The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —I know it’s exciting to be here in Times Square, Billy. But we’ve got a long way to go.

  —And we’re just getting started.

  —That’s right. So why don’t you take one last look around, we’ll say our goodbyes to Sally, and then we’ll hit the road.

  —Okay, Emmett. I think that’s a good idea. I’ll take one last look around and then we’ll hit the road. But we don’t have to say goodbye to Sally.

  —Why is that?

  —Because of Betty.

  —What’s wrong with Betty?

  —She’s a goner, said Sally.

  Emmett looked up to find Sally standing by the passenger-side door of his car with her suitcase in one hand and her basket in the other.

  —She overheated twice on Sally’s trip from Morgen, explained Billy. And there was a big cloud of steam and clanking noises when we arrived in Times Square. Then she conked out.

  —I guess I asked a little more of her than she had to give, said Sally. But she got us as far as we needed to go, God bless her.

  When Emmett stood back up, Sally looked from him to the Studebaker. After a moment, he stepped forward in order to open the back door on her behalf.

  —We should all sit in front, said Billy.

  —It might be a little crowded, said Emmett.

  —It might be at that, said Sally.

  Then putting her suitcase and basket onto the back seat, she closed the back door and opened the front.

  —Why don’t you slide in first, Billy, she said.

  After Billy climbed in with his backpack, Sally climbed in after him. Then she looked straight ahead through the windshield with her hands in her lap.

  —Thank you kindly, she said when Emmett closed the door.

  By the time Emmett was in the driver’s seat, Billy had unfolded his map. Looking up from it, he pointed through the window.

  —Officer Williams—the second policeman I spoke to—said the official start of the Lincoln Highway is on the corner of Forty-Second Street and Broadway. From there, you take a right and head toward the river. He said that when the Lincoln Highway was first opened you had to ride a ferry across the Hudson, but now you can take the Lincoln Tunnel.

  Gesturing to the map, Emmett explained to Sally that the Lincoln Highway was the first transcontinental road in America.

  —You don’t have to tell me, she said. I know all about it.

  —That’s right, said Billy. Sally knows all about it.

  Emmett put the car in gear.

  * * *

  • • •

  As they entered the Lincoln Tunnel, Billy explained to Sally’s apparent dismay that they were going under the Hudson River—a river so deep that he had seen a flotilla of battleships sailing up it just a few nights before. Then for her benefit, he launched into a description of the elevated and Stew and the campfires, leaving Emmett to his own thoughts.

  Now that they were in motion, what Emmett had imagined he would be thinking about, what he had looked forward to thinking about, was the road ahead. When the Gonzalez brothers had said that they put some extra horsepower under the hood, they weren’t kidding. Emmett could feel it—and hear it—every time he put his foot to the accelerator. So if the highway between Philadelphia and Nebraska was reasonably empty, he figured they could average fifty miles an hour, maybe sixty. They could drop Sally in Morgen late the following afternoon, and be on their way, finally heading west, with the landscapes of Wyoming and Utah and Nevada stretching out before them. And at their terminus, the state of California with a population on its way to sixteen million.

  But as they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, having put the city of New York behind them, what Emmett found himself thinking about rather than the road ahead was what Townhouse had said earlier that morning: that he should gain some distance from Duchess.

  It was a sound piece of advice and one consistent with Emmett’s own instincts. The only problem was that as long as the assault on Ackerly was an open matter, the police would be looking for Duchess and for him. And that was assuming that Ackerly recovered. Should Ackerly die without regaining consciousness, the authorities wouldn’t rest until they had one of the two of them in custody.

  Glancing to his right, Emmett saw that Billy had gone back to looking at his map while Sally was watching the road.

  —Sally . . .

  —Yes, Emmett?

  —Why did Sheriff Petersen come to see you?

  Billy looked up from his map.

  —The sheriff came to see you, Sally?

  —It was nothing, she assured the two of them. I would feel silly even discussing it.

  —Two days ago, it struck you as important enough to drive halfway across the country, pointed out Emmett.

  —That was two days ago.

  —Sally.

  —All right, all right. It was something to do with that bit of trouble you had with Jake Snyder.

  —You mean when Jake hit him in town? asked Billy.

  —He and I were just working something out, said Emmett.

  —So I gather, said Sally. Anyhow. It seems that when you and Jake were working your somethings out, there was another fellow there, a friend of Jake’s, and shortly afterward, he was hit on the head in the alley behind the Bijou. This fellow was hit so hard, he had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance. Sheriff Petersen knows it wasn’t you who did it because you were with him at the time. But then he heard talk of a young stranger being in town that day. And that’s why he came to see me. To ask if you’d had some visitors.

  Emmett looked at Sally.

  —Naturally, I said no.

  —You said no, Sally?

  —Yes, Billy, I did. And that was a lie. But it was a white lie. Besides, the idea that one of your brother’s friends was involved with that business behind the Bijou is nonsense. Woolly would walk a mile out of his way to avoid stepping on a caterpillar. And Duchess? Well, no one who can cook a dish like Fettuccine Whatsits and then serve it on a perfectly set table would ever hit another man in the head with a two-by-four.

