ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (38 page)

“And one more thing, Wade: Phyllis Iserbyt and Our Country First. I want their
Washington rally, the one set for next Sunday, to be part of every news show
and every opinion show we broadcast. I want every INN viewer to know where it’s
going to be, when it’s going to be and why it’s happening. And if she asks to
be interviewed, I want her accommodated, promptly and fully, and as often as
she wants.

“If you have any questions about my directions, please let me know immediately.
Otherwise, I will expect you promptly to take care of everything I’ve spoken
about. I will be out of the office for the next three days, but you can reach
me at my private number.”

Metzger switched off the recorder and leaned back in his chair. It was late and
he was tired. And a bit angry. But that was nothing new. He was one of those
people who carried around a large reservoir of anger, usually concealed, but
sometimes, at unexpected moments, on full, even spectacular display. And when
that happened, God help anyone in the vicinity.

*

Harlan Hurbuckle, Jr.—Junior that is—had always been fond of hardware stores.
He loved their bins and shelves and drawers, in which could be found
wonderfully obscure objects that turned out to be exactly what someone needed.
He loved their walls of pegboard, and the treasures that hung from it.

He especially loved Brub’s Hardware Emporium in Baton Rouge, an ancient wooden
structure containing a labyrinth of narrow, dimly-lit corridors, where various
goods were organized according to a system only one person had ever understood,
and he had passed away many years ago.

Hardware stores had but one purpose, he thought, and that was to solve people’s
problems. And so he had come to Brub’s in search of a solution. His problem was
simply put: It was Confederate President Virgil Lee “Buddy” Bourque.

The way Junior saw it, Bourque had done the impossible--and the unforgiveable.
He had
surrendered
. He had given up all that the Confederacy had ever
meant. He had trashed generations worth of sacrifice and devotion. He had
destroyed a unique society, a much loved society. And, in Junior’s mind,
Bourque had destroyed a good part of his identity as the son of the
Confederacy’s most famous and most powerful preacher.

Junior had once chance left, he had decided, and it was a slim one. He had to
stop Bourque before this preposterous and unspeakable plan became a reality. He
had to stop him before Bourque addressed the country and hypnotized its
citizenry with his silver-tongued lies and deceptions. He had to kill him.

Hence, the hardware store, repository of poisons, firearms, animal traps, axes,
explosives and blunt objects of every conceivable description. They presented
an almost bewildering choice of homicidal techniques. But Junior had his
preferences. He was partial to the big bang. It had a wide radius of
destruction, so there was no need to aim. It was quite spectacular, about as
dramatic a statement as anyone could make. And it would never be forgotten.

An elderly, white-haired man in worn coveralls approached him. “What kin I do
fer ya, sonny?” He was wearing a dirty cap, embroidered with the words ‘Brub’s
Emporium,’ and he had the stub of a pencil tucked in behind an ear.

“Well, I have this really stubborn stump in my back yard,” Junior said. “I’m
having one hell of a time getting rid of it.”

“Whatcha tried so fer?”

“I poisoned the roots,” Junior said.

The old man nodded sagely. “Dint work?”

“No effect. Then I took an axe to it.”

“That oughter workt.”

“Made it smaller, but it gave me blisters.”

“He-he,” the old man chuckled. “That’ll happen.”

“I need something that can really do the job. Something effective, know what I
mean?” He hoped the old guy would get the message.

The aging clerk thought for a moment, then smiled. “Got jes the ticket fer ya,
young feller,” he said. “Jes foller me.”

And he walked down
the narrow corridor, past the pegboard and the boxes and the PVC pipe, into the
maze of hallways and product displays. Junior followed, watching the old man’s
tortured gait and feeling his pain.

After leading him through half a dozen turns deep into the bowels of the store,
the clerk found what he was looking for, on a high shelf. He extended his old
bones in the attempt to fetch it, but it was beyond his reach. Junior made as
if to help, but the man waved him off and instead found an old wooden stepstool
nearby. He climbed it unsteadily, and Junior found himself extending a helping
hand.

“Here tis,” said the arthritic clerk, trembling fingers grabbing at an oily
brown cardboard container about the size of a shoe box. He somehow
managed to get it off the shelf and climb down from the stepstool without
killing himself.

“What is it, exactly?” Junior asked.

“Why it’s dynamite!” the old man said. “Thought you knew.”

“Well, I’m just a little surprised it’s back here,” . I though it would be
locked up or something and that I’d have to show ID and sign for it.”

“Ya woulda, if ya’d axed up front. The old owner’s gone now and his son’s in
charge. Thinks he knows everything.” The old man smiled, revealing a missing
upper incisor.

“So you keep a private stock?”

“Y’could say that.”

“Just the dynamite?”

