by Amor Towles
If Billy were going to start at the very beginning, he would go back to the twelfth of December 1935, the day that Emmett was born. That was two years after their father and mother had married in Boston and moved to Nebraska. It was during the Depression, and Franklin Roosevelt was president, and Sally was almost one year old.
But Billy wasn’t going to start at the very beginning. He was going to start in medias res. The hard part, as Billy had explained to Emmett in the train station in Lewis, was knowing where the middle was.
* * *
• • •
One idea that Billy had was to start on the Fourth of July 1946, when he and Emmett and their mother and father went to Seward to watch the fireworks display.
Billy was just a baby at the time, so he couldn’t remember what the trip to Seward had been like. But one afternoon, Emmett had told him all about it. He had told Billy about their mother’s love of fireworks, and the picnic basket in the attic, and the checkered cloth that they would spread on the lawn in the middle of Plum Creek Park. So Billy could use what Emmett had told him in order to describe the day exactly as it was.
But he also had the photograph.
Reaching into his backpack, Billy removed the envelope that was in the innermost pocket. Opening the flap, he slipped out the photograph and held it near the flashlight’s beam. It was a picture of Emmett, Billy in a basinet, their mother, and the picnic basket all in a row on the checkered cloth. Their father must have been the one who took the picture because he wasn’t in it. Everyone in the picture was smiling, and though Billy’s father wasn’t in the picture, Billy could tell that he must have been smiling too.
* * *
• • •
Billy had found the photograph together with the postcards from the Lincoln Highway in the metal box that was in the bottom drawer of their father’s bureau.
But when Billy had put the postcards in the manila envelope so that he could show them to Emmett when Emmett returned home from Salina, he had put the photograph from Seward in a different envelope. He had put it in a different envelope because he knew that memories of the trip to Seward made his brother angry. Billy knew this because his brother had become angry when he had told Billy about the trip to Seward. And he had never told Billy about it again.
Billy had saved the picture because he knew that Emmett wouldn’t always be angry with their mother. Once they had found her in San Francisco, and she had had the chance to tell them all the things that she had been thinking in the years that they had been apart, Emmett wouldn’t be angry anymore. Then Billy would give him the picture, and he would be glad that Billy had kept it for him.
But it didn’t make sense to start the story there, thought Billy, as he returned the picture to its envelope. Because on the Fourth of July 1946, their mother hadn’t even left yet. So that night was closer to the beginning of the story than it was to the middle.
* * *
• • •
Another idea that Billy had was to start on the night that Emmett hit Jimmy Snyder.
Billy didn’t need a photograph to remember that night because he had been there with Emmett and had been old enough to remember it himself.
It was on Saturday, October 4, 1952, the last night of the fair. Their father, who had gone with them to the fair the night before, decided to stay home on Saturday. So Emmett and Billy had driven there together in the Studebaker.
Some years, the temperature at the fair can feel like the beginning of fall, but that year, it felt like the end of summer. Billy remembered because as they drove to the fair they had their windows rolled down, and when they arrived, they decided to leave their jackets in the car.
They had left for the fair at five o’clock so that they could get something to eat, and go on some rides, and still have time to find seats near the front of the fiddling contest. Emmett and Billy both loved the fiddling contest, especially when they had seats near the front. But on that particular night, even though they had plenty of time to spare, they never did get to see the fiddlers.
* * *
• • •
It was while they were walking from the carousel to the stage that Jimmy Snyder began to say his mean things. At first, Emmett didn’t seem to care what Jimmy was saying. Then he began to get angry, and Billy tried to pull him away, but Emmett wouldn’t go. And when Jimmy tried to say one last mean thing about their father, Emmett punched him in the nose.
After Jimmy fell back and hit his head, Billy must have closed his eyes, because he didn’t remember what the following minutes looked like. He only remembered how they sounded: with Jimmy’s friends gasping, then calling for help, then shouting at Emmett as other people jostled around them. And then Emmett, who never once let go of Billy’s hand, trying to explain what had happened to one person after another, until the ambulance arrived. And all the while, the calliope at the carousel playing its music and the rifles at the rifle range going pop, pop, pop.
But it didn’t make sense to start the story there either, thought Billy. Because the night at the fair was before Emmett had been sent to Salina and learned his lesson. So it too belonged in the beginning.
* * *
• • •
To be in medias res, thought Billy, there should be just as many important things that have happened as important things that haven’t happened yet. For Emmett, that meant that he should already have been to Seward to watch the fireworks; and their mother should already have followed the Lincoln Highway to San Francisco; and Emmett should already have stopped working on the farm in order to become a carpenter; and he should already have purchased the Studebaker with his savings; and he should already have grown angry at the fair and punched Jimmy Snyder in the nose and been sent to Salina and learned his lesson.
