I told her everything. I told her about you, darling. I told her the whole story. Sitting on the thin bedspread in the hotel room, told her about Bell’s and about you, told her about Chicago and about Bridge, told her about Barton and Jackdaw and Dr. Cormer in the field of corn.
About what you said, about two worlds, this world and another one, us now and us later, what we are and what we are going to be.
We’re in Chicago, and I still have never been to Canada. We’re in Chicago, not permanently, but right now. Today. Everything I see I wish that you were seeing. I went to a hot-dog cart for lunch. I ate three hot dogs, thinking of you. I bought one for Lionel, then another one.
And here I am, on an elevator, riding the elevator up to visit a company that makes elevators. Martha and her boy are across the street at a coffee shop called Joey’s. Martha is reading the Chicago Tribune. Lionel is reading the comics and drinking chocolate milk. Martha’s hatchback is directly outside, visible from the front door of the building I’m in, parked in such a way that we can get out quickly if need be. Lionel knows only that we are on an adventure, and that is enough; that is more than enough.
In this world, in the real world, I am stepping off the elevator onto a thin green carpet. My shoes are black and highly shined, and my gait is confident and purposeful. I am a few minutes early for my appointment, here at the offices of Hugh Moorland Elevator and Escalator Company, a privately held corporation: established in 1927, annual sales of just under $1.2 billion, corporate parent to Murdock Elevators of Murdock, Louisiana.
“Good morning, sir. What can we do for you?”
“Hi. How are you? I have an appointment.”
The gentleman smiles. He invites me to have a seat. I sit and leaf through a magazine.
Martha and I have learned that elevator design varies widely between companies and involves a large amount of highly technical proprietary information: the mechanical functioning of the pneumatic systems, the tensile strength of cables, the interior electrics, the design and movement of the counterweights. Even the size and shape of elevator buttons, their response times, their relative luminosity when depressed.
You never know which of these details, if any, will prove relevant to your goal, which is, in this case—as one small part of a much larger plan—to simultaneously shut down elevator service in every building on a plantation that comprises thirty-two separate structures.
“Mr. Powell?”
“Guilty as charged,” I say. I hop up.
“Great to meet you,” the woman tells me. “Come on back.”
“You betcha,” I say, finding a voice, a happy midwesterner, road warrior, traveling salesman.
This is today. More plans are in motion. More ideas are in play. Every day is two worlds; every day we split into two.
A map of the Gulf Coast with the current location of all the rigs was hard to find, but we found one. A technical diagram of an individual rig such as the High Water is proving much more difficult to find, but difficult does not mean impossible.
Everything can happen. Everything is possible.
Acknowledgments
My first and deepest thanks go to my wife, Diana Winters, and to our children, Rosalie, Ike, and Milly. I love you.
I am so fortunate to have Jo?lle Delbourgo as my literary agent—and confidante and friend—and to have Shari Smiley and now Joel Begleiter watching my back on the West Coast. It was thanks to Jo?lle that this book ended up at Mulholland Books/Little, Brown and in the very good hands of editors Joshua Kendall and Wes Miller. Their sensitivity and enthusiasm were transformative.
Cheers to all my other new friends in the Hachette universe: Reagan Arthur, Pam Brown, Sabrina Callahan, Ben Allen, and their respective teams. I knew any organization that had Michelle Aielli in it was one for me.
I am very grateful to the artist Oliver Munday for creating this book’s beautiful cover.
I had a lot of help in Indianapolis. Thanks to my students, colleagues, and friends in the MFA program at Butler University (named for its founder, the noted Indiana abolitionist Ovid Butler); to Officer Daniel Rosenberg and his colleagues on the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department; to Paul Bacon and his family; to Wilma Moore at the Indiana Historical Society; to Charles Harris and his colleagues at Peerless Pump; and to Professor Antwain Hunter, also at Butler. My respect and gratitude also go to the Indy literary community, especially the Indiana Writers Center, the Indianapolis Public Library, and the staff and supporters of Indy Reads.
I also had help from Kevin Hastie; from Brooke Pierce; from Ian “Gee” Chu and his cousin Dan; from Dr. Jason Organ; and, on issues of constitutional law, from Professor Morton Horwitz, who was extraordinarily generous with his very valuable time.