“Not hardly.” Another smile.

“So,” said Junior, “How much do you think I’ll need?”

“Depends on the
stump.”

“It’s pretty big.”

“Four sticks
should do ya.”

“Okay. How much?”

The clerk pulled a paper sack out of the big pocket on his coveralls, retrieved
the pencil stub from behind his ear and did some calculating. “Whadda ya say to
$5 a stick. all of ‘em for $18?”

“Hmm. What do you say to eight sticks, just to be sure?”

“It’s your stump, young fella.”

“Okay. Make it eight. Should I take them to the register up front?”

“Aw, ya needn’t bother. You kin pay me right chere.”

“Ah,” Junior said, finally understanding. He pulled a pair of $20 bills out of
his wallet.

“You got a detonator? Wires?”

“No. I guess I’ll need them.”

“Duck tape?”

“Got plenty of that,” Junior said.

“Okey-dokey,” the elderly clerk said. He found a detonator and a package of
wires on a nearby shelf and put everything into the paper sack. “That’ll be
$50,” he said, handing the bag to Junior.

“Tax?” Junior asked, without thinking.

“Included,” said the clerk. “And here, this is included too.” He reached into
the dynamite box, came up with a yellowed leaflet entitled
Safety
precautions in handling explosives
, and stuck it into the bag. “You be
careful now,” he said.

“Sure will,” Junior replied.

Chapter Nineteen

President Buddy Bourque reached into pocket and pulled out his ever-present
roll of Tums. He peeled one off and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey Buddy,” said Kooter Barnes, “you got one of those things for me?”

“Sure do,” Bourque said, tossing the roll to his Vice President, “help
yourself.”

Barnes did just that, making a face when he started to chew. “Dunno how you can
stand this stuff,” he said.

“The spearmint ones are better than the peppermint,” Bourque said. “You got a
nervous stomach?”

“Are you kidding? Considering the meeting ahead of us?”

“Kooter, I’m surprised at you. You’re one of the steadiest folks I know.
Nothin’ much fazes you.”

“Trying to convince the governors to approve reunion fazes me,” Kooter replied.

“Don’t you worry. It’ll all work out just fine.”

“How much talkin’ do you want me to do in there?”

“I’ll do the talking, Kooter. You just nod sagely—in the affirmative, of
course—and every once and a while, if you see anyone doubtin’, say ‘Exactly,’
or ‘I agree,” or ‘Good point.’ All I ask is that you speak with conviction.”

“I always speak with conviction, Buddy. Even when I’m not quite convicted.”

Roy Pickett walked into Bourque’s office. “All right,” he said, “the last one
just arrived. Ten little injuns waiting for the two of you in the big
conference room, so curious they can hardly stand it.”

“Who was last to arrive?” Bourque asked.

“Lawrence Baptiste.”

“Baptiste? hell, he’s the closest one,” Kooter said. “How far up the road is
Jackson, anyhow, 200 miles?”

“About 170. But he insisted on driving.”

Bourque sighed deeply. “Ten governors, one of them living here, eight of them
flying in and Lawrence Baptiste in his ’67 Dodge Charger.”

“Someday,” Kooter said, “we’re gonna be scraping him offn the highway.”

“That would be a terrible loss.” Pickett said.

“Easy now,” Bourque said. “Spread big enough?”

“Not much tablecloth showing,” Pickett said. “Anyhow, they’re chowing down big
time.”

“Good. Let’s give ‘em another five minutes. I want ‘em stuffed and
docile.” He peeled off another Tum and gobbled it down.

“I picked up the photos,” Pickett said.

“How do they look?”

“Well, I’d say frightening is the best word,” Pickett said.

“I don’t know if I can wait any longer,” Kooter said.

“Okay,” Bourque said. “Let’s go.” He stood and walked to his office door, then
paused, a hand on the door frame.

“Forget something?” Kooter asked.

Pickett studied the President. “You okay, Boss?”

Bourque kept hold of the door frame, taking a couple of breaths. “It’s
passing,” he said. “I’m okay.”

Kooter didn’t hear the interchange. “You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Bourque
said.

A few minutes later, President Bourque strode into the big conference room,
followed by Kooter Barnes, Pickett trailing behind, respectfully, carrying some
file folders. Only two of the governors noticed the arrivals. The other eight
were too busy gorging themselves on shrimp, chicken fried steak, Virginia ham
with country gravy, butter beans and deep-fried okra.

Bourque and Barnes strolled around the table, shaking hands, squeezing
shoulders, massaging egos, and took seats at the head. Ten curious faces were
now studying them.

In a back corner of the room, the CSA’s recording secretary, a thin,
grey-haired lady of indeterminate years, sat at an audio recording machine.
Sensing that the proceedings were about to begin, she pressed the record
button, and straightened up the stack of blank tapes piled on the table.