  And thus endeth the lesson, thought Emmett.

  But he wasn’t so sure. . . .

  —Billy, on the morning when I went into town, were Duchess and Woolly with you?

  —Yes, Emmett.

  —The whole time?

  Billy thought for a moment.

  —Woolly was with me the whole whole time. And Duchess was with us for most of the whole time.

  —When wasn’t Duchess with you?

  —When he went on his walk.

  —How long did that last?

  Billy thought again.

  —As long as The Count of Monte Cristo, Robin Hood, Theseus, and Zorro. It’s the next left, Emmett.

  Seeing the Lincoln Highway marker, Emmett shifted to the other lane and took the turn.

  As he drove toward Newark, Emmett could see in his mind’s eye what must have happened back in Nebraska. Having been asked by Emmett to lie low, Duchess had gone into town anyway. (Of course, he had.) Once in town, he must have stumbled on Emmett’s confrontation with Jake, and witnessed the whole sordid business. But if so, why would he have bothered to hit Jake’s friend?

  Thinking back on the tall stranger in the cowboy hat leaning against the Studebaker, Emmett remembered his lazy posture and smug expression; he remembered how he had egged Jake on during the fight; and finally, he remembered the first words that the stranger had said: Seems like Jake’s got some unfinished business with you, Watson.

  That’s how he had put it, thought Emmett: unfinished business. And according to the old performer FitzWilliams, unfinished business is exactly what Duchess said he had with his father. . . .

  Emmett pulled over and sat with his hands on the wheel.

  Sally and Billy looked at him with curiosity.
r />   —What is it, Emmett? asked Billy.

  —I think we need to go find Duchess and Woolly.

  Sally expressed surprise.

  —But Mrs. Whitney said they were on their way to Salina.

  —They’re not on their way to Salina, said Emmett. They’re on their way to the Wolcotts’ house in the Adirondacks. The only problem is that I don’t know where it is.

  —I know where it is, said Billy.

  —You do?

  Looking down, Billy slid his fingertip slowly away from Newark, New Jersey, away from the Lincoln Highway, and up into the middle of northern New York, where someone had drawn a big red star.

  Sally

  When we were driving through Why-would-anyone-on-God’s-green-earth-live-here, New Jersey, and Emmett pulled over to announce that we needed to go to upstate New York in order to find Duchess and Woolly, I didn’t say a word. Four hours later, when he pulled into a roadside motel that looked more like a place to drop off donations than to spend the night, I didn’t say a word. And when in the motel’s run-down little office, Emmett signed the register with Mr. Schulte’s name, I didn’t say a word then either.

  However . . .

  Once we’d found our accommodations and I’d sent Billy into the bathroom to take a bath, Emmett directed his attention right at me. Adopting a measure of gravity, he said he wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to find Duchess and Woolly. It could take a few hours, maybe more. But once he returned, the three of us could have something to eat and get a good night’s sleep, and if we were back on the road by seven in the morning, he guessed they could drop me off in Morgen on Wednesday night without going much out of their way.

  And that’s when my allotment of not saying a word was all used up.

  —Don’t you worry about going out of your way, I said.

  —It’s no problem, he assured.

  —Well, whether it is or it isn’t, doesn’t make much difference. Because I have no intention of being dropped off in Morgen.

  —All right, he said a little hesitantly. Then where do you want to be dropped off?

  —San Francisco would do just fine.

  For a moment Emmett looked at me. Then he closed his eyes.

  —Just because you close your eyes, I said, doesn’t mean that I’m not here, Emmett. Not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, when you close your eyes, not only am I here, Billy’s here, this lovely motel’s here, the whole wide world is here—right where you left it.

  Emmett opened his eyes again.

  —Sally, he said, I don’t know what expectations I may have given you, or what expectations you may have come to on your own. . . .

  What’s this? I wondered. Expectations he may have given me? Expectations I may have come to on my own? I leaned a little closer to make sure I didn’t miss a word.

  — . . . But Billy and I have been through a good deal this year. What with losing dad and the farm . . .

  —Keep going, I said. You’ve got my attention.

  Emmett cleared his throat.

  —It’s just that . . . Given all we’ve been through . . . I think what Billy and I need right now . . . is to make a fresh start together. Just the two of us.

  I stared at him a moment. Then I let out a little gasp.

  —So that’s it, I said. You think I’m inviting myself on the ride to San Francisco with the intention of becoming a part of your household.

  He looked a little uncomfortable.

  —I’m just saying, Sally. . . .

  —Oh, I know what you’re saying—because you just said it. It came through loud and clear, despite all the hemming and hawing. So let me be loud and clear right back. For the foreseeable future, Mr. Emmett Watson, the only household I intend to be a part of is mine. A household where all the cooking and cleaning that I’ll be doing is for me. Cooking my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner. Cleaning my dishes. Washing my clothes. Sweeping my floor. So don’t you worry about me putting a damper on your fresh start. Last time I checked, there were plenty of fresh starts to go around.

