ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (48 page)

Callaway paused. It was an important point and he wanted it heard and
considered. After a moment, he went on.

“Will we still have our differences? Yes we will, even after equality has been
achieved—just as Nevadans have their differences from Vermonters and Kentuckians
have their differences from New Yorkers, just as the old have their differences
from the young, the Catholics from the Protestants, the men from the women.

“We are a nation of differences, and they are our strength. We are like a dozen
coats of lacquer, or multiple plies of wood, or the alloys of different metals.
The combination gives us strength. It also gives us the widest possible vision
and the greatest scope of talents. By accepting—and celebrating—our
differences, we allow each other to contribute our piece of the truth to the
greater good. We become finer and stronger. We live our values.

“One hundred and fifty years ago, Abraham Lincoln, in his wisdom, accepted the
division of the United States of America. And by doing so, he saved the
countless lives that would have perished in a conflict between us. Much has
happened since then, however. Both of us have new problems. Both of us face new
threats. We need each other as never before.”

Callaway paused again. He was coming into the homestretch now and each word had
to count. This was when the hearts and minds were won or lost. He waited for
the words to start rolling on the teleprompter screen again, but nothing
happened. He took a breath and kept waiting. And waiting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the camera operator desperately
trying to get the teleprompter working again. And he realized there was no
helping it. If he were going to continue, if he were going to finish the most
important speech of his life, he was going to have to
remember
the
concluding paragraphs by force of will. There was no other way.

He took another breath and began to speak, and the words tumbled out of his
memory and onto his lips. “I believe we were always meant to be one people and
one nation, because I think that the acts of secession—and our tolerance of
them, understandable as it was—was the greatest mistake in our history,” he
said. “With reunification, our country, undivided, will take its rightful place
among the nations of the world – strong, prosperous and, once again, whole. One
nation, under God, all of us Americans, as we were meant to be.

“On Monday, the Senate of the North American Union will vote on whether or not
to accept the petitions of the Southern states. It will be a vote for or
against reunion. Either way, it will be the most momentous vote in my lifetime,
perhaps the most momentous vote in our country’s history. I ask for your
support, not for my sake, but for your own, for the good of the country we all
love so much.

“Thank you.”

He held the pose for a couple of seconds, then the cameraman said, “and out.”

The teleprompter screen was still
blank.

Then Wang, Katz and Veronica approached. They’d all been standing behind the TV
camera, off to the side, where they would not be a distraction.

“Well done, Mr. President,” Wang said, shaking his hand.

“I liked the omission,” Katz said. “The speech was stronger without the Mexican
and German stuff.”

Veronica had been studying Callaway with interest, as though something had
surprised and intrigued her. “You ended it differently than you’d rehearsed
it,” she said.

“Yes,” he admitted, and was about to explain when she went on.

“That long pause before the conclusion,” she said. “It was very dramatic, very
compelling, totally spontaneous. I think that may be the most effective speech
you’ve ever given.”

Callaway smiled, a bit embarrassed, but not inclined to explain. “Thank you,
Veronica. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

They came in cars. They came in buses. They came in airplanes and minivans and
SUVs. They would have come in Conestoga wagons and ox-carts if that’s all they
had. They came by the thousands, the tens of thousands and the hundreds of
thousands, if their count could be believed.

They came, on this sunny Spring Sunday, to Washington, to the White House, to
demonstrate against reunion. They came alone, in families and in groups, from
cities, towns and villages, mostly from the Midwest, but really from
everywhere.

Policemen were everywhere, of course, on foot, in cars, on horseback. But they
weren’t really necessary. This was not a violent crowd. All they were doing,
really, was marching in circles, waving frequently misspelled signs and
rhythmically chanting slogans such as “No Reunion! No!” “Impeach Callaway!”
“Down With the South!” “Let Bourque Rot!” “Who Needs ‘Em & Who Wants ‘Em?”
and “Our Country First, Last and Always!”

They came at the impassioned request of Phyllis Iserbyt and her high-octane organization,
Our Country First. They came because they were afraid their country was
changing, and in ways they feared or didn’t understand. They came because they
felt helpless. They came because they felt cheated, somehow. They came because
they were thoroughly pissed.

They came to show the President that he could not alter the country so
profoundly without consulting them, without getting their approval. They came
to make pests of themselves, and on national television. And in this, they were
succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.

Some came not because of ideology but because they scented profit. Hawkers had
set up stands to sell “Our Country First!” and “No Reunion!” Tshirts and
copies of Ms. Iserbyt’s many published polemics. Others were pushing hot dog
carts through the crowd or offering drinks and ice cream. Then there were
the sign vendors, selling slogans printed on cardboard and mounted on sticks
for those who couldn’t be bothered to make their own.

No less than 84 video and still news photographers from all the major US
networks and cable news stations, and some European networks as well, were
stationed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, and double that number of reporters
were on scene, ready to show and tell America about the massive protest. And
the rally organizers had supplied a plethora of porta-potties.