“Good afternoon, gennelmen,” Bourque said in his best good ole boy voice, “I’m
sure you all are mighty curious about why I’ve invited y’all to come and pay me
a visit.”

They reacted with smiles, nod and expectant expressions.

“Well, it’s a very serious matter or I wouldnta fetched y’all,” Bourque
continued.” As you know, we’ve been up North, conferring with the new President
of the North American Union”

“Very friendly talks, by the way.” Barnes put in.

Bourque stopped speaking and looked toward Timothy Claxton, the wizened,
white-haired 83-year-old governor of Alabama, who was trouble keeping his eyes
open. He blinked a few times, then nodded off, awakening with a start. Then the
cycle repeated itself. Bourque regarded him with disapproval, causing Kooter to
get up, walk down to Claxton and whisper in his ear. The old man suddenly
became alert.

“During our visit,” Bourque said, “We became privy to some very disturbing information.
Our very good friend
Presidente
Garcia is apparently building amphibious
landing craft by the hundred. They’re filling up a small lake near the Gulf
coast. Canadian and NAU photo analysts are convinced it’s an invasion fleet.”
He paused, to let his words take effect.

“Did you say ‘invasion fleet?” The question came from Jason Gatewood, the
young, dark-haired governor of Arkansas with the movie star looks and, if the
gossip was to be believed, the keeper of at least one boyfriend.

Kooter supplied the answer. “That’s what he said,” he responded.

“That’s what the photo analysts believe,” Bourque said. “The vessels appear to
be troop carriers capable of transporting about 100 soldiers and depositing them
on any low shoreline—for instance Virginia Beach, the Outer Banks, Myrtle
Beach, Hilton Head and most of Florida, not to mention the Gulf beaches. Roy,
would you pass out the satellite photos?”

Pickett opened his folder and passed the pictures around. The governors studied
them as if they understood what they were looking at and gave each other grim
looks.

Ben Hightower, governor of North Carolina, a twitchy, birdlike man, asked a
nervous question. “Do y’all really think Garcia is going to invade us?”

“Can y’all think of any other reason he would be mass-producing landing craft?”
Bourque asked.

“Seems like the obvious conclusion to me,” Barnes said, supporting Bourque.

Hightower rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you make eyes at me, Ben,” Bourque said, annoyed.

“What do we hear from our intelligence people?” This time, the question came
from Curtis Babineaux, the governor of Louisiana, and a true Southern
gentleman, a man who loved his cornpone a great deal and his Southern Comfort
even more. “They confirm anything?”

“The only thing we’ve been getting from our Mexican agents is silence,” Bourque
said. “Too much silence.”

The Governor of South Caroli na, Daryl Burgess,
Col
. Burgess as he
preferred to be known, hoisted himself into a standing position. “We must call
out the reserves,” he said. “We must reinforce the coastlines. I volunteer for
command duty.”

Bourque exchanged glances with Pickett. They’d talked about putting Burgess out
to pasture, but it was too late now. “Daryl, we don’t really have any reserves.
At least not armed ones. And I don’t know exactly how we could reinforce the
coastlines. We’re pretty thin at sea, you know.”

“Don’t have the fleet we once did,” Kooter added.

Burgess nodded, as though this was the answer he’d expected. He sat down.

“I wish I could tell you that was the only bad news I had to deliver,” Bourque
said. “Unfortunately, there’s more. The Germans have called in our loans. Our
GDP didn’t meet their requirements. We have thirty days to come up with $20
billion, and of course, that’s just a partial payment.”

“What’s that you say, 30 days?” Timothy Claxton asked, confused.

“Yes. And another $20 billion 30 days after that,” Bourque said.

“We don’t have the money,” Kooter said.

“Like he said,” Bourque agreed, assuming a grave expression.

Alex Webb, the governor of Tennessee, famous for his blond pompadour , raised a
timid hand. Bourque nodded to him to go ahead. “Well, I don’t know, the
invasion. The loan. You’re scaring us. What are we gonna do?”

“Easy does it, Alex,” Bourque said. “You sound like your roof ain’t nailed on
tight.”

“But that’s a good question, isn’t it, Buddy?” This was more of a dig than a
question. It came from Andrew Carrington, Virginia’s arrogant, aristocratic
governor, a handsome, silver-haired man of about 60, with a cultured accent,
not just governor, but the owner of the Richmond
Times-Dispatch
. He was
dressed in his usual white linen suit. “And I think I know the answer. I’m
wagering it has to do with your recent visit to Washington, D.C., Mr.
President. Am I right?” Again, the taunting tone, the sly smile.

