The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  That night when he and Macie returned to their flat, before they had even taken off their coats, Ulysses had announced his decision to enlist. Having prepared himself for the likelihood that Macie would grow angry or weep, he expressed his intentions in the manner of a foregone conclusion, a decision that broached no debate. But when he was finished with his talking, she didn’t tremble or shed a tear. And when she responded, she didn’t raise her voice.

  —If you have to go to war, she said, then go to war. Take on Hitler and Tojo with one arm tied behind your back for all I care. But don’t expect to find us here when you get back.

  The next day, when he walked into the recruiting office, he feared that he’d be turned away as a man of forty-two, but ten days later he was at Camp Funston and ten months after that he was on his way to serve in the 92nd Infantry Division under the Fifth Army in the Italian campaign. All through those unforgiving days, despite the fact that he did not receive a single letter from his wife, he never imagined—or rather, never let himself imagine—that she and the child would not be waiting for him upon his return.

  But when his train pulled into St. Louis on the twentieth of December 1945, they were not at the station. When he went to Fourteenth Street, they were not in the flat. And when he tracked down the landlord, and the neighbors, and her friends from work, the report was always the same: Two weeks after giving birth to a beautiful baby boy, Macie Dixon had packed up her things and left the city without leaving word of where she was headed.

  Less than twenty-four hours after returning to St. Louis, Ulysses put his bag on his shoulder and walked back to Union Station. There, he boarded the very next train, unconcerned with where it was going. He rode that train as far is it went—to Atlanta, Georgia—and then without setting foot outside the station, he boarded the next train headed in a different direction and rode that one all the way to Santa Fe. That was more than eight years ago. He had been riding ever since—in the passenger cars while his money held out and in the boxcars once it was gone—back and forth across the nation, never allowing himself to spend a second night in any one spot before jumping the next train to wherever it was bound.

  * * *

  As the boy read on and the Great Ulysses went from landfall to landfall and trial to trial, Ulysses listened in silence, the tears falling from his eyes, unabashedly. He listened as his namesake faced the metamorphical spells of Circe, the ruthless seduction of the Sirens, and the closely knit perils of Scylla and Charybdis. But when the boy read of how Ulysses’s hungry crew ignored the warnings of the seer, Tiresias, and slaughtered the sacred cattle of the sun god, Helios, prompting Zeus to besiege the hero once again with thunder and swells, Ulysses placed a hand across the pages of the young boy’s book.

  —Enough, he said.

  The boy looked up in surprise.

  —Don’t you want to hear the end?

  Ulysses was silent for a moment.

  —There is no end, Billy. There is no end of travails for those who have angered the Almighty.

  But Billy was shaking his head, once again in kinship.

  —That isn’t so, he said. Although the Great Ulysses angered Poseidon and Helios, he didn’t wander without end. When did you set sail from your war in order to return to America?

  Doubtful of what it could matter, Ulysses answered.

  —On the fourteenth of November, 1945.

  Gently pushing Ulysses’s hand aside, the boy turned the page and pointed to a passage.

  —Professor Abernathe tells us that the Great Ulysses returned to Ithaca and was reunited with his wife and son after ten long years.

  The boy looked up.

  —That means that you have almost come to the end of your wanderings, and that you will be reunited with your family in less than two years’ time.

  Ulysses shook his head.

  —Billy, I don’t even know where they are.

  —That’s okay, the boy replied. If you knew where they were, then you wouldn’t have to find them.

  Then the boy looked down at his book and nodded his head in satisfaction that this is how it should be.

  Was it possible? wondered Ulysses.

  It was true that on the field of battle he had offended the teachings of His Lord, Jesus Christ, in every possible way, offended them to such a degree that it was hard to imagine crossing the threshold of a church in good conscience ever again. But all of the men whom he had fought alongside—as well as those he’d fought against—had offended the same teachings, broken the same covenants, and ignored the same commandments. So Ulysses had come to some peace with the sins of the battlefield, recognizing them as the sins of a generation. What Ulysses had not come to peace with, what weighed upon his conscience, was his betrayal of his wife. Theirs was a covenant too, and when he betrayed it, he betrayed it alone.

  Even as he was standing in that poorly lit hallway of their old apartment house in full uniform, feeling less like a hero than a fool, he understood that the consequences of what he had done should be irrevocable. That is what had led him back to Union Station and into the life of a vagabond—a life destined to be lived without companionship or purpose.

  But maybe the boy was right . . .

  Maybe by placing his own sense of shame above the sanctity of their union, by so readily condemning himself to a life of solitude, he had betrayed his wife a second time. Had betrayed his wife and son.

  As he was having this thought, the boy had closed his book and begun picking up the silver dollars, dusting them off with the cuff of his sleeve and returning them to their tin.

  —Here, said Ulysses, let me help.

  He too began picking up the coins, polishing them on his sleeve, and dropping them in the tin.

  But when the boy was about to put the last coin away, he suddenly looked over Ulysses’s shoulder as if he’d heard something. Quickly packing away the tin and his big red book, the boy tightened the straps on his knapsack and swung it on his back.

