by Tom Piazza
“Well,” I said. “Well, indeed.” I cleared my throat.
Not long afterward, we said our good nights. I headed upstairs with the bottle and the glasses, set them in the kitchen, and tried to tease out some scenario by which this brilliant and unusual young man could be induced to stay. I would get a message to Rochester, and I would think of a few other options.
In bed I drifted off on a lake, asleep, and found myself in a forest of straw, with the sense that a fire was consuming some distant tract and I needed to make my way quickly. As I did so I was compelled to discard my effects, and I jettisoned a series of indistinct objects, which were then spirited away by unrecognizable creatures. Sometime in the night I was awakened from this dream, or vision, by a sound, a scraping sound of some sort, coming from outside the house. It seemed to persist, and I shook off the residue of sleep, put on my robe, and went downstairs to see the cause, taking a good oil lamp with me.
I stood under our porte cochère, padded about some, and could discover no cause. Likely some animal, I thought, rummaging for food. Raccoons and possums ruled the nighttime hours. Sometimes the mornings as well. Or perhaps it was one of my dream creatures come to life. As there seemed nothing discoverable I went back inside, paused to listen at the door to the basement, heard nothing there, and went back to bed.
The next morning’s skies were the color of gypsum dust; snowflakes swept past the window as I took my breakfast and drank my coffee. Nicholas had brought the paper in, as usual, and I perused it until I heard, once again, the scraping noise that had awakened me in the night, along with some indistinct voices. I stood to investigate. Something—I cannot say quite what—impelled me to walk to our second pantry and open a door, behind which I kept two rifles and a pistol. I picked up one of the rifles and made sure it was loaded; then, satisfied, I went back to the side door and opened it onto the chill air.
Just down the driveway I saw a man I did not recognize and, past him a way farther down our drive toward the street, two useless characters whom I did recognize from the town.
“Who are you?” I said.
The one nearer me seemed to laugh slightly, and said, “Oh, hi. You’re Mr. Seward?”
He was a singularly unattractive piece of work, with a turned eye and a greasy-looking hat and coat, and his manner of address could hardly have been more rude.
“I am Senator Seward,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, Senator. We heard that somebody we’re looking for is hiding in your house.” He smiled after he said this, as if he had delivered some piece of witty news. “I’ll bet you know who I’m talking about.”
Addie would tell you that I do have a temper. It does not flare up often, but when it is aroused it is frightening even to myself. Insolence, injustice, disrespect, will summon it from its shallow slumber, and it came upon me then with a force that demanded all my willpower to control. My grip had tightened around the rifle barrel, which I held by my side. I consciously relaxed it as much as I could.
“You,” I hollered to the two men who stood uneasily at the end of the drive, under the elms. “Collins and Shea. Get on your way. Now.” Without any further word they walked off at a good pace. I turned my focus to the figure in front of me. “You are trespassing upon my property,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “I’m hired to find stolen goods, Senator. Those men are my deputies . . .”
“Deputies!” I said. “As well deputize horse manure. Leave my property now and do not come back.”
The smile again. “Well, not so fast, there, Mr. Seward. The law says you have to help me, and anybody who doesn’t can get . . .”
“I am a United States senator,” I told him. “I write the law. And the law is not intended to give free rein to vigilantes. I’m telling you a final time that you are on my property, and if you remain here, or return, I promise you an unhappy ending.” I leveled my rifle at him. “Get going.”
Behind me I heard Ella call my name, asking if everything were all right. I told her to go back to the kitchen.
“You’re not going to shoot me in the back, are you, Senator?” the figure said, with an ugly smile.
I was, I believe, angrier than I had ever been in my life. “Sir, I will shoot you in your head and claim self-defense if you are not gone by my count of ten.”
With a couple of steps backward he started moving off, and then he turned and headed down the drive without a backward glance. I stood there and watched him until he walked out of our gate and headed to the left, toward town. When I was satisfied that he was gone, I walked back inside and sat at the table, leaned the rifle against a chair, and tried to steady myself. Nicholas appeared, and I told him I was all right, and to replace the rifle in its rack, which he did. When I had control of myself, I rang and requested more coffee.
I composed a note to the Friend who had conducted our guest, to apprise him of the development, and then it occurred to me to wonder whether William had heard these goings-on. I rose, walked to the basement door, and went down the stairs, calling William’s name. I heard no answer.
He was not in the room. The bed had been made, and the banjar was gone, along with his few other effects.
“William,” I called out, again.
On the table where our glasses had set the night before were the Dickens volumes I had lent him, and on top of them a small sheet of paper with some handwriting, which read:
thank you, senator. I will be all rite, don’t worry. Please say thank you to Missus Senator and to Fanny for me. I’ll show her the trick next time I see you all.—Wm.
I sat down on the bed. I looked around our basement, which had given temporary shelter to many others, and would again. To live at the grace of others’ goodwill. To live life without ever having a place of your own. To hide in basements. That the law should sanction the hunting of men! That any man dare call another property!
That evening we ate our dinner silently, as if in mourning. What was there to say? Fanny was, of course, heartbroken. After we had put her to bed, Addie and I sat up in the parlor, quietly. She was knitting, and I tried to read but had little success. In our warm parlor, by lamplight, I felt the cold outside. I feel it still, and I fear for my country.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editor, and friend, Cal Morgan, his invaluable assistant, Laura Brown, and my brilliant and loyal agent Amy Williams. Thanks to the MacDowell Colony, where this book was begun, and Sheila Pleasants and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where much of it was written. Thanks to Elvis Costello, Jeff Rosen, David Gates, and Ry Cooder for encouragement and friendship along the way, and to the banjo brain trust—Jim Bollman, Pete Ross, Cece Conway, Tony Thomas, Bob Smakula, Greg Adams, Kevin Enoch, Paul Brown, Bob Carlin, Tony Trischka, Bob Winans, Dom Flemons, Peter Szego, and Adam Hurt—for much insight and for favors large and small.
To the memory of Mike Seeger, and to Alexia Smith, who did me the honor of inviting me to choose a couple of Mike’s instruments for my own, one of which was the banjo that started me thinking about the scenes, themes, and meanings that came together in this book.
To my mother, Lillian Piazza, who has always encouraged me with her spirit and love.
And, always, to Mary Howell, my much, much better half.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TOM PIAZZA is the author of the novels City of Refuge and My Cold War, the post-Katrina manifesto Why New Orleans Matters, the essay collection Devil Sent the Rain, and many other works. He was a principal writer for the HBO drama series Treme, and the winner of a Grammy Award for his album notes to Martin Scorsese Presents: The Blues: A Musical Journey. He lives in New Orleans.
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ALSO BY TOM PIAZZA
The Southern Journey of Alan Lomax
Devil Sent the Rain
City of Refuge
Why New Orleans Matters
Understanding Jazz
My Cold War
True Adventures with the King of Bluegrass
Blues Up and Down
Setting the Tempo (editor)
Blues and Trouble
The Guide to Classic Recorded Jazz
CREDITS
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor
Cover illustration © Granger, NY
COPYRIGHT
A FREE STATE. Copyright © 2015 by Tom Piazza. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN: 978-0-06-228412-9
EPub Edition September 2015 ISBN 9780062284143
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