The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —Can you pull over? he asked.

  With a quizzical glance in the mirror, the cabbie pulled onto the shoulder of a tree-lined road. Holding up his wallet, Emmett explained that all he had left was what the meter was showing.

  —If you’re out of money, then you’re out of the cab.

  Nodding in understanding, Emmett handed the cabbie the two dollars, thanked him for the ride, and got out. Fortunately, before pulling away, the cabbie had the graciousness to roll down the passenger window and give Emmett directions: About two miles up take a right onto Forest; another mile after that take a left onto Steeplechase Road. When the cab pulled away, Emmett began to walk, his mind taken up with the scourge of infinitely bisected journeys.

  America is three thousand miles wide, he thought to himself. Five days before, he and Billy had set out with the intention of driving fifteen hundred miles west to California. Instead, they had traveled fifteen hundred miles east to New York. Having arrived, Emmett had crisscrossed the city from Times Square to lower Manhattan and back. To Brooklyn and Harlem. And when, at long last, it seemed his destination was within reach, Emmett had taken three trains, four taxis, and now was on foot.

  He could just imagine how Mr. Nickerson would have diagrammed it: with San Francisco on the left side of the chalkboard, Emmett’s zigzagging progression on the right, and every leg of his journey growing shorter than the last. Only, the paradox that Emmett had to contend with wasn’t Zeno’s. It was the fast-talking, liberty-taking, plan-upending paradox known as Duchess.

  But as exasperating as this was, Emmett understood that having to spend his afternoon shuttling back and forth was probably for the best. Because when he had walked out of Ma Belle’s earlier that day burning with frustration, had Duchess been standing in the street, Emmett would have pounded him into the ground.

  Instead, the train rides and taxi rides and this three-mile walk had given him the time not only to revisit all the causes for fury—the Studebaker, the envelope, the mickey—but the causes for temperance too. Like the promises he had made to Billy and Sister Agnes. And the advocacy of Ma Belle and Charity. But most of all, what gave Emmett pause, and called for some sense of measure, was the story that Fitzy FitzWilliams had told him over glasses of whiskey in that dead-end bar.

  For almost a decade, Emmett had quietly nursed a sense of condemnation toward his father’s follies—the single-minded commitment to an agrarian dream, the unwillingness to ask for help, and the starry-eyed idealism that sustained him, even as it cost him his farm and his wife. But for all his shortcomings, Charlie Watson had never come close to betraying Emmett in the manner that Harry Hewett had betrayed Duchess.

  And for what?

  A trinket.

  A bauble stripped from the body of a clown.

  The irony hidden in the old performer’s story wasn’t lost on Emmett for a second. It announced itself loud and clear—as a rebuke. For of all the boys whom Emmett had known at Salina, he would have ranked Duchess as one of the most likely to bend the rules or the truth in the service of his own convenience. But in the end, Duchess was the one who had been innocent. He was the one who had been sent to Salina having done nothing at all. While Townhouse and Woolly had stolen cars. And he, Emmett Watson, had ended another man’s life.

  What right did he have to demand of Duchess that he atone for his sins? What right did he have to demand it of anyone?

  * * *

  • • •

  Within seconds of ringing the Whitneys’ bell, Emmett could hear the sound of running inside. Then the door swung open.

  At some level, Emmett must have been expecting Duchess to appear contrite, because he felt a sharp stab of annoyance to find him standing there smiling, looking almost victorious as he turned to Billy and extended his arms—just as he had in the doorway of the Watsons’ barn—in order to say:

  —What’d I tell you, kid?

  With a big smile, Billy stepped around Duchess in order to give Emmett a hug. Then he began to gush.

  —You’re not going to believe what happened, Emmett! After we left the circus—while you were with your friends—Duchess drove us to the Empire State Building so that we could find Professor Abernathe’s office. We rode the express elevator all the way to the fifty-fifth floor and not only did we find his office, we found Professor Abernathe! And he gave me one of his notebooks in case I ran out of blank pages. And when I told him about Ulysses—

  —Hold on, said Emmett, smiling in spite of himself. I want to hear all about it, Billy. I really do. But first, I need to talk to Duchess alone for just a minute. Okay?

