The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  As I gazed over the boards, Woolly must have thought I was looking for his name because he volunteered that it wasn’t there.

  —I’m not very good at winning, he confessed.

  —It’s overrated, I assured.

  Exiting the mudroom, he led me down the hall, naming rooms as we went.

  —The tearoom . . . the billiard room . . . the game closet . . .

  Where the hallway ended, it opened into a large living area.

  —We call this the great room, said Woolly.

  And they weren’t kidding. Like the lobby of a grand hotel, it had six different seating areas with couches and wing-back chairs and standing lamps. There was also a card table topped with baize, and a fireplace that looked like it belonged in a castle. Everything was in its proper place, except for the dark-green rocking chairs huddled by the outside doors.

  Seeing them, Woolly seemed disappointed.

  —What is it?

  —Those really belong on the porch.

  —No time like the present.

  Setting our bags down and tossing my fedora on a chair, I helped Woolly shuttle the rockers onto the porch, being careful to arrange them, per his instructions, at equal intervals. Once they were all in place, Woolly asked if I wanted to see the rest of the house.

  —Absotively, I said, which brought an even bigger smile. I want to see all of it, Woolly. But we can’t forget the reason we’re here. . . .

  After looking at me with curiosity for a moment, Woolly put a finger of recognition in the air. Then he led me down the hallway on the other side of the great room and opened a door.

  —My great-grandfather’s study, he said.

  As we had walked through the house, it seemed laughable I had ever doubted that money could be stashed here. Given the scale of the rooms and the quality of the furnishings, there could have been fifty grand stuffed under a mattress in the maid’s room and another fifty lost among the cushions of the couches. But if the majesty of the house boosted my confidence, that was nothing compared to Great-grandpa’s study. Here was a room of a man who knew not only how to make money, but how to keep it. Which, after all, are two different things entirely.

  In some ways, it was like a small version of the great room, with the same wooden chairs, and red rugs, and another fireplace. But there was also a great big desk, bookcases, and one of those little sets of steps that the bookish use to reach the volumes on upper shelves. On one wall was a painting of a bunch of colonial fellows in tight pants and white wigs gathered around a desk. But over the fireplace was a portrait of a man in his late fifties with fair coloring and a handsome, decisive-looking face.

  —Your great-grandfather? I asked.

  —No, said Woolly. My grandfather.

  In a way, I was relieved to hear it. Hanging a portrait of oneself over the fireplace in one’s study didn’t seem a very Wolcotty thing to do.

  —It was painted at the time my grandfather took over for my great-grandfather at the paper company. When he died shortly thereafter, my great-grandfather had it moved here.

  Looking from Woolly to the portrait I could see the family resemblance. Except for the decisive part, of course.

  —What happened to the paper company? I asked.

  —Uncle Wallace took over when Grandpa died. He was only twenty-five at the time and he ran it until he was about thirty, but then he died too.

  I didn’t bother observing that the head of the Wolcott paper company was a job to be avoided. I suspect Woolly knew that already.

  Turning, Woolly walked over to the painting of the colonials and held out a hand.

  —The presentation of the Declaration of Independence.

  —No kidding.

  —Oh yes, said Woolly. There’s John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and John Hancock. They’re all there.

  —Which one’s the Wolcott, I asked with a Puckish grin.

  But taking another step forward, Woolly pointed to a small head at the back of the crowd.

  —Oliver, he said. He also signed the Articles of Confederation and was the governor of Connecticut. Though that was seven generations ago.

  We both nodded for a few seconds, in order to give old Ollie his due. Then reaching up, Woolly opened the painting like it was a cabinet door and, lo and behold, there was Great-grandpa’s safe, looking like it had been fashioned from the metal of a battleship. With a nickel-plated handle and four little dials, it must have been a foot and a half square. If it was also a foot and a half deep, it would be big enough to hold the life savings of seventy generations of Hewetts. But for the solemnity of the moment, I would have whistled.

  From Great-grandpa’s perspective, the contents of the safe were probably an expression of the past. In this grand old house, behind this venerable old painting, were documents that had been signed decades before, jewelry that had been handed down from generation to generation, and cash that had been accumulated over several lifetimes. But in just a few moments, some of the safe’s contents would have been transformed into a representation of the future.

  Emmett’s future. Woolly’s future. My future.

  —There it is, said Woolly.

  —There it is, I agreed.

  Then we both let out a sigh.

  —Would you like to . . . ? I asked, gesturing at the dials.

  —What’s that? Oh, no. You go right ahead.

  —All right, I said, trying to resist the temptation of rubbing my hands together. Just give me the combination, and I’ll do the honors.

  After a moment of silence, Woolly looked at me with an expression of genuine surprise.

  —Combination? he asked.

  Then I laughed. I laughed until my kidneys hurt and the tears poured out of my eyes.

  Like I said: When it comes to vaudeville, it’s all about the setup.

  Emmett

  That’s a fine job, said Mrs. Whitney. I really can’t thank you enough.

  —It was my pleasure, said Emmett.

  They were standing at the threshold of the baby’s room looking at the walls, which Emmett had just finished painting.

