by Amor Towles
The plan was simple enough.
As soon as Emmett was out of Salina, he and Billy were going to pack their things and head to some metropolitan area—somewhere without silos or harvesters or fairgrounds—where they could use what little remained of their father’s legacy to buy a house.
It didn’t have to be a grand house. It could be a three- or four-bedroom with one or two baths. It could be colonial or Victorian, clapboard or shingled. What it had to be was in disrepair.
Because they wouldn’t be buying this house to fill it with furniture and tableware and art, or with memories, for that matter. They’d be buying the house to fix it up and sell it. To make ends meet, Emmett would get a job with a local builder, but in the evenings while Billy was doing his schoolwork, Emmett would be setting the house right, inch by inch. First, he’d do whatever work was needed on the roof and windows to ensure the house was weather tight. Then he’d shift his attention to the walls, doors, and flooring. Then the moldings and banisters and cabinets. Once the house was in prime condition, once the windows opened and closed and the staircase didn’t creak and the radiators didn’t rattle, once every corner looked finished and fine, then and only then would they sell.
If he played his cards right, if he picked the right house in the right neighborhood and did the right amount of work, Emmett figured he could double his money on the first sale—allowing him to invest the proceeds in two more run-down houses, where he could start the process over again. Only this time, when the two houses were finished, he would sell one and rent out the other. If Emmett maintained his focus, within a few years he figured he’d have enough money to quit his job and hire a man or two. Then he’d be renovating two houses and collecting rent from four. But at no time, under any circumstances, would he ever borrow a dime.
Other than his own hard work, Emmett figured there was only one thing essential to his success, and that was to pursue his plan in a metropolitan area that was big and getting bigger. With that in mind, he had visited the little library at Salina, and with volume eighteen of the Encyclopedia Britannica open on the table, he had written down the following:
Population of Texas
1920
4,700,000
1930
5,800,000
1940
6,400,000
1950
7,800,000
1960E
9,600,000
When Emmett had the Texas entry in front of him, he hadn’t even bothered to read the opening paragraphs—the ones that summarized the state’s history, its commerce, culture, and climate. When he saw that between 1920 and 1960 the population would more than double, that was all he needed to know.
But by the same logic, he should be open to considering any large growing state in the Union.
As he sat in the Morgen library, Emmett removed the scrap of paper from his wallet and set it on the table. Then he opened volume three of the encyclopedia and added a second column.
Population of Texas
Population of California
1920
4,700,000
1920
3,400,000
1930
5,800,000
1930
5,700,000
1940
6,400,000
1940
6,900,000
1950
7,800,000
1950
10,600,000
1960E
9,600,000
1960E
15,700,000
Emmett was so surprised by California’s growth that this time he read the opening paragraphs. What he learned was that its economy was expanding on multiple fronts. Long an agricultural giant, the war had turned the state into a leading builder of ships and airplanes; Hollywood had become the manufacturer of dreams for the world; and taken together, the ports of San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco amounted to the single largest gateway for trade into the US of A. In the 1950s alone, California was projected to grow by more than five million citizens, at a rate of close to fifty percent.
The notion that he and his brother would find their mother seemed as crazy as it had the day before, if not crazier, given the growth of the state’s population. But if Emmett’s intention was to renovate and sell houses, the case for California was indisputable.
Emmett returned the scrap to his wallet and the encyclopedia to its shelf. But having slid the third volume back in its slot, Emmett removed the twelfth. Without sitting down, he turned to the entry on Nebraska and scanned the page. With a touch of grim satisfaction, Emmett noted that from 1920 to 1950 its population had hovered around 1.3 million people, and that in the current decade it wasn’t expected to increase by a soul.
Emmett replaced the volume and headed for the door.
—Did you find what you were looking for?
Having passed the reference desk, Emmett turned to face the librarian. With her eyeglasses now resting on her head, Emmett saw that he had been wrong about her age. She was probably no older than thirty-five.
—I did, he said. Thank you.
—You’re Billy’s brother, aren’t you?
—I am, he said, a little surprised.
She smiled and nodded.
—I’m Ellie Matthiessen. I could tell because you look so much like him.
—Do you know my brother well?
—Oh, he’s spent a lot of time here. At least, since you’ve been away. Your brother loves a good story.
—He does at that, agreed Emmett with a smile.
Although as he went out the door, he couldn’t help but add to himself: for better or worse.
* * *
There were three of them standing by the Studebaker when Emmett returned from the library. He didn’t recognize the tall one on the right in the cowboy hat, but the one on the left was Jenny Andersen’s older brother, Eddie, and the one in the middle was Jacob Snyder. From the way that Eddie was kicking at the pavement, Emmett could tell that he didn’t want to be there. Seeing Emmett approach, the tall stranger nudged Jake in the side. When Jake looked up, Emmett could tell that he didn’t want to be there either.