  —Okay, Emmett, said Billy, sounding a little unsure of the idea.

  —Why don’t you come with me, said Woolly to Billy. I wanted to show you something anyway!

  Emmett watched as Billy and Woolly climbed the stairs. Only when they had disappeared down the hall did he turn to face Duchess.

  Emmett could see that Duchess had something to say. He had all the telltale signs: his weight on the balls of his feet, his hands ready to gesture, his expression eager and earnest. But he wasn’t simply getting ready to speak. He was going to launch himself heart and soul into another explanation.

  So before he could say a word, Emmett grabbed him by the collar and drew back his fist.

  Woolly

  It was quite true that in Woolly’s experience, when somebody said they wanted to speak to someone else in private, it could be difficult to know what to do with yourself. But when Emmett asked to speak to Duchess, Woolly knew exactly what to do. In fact, he had been thinking about it ever since 7:42.

  —Why don’t you come with me, he said to Billy. I wanted to show you something anyway!

  Leading Billy upstairs, Woolly took him to the bedroom that was and wasn’t his.

  —Come in, come in, he said.

  When Billy stepped inside, Woolly closed the door—leaving it a few inches ajar so that they wouldn’t be able to hear what Emmett had to say to Duchess, but they would be able to hear when Emmett was ready to call them back.

  —Whose room is this?

  —Once upon a time it was mine, said Woolly with a smile. But I gave it up so that the baby can be closer to my sister.

  —And now you have the room by the back staircase.

  —Which is much more sensible, said Woolly, what with all my comings and goings.

  —I like the blue, Billy said. It’s like the color of Emmett’s car.

  —That’s just what I thought!

  Once they had appreciated the hue of the blue, Woolly turned his attention to the covered pile in the middle of the room. Throwing back the tarp, he located the box he was looking for, opened the top, set aside the tennis trophy, and took out the cigar box.

  —Here we go, he said.

  Then since the bed was covered with Woolly’s belongings, he and Billy sat on the floor.

  —Is that a collection? Billy asked.

  —It is, said Woolly. Though not like your silver dollars, or your bottle caps back in Nebraska. Because it’s not a collection of different versions of the same thing. It’s a collection of the same version of different things.

  Opening the lid, Woolly tilted the box toward Billy.

  —See? These are the sorts of things that one rarely uses, but that one should set safely aside so that one knows exactly where to find them when they’re suddenly in need. For instance, this is where I keep my father’s shirt studs and cuff links should I suddenly have to wear a tuxedo. And those are some French francs, should I happen to go to France. And that’s the biggest piece of sea glass that I have ever found. But here . . .

  Gently pushing aside his father’s old wallet, Woolly removed a wristwatch from the bottom of the box and handed it to Billy.

  —The dial is black, said Billy in surprise.

  Woolly nodded.

  —And the numb
ers are white. The very opposite of what you’d expect. It’s called an officer’s watch. They made them this way so that when an officer needed to look at the time on the field of battle, enemy snipers wouldn’t be able to aim for the white of his dial.

  —Was it your father’s?

  —No, said Woolly with a shake of the head. It was my grandfather’s. He wore it in France during the First World War. But then he gave it to my mother’s brother, Wallace. And then Uncle Wallace gave it to me as a Christmas present when I was younger than you. He’s the Wallace that I was named after.

  —Your name is Wallace, Woolly?

  —Oh yes. Very much so.

  —Is that why they call you Woolly? So that people won’t get you and your uncle confused when you’re together?

  —No, said Woolly. Uncle Wallace died years ago. In a war, just like my father. Only, it wasn’t in one of the world wars. It was in the Spanish Civil War.

  —Why did your uncle fight in the Spanish Civil War?