  —You must be hungry after all that work. Why don’t you come down and I’ll fix you a sandwich.

  —I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Whitney. Just let me clean up.

  —Of course, she said. But please. Call me Sarah.

  * * *

  • • •

  That morning, Emmett had come downstairs to find that Duchess and Woolly were gone. Having woken in the early hours, they had driven off in the Cadillac, leaving only a note behind. Mr. Whitney was gone too, having headed back to their apartment in the city without taking time for breakfast. And Mrs. Whitney, she was standing in the kitchen dressed in dungarees, her hair pulled back in a kerchief.

  —I promised I’d finally finish painting the baby’s room, she explained with a look of embarrassment.

  It didn’t take much convincing for her to let Emmett take over the job.

  With Mrs. Whitney’s approval, Emmett moved the boxes of Woolly’s belongings to the garage, stacking them in the spot where the Cadillac had been. With some tools he found in the basement, he took apart the bed and stowed the pieces beside the boxes. When the room was empty, he finished taping the trim, laid the tarp across the floor, stirred the paint, and went to work.

  When you had the job set up right—with the room clear and the trim taped and the floor protected—painting was peaceful work. It had a rhythm about it that allowed your thoughts to quiet down, or fall silent altogether. Eventually, all that you were aware of was the movement of the brush sweeping back and forth, turning the primed white wall to its new shade of blue.

  When Sally saw what Emmett was doing, she nodded her head in approval.

  —You want a hand?

  —I’ve got it.

  �
�You spilled some paint on the tarp over there by the window.

  —Yep.

  —All right, she said. Just so’s you know.

  Then Sally looked up and down the hallway with a bit of a frown, as if she were disappointed there wasn’t another room that needed painting. She wasn’t used to being idle, certainly not as an uninvited guest in another woman’s home.

  —Maybe I’ll take Billy into town, she said. Find a soda fountain where we can have lunch.

  —Sounds like a good idea, agreed Emmett, placing the brush on the rim of the can. Let me get you some money.

  —I think I can afford to buy your brother a hamburger. Besides, the last thing Mrs. Whitney needs now is you tracking paint all through her house.

  * * *

  When Mrs. Whitney went downstairs to make the sandwiches, Emmett brought all the work materials down the back staircase (having checked his shoes twice to make sure there was no paint on the soles). In the garage, he cleaned the brushes, the paint tray, and his hands with turpentine. Then he joined Mrs. Whitney in the kitchen where a ham sandwich and glass of milk were waiting on the table.

  When Emmett sat down, Mrs. Whitney took the chair opposite him with a cup of tea, but nothing to eat.

  —I need to go into the city to join my husband, she said, but I gather from your brother that your car’s in the shop and won’t be ready until tomorrow.

  —That’s right, said Emmett.

  —In that case, why don’t you three stay the night. You can help yourself to what’s in the refrigerator for dinner, and in the morning you can lock the door behind you when you go.

  —That’s very generous of you.

  Emmett doubted that Mr. Whitney would have welcomed such an arrangement. If anything, he had probably communicated to his wife that he wanted them out of the house as soon as they awoke. Emmett felt his suspicion confirmed when Mrs. Whitney added, almost as an afterthought, that if the phone were to ring, they should leave it unanswered.

  As Emmett ate, he noticed that in the middle of the table was a folded piece of paper standing upright between the salt and pepper shakers. Following his gaze, Mrs. Whitney acknowledged that it was Woolly’s note.

  When Emmett had first come down in the morning and Mrs. Whitney had told him that Woolly had gone, she had seemed almost relieved by his departure, but a little worried too. As she looked at the note, the same emotions returned to her face.

  —Would you like to read it? she asked.

  —I wouldn’t presume.

  —That’s all right. I’m sure Woolly wouldn’t mind.

  Emmett’s normal instinct would have been to demur a second time, but he sensed that Mrs. Whitney wanted him to read the note. Putting down his sandwich, he took it from its slot between the shakers.

  Written in Woolly’s hand and addressed to Sis, the note said that Woolly was sorry for muddling things up. Sorry about the napkins and the wine. Sorry about the phone in the drawer. Sorry to be leaving so early in the morning without having the chance to say a proper goodbye. But she shouldn’t worry. Not for a minute. Not for a moment. Not for the blink of an eye. All would be well.

  Cryptically, he concluded the note with the postscript: The Comptons ate their cabbage in the kitchen!

  —Will it? Mrs. Whitney asked when Emmett set the note down on the table.

  —I’m sorry?

  —Will all be well?

  —Yes, replied Emmett. I’m sure it will.

  Mrs. Whitney nodded, but Emmett could see that this was less an expression of agreement with his reply than of gratitude for his reassurance. For a moment, she looked down into her tea, which must have been tepid by now.

  —My brother wasn’t always in trouble, she said. He was Woolly, of course, but things changed for him during the war. Somehow, when Father accepted his commission in the navy, it was Woolly who ended up at sea.

  She smiled a little sadly at her own witticism. Then she asked if Emmett knew why her brother had been sent to Salina.