“I think we have a clairvoyant in our midst,” said President Bourque, with a
patronizing smile of his own. “As long as you’re reading my mind, Governor
Carrington, would you like to supply some details?”

Carrington was not discouraged. “Well, why not?” He put his fingers to his
noble forehead, swami-like, and smiled that disdainful smile of his. “I foresee
that you asked the new nigra President of theirs if he might kindly lend us $50
billion dollars or thereabouts, and send a fleet of warships to protect our
coast from Mexican invaders. Am I right?”

“And just why would President Callaway agree to such a request?” Bourque asked.

“Perhaps he has fallen victim to your charm,” Carrington theorized.

A few of the governors laughed uncomfortably.

“Unfortunately, Governor Carrington, even if Callaway agreed to do that, your
fix wouldn’t do the job,” Bourque said. “It’d be a temporary solution to a
permanent problem. Suppose the NAU gave us money. Billions. How long would it
take before we on the edge of bankruptcy again? Suppose Callaway agreed to send
the NAU Navy to protect our coastlines. Would his successor be equally
cooperative?”

“Doubtful,” Barnes said, on cue.

Carrington frowned. “I do hope,” he said, “that you are not about to tell us
that you have found a way to solve our problems forever.”

That inspired one of Bourque’s grandest smiles. “Governor, I couldn’t have put
it better myself. That is exactly what I am about to do. President Callaway and
I, with the help of our Vice Presidents, of course, have agreed on a way to
permanently box in Garcia and to solve our financial problems not just for the
present, but for as far into the future as anyone can see.”

He paused, taking an inventory of the baffled faces at the table and enjoying
himself.

“Gentlemen, President Callaway and I—and our Vice Presidents---have agreed to
explore the possibilities of
reunion
.”

It was as if someone had pressed the mute button.

Carrington tried a little laugh, but it proved not to be contagious. The rest
of them, less bold, simply stared at Bourque, stunned.

“Reunion,” Bourque said again, rolling the word around in his mouth and getting
all the juice out of it.

“Impossible,” Carrington said, weakly.

“Ridiculous,” said Governor Burgess.

“Excuse me,” said Tennessee Governor Alex Webb, smoothing his pompadour with
his right hand, “but are you suggesting that the Confederacy dissolve and let
itself be reabsorbed into the Union?”

“I’m suggesting that we join hands and hearts with the rest of America,” Bourque
said. “I’m suggesting that we allow our federal government to die a natural
death and that, as states, we become an integral part of a stronger, more
prosperous and, let’s face it, freer nation than our own.” He glanced at Kooter
Barnes.

“President Bourque is making good sense,” Barnes volunteered promptly.

Jason Gatewood, puffed out his manly chest and raised his hand. Bourque pointed
at him. “Well, Mr. President, what about our laws? And our customs?”

“We would, of course, conform to the Constitution and the federal laws of the
North American Union,” Bourque said. “In all cases, in every way. And they, in
turn, would revive and enlarge our Social Security and Medicare, equalizing it
with the rest of the NAU.”

“That’s a good point,” Barnes said. Bourque bestowed a smile on him. Then,
suddenly, his smile faded. He reached into a pocket, hand shaking slightly, and
found his roll of Tums, downing two of them.

“What about the schools?” asked Mississippi Governor Lawrence Baptiste, a man
in his early fifties, but dressed like he was twenty years younger, in a suit
jacket with no lapels and bell bottom trousers. “Will they have to be
integrated?”

“I’m not going to have any kin of mine going to school with nigras,” said
Curtis Babineaux, the governor of Louisiana.

“You talking about your white children or your half-breeds?” Kooter Barnes
inquired snidely. Baptiste found another direction in which to look.

“He has a point,” Governor Claxton said. “I don’t want my children sitting next
to nigras.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that Tim,” said Kooter Barnes. “It’s
been a good thirty years since you had school age children. Leastwise any
you’ve owned up to.”

Claxton didn’t have a reply.

“What about restaurants?” asked Ben Hightower anxiously. “I don’t know that I
can force myself eat in the company of nigras.”

“Unless they’re serving you, you mean,” Pickett said, and found all of them
staring at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Just an observation,” he
said with a little smile.

“Maybe this is a day to keep your observations to yourself, Roy,” Bourque
suggested, not unkindly.

“Will we be able to keep our positions as governors?” Hightower asked
hopefully.

“Well,” Bourque said, “that’s possible—but not likely. In a few months,
there’ll be new elections, supervised by the NAU. Y’all can all run if you
like. Or, y’all can retire with a very handsome pension. Your legislative
leaders will be offered the same deal.”

Hightower considered this. “Will blacks be voting in this election?”

“Yes, of course,” Bourque said. “and serving on juries and enjoying exactly the
same legal rights as white people.”