Emmett stopped a few feet away with his keys in his hand and nodded to the two men he knew.
—Jake. Eddie.
Neither replied.
Emmett considered offering Jake an apology, but Jake wasn’t there for an apology. Emmett had already apologized to Jake and the rest of the Snyders. He’d apologized in the hours after the fight, then at the station house, and finally on the courthouse steps. His apologies hadn’t done the Snyders any good then, and they weren’t going to do them any good now.
—I don’t want any trouble, said Emmett. I just want to get in my car and go home.
—I can’t let you do that, said Jake.
And he was probably right. Though Emmett and Jake had only been talking for a minute, there were already people gathering around. There were a few farmhands, the Westerly widows, and two boys who had been biding their time on the courthouse lawn. If the Pentecostal or Congregational church let out, the crowd would only grow. Whatever happened next was sure to get back to old man Snyder, and that meant there was only one way that Jake
could let the encounter come to its conclusion.
Emmett put his keys in his pocket, leaving his hands at his side.
It was the stranger who spoke up first. Leaning against the door of the Studebaker, he tilted back his hat and smiled.
—Seems like Jake here’s got some unfinished business with you, Watson.
Emmett met the gaze of the stranger, then turned back to Jake.
—If we’ve got unfinished business, Jake, let’s finish it.
Jake looked like he was struggling with how to begin, like the anger that he’d expected to feel—that he was supposed to feel—after all these months was suddenly eluding him. Taking a page from his brother’s book, he started with a question.
—You think of yourself as quite a fighter, don’t you, Watson?
Emmett didn’t reply.
—And maybe you are something of a fighter—as long as you get to hit a man unprovoked.
—It wasn’t unprovoked, Jake.
Jake took half a step forward, feeling something closer to anger now.
—Are you saying Jimmy tried to hit you first?
—No. He didn’t try to hit me.
Jake nodded with his jaw clenched, then took another half step.
—Seeing as you like to take the first swing so much, why don’t you take the first swing at me?
—I’m not going to take a swing at you, Jake.
Jake stared at Emmett for a moment, then looked away. He didn’t look at his two friends. He didn’t look at the townspeople who had gathered behind him. He turned his gaze in order to look at nothing in particular. And when he turned back, he hit Emmett with a right cross.
Given that Jake hadn’t been looking at Emmett when he went into motion, his fist glanced off the top of Emmett’s cheek rather than hitting him squarely in the jaw. But he made enough contact that Emmett stumbled to his right.
Everyone took a step forward now. Eddie and the stranger, the onlookers, even the woman with the stroller who had just joined the crowd. Everyone, that is, but Jake. He remained where he was standing, watching Emmett.
Emmett returned to the spot where he’d been the moment before, his hands back at his side.
Jake was red in the face with some combination of exertion and anger and maybe a hint of embarrassment too.
—Put up your fists, he said.
Emmett didn’t move.
—Put up your goddamn fists!
Emmett raised his fists high enough to be in the stance of a fighter, but not so high as to defend himself effectively.
This time, Jake hit him in the mouth. Emmett stumbled three steps back, tasting blood on his lips. He regained his footing and advanced the three steps that would bring him back within Jake’s reach. As he heard the stranger egging Jake on, Emmett halfway raised his fists and Jake knocked him to the ground.
Suddenly, the world was out of kilter, sloping away at a thirty-degree angle. To get onto his knees, Emmett had to support himself with both hands on the pavement. As he pushed himself upward, he could feel the heat of the day rising up from the concrete through his palms.
On all fours, Emmett waited for his head to clear, then he began to stand.
Jake took a step forward.
—Don’t you get up again, he said, his voice thick with emotion. Don’t you get up again, Emmett Watson.
When Emmett reached his full height, he started to raise his fists, but he hadn’t been ready to stand, after all. The earth reeled and angled upward, and Emmett landed back on the pavement with a grunt.
—That’s enough, someone called out. That’s enough, Jake.
It was Sheriff Petersen pushing through the onlookers.
The sheriff instructed one of his deputies to pull Jake aside and the other to disperse the crowd. Then he got down on his haunches to assess Emmett’s condition. He even reached out and turned Emmett’s head so he could get a better look at the left side of his face.
—Doesn’t seem like anything’s broken. You gonna be all right, Emmett?
—I’m gonna be all right.
Sheriff Petersen stayed on his haunches.
—You gonna want to press charges?
—For what.