  —What is it? asked Ulysses, a little startled by the boy’s sudden movements.

  —The train is slowing, he explained, rising to his feet. We must have reached the grade.

  It took Ulysses a moment to understand what the boy was talking about.

  —No, Billy, he said, following the boy to the door. You don’t have to go. You should stay with me.

  —Are you sure, Ulysses?

  —I’m sure.

  Billy nodded in acceptance, but as he gazed out the door at the brush flashing by, Ulysses could tell that he was taken with a fresh concern.

  —What is it, son?

  —Do you think that Pastor John was hurt when he jumped from the train?

  —No more than he deserved.

  Billy looked up at Ulysses.

  —But he was a preacher.

  —In that man’s heart, said Ulysses, sliding the door shut, there is more treachery than preachery.

  The two walked to the other end of the car with the intention of sitting back down, but as they were about to do so, Ulysses heard a scuffing behind him as if someone had carefully stepped off the ladder.

  Without waiting to hear more, Ulysses spun about with his arms outstretched, inadvertently knocking Billy to the ground.

  When Ulysses had heard the scuffing, it flashed through his mind that Pastor John had somehow reboarded the train and returned to confront him with vengeance in mind. But it wasn’t Pastor John. It was a white youth with contusions and a determined look. In his right hand, he had the cinched bag of a thief. Dropping the bag, he took a step forward and assumed his own fighting stance, with his arms extended.

  —I don’t want to fight you, said the youth.

  —No one wants to fight me, said Ulysses.

  They both took a step forward.

  Ulysses found himself wishing that he hadn’t shut the boxcar door. If it were o
pen, he could make a cleaner business of it. He would simply have to grab hold of the youth by the arms and cast him off the train. With the door closed he would have to either knock the youth unconscious or secure him in a grip and have Billy open the door. But he didn’t want to put the boy anywhere within reach of the youth. So he would pick his moment. He would keep himself between Billy and the youth, draw a little closer, and then hit him on the bruised side of his face, where it was sure to be tender.

  Behind him, Ulysses could hear Billy working his way onto his feet.

  —Stay back, Billy, both he and the youth said at the very same time.

  Then they looked at each other bewildered but unwilling to lower their arms.

  Ulysses heard Billy taking a step to the side as if to see around him.

  —Hey, Emmett.

  With his arms still up and one eye on Ulysses, the youth took a step to his left.

  —Are you all right, Billy?

  —I’m all right.

  —Do you know him? asked Ulysses.

  —He’s my brother, said Billy. Emmett, this is Ulysses. He fought in the war like the Great Ulysses and now must wander for ten years until he’s reunited with his wife and son. But you needn’t worry. We’re not friends yet. We’re just getting acquainted.

  Duchess

  Look at all the houses, said Woolly in amazement. Have you ever seen so many houses?

  —It’s a lot of houses, I agreed.

  Earlier that day, my taxi had come around the corner just in time for me to see Woolly emerging from a park. Across the street I could see where he’d left the Studebaker—in front of a fire hydrant with the passenger-side door open and the engine running. I could also see the cop standing at the back of the car with his ticket book in hand, jotting down the number of the license plate.

  —Pull over, I told the cabby.

  I don’t know what Woolly said to the cop by way of explanation, but by the time I’d paid the cabby, the cop was putting away his ticket book and taking out his cuffs.

  I approached wearing my best approximation of a small-town smile.

  —What seems to be the trouble, officer?

  (They love it when you call them officer.)

  —Are you two together?

  —In a manner of speaking. I work for his parents.

  The cop and I both looked over at Woolly, who had wandered off to get a closer look at the fire hydrant.

  When the cop gave me the rundown of Woolly’s infractions, including the fact that he didn’t seem to have his driver’s license on him, I shook my head.

  —You’re preaching to the choir, officer. I kept telling them if they intended to bring him back home, they’d better hire someone to keep an eye on him. But what do I know? I’m just the groundskeeper.

  The cop took another look at Woolly.

  —Are you implying there’s something wrong with him?

  —Let’s just say his receiver is tuned to a different frequency than yours and mine. He has a habit of wandering off, so when his mother woke up this morning and saw that her car was missing—again—she asked me to track him down.

  —How did you know where to find him?

  —He’s got a thing about Abraham Lincoln.

  The officer looked at me with a hint of skepticism. So I showed him.

  —Mr. Martin, I called. Why did you come to the park?

  Woolly thought about it for a moment, then smiled.

  —To see the statue of President Lincoln.

  Now the officer was looking at me with a hint of uncertainty. On the one hand he had his list of infractions and his oath to maintain law and order in the state of Illinois. But what was he supposed to do? Arrest some troubled kid who’d snuck out of the house in order to pay his respects to Honest Abe?

  The cop looked from me to Woolly and back again. Then he straightened his shoulders and tugged at his belt, as cops are wont to do.

  —All right, he said. Why don’t you see him safely home.