  Quickly wiping away a tear, Woolly shook his head.

  —I’m not sure, Billy. My sister says that he had done so many things that were expected of him, he wanted to do one thing that no one expected at all.

  They both looked at the watch, which Billy was holding gently in his hand.

  —You see, said Woolly, it has a second hand too. Only, instead of it being a big second hand going around the big dial like the one on your watch, it’s a tiny little second hand going around its own little dial. Seconds are very important to keep track of in wars, I should think.

  —Yes, said Billy, I should think so too.

  Then Billy held the watch out in order to return it.

  —No, no, said Woolly. It’s for you. I took it out of the box because I want you to have it.

  Shaking his head, Billy said that such a watch was far too precious to be given away.

  —But that’s not so, countered Woolly excitedly. It’s not a watch that’s too precious to be given away. It’s a watch that’s too precious for keeping. It was handed down from my grandfather to my uncle, who handed it down to me. Now I am handing it down to you. And one day—many years from now—you can hand it down to someone else.

  Perhaps Woolly hadn’t put his point to perfection, but Billy seemed to understand. So Woolly told him to wind it up! But first, he explained the watch’s only quirk—that once a day it should be wound exactly fourteen times.

  —If you wind it only twelve times, said Woolly, by the end of the day, it will be running five minutes slow. Whereas, if you wind it sixteen times, it will be running five minutes fast. But if you wind it exactly fourteen times, then it will keep the time exactly.

  After taking this in, Billy wound the watch exactly fourteen times while quietly counting to himself.

  What Woolly did not tell Billy was that sometimes—like when he first arrived at St. Paul’s—he would wind the watch sixteen times for six days in a row on porpoise so that he could be half an hour ahead of everybody else. While other times, he would wind it twelve times for six days in a row so that he could be half an hour behind. Either way—whether he wound it sixteen times or wound it twelve—it was a little like when Alice stepped through the looking glass, or the Pevensies through the wardrobe, only to find themselves in a world that was and wasn’t theirs.

  —Go ahead and put it on, said Woolly.

  —You mean I can wear it now?

  —Of course, said Woolly. Of course, of course, of course. That’s the whole point!

  So, without any help, Billy strapped it on his wrist.

  —Doesn’t that look fine, said Woolly.

  And having said so, Woolly would have repeated himself for emphasis, but for the fact that from somewhere downstairs suddenly came a sound that was very much like a gunshot. Exchanging wide-eyed glances, Woolly and Billy leapt to their feet and dashed out the door.

  Duchess

  Emmett was in a bad mood all right. He was trying to hide it because that’s the kind of guy he is. But I could tell just the same. Especially when he cut Billy off in the middle of his story, saying he wanted to speak to me alone.

  Hell, if I were him, I’d want to speak to me alone too.

  Another one of Sister Agnes’s favorite sayings was the wise man tattles on himself. Her point, of course, was that if you did something wrong—whether it was behind the maintenance shed or in the dead of night—she was going to find out. After assembling the clues, she was going to deduce it from the comfort of her armchair like Sherlock Holmes. Or she’d discern it from your manner. Or hear it straight from the mouth of God. Whatever the source, she would come to know of your transgressions, of that there was no doubt. So in the interests of saving time, it was best to tattle on yourself. To admit you’ve overstepped, express contrition, and promise to make amends—ideally, before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. So the second Emmett and I were alone, I was ready.

  As it turned out, Emmett had a different idea. An even better one. Because before I could get a word out of my mouth, he had grabbed me by the collar in order to lay one on me. I closed my eyes and waited for redemption.

  But nothing happened.

  Peeking out of my right eye, I saw that he was grinding his teeth, struggling with his own instincts.

  —Go ahead, I told him. You’ll feel better. I’ll feel better!

  But even as I tried to give him encouragement, I could feel the slackening in his grip. Then he shoved me back a foot or two. So I ended up getting to give my apology, after all.

  —I am so sorry, I said.