But the arrival of Duchess and Woolly in Nebraska, and the train ride to New York, and the search for the Studebaker, and the reunion with Sally, and the journey they were about to take from Times Square to the Palace of the Legion of Honor in order to find their mother on the Fourth of July, all of these things shouldn’t have happened yet.
That’s why Billy decided, as he leaned over chapter twenty-five with his pencil in hand, that the perfect place to start the story of Emmett’s adventures was when he was driving home from Salina in the front seat of the warden’s car.
ONE
Emmett
At nine in the morning, Emmett was walking alone from the train station at 125th Street into west Harlem.
Two hours earlier, Sally had come downstairs into the Whitneys’ kitchen with the report that Billy was sound asleep.
—He’s probably exhausted, said Emmett.
—I should think so, said Sally.
For a moment, Emmett thought Sally’s remark was directed at him—a jab for exposing Billy to so many trials over the preceding days. But after looking at her expression, he could see that she was simply echoing his own sentiments: Billy was worn out.
So the two decided to let him sleep.
—Besides, said Sally. I’ll need some time to wash the sheets and make the other beds.
In the meantime, Emmett would take the train to Harlem in order to pick up the Studebaker. Since Billy was set on beginning their journey in Times Square, Emmett suggested the three of them meet there at 10:30.
—All right, said Sally. But how will we find each other?
—Whoever gets there first can wait under the Canadian Club sign.
—And where might that be?
—Trust me, said Emmett. You won’t have any trouble finding it.
* * *
• • •
When Emmett arrived at the body shop, Townhouse was waiting on the street.
—Your car’s ready, he said after they’d shaken hands. You get your envelope back?
—I did.
—Good. Now you and Billy can head out to Calif
ornia. And not a moment too soon. . . .
Emmett looked at his friend.
—The cops came back last night, Townhouse continued. Only, it wasn’t the patrolmen, it was two detectives. They asked me the same questions about Duchess, but this time they also asked about you. And they made it clear were I to hear from you or Duchess and not let them know, I’d be buying myself a heap of trouble. Because a car matching the description of your Studebaker was seen near the home of Old Testament Ackerly—on the same afternoon that someone put him in the hospital.
—The hospital?
Townhouse nodded.
—It seems a person or persons unknown went into Ackerly’s house in Indiana and hit him on the head with a blunt object. They think he’s going to be all right, but he hasn’t come to yet. In the meantime, the boys in blue paid a visit to Duchess’s old man at some flophouse downtown. He wasn’t there, but Duchess had been. With another white youth and a light-blue car.
Emmett passed a hand over his mouth.
—Jesus.
—You said it. Look, as far as I’m concerned, whatever that motherfucker Ackerly got, he deserved. But for the time being, you should probably gain some distance from the city of New York. And while you’re at it, gain some distance from Duchess too. Come on. The twins are inside.
Leading the way, Townhouse took Emmett through the repair bays to where the Gonzalez brothers and the one called Otis were waiting. With the Studebaker back under its tarp, Paco and Pico were wearing their big white smiles—two craftsmen eager to reveal their handiwork.
—All set? Townhouse asked.
—All set, said Paco.
—Then let’s to it.
When the brothers pulled back the tarp, Townhouse, Emmett, and Otis were silent for a moment. Then Otis began shaking with laughter.
—Yellow? asked Emmett in disbelief.
The brothers looked from Emmett to each other, then back again.
—What’s wrong with yellow? asked Paco, defensively.
—It is the color of a coward, said Otis with another laugh.
Pico began speaking rapidly to his brother in Spanish. When he finished, Paco turned to the others.
—He says it’s not the yellow of a coward. It’s the yellow of a hornet. But she don’t only look like a hornet, she sting like one too.
Paco began gesturing to the car, a salesman highlighting a new model’s features.
—In addition to the paint job, we took out your dents, polished your chrome, and flushed your transmission. But we also put some extra horsepower under the hood.
—Well, said Otis, at least the cops won’t be able to recognize you now.
—And if they do, said Paco, they won’t be able to catch you.
The Gonzalez brothers laughed with shared satisfaction.
Regretting his initial response, Emmett expressed his gratitude at some length, especially given the speed at which the brothers had done their work. But when he took the envelope of cash from his back pocket, they both shook their heads.
—This one’s for Townhouse, said Paco. We owed him one.
* * *
• • •
As Emmett gave Townhouse a ride back to 126th Street, the two laughed about the Gonzalez brothers, about Emmett’s car and its brand-new sting. By the time they pulled in front of the brownstone, they were quiet, but neither reached for a door handle.
—Why California? Townhouse asked after a moment.
For the first time aloud, Emmett described his plan for his father’s money—the plan to buy a run-down house, repair it, and sell it in order to buy two houses more; and thus, the necessity of being in a state with a large and growing population.
—That’s an Emmett Watson plan if ever I heard one, said Townhouse with a smile.