The sheriff signaled to a deputy that he could let Jake go, then turned back to Emmett, who was sitting on the pavement now, wiping the blood from his lip.
—How long have you been back?
—Since yesterday.
—Didn’t take long for Jake to find you.
—No, sir, it didn’t.
—Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised.
The sheriff was quiet for a moment.
—You staying out at your place?
—Yes, sir.
—All right then. Let’s get you cleaned up before we send you home.
The sheriff took Emmett’s hand in order to help him off the ground. But as he did so, he took the opportunity to look at Emmett’s knuckles.
* * *
• • •
The sheriff and Emmett were driving through town in the Studebaker with Emmett in the passenger seat and the sheriff behind the wheel, moving at a nice easy pace. Emmett was checking his teeth with the tip of his tongue when the sheriff, who had been whistling a Hank Williams song, interrupted himself.
—Not a bad car. How fast can she go?
—About eighty without shaking.
—No kidding.
But the sheriff kept driving at his easy pace, taking wide lazy turns as he whistled his tune. When he drove past the turnoff to the station house, Emmett gave him a quizzical glance.
—I thought I’d take you to our place, the sheriff explained. Let Mary have a look at you.
Emmett didn’t protest. He had appreciated the chance to get cleaned up before heading home, but he had no desire to revisit the station house.
After they’d come to a stop in the Petersens’ driveway, Emmett was about to open the passenger-side door when he noted that the sheriff wasn’t making a move. He was sitting there with his hands on the wheel—just like the warden had the day before.
As Emmett waited for the sheriff to say whatever was on his mind, he looked out the windshield at the tire swing hanging from the oak tree in the yard. Though Emmett didn’t know the sheriff’s children, he knew they were grown, and he found himself wondering whether the swing was a vestige of their youth, or the sheriff had hung it for the benefit of his grandchildren. Who knows, thought Emmett; maybe it had been hanging there since before the Petersens owned the place.
—I only arrived at the tail end of your little skirmish, the sheriff began, but from the look of your hand and Jake’s face, I’d have to surmise you didn’t put up much of a fight.
Emmett didn’t respond.
—Well, maybe you thought you had it coming to you, continued the sheriff in a tone of reflection. Or maybe, having been through what you’ve been through, you’ve decided that your fighting days are behind you.
The sheriff looked at Emmett as if he were expecting Emmett to say something, but Emmett remained silent, staring through the windshield at the swing.
—You mind if I smoke in your car? the sheriff asked after a moment. Mary doesn’t let me smoke in the house anymore.
—I don’t mind.
Sheriff Petersen took a pack from his pocket and tapped two cigarettes out of the opening, offering one to Emmett. When Emmett accepted, the sheriff lit both cigarettes with his lighter. Then out of respect for Emmett’s car, he rolled down the window.
—The war’s been over almost ten years now, he said after taking a drag and exhaling. But some of the boys who came back act like they’re still fighting it. You take Danny Hoagland. Not a month goes by without me getting a call on his account. One week he’s at the roadhouse in a brawl of his own making, a few weeks later he’s in the aisle of the
supermarket giving the back of his hand to that pretty young wife of his.
The sheriff shook his head as if mystified by what the pretty young woman saw in Danny Hoagland in the first place.
—And last Tuesday? I got hauled out of bed at two in the morning because Danny was standing in front of the Iversons with a pistol in his hand, shouting about some old grievance. The Iversons’ didn’t know what he was talking about. Because, as it turned out, Danny’s grievance wasn’t with the Iversons. It was with the Barkers. He just wasn’t standing in front of the right house. Come to think of it, he wasn’t on the right block.
Emmett smiled in spite of himself.
—Now at the other end of the spectrum, said the sheriff, pointing his cigarette at some unknown audience, were those boys who came back from the war swearing that they would never again lay a hand on their fellow men. And I have a lot of respect for their position. They’ve certainly earned the right to have it. The thing of it is, when it comes to drinking whiskey, those boys make Danny Hoagland look like a deacon of the church. I never get called out of bed on their account. Because they’re not out in front of the Iversons’ or the Barkers’ or anybody else’s at two in the morning. At that hour, they’re sitting in their living room working their way to the bottom of a bottle in the dark. All I’m saying, Emmett, is I’m not sure either of these approaches works that well. You can’t keep fighting the war, but you can’t lay down your manhood either. Sure, you can let yourself get beat up a time or two. That’s your prerogative. But eventually, you’re going to have to stand up for yourself like you used to.
The sheriff looked at Emmett now.
—You understand me, Emmett?
—Yes, sir, I do.
—I gather from Ed Ransom you might be leaving town. . . .