  Then, without taking a breath, I began ticking my missteps off on my fingers.

  —I borrowed the Studebaker without asking; I stranded you in Lewis; I misjudged your interest in the Caddy; and on top of all that, I screwed up your night at Ma Belle’s. What can I say? I showed poor judgment. But I’m going to make it up to you.

  Emmett raised both hands in the air.

  —I don’t want you to make anything up to me, Duchess. I accept your apology. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.

  —All right, I said. I appreciate your willingness to put this chapter behind us. But first things first . . .

  Producing his envelope from my back pocket, I returned it with a touch of ceremony. He was visibly relieved to have it in hand. He may even have let out a sigh. But at the same time, I could tell he was weighing the contents.

  —It’s not all there, I admitted. But I’ve got something else for you.

  From another pocket, I produced the accounting.

  Emmett seemed a little perplexed when he took the paper in hand, but even more so once he’d had a look.

  —Is this Billy’s handwriting?

  —It sure is. I’m telling you, Emmett, that kid’s got a head for figures.

  I stepped to Emmett’s side and gestured loosely at the columns.

  —It’s all there. The necessary expenses like the gas and hotels, which will be reimbursed to you off the top. Then there’s the more discretionary expenses, which will come out of my end—just as soon as we get to the Adirondacks.

  Emmett looked up from the sheet with a hint of disbelief.

  —Duchess, how many times do I have to tell you that I am not going to the Adirondacks. As soon as the Studebaker’s ready, Billy and I are heading for California.

  —I get it, I said. Since Billy wants to be there by the Fourth of July, it makes sense to get a move on. But you said your car won’t be ready until Monday, right? And you must be starving. So tonight, let’s have a nice meal, just the four of us. Then tomorrow, Woolly and I will take the Caddy to the camp and pick up the dough. We’ve got to make a quick stop in Syracuse to see my old man, but then we’ll hit the highway. We shouldn’t be more than a few days behind you.

  —Duchess . . . , said Emmett, with a woeful shake of the head.


  He even looked a little defeated, which was out of character for such a can-do guy. Obviously, something about the plan didn’t sit right with him. Or maybe there was some new complication I didn’t know about. Before I got the chance to ask, we heard a small explosion coming from the street. Turning slowly, Emmett stared at the front door for a moment. Then he closed his eyes.

  Sally

  If I were blessed one day to have a child, I would no sooner raise her to be an Episcopalian than I would to be a Catholic. The Episcopalians may be Protestant by designation, but you wouldn’t know it from their services—what with all the vestments and English hymns. I guess they like to call it high church. I call it high and mighty.

  But one thing you can count on from the Episcopal Church is that they’ll keep their records straight. They’re almost as insistent upon it as the Mormons. So, when Emmett didn’t call as promised on Friday at 2:30, he left me little choice but to contact Father Colmore over at St. Luke’s.

  Once I got him on the line, I explained that I was trying to track down a member of the congregation of an Episcopal church in Manhattan, and did he have any ideas on how I might go about doing so. Without a second thought, he told me I should contact Reverend Hamilton Speers, the Rector of St. Bartholomew’s. He even gave me the number.

  This St. Bartholomew’s must be some kind of church, I’ll tell you that. Because when I called, instead of getting Reverend Speers, I reached a receptionist who asked me to hold (despite the fact it was a long-distance call); then she patched me through to an assistant rector, who, in turn, wanted to know why I needed to speak to the reverend. I explained that I was distantly related to a family in his congregation, that my father had died in the night, and while I needed to alert my New York cousins to his passing, for the life of me I could not find my father’s address book.

  Now, in the strictest sense, this was not an honest claim. But while the Christian religion generally frowns upon the drinking of spirits, a sip of red wine is not only countenanced, it plays an essential role in the sacrament. And I figure that while the church generally frowns upon prevarication, a little white lying can be as Christian as the sip of Sunday wine, if performed in the service of the Lord.