Leonie rubs her hands over her face, trying to wake herself up.
—I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t even remember why I said yes. I think I want to go home.
—Really? What about Carter?
—What about him? You told me this crazy story and it made sense. It made sense at the time. Now I don’t know. If you need to stay down here I’ll drop you somewhere, an airport or a hotel. But I’m driving back tomorrow. At a certain point it’s just self-care to turn back when something isn’t really working out, right?
—You’re just going to give up? Just like that?
—Don’t take that tone with me, Seth. He’s my brother, not yours. I was feeling like shit, and you told me all this stuff about debt, how we had to go and face up to the past. It seemed wrong that I could just walk around all day, getting coffee, doing stuff, without thinking of him. I liked that you had a plan. But now we’re here, it doesn’t make sense. My whole creative life literally depends on me being contemporary. This whole scene, this dead musician, this record. It isn’t what I should be focused on.
She carries on, talking mostly to herself. She’s been taking pictures of Carter, she says. More shots of the two of them together in the ICU. She ought to do something with them. They might become a show.
My silence must convey to her that I’m hurt, because she reaches forward and squeezes my hand.
—It’s not that I don’t think this is real. I do. But maybe it’s more real for you. It’s something you had to do for him, not me.
We drive back down the strip, looking for a motel. A string of No Vacancy signs. The lights come to an end. The night closes around us. Leonie squints blearily into the darkness, then suddenly she gasps and hits the brakes. I’m thrown forward in my seat, my face almost hitting the windshield.
—My God. Did you see that?
—What? I didn’t see anything.
—There was something in front of us, something in the road.
—What?
—I don’t know. A cat maybe. A big black cat.
—I didn’t see anything.
—Fuck. That was so scary.
—You want me to drive?
—Yeah. Yes, you drive. Please. I’m too tired.
We push through the humid night past the epic lights of a chemical plant, a magic castle glowing over the trees. We are far from any city, crossing a river that we see only as a darkness through the steel truss of the bridge. Leonie reclines the passenger seat and closes her eyes. I have the sense that I am no longer in charge of my life. I know that none of what I am doing can touch me, not at my core. My memory is a mystical conspiracy of connections. Everything has already happened. I am merely a man, sitting in a chair, listening to a recording made long ago. The needle is traveling in a predetermined track. Eventually, sooner or later, it will hit the run-out groove at the end.
THE PATROLMAN STOPPED US as we were leaving Clarksdale, pulling out of a turning behind us and sounding his siren. We stopped and waited for him to complete a leisurely inspection of our taillights. Then he leaned into the window and inspected us. I saw broad shoulders, a square face mostly obscured by sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. I told myself to be cool.
—License and registration.
I handed over my documents. Chester was staring straight ahead, looking, to my mind, not cool. Looking weird and strung-out and suspicious.
—What’s your business in this county?
—We’re buying records, sir.
—Records.
—Old records. Race records.
Ten seconds in and I’d blown it. The patrolman held up my New York State driver’s license like something he’d fished out of a gutter.
—Ask you a question, son. You a believer in equal rights?
Chester leaned across me.
—Absolutely not, officer. I am a private researcher, a musicologist. This is my assistant.
—Musicologist? That New York for musician?
—No, I collect music. Old Negro folk music. I am associated with the New York Public Library.
He took out his wallet and handed the man a card. To my horror, it was just a library card, the kind you’d use to take out a book. I had one in my own wallet. As the cop examined it, I fixed my eyes on the steering wheel.
—“Professor C. Bly.” That you?
—Yes.
—And you down here collecting nigger music.
—That is correct.
—OK Professor, I’ll tell you something for free. This is a peaceful county.
—I quite understand, officer. Let me assure you, I’m a proud American.
—Well that’s good to hear, but I warn you, don’t go on anyone’s land, and don’t go talking to their boys less you clear it first.
—As I said. Proud American. I stand with the white man, one hundred percent.
I stared over at Chester. The patrolman stared at him too. A pause. He straightened up and slapped the roof of the car.
—Y’all can be on your way. But stay out of neighborhoods like this. It ain’t safe.
He handed back our documents. Chester pocketed his library card with an air of satisfaction.
—Drive on, he said.
I don’t think Chester meant a word of it. No one could have loved that music so much and harbored a speck of racial prejudice. All the same I felt ashamed. It seemed wrong to have said what he said. For a moment I wished I really had driven along those bumpy roads to register people to vote, to tell them they ought to be free. Then Chester said something about a barrelhouse pianist I was interested in, name of Cow Cow Davenport, and the feeling slipped away.