  —I intend to, officer.

  —But a young man on his frequency should not be driving. Maybe it’s time his family put the keys to the car on a higher shelf.

  —I’ll let them know.

  Once the cop had driven off and we were back in the Studebaker, I gave Woolly a little talking to about the meaning of all for one and one for all.

  —What happens if you get yourself arrested, Woolly? And your name ends up on the blotter? Before you know it, they’d have us both on a bus back to Salina. Then we’d never make it to the camp, and Billy wouldn’t get to build his house in California.

  —I’m sorry, Woolly said with a look of genuine contrition—and pupils as big as flying saucers.

  —How many drops of your medicine did you take this morning?

  . . .

  —Four?

  —How many bottles do you have left?

  . . .

  —One?

  —One! Jesus, Woolly. That stuff isn’t Coca-Cola. And who knows when we can get you some more. You’d better let me hold on to the last one for now.

  Sheepishly, Woolly opened the glove compartment and handed over the little blue bottle. In return, I handed him the map of Indiana that I’d bought off the cabbie. He frowned when he saw it.

  —I know. It’s not a Phillips 66 map, but it’s the best that I could do. While I’m driving, I need you to figure out how to get to 132 Rhododendron Road in South Bend.

  —What’s at 132 Rhododendron Road?

  —An old friend.

  * * *

  Having reached South Bend around half past one, we were now in the middle of a brand-new subdivision of identical homes on identical lots, presumably inhabited by identical people. It almost made me long for the roads of Nebraska.

  —It’s like the labyrinth in Billy’s book, said Woolly with a hint of awe. The one designed so ingeniously by Daedalus that no one who entered ever came out alive. . . .

  —All the more reason, I pointed out sternly, for you to keep an eye on the street signs.

  —Okay, okay. I got it, I got it.

  After taking a quick glance at the map, Woolly leaned toward the windshield in order to give a little more attention to where we were going.

  —Left on Tiger Lily Lane, he said. Right on Amaryllis Avenue . . . Wait, wait . . . There it is!

  I took the turn onto Rhododendron Road. All the lawns were green and neatly mowed, but so far the rhododendron part was strictly aspirational. Who knows. Maybe it always would be.

  I slowed down so that Woolly could keep an eye on the house numbers.

  —124 . . . 126 . . . 128 . . . 130 . . . 132!

  As I drove past the house, Woolly looked back over his shoulder.

  —It was that one, he said.

  I turned the corner at the next intersection and pulled the car over to the curb. Across the street an overfed pensioner in an undershirt was watering his grass with a hose. He looked like he could have used his own dousing.

  —Isn’t your friend at 132?

  —He is. But I want to surprise him.

  Having learned my lesson, when I got out of the car I took the keys with me rather than leaving them over the visor.

  —I should only be a few minutes, I said. You stay put.

  —I will, I will. But Duchess . . .

  —Yeah, Woolly?

  —I know we’re trying to get the Studebaker back to Emmett as quickly as possible, but do you think we might be able to visit my sister Sarah in Hastings-on-Hudson before we head to the Adirondacks?

  Most people make a habit of asking for things. At the drop of a hat, they’ll ask you for a light or for the time. They’ll ask you for a lift or a loan. For a hand or a handout. Some of them will even ask you for forgiveness. But Woolly Martin rarely asked for anything at all. So when h
e did ask for something, you knew it was something that mattered.

  —Woolly, I said, if you can get us back out of this labyrinth alive, we can visit anyone you like.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, I was standing in a kitchen with a rolling pin in my hand wondering if it would do the trick. Given its shape and heft, it certainly felt better than a two-by-four. But it struck me as an implement better used for comic effect—like by a hausfrau who’s chasing her hapless husband around the kitchen table.

  Putting the rolling pin back in its drawer, I opened another. This one was filled with a clutter of smaller implements, like vegetable peelers and measuring spoons. The next had the larger and flimsier tools like spatulas and whisks. Tucked under a ladle I found a meat tenderizer. Being careful not to jangle the other items, I removed it from the drawer and found it to have a nice wooden handle and a rough smacking surface, but it was a little on the delicate side, fashioned more for flattening a cutlet than for pounding a side of beef.

  On the counter beside the sink were all the usual modern conveniences—a can opener, a toaster, a three-button blender, each perfectly engineered if your desire was to open or toast or blend someone. In the cabinets above the counter, I found enough canned food for a bomb shelter. Front and center were at least ten cans of Campbell’s soup. But there were also cans of beef stew, chili, and franks and beans. Which seemed to suggest that the only appliance the Ackerlys really needed was the can opener.

  I couldn’t help but remark on the similarity between the food in Ackerly’s cabinet and the menu at Salina. We had always chalked up the prevalence of this sort of cuisine to its institutional utility, but maybe it was an expression of the warden’s personal tastes. For a moment I was tempted to use the can of franks and beans in the interests of poetic justice. But if you hit someone with a can, I figured you might do as much damage to your fingers as you did to his skull.