At the heart of the demonstration, on the far side of Pennsylvania Ave., but
directly in front of the main gates in the tall iron fence that surrounded the
White House, Our Country First had built an elaborate speaker’s platform, on
which were now sitting Phyllis Iserbyt, her chief deputy and political advisor,
Ed Poindexter, known to the press as ‘his royal baldness,” and her three
ladies-in-waiting, formidable women all.

The main INN video camera, tripod mounted so that it could sweep above and
across the entire crowd, was manned by a short, dark-haired fireplug of a man,
Herb Czeckjo, of whom it had been said that if a nuclear explosion occurred in
his vicinity, he would keep shooting it until either he or his camera melted,
whichever came last.

Czeckjo was joined, on this occasion, by reporter Lori Newbold, 27, blonde,
beautiful and able to pronounce most English words. It was her job to describe
the scene in the most glowing terms she could imagine. She was in direct touch
with INN headquarters in New York, and subject to the instructions of the
network’s top producer, Michael Flaherty, who was, of course, subject to the
instructions of Helmut Metzger.

The dauntless Ms. Iserbyt figured that she’d wait until 11 a.m. before she
stepped up to the microphone and began breathing fire. She wanted the maximum
crowd. She wanted the cameras to
see
and savor the maximum crowd. If it
all went as well as she hoped, she might finally achieve the political lift-off
of her fantasies.

Actually, the entire event had been set up to achieve exactly that result. Ms.
Iserbyt had been imagining herself as a governor, or perhaps a senator. Oh,
other speakers would appear on the platform, briefly, but she had set it up so
that she would be the most prominent, most remembered, most quoted. Her
appearance would be projected on eight giant TV screens mounted on flatbed
trucks and spread out along Pennsylvania Ave. from 14
^th
Street to 18
^th
Street. She imagined her triumph, trying to forget she felt like she was
sitting on a cactus.

At a small window on the second floor of the White House, President Callaway
and his Chief of Staff, Eric Wang, stood watching the commotion on Pennsylvania
Avenue. The crowd noise was audible, but not overwhelming.

“We ought to close Pennsylvania Ave. someday,” Wang mused.

“They’d just pop up somewhere else,” Callaway said. “How many do you think
there are?”

“Estimates differ,” Wang said. “The INN says a quarter of a million. The police
chief thinks it’s about 50,000, give or take.”

“Still, it’s a good crowd. And if you’re so inclined, you can watch every
minute of it on television.”

“It’s about as interesting as golf,” Wang said.

Callaway smiled. “Eric, just because you don’t like the sport…”

“Sport? Who said anything about sport? I was talking about golf. It’s a game,
not a sport.”

“Your feelings on that subject are well known.”

“Put it on INN,” Callaway said. “I want to see exactly how they cover this.”

A screen-filling high-def image of Phyllis Iserbyt appeared on the TV set. She
was alternately chatting happily with Ed Poindexter or her ladies-in-waiting,
making notes on a manuscript of her upcoming speech, or surveying the crowd,
with a grin that would have impressed the Cheshire cat. “She looks ready to eat
her young,” Wang observed.

On television, the view switched to the ever-blonde Lori Newbold, mike in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, raising her voice so she could be heard over
the din, “the excitement here is about to reach its peak. In just a few
minutes, Phyllis Iserbyt, the President of Our Country First, will address this
enormous and peaceful assembly. But right now, Ed Poindexter, Ms. Iserbyt’s
second-in-command is stepping up to the podium. Let’s listen to what he has to
say.”

Callaway and Wang exchanged glances. “He’ll introduce her,” Callaway said.

The camera panned to the podium, where a thin, bald man in a loosely fitting
tan suit was taking his place. “Good morning everyone,” he said in a
high-pitched voice, holding up a hand in hopes of quieting the crowd. “Good
morning my friends and fellow Americans…”

It took him almost two minutes to get the attention of the enormous crowd, a
feat which would have been completely impossible but for the giant television
screens. At last, however, the marching stopped and the shouting came to an
end, more or less, and most of those in attendance were watching Poindexter,
and his shiny head.

“I cannot tell you how gratified we are that so many of you have come today,
that so many of you recognize the importance of the work Our Country First is
doing, that so many of you understand how dangerous Callaway’s foolish agenda
is, how it could damage, even destroy the great country we love.”

He waited for the raucous mixture of cheers and applause to subside, then
resumed. “We must stop Callaway from tying our fortunes to the Confederate
States of America, from making a stupendously stupid mistake, which will surely
destroy us both, but not before bankrupting our great country and ripping apart
the exceptional society we have created. Nothing is more important than
thwarting our inexperienced and well-meaning President. Nothing is more
important than showing Congress what the American people think before
tomorrow’s vote.”

More cheers and
applause. And in the White House, another exchange of glances between Wang and
Callaway. “Recycled from their TV commercials and newspaper ads,” Wang noted.