—What about you? asked Emmett. What are you going to do now?
—I don’t know.
Townhouse looked out the passenger-side window at his stoop.
—My mother wants me to go back to school. She’s got some pipe dream of me getting a scholarship and playing college ball, neither of which are going to happen. And pops, he wants to get me a job at the post office.
—He likes his, right?
—Oh, he doesn’t like it, Emmett. He loves it.
Townhouse shook his head with a tempered smile.
—When you’re a letter carrier, they give you a route, you know? The blocks that you have to lug your bag up and down every day—like some pack mule on a trail. But for my old man, it doesn’t seem to feel like work. Because he knows everybody on his route and everybody knows him. The old ladies, the kids, the barbers, the grocers.
Townhouse shook his head again.
—One night about six years ago, he came home looking real low. Like we’d never seen him before. When Mom asked what was wrong, he burst into tears. We thought someone had died, or something. It turned out that after fifteen years, the powers that be had changed his route. They moved him six blocks south and four blocks east, and it nearly broke his heart.
—What happened? asked Emmett.
—He got up in the morning, trudged out the door, and by the end of the year, he’d fallen in love with that route too.
The two friends laughed together. Then Townhouse put a finger in the air.
—But he never forgot the first route. Every year on Memorial Day, when he’s got the day off, he walks the old one. Saying hi to everybody who recognizes him, and half the people who don’t. In his words, if you’ve got a job as a mailman, then the US government is paying you to make friends.
—When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad.
—Maybe so, agreed Townhouse. Maybe so. But as much as I love my father, I can’t imagine living like that. Covering the same ground day after day, week after week, year after year.
—All right. If not college or the post office, then what?
—I’ve been thinking about the army.
—The army? asked Emmett in surprise.
—Yeah, the army, said Townhouse, almost as if he were trying out the sound of it on himself. Why not? There’s no war right now. The pay’s pretty good and it’s all for keeps. And if you’re lucky, maybe you get stationed overseas and see something of the world.
—You’d be back in a barracks, Emmett pointed out.
—I didn’t mind that so much, said Townhouse.
—Falling in . . . following orders . . . wearing a uniform . . .
—That’s just it, Emmett. As a black man, whether you end up carrying a mailbag, operating an elevator, pumping gas, or doing time, you’re going to be wearing a uniform. So you might as well choose the one that suits you. I figure if I keep my head down, pay my dues, maybe I can climb the ranks. Become an officer. Get myself on the right end of a salute.
—I can see it, said Emmett.
—You know something? said Townhouse. So can I.
* * *
• • •
When Townhouse finally got out of the car, Emmett did too. Coming around the hood, Emmett met him on the sidewalk, where they shook hands with the silent affection of the kindred.
The week before, when Billy had laid out his postcards and explained to Emmett how they were going to find their mother by attending one of the largest Fourth of July celebrations in the state of California, Emmett had counted his brother’s notion as fanciful at best. And yet, despite the fact that Emmett and Townhouse were two young men on the verge of heading out in different directions with no real assurance of where they would land, when Townhouse said at their parting, I’ll see you, Emmett hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was true.
* * *
—What in the Lord’s name, said Sally.
—It’s my car, said Emmett.
—That looks about as much like a car as one of these signs.
/> They were standing at the northern end of Times Square, where Emmett had parked the Studebaker right behind Betty.
Sally had good cause to compare his car to the signs around them because it was just as eye catching. So much so, it had begun to attract a small crowd of passersby. Reluctant to make eye contact with them, Emmett had no idea if they were pausing to snicker or admire.
—It’s yellow! exclaimed Billy, as he returned from a nearby newsstand. Just like the yellow of corn.
—Actually, said Emmett, it’s the yellow of a hornet.
—If you say so, said Sally.
Eager to change the subject, Emmett pointed at the bag in Billy’s hand.
—What have you got there?
As Sally returned to her truck, Billy carefully slid what he had purchased out of the bag and handed it to Emmett. It was a postcard of Times Square. At the top of the picture, peeking out from behind the buildings, was a small patch of sky; and just like in the other cards in Billy’s collection, it was an unblemished blue.
Standing at Emmett’s side, Billy pointed from the postcard to the landmarks.
—You see? There’s the Criterion Theatre. And Bond Clothiers. And the Camel cigarette sign. And the Canadian Club sign too.
Billy looked around in appreciation.
—The man at the newsstand says that at night the signs are lit up. Every last one of them. Can you imagine?
—It’s quite something.
Billy’s eyes opened wide.
—Have you been here when the signs are lit up?
—Briefly, Emmett admitted.
—Hey buddy, said a sailor with his arm over the shoulder of a brunette. How ’bout taking us for a ride?
Ignoring him, Emmett got down on his haunches to speak with his brother more closely.