  —He told us once that he had taken someone’s car.

  —Yes, she said with a bit of a laugh. That was it, more or less.

  It happened when Woolly was at St. George’s, his third boarding school in as many years.

  —One spring day in the middle of classes, she explained, he decided to walk into town in search of an ice cream cone, of all things. When he arrived at the little shopping center a few miles from campus, he noticed there was a firetruck parked at the curb. Having looked around and found no signs of any firemen, he became convinced—in a way that only my brother can become convinced—that it must have been forgotten. Forgotten like—oh, I don’t even know—like an umbrella on the back of a chair, or a book on the seat of a bus.

  With a smile of affection, she shook her head, then continued.

  —Eager to return the firetruck to its rightful owners, Woolly climbed behind the wheel and went looking for the station house. Around the town he drove with a fireman’s hat on his head—as it was later reported—tooting the horn for any children he passed. After circling for God knows how long, he found a station house, parked the engine, and walked all the way back to campus.

  The affectionate smile that Mrs. Whitney had been wearing began to fade now as her mind leapt forward to all that followed.

  —As it turned out, the firetruck had been in the parking lot of the shopping center because several of the firemen were in the grocery store. And while Woolly was driving around, a call came in for a stable that was on fire. By the time the engine from a neighboring town arrived, the stable had burned to the ground. Thankfully, there were no people hurt. But the young stable hand who was on duty alone couldn’t get all of the horses out of the building, and four of them died in the fire. The police tracked Woolly back to the school and that was that.

  After a moment, Mrs. Whitney pointed to Emmett’s plate in order to ask if he was finished. When he said that he was, she cleared it along with her cup to the sink.

  She was trying not to imagine it, thought Emmett. Trying not to imagine those four horses trapped in their stalls, whinnying and rising on their hind legs as the flames grew closer. Trying not to imagine the unimaginable.

  Though her back was now to Emmett, he could tell from the movement of her arm that she was wiping away tears. Deciding that he should leave her in peace, Emmett tucked Woolly’s note back in its spot and quietly pushed back his chair.

  —Do you know what I find so strange? Mrs. Whitney asked, still standing at the sink with her back to Emmett.

  When he didn’t respond, she turned, wearing a mournful smile.

  —When we’re young, so much time is spent teaching us the importance of keeping our vices in check. Our anger, our envy, our pride. But when I look around, it seems to me that so many of our lives end up being hampered by a virtue instead. If you take a trait that by all appearances is a merit—a trait that is praised by pastors and poets, a trait that we have come to admire in our friends and hope to foster in our children—and you give it to some poor soul in abundance, it will almost certainly prove an obstacle to their happiness. Just as someone can be too smart for their own good, there are those who are too patient for their own good, or too hardworking.

  After shaking her head, Mrs. Whitney looked at the ceiling. When she looked down again, Emmett could see that another tear was making its way down her cheek.

  —Those who are too confident . . . or too cautious . . . or too kind . . .

  Emmett understood that what Mrs. Whitney was sharing with him was her effort to understand, to explain, to make some sense of the undoing of her bighearted brother. At the same time, Emmett suspected that tucked in Mrs. Whitney’s list was an apology for her husband, who was either too smart, too confident, or too hardworking for his own good. Perhaps all three. But what Emmett found himself wondering was what virtue did Mrs. Whitney have too much
of? The answer, his instincts told him, though he was almost reluctant to admit it, was probably forgiveness.

  Woolly

  And this was my favorite rocking chair, said Woolly to no one.

  He was standing on the porch, a little while after Duchess had gone to the general store. Giving the chair a push, he listened to the thwapping of its rockers as it rocked back and forth, noting how each individual thwap came closer and closer together as the back and forths became smaller and smaller, until they stopped altogether.

  Setting the chair in motion again, Woolly looked out at the lake. For the time being, it was so still you could see every cloud in the sky reflected on its surface. But in another hour or so, right around five o’clock, the afternoon breeze would begin to pick up and the surface would ripple and all the reflections would be swept away. Then the curtains in the windows would start to stir.

  Sometimes, thought Woolly, sometimes at the end of summer when the hurricanes roamed the Atlantic, the afternoon breeze would grow so strong that the bedroom doors would all slam shut and the rocking chairs would rock themselves.

  After giving one last push to his favorite chair, Woolly went back through the double doors into the great room.

  —And this is the great room, he said, where we would play Parcheesi and complete jigsaw puzzles on rainy afternoons . . . And this is the hallway . . . And this is the kitchen, where Dorothy made fried chicken and her famous blueberry muffins. And that’s the table where we ate when we were too young to dine in the dining room.

  Removing from his pocket the note that he had written while sitting at his great-grandfather’s desk, Woolly tucked it neatly between the salt and pepper shakers. Then he left the kitchen by means of the only door in the house that swung back and forth.

  —And here is the dining room, he said, gesturing to the long table around which his cousins and aunts and uncles would gather. Once you were old enough to eat in here, he explained, you could sit in any seat you wanted as long as it wasn’t the seat at the end of the table, because that’s where Great-grandpa would sit. And there is the head of the moose.