The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —No, said Billy, turning another page. She was heard from again. She sent us nine postcards. That’s how we know that she’s in San Francisco.

  For the first time since I’d entered the room, he looked up from his book.

  —Can I ask you a question, Duchess?

  —Fair’s fair, Billy.

  —How come they call you that?

  —Because I was born in Dutchess County.

  —Where is Dutchess County?

  —About fifty miles north of New York.

  Billy sat up straight.

  —You mean the city of New York?

  —None other.

  —Have you ever been to the city of New York?

  —I’ve been to hundreds of cities, Billy, but I’ve been to the city of New York more than I’ve been to anywhere else.

  —That’s where Professor Abernathe is. Here, look.

  Turning to one of the first pages, he offered up his book.

  —Small print gives me a headache, Billy. Why don’t you do the honors.

  Looking down, he began reading with the help of a fingertip.

  —Dearest Reader, I write to you today from my humble office on the fifty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building at the junction of Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue on the isle of Manhattan in the city of New York at the northeastern edge of our great nation—the United States of America.

  Billy looked up with a certain level of expectation. I responded with a look of inquiry.

  —Have you ever met Professor Abernathe? he asked.

  I smiled.

  —I’ve met a lot of people in our great nation and many of them from the isle of Manhattan, but to the best of my knowledge, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your professor.

  —Oh, said Billy.

  He was quiet for a moment, then his little brow furrowed.

  —Something else? I asked.

  —Why have you been to hundreds of cities, Duchess?

  —My father was a thespian. Although we were generally based in New York, we spent a good part of the year traveling from town to town. We’d be in Buffalo one week and Pittsburgh the next. Then Cleveland or Kansas City. I’ve even spent some time in Nebraska, believe it or not. When I was about your age, I lived for a stretch on the outskirts of a little city called Lewis.

  —I know Lewis, said Billy. It’s on the Lincoln Highway. Halfway between here and Omaha.

  —No kidding.

  Billy set his book aside and reached for his knapsack.

  —I have a map. Would you like to see?

  —I’ll take your word for it.

  Billy let go of the knapsack. Then his brow furrowed again.

  —When you were moving from town to town, how did you go to school?

  —Not all worth knowing can be found between the covers of compendiums, my boy. Let’s simply say that my academy was the thoroughfare, my primer experience, and my instructor the fickle finger of fate.

  Billy seemed to consider this for a moment, apparently unsure of whether he should be willing to accept the principle as an article of faith. Then, after nodding twice to himself, he looked up with a touch of embarrassment.

  —Can I ask you something else, Duchess?

  —Shoot.

  —What is a thespian?

  I laughed.

  —A thespian is a man of the stage, Billy. An actor.

  Extending a hand, I looked into the distance and intoned:

  She should have died hereafter.

  There would have been a time for such a word.

  Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

  To the last syllable of recorded time;

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death. . . .

  It was a pretty good delivery, if I do say so myself. Sure, the pose was a little hackneyed, but I put a world of weariness into the tomorrows, and I hit that old dusty death with an ominous flare.

  Billy gave me his patented wide-eyed look.

  —William Shakespeare from the Scottish play, I said. Act five, scene five.

  —Was your father a Shakespearean actor?

  —Very Shakespearean.

  —Was he famous?

  —Oh, he was known by name in every saloon from Petaluma to Poughkeepsie.

  Billy looked impressed. But then his brow furrowed once again.

  —I have learned a little about William Shakespeare, he said. Professor Abernathe calls him the greatest adventurer to have never set sail on the seas. But he never mentions the Scottish play. . . .

  —Not surprisingly. You see, the Scottish play is how theater folk refer to Macbeth. Some centuries ago, it was determined that the play was cursed, and that to speak of it by name can only bring misfortune upon the heads of those who dare perform it.

  —What sorts of misfortune?

  —The worst sorts. At the very first production of the play back in the sixteen hundreds, the young actor cast as Lady Macbeth died right before going onstage. About a hundred years ago, the two greatest Shakespearean actors in the world were an American named Forrest and a Brit named Macready. Naturally, the American audience was partial to the talents of Mr. Forrest. So when Macready was cast in the role of Macbeth at the Astor Place Opera House—on the isle of Manhattan—a riot broke out in which ten thousand clashed and many were killed.

  Needless to say, Billy was enthralled.

  —But why is it cursed?

  —Why is it cursed! Have you never heard the tale of Macbeth? The black-hearted Thane of Glamis? What? No? Well then, my boy, make some room, and I shall bring you into the fraternity!

  Professor Applenathe’s Compendium was set aside. And as Billy got under the covers, I switched off the light—just as my father would have when he was about to tell a dark and grisly tale.

  Naturally enough, I began on the fen with the three witches bubbling, bubbling, toil and troubling. I told the kid how, spurred by the ambitions of the Missus, Macbeth honored the visit of his king with a dagger through the heart; and how this cold-blooded act of murder begot another, which in turn begot a third. I told him how Macbeth became tormented by ghostly visions, and his wife began sleepwalking the halls of Cawdor while wiping the specter of blood from her hands. Oh, I stuck the courage to the sticking place, all right!

