sky full of threatening dark clouds.

Pickett rubbernecked. "Impressive buildings," he said.

"Yeah," Wang said. "That's the Baker Executive Office Building
and up there is the Corcoran. They have one of Gilbert Stuart's
Washingtons."

They pulled into a nondescript deli a couple of blocks from the White House.
"Doesn't look like much," Wang allowed, "but they have the best
pastrami south of 2nd Avenue."

"The best what?"

"I'll order for you."

And there he sat, Roy Pickett, black, Southern and about as out of his element
as a toad on a birthday cake, eating a pastrami on rye so thick that he could
barely keep it together, using both hands.

"Hey, Eric!" The greeting came from a slim man with a triangular
face, shiny black hair and one of those pencil thin mustaches that were
fashionable in the 1930s. He was wearing an excellent suit and grinning mostly
with the left side of his face, as if the right weren't so pleased.

"Mark. How have you been?"

"Not as good as you, Eric." Mark nodded toward Pickett. "Who's
your friend?"

"I'm…"

"An old college buddy." Wang interrupted.

"Always good to get together with old friends," Mark said, performing
a double-entendre, low degree of difficulty.

Eric offered a chilly smile.

"I would love a half hour with the President, Eric. Even 15 minutes,"
Mark said. "I mean, to the country's benefit. And the industry's of
course. I admit it. I just want to make sure he knows the facts, you know.
It'll help when he starts to work on the pipeline bill."

"How about if you send me something? Got a brochure? A press
release?"

Wang caught Pickett's eye and
grinned.

"Well, of course I could send you something. Will you read it?"

"It'll go on the top of the pile."

"Good," said Mark, without asking exactly which pile Wang meant.
"It'll be on your desk within an hour."

Wang stuck out a hand and Mark, having no choice, shook it. "Nice to see
you Mark."

"Same here," said Mark, with his disconcerting half smile. He
wandered off.

"You get that a lot?"

"He's the first one today, but I expect a hundred more before the week is
over. Doesn't happen to you?"

"Rarely. They don't like asking Negroes for favors."

Wang nodded. "I wish they felt that way about
Korean-Americans."

"What are these?" Pickett said, pointing to a pair of thick, amoeba-shaped
blobs on his plate.

"Potato
latkes
," Wang said. "You eat them like a pancake.
Smear 'em with the applesauce or the sour cream."

Pickett dipped a spoonful of applesauce, smeared it on a
latke
, took a
tentative bite, then quickly cleaned his plate.

Meanwhile, Wang managed to flag down a waiter, which was no mean feat in this
place. "Two cheesecakes," he said.

Despite the enormous sandwiches, it took them less than 90 seconds to finish
off their cheesecakes.

"We don't have anything like this in the Confederacy," Pickett said.
"At least I've never come across it."

"Well, you'll just have to spend more time up here," Wang said.
"And speaking of time, we have an hour before we have to get back to the
office for the meeting. Time to wander. What would you like to see?"

"You're the doctor."

They paid, zipped up and walked out into the Washington winter, down 17th
Street to the Mall. "Let's go down to the west end—the Jefferson
Memorial—and head back East," Wang suggested.

They walked past the Reflecting Pool, talking. "You've known the President
for a long time?" Pickett asked.

"Since he was a Representative," Wang said. "How about you and
Bourque?"

"I was born in Arcadia," Pickett said, bending into the chill wind.
"My mother was chief cook at The Plantation. So I've known President
Bourque all of my life."

"You continued to live at The Planation?"

"Never lived anywhere else. Went to school there with the children of
Bourque's cabinet members, and his daughter."

Wang kicked a clump of ice. "That explains it," he said.

"What?"

"You're an educated man—and a Black man from the South. Usually, it’s one
or the other, not both."

"That's true," Pickett said. He stopped, bent down, scooped up a
handful of snow and packed it into a ball.

Wang held up both hands. "No throwing, please. I get enough of that with
the twins."

"Your boys?"

"Yes. They're relentless. And their aim is deadly."

Pickett smiled and tossed the snowball at a stone post, just grazing it.

"You're married, I assume?"

"Kerry. Ten years. You?"

"No."

"Girlfriend?" Wang asked.

"Well, there's…no one I can really talk about."

"I see."

They came up to the Jefferson Memorial, with its circular marble steps and
portico, and the famous circular colonnade of Ionic columns, topped with a
shallow dome. The bronze figure of Thomas Jefferson could be seen standing
inside, under the dome. Pickett led the way up the steps.

Inside, he stood in front of the 19-foot bronze sculpture, and gaped. Wang
joined him. "I'm told he wasn't quite that big in real life," Wang
joked.

