They show me documents and magazine clippings and a set of journals written by their mother, Francesca. Carolyn cries openly at times, Michael struggles not to.
They extract a promise: If I decide not to write the story, I must agree never to disclose what transpired in Madison County, Iowa, in 1965 or other related events that followed over the next twenty-four years.
At a Holiday Inn near the airport, the introductions are made, awkwardness gradually declines, and the two of them sit across from me, evening coming down outside, light snow falling. So I agree to meet with them in Des Moines the following week. That they are prepared to make such an effort intrigues me, in spite of my skepticism about such offers. He is circumspect, refusing to say anything about the story, except that he and Carolyn are willing to travel to Iowa to talk with me about it. Michael Johnson has read it his sister, Carolyn, has read it and they have a story in which they think I might be interested. A friend from Iowa has sent him one of my books. On the other end of the wire is a former lowan named Michael Johnson. In late afternoon, in the autumn of 1989, I'm at my desk, looking at a blinking cursor on the computer screen before me, and the telephone rings. There are songs that come free from the blue-eyed grass, from the dust of a thousand country roads.
0 kommentar(er)