  And once the trees of Birnam Wood had climbed the hill of Dunsinane, and Macduff, that man of no woman born, had left the regicide slain upon the fields, I tucked Billy in with a wish of pleasant dreams. And as I retreated down the hall, I took a bow with a gentle flourish when I noted that young Billy had gotten out of bed to switch the light back on.

  * * *

  Sitting on the edge of Emmett’s bed, what struck me immediately about his room was all that wasn’t in it. While there was a chip in the plaster where a nail had once been lodged, there were no pictures hanging, no posters or pennants. There was no radio or record player. And while there was a curtain rod above the window, there were no curtains. If there had been a cross on the wall, it could well have been the cell of a monk.

  I suppose he could have cleared it out right before going to Salina. Putting his childish ways behind him, and what have you, by dumping all his comic books and baseball cards in the trash. Maybe. But something told me this was the room of someone who had been preparing to walk out of his house with nothing but a kit bag for a long, long time.

  The beams from Mr. Ransom’s headlights swept across the wall again, this time from left to right as the truck passed the house on its way to the road. After the screen door slammed, I heard Emmett turn off the lights in the kitchen, then the lights in the front room. When he climbed the stairs, I was waiting in the hall.

  —Up and running? I asked.

 
; —Thankfully.

  He looked genuinely relieved, but a little worn out too.

  —I feel terrible putting you out of your room. Why don’t you take your bed and I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch. It may be a little short, but it’s bound to be more comfortable than the mattresses at Salina.

  In saying this, I didn’t expect Emmett to take me up on the offer. He wasn’t the type. But I could tell he appreciated the gesture. He gave me a smile and even put a hand on my shoulder.

  —That’s all right, Duchess. You stay put and I’ll join Billy. I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.

  Emmett continued down the hall a few steps, then stopped and turned back.

  —You and Woolly should switch out of those clothes. He can find something in my father’s closet. They were about the same size. I’ve already packed things for Billy and me, so you can take what you want from mine. There’s also a pair of old book bags in there that you two can use.

  —Thanks, Emmett.

  As he continued down the hall, I went back into his room. From behind the closed door, I could hear him washing up, then going to join his brother.

  Lying down on his bed, I stared at the ceiling. Over my head were no model airplanes. All I had was a crack in the plaster that turned a lazy curve around the ceiling lamp. But at the end of a long day, maybe a crack in the plaster is all you need to trigger fanciful thoughts. Because the way that little imperfection curved around the fixture was suddenly very reminiscent of how the Platte River bends around Omaha.

  Oh, Omaha, I remember thee well.

  It was in August of 1944, just six months after my eighth birthday.

  That summer, my father was part of a traveling revue claiming to raise money for the war effort. Though the show was billed as The Greats of Vaudeville, it might just as well have been called The Cavalcade of Has-Beens. It opened with a junkie juggler who’d get the shakes in the second half of his act, followed by an eighty-year-old comedian who could never remember which jokes he had already told. My father’s bit was to perform a medley of Shakespeare’s greatest monologues—or, as he put it: A lifetime supply of wisdom in twenty-two minutes. Wearing the beard of a Bolshevik and a dagger in his belt, he would lift his gaze slowly from the footlights in search of that realm of sublime ideas located somewhere in the upper right-hand corner of the balcony, and thence wouldst commence: But soft, what light through yonder window breaks . . . and Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . . and O reason not the need! . . .

  From Romeo to Henry to Lear. A tailor-made progression from the moonstruck youth, to the nascent hero, to the doddering old fool.

  As I recall, that tour began at the Majestic Theatre in glamorous Trenton, New Jersey. From there, we headed west, hitting all the bright lights of the interior from Pittsburgh to Peoria.

  The last stop was a one-week residence at the Odeon in Omaha. Tucked somewhere between the railway station and the red-light district, it was a grand old Deco spot that hadn’t had the good sense to turn itself into a movie theater when it still had the chance. Most of the time while we were on the road, we stayed with the other performers in the hotels that were suited to our kind—the ones frequented by fugitives and Bible salesmen. But whenever we reached the final stop on a tour—that stop from which there would be no forwarding address—my father would check us into the fanciest hotel in town. Sporting the walking stick of Winston Churchill and the voice of John Barrymore, he would saunter up to the front desk and ask to be shown to his room. Discovering that the hotel was fully booked and had no record of his reservation, he would express the outrage appropriate to a man of his station. What’s that! No reservation! Why, it was none other than Lionel Pendergast, the general manager of the Waldorf Astoria (and a close personal friend), who, having assured me that there was no other place in Omaha to spend the night, called your offices in order to book my room! When the management would eventually admit that the presidential suite was available, Pops would concede that, though he was a man of simple needs, the presidential suite would do very nicely, thank you.