"He had a big impact, though," Pickett said. He pointed toward the
southwest interior wall, into which was engraved a passage from the
Declaration. "
We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable
rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that to
secure these rights governments are instituted among men."
Wang kept an eye on Pickett. "Powerful stuff," he observed.

"Very," said the Southerner.

They walked back toward the Washington Monument, Pickett still rubbernecking.

"So tell me about President Bourque," Wang prompted.

"Okay," Pickett said, circling around an icy spot on the sidewalk,
"Virgil I. ‘Buddy’ Bourque Jr., born on May 15, 1951, son of Big Buddy
Bourque, President of the CSA from 1964 to 1984, when he stroked out. His only
son, the man we're now talking about, became President of the country in 1996,
a year after the he became a hero in the Battle of New Orleans."

"Wait," Wang said. "That I could have looked up. In fact, I did.
What kind of man is your Boss—that's what I want to know."

They circled around the Washington Monument, slipping through a gaggle of
well-bundled and multi-colored 4th grade field trippers, and found themselves
on Jefferson Drive SW, with snow-covered grass on one side and imposing
classical government buildings on the other.

"Bourque is a very colorful man. He never met a metaphor he didn't
like," Pickett said. "But he's also blunt to the point of rudeness.
He says what he thinks, no editing."

"That's good," Wang said. "I can deal with the truth."

"Truth," Pickett said with a laugh. "He's devious as a snake.
And that's no secret. He'll tell you so himself. He's also got a lot of
courage. That, he won't tell you."

"You admire him?" Wang asked.

"I'd give my life for him."

Wang cocked his head, impressed. "Well, I guess that answers my
question."

They passed the Smithsonian Institution castle, its reddish orange brick façade
beautiful against a lawn of white snow. Pickett paused, interested.

"Not now," Wang said. "Maybe next time."

Then, just past the Hirshhorn, they came up on the huge bulk of the National
Air Museum. Wang looked at his watch. "Let's go in for a minute—there's
something really worth seeing here."

Wang led Pickett into the museum's grand hallway, in which a variety of famous
airplanes hung in midair, wired to the distant ceiling. At the center, in the
place of honor, was a large, moth-like structure with two sets of rectangular
wings, one behind the other, both covered in nearly transparent silk.

Pickett gawked. "So that's it? The real thing, not a model?"

"Yes. That, my friend, is Aerodrome #6, built by Samuel Langley, the first
piloted heavier-than-air flying machine and the direct ancestor of all the
planes that have come since, including the one you flew in on."

"That was a Messerschmitt D-40 passenger plane with four
jet
engines," Pickett said, craning his head upward. "But this is a
wonderful relic. It's an honor to stand in its presence. But it had a steam
engine, right?"

Wang stepped forward and read the plaque. "Yes," he said, "a
58-horsepower steam engine. You know the story, right? They must teach it in
the Confederacy. In 1896, Langley's machine was catapult-launched from a
houseboat in the Potomac and Charles Manley flew it for almost a mile. Changed
the world."

"It's odd, when you think about it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, you guys invented airplanes, but it took Germany to develop
them."

"That's true," Wang said, professorially. "But if it weren’t for
the Great War, we might have beaten them. They poured millions into warplanes,
then used the same technology to create commercial aircraft. But Boeing is
working on a new jetliner that might show the Europeans a thing or two."

"Hah!" Pickett said. "Best of luck on that one."

"Yeah. It's a longshot."

Pickett turned toward the plane hanging beside Langley's Aerodrome.
"Anyhow, you did beat them with this one."

"The Spirit of St. Louis? Yes, that was quite a triumph. But it was the
man as much as it was the machine."

"Looks like you could gas it up and fly it away right now," Pickett
said.

They gazed at the plane for a few moments, then strolled into the west gallery.
There, suspended from the ceiling and completely choking the cavernous space,
hung the giant, bulbous, silver-colored airship, the
Elyria
, the nearly
800-foot long sister to the illfated
Akron
, whose loss in tropical
storm in the South Atlantic in 1937 with 73 aboard, ended America's effort to
compete in long-distance airship passenger service.

"Amazing," Pickett said. "I assume they built the museum around
it?"

"No. They left one end of the building open and stuffed it in, slowly and
carefully, and inflated it."

Pickett smiled. "I imagine that caused a bit of comment."

"You have no idea."

They spent another 10 minutes at the museum, walking the length of the
dirigible and back, Pickett gawking, Wang explaining.

Then it was back out in the cold. "Thanks," Pickett said,
"that was memorable."

By now, a light snow was falling. "Wanna take a cab back?"

"Let's walk, if we have the time."

They walked, briskly, past the National Gallery of Art, past the National
Museum of Natural History, the snow falling harder with each block, and blowing
into their faces. Pickett did his best not to let it distract him.
"So," he said, "tell me about President Callaway. What kind of a
man is he?"