Poindexter was
holding up a hand again, asking for the crowd to quiet down, which, after a
moment, they did. “And now,” he said, beaming, “it is my very great honor to
introduce to you the woman who inspired this rally and who almost
singlehandedly made it happen, a woman who has a deep understanding of the
profound danger into which our President has put us, a woman who is willing to
put her life and her considerable reputation on the line to stop this madness…”

In the White
House, Mary Katz joined the President and his Chief of Staff. He was sweating
and out of breath. “Am I in time? Tell me I made it. I got stuck in traffic
and…”

“You made it,” Wang said. “Poindexter is introducing her right now.”

“Shhhh,” said Callaway. They stopped talking and focused on the TV set.

“…a woman who has selflessly devoted her life to public service, one of the
greatest Americans of our time…”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Wang muttered, shaking his head.

“…my very good friend and long-time colleague, Phyllis Iserbyt!”

The entire street erupted in cheering and shouting, and Phyllis Iserbyt,
smiling modestly, stepped up to the podium in real life and on all the giant TV
screens, her face looming over the crowd, big-brotherish.

“Thank you,” she told the cheering crowd, waving, “thank you.” That didn’t make
the slightest dent in the cheering. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, holding
up both hands. It looked like a benediction. The enormous crowd decided it had
cheered enough and it was time to hear what the steely-eyed woman had to say.

“Hello Americans!” she called, and she got a loud, ragged hello back in return.
“Thank you for coming. Thank you for showing President Callaway how the
American people feel. Thank you for showing how deeply we oppose this naïve,
poorly-considered and ultimately gravely-misguided adventure, this terrifying
threat to our nation and our society.” She paused to let the crowd applaud,
which they did, on cue.

“And most of all,” she said, when they had quieted down, “And most of all,
thank you for coming here today—the day before Congress votes on this obscene
iniquity they call reunion. May every Senator remember, as he or she rises to
vote tomorrow, the roar of this enormous crowd, the true voice of the American
people.”

And at that, the entire crowd—a quarter of a million people, maybe more—let
loose with a ragged but full-throated roar of approval that welled up out of
Pennsylvania Avenue and overflowed the streets and alleys of downtown
Washington, D.C.

In the White House, although Ms. Iserbyt kept talking—indeed, she was just
getting warmed up, the President and his aides watched her face disappear from
the television screen. It was replaced by full-screen flashing words: SPECIAL
BULLETIN, and her voice was replaced by INN’s ‘urgent news’ synthesized
trumpets.

Then came the calm, homogenized male announcer’s voice: “Ladies and gentlemen,”
he said, “we are now cutting away from our local programming in accordance with
our contractual responsibilities to the Canadia Broadcasting System to bring
you an announcement of national importance from Gordon Bowman, the Prime
Minister of Canadia.”

“What the hell?” Marty Katz said, flabbergasted. “What the fuck is this?”

“Shhhh,” Callaway said. “Just listen.”

“You knew this was coming?” Wang asked, unbelieving.

Callaway smiled.

“What’s he going to say?” Katz asked.

“Just listen,” the President repeated.

The SPECIAL BULLETIN graphic lingered for a bit, then Gordon Bowman’s handsome
face appeared on all the TV screens arrayed along Pennsylvania Ave., as well as
the set Katz, Callaway and Wang were watching, not to mention every TV in the
North American Union and Canadia that happened to be on at that moment.

Bowman smiled his crinkly, boyish, thoroughly charming smile and his clear blue
eyes twinkled. “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Canadia and the North
American Union, good morning. I hope you will forgive me for interrupting your
morning, but I have news of the greatest national importance to both of our
countries to announce…wonderful news, I believe, and I hope and believe you will
all agree with me…”

At this point, Phyllis Iserbyt, glanced down at the monitor on the platform,
then at one of the giant screens on Pennsylvania Avenue and finally realized
that she was no longer on television, and even worse, very few people were
still paying attention to her. She raised her voice, which had no effect
whatever. Panicked and confused, she looked toward Ed Poindexter, only to find
that he was panicked and confused as well.

Ms. Iserbyt turned toward Lori Newbold, “What’s going on here?” she demanded to
know, but she couldn’t get the glamorous reporter’s attention. Newbold was
shouting into her cell phone, trying to understand what had happened, trying to
get the rally and Ms. Iserbyt back on television. By now, the lady in question
was banging her hand on the microphone in front of her, soundlessly. And her
hemorrhoids, which had been relatively quiescent today, decided that this was
the perfect time to attack again.

“I said,” said Ms. Iserbyt to Lori Newbold once more, sarcastic and demanding,
“What’s going on here? I’m not on the television screens. Am I still being
broadcast? Am I still on the air?” She stood there, hands on hips, sparks
shooting out of her eyes.

“Yes, no, I’m not sure,” Lori Newbold said. “I don’t think so. The screens are
showing the network feed and if they’re not showing you, the rally isn’t on
air.”

“Why? Helmut promised…”

Lori Newbold pointed to the onstage monitor and they both looked at Prime
Minister Bowman…

“I come before you today to tell you that the Canadian Parliamen, as well as my
cabinet, the governors of our provinces and territories and myself have,
in
camera
, made a decision of great and unprecedented moment, a decision
destined, I believe, to alter the course of history, to change forever the
trajectory of the English-speaking nations of North America.