  Once ensconced, this man of simple needs would take full advantage of the hotel’s amenities. Every stitch of our clothing would be sent to the laundry. Manicurists and masseuses would be summoned to our rooms. Bell boys would be sent out for flowers. And in the lobby bar every night at six, drinks would be ordered all round.

  It was on a Sunday in August, the morning after his last performance, that my father proposed an excursion. Having been hired for a run at the Palladium in Denver, he suggested we celebrate by having a picnic on the bank of a meandering river.

  As we carried our luggage down the hotel’s back stairs, my father wondered whether perhaps we should augment our festivities by bringing along a representative of the gentler sex. Say, Miss Maples, that delightful young lady whom Mephisto, the cross-eyed magician, had been sawing in half every night in the second act. And who should we find standing in the alley with her suitcase in hand, but the buxom blonde we’d just been discussing.

  —Tallyho! said my father.

  Ah, what a delightful day that turned out to be.

  With me in the rumble seat and Miss Maples up front, we drove to a large municipal park on the edge of the Platte River, where the grass was lush, the trees were tall, and the sunshine glistened on the surface of the water. The night before, my father had ordered a picnic of fried chicken and cold corn on the cob. He had even stolen a tablecloth right out from under our breakfast plates (try that one, Mephisto!).

  Miss Maples, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, seemed to delight in my old man’s company. She laughed at all his jokes and warmly expressed her gratitude whenever he refilled her glass with wine. She even blushed at some of the compliments he had stolen from the Bard.

  She had brought along a portable record player, and I was put in charge of picking the records and cuing the needle as the two of them danced uncertainly on the grass.

  It has been observed that that which comforts the stomach dullens the wits. And surely, no truer words have ever been said. For after we had tossed the wine bottles into the river, packed the phonograph into the trunk, and put the car in gear, when my father mentioned that we needed to make a quick stop in a nearby town, I thought nothing of it. And when we pulled up to an old stone building on top of a hill and he asked me to wait with a young nun in one room while he spoke to an older nun in another, I still thought nothing of that. In fact, it was only when I happened to glance through the window and spied my father speeding down the driveway with Miss Maples’s head on his shoulder that I realized I’d been had.

  NINE

  Emmett

  Emmett woke to the smell of bacon frying in a pan. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken to the smell of bacon. For over a year, he’d been waking to the complaint of a bugle and the stirring of forty boys at six fifteen in the morning. Rain or shine they had forty minutes to shower, dress, make their beds, eat their breakfast, and line up for duty. To wake on a real mattress under clean cotton sheets with the smell of bacon in the air had become so unfamiliar, so unexpected, it took Emmett a moment to wonder where the bacon had come from and who was cooking it.

  He turned over and saw that Billy was gone and the clock on the bedside table read 9:45. Swearing softly, he climbed out of bed and dressed. He had hoped to get in and out of town before church let out.

  In the kitchen, he found Billy and Duchess sitting across from each other—and Sally at the stove. In front of the boys were plates of bacon and eggs, in the middle of the table a basket of biscuits and a jar of strawberry preserves.

  —Boy are you in for a treat, said Duchess when he saw Emmett.

  Pulling up a chair, Emmett looked toward Sally, who was picking up the percolator.

  —You didn’t have to make breakfast for us, Sally.

  By way of reply, she set down a mug on the table i
n front of him.

  —Here’s your coffee. Your eggs will be ready in a minute.

  Then she turned on her heels and went back to the stove.

  Duchess, who had just taken a second bite from a biscuit, was shaking his head in appreciation.

  —I’ve traveled all around America, Sally, but I’ve never had anything like these biscuits. What’s your secret recipe?

  —There’s nothing secret about my recipe, Duchess.

  —If there isn’t, there should be. And Billy tells me you made the jelly too.

  —Those are preserves, not jelly. But yes, I make them every July.

  —It takes her a whole day, said Billy. You should see her kitchen. There are baskets of berries on every counter and a five-pound bag of sugar and four different pots simmering on the stove.

  Duchess whistled and shook his head again.

  —It may be an old-fashioned endeavor, but from where I sit, it’s worth the effort.

  Sally turned from the stove and thanked Duchess, with a touch of ceremony. Then she looked at Emmett.

  —You ready yet?

  Without waiting for an answer, she brought over his serving.

  —You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Emmett said. We could have seen to our own breakfast, and there was plenty of jam in the cabinet.

  —I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Sally said, setting down his plate.

  Then she went to the sink and began scrubbing the skillet.

  Emmett was staring at her back when Billy addressed him.

  —Did you ever go to the Imperial, Emmett?

  Emmett turned to his brother.

  —What’s that, Billy? The Imperial?

  —The movie theater in Salina.

  Emmett directed a frown at Duchess, who quickly set the record straight.

  —Your brother never went to the Imperial, Billy. That was just me and a few of the other boys.

  Billy nodded, looking like he was thinking something over.

  —Did you have to get special permission to go to the movies?