  As Emmett walked out the door and climbed into his bright yellow car, I thought to myself that there are surely a lot of big things in America. The Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty are big. The Mississippi River and the Grand Canyon are big. The skies over the prairie are big. But there is nothing bigger than a man’s opinion of himself.

  With a shake of the head, I swung the door shut, then I knocked on the bathroom door to see how Billy was coming along.

  * * *

  Excepting his brother, I guess I know Billy Watson better than just about anybody. I know how he eats his chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes (starting with the chicken, moving on to the peas, and saving the potatoes for last). I know how he does his homework (sitting up straight at the kitchen table and using that little rubber eraser at the end of his pencil to remove any trace of a mistake). I know how he says his prayers (always remembering to include his father, his mother, his brother, and me). But I also know how he gets himself in trouble.

  It was on the first Thursday in May.

  I remember because I was in the middle of making lemon meringue pies for the church social when I received the call asking me to come on down to the schoolhouse.

  I admit that when I walked into the principal’s office, I was already a little miffed. I had just finished whipping the egg whites for the meringue when I received the call, so I had to turn off the oven and dump the egg whites in the sink. But when I opened the door and saw Billy sitting on a chair in front of Principal Huxley’s desk staring at his shoes, I went red. I know for a fact that Billy Watson has never once in his life had cause to stare at his shoes. So if he’s staring at his shoes, it’s because someone has made him feel the need to do so, unjustly.

  —All right, I said to Principal Huxley. You’ve got us here in front of you. What seems to be the trouble?

  It turned out that shortly after lunch, the school had what they call a duck-and-cover drill. In the middle of class, while the children were receiving regular instruction, the school bell rang five times in a row, at which point the children were supposed to climb under their desks and put their hands over their heads. But apparently, when the bell had rung and Mrs. Cooper had reminded the children what to do, Billy had refused.

  Billy does not refuse very often. But when he chooses to refuse, he does so with a capital R. And no matter how much cajoling, insisting, or reprimanding Miss Cooper resorted to, Billy simply would not join his classmates under their desks.

  —I have tried to explain to William, explained Principal Huxley to me, that the purpose of the drill is to ensure his own safety; and that by refusing to participate, he not only puts himself at risk, he gives cause for disruption at the very moment when disruption could do its greatest harm to others.

  The years had not been kind to Principal Huxley. His hair had grown scarce on the top of his head, and there was talk in town that Mrs. Huxley had a friend in Kansas City. So I suppose there was some call for sympathy. But I hadn’t particularly liked Principal Huxley when I was a student at Morgen Elementary, and I saw little reason for liking him now.

  I turned to Billy.

  —Is this true?

  Without looking up from his shoes, Billy nodded his head.

  —Perhaps you could tell us why you refused to follow Miss Cooper’s instructions, suggested the principal.

  For the first time, Billy looked up at me.

  —In the introduction to his Compendium, Professor Abernathe says that a hero never turns his back on danger. He says a hero always meets it face-to-face. But how is someone supposed to meet danger face-to-face, if he is under his desk with his hands over his head?

  Plain speaking and common sense. In my book, there’s just no substitute.

  —Billy, I said, why don’t you wait outside.

 
; —Okay, Sally.

  The principal and I both watched as Billy walked out of the office, still staring at his shoes. When the door closed, I turned to the principal so he could see me face-to-face.

  —Principal Huxley, I said, while doing my best to maintain my good nature, are you telling me that just nine years after the United States of America defeated the forces of Fascism around the world, you are chastising an eight-year-old boy for his refusal to stick his head under his desk like an ostrich in the sand?

  —Miss Ransom . . .

  —I have never claimed to be a scientist, I continued. In fact, when I was at the high school, I received a C in physics and a B- in biology. But what little I learned in these subjects suggests to me that the top of a desk is as likely to protect a child from a nuclear explosion as the hairs combed over your head are to protect your scalp from the sun.

  I know. It was not a Christian thing to say. But my feathers were up. And I only had another two hours in which to reheat my oven, finish making my pies, and deliver them to the church. So this was no time for serving soft-boiled eggs.

  And wouldn’t you know it: When I left the office five minutes later, Principal Huxley had agreed that to ensure the safety of the student body, one courageous soul by the name of Billy Watson would be appointed as the Duck-and-Cover Monitor. Henceforth, when the school bell rang five times in a row, rather than hide under his desk, Billy would go from room to room with a clipboard in hand in order to confirm the compliance of everybody else.

  As I said, I know Billy better than just about anybody, including how he gets himself in trouble.

  So I had no excuse to be surprised when after knocking on the bathroom door three times, I finally opened it to find the water in the bathtub running, the window open, and Billy gone.

  Emmett

  After driving a mile down the winding dirt road, Emmett began to suspect he had taken a wrong turn. The man at the filling station, who knew the Wolcotts by name, had told Emmett that he should continue along Route 28 for another eight and a half miles, then take a right onto the dirt road bordered by white cedars. Emmett had measured the distance on the odometer, and though he wasn’t certain what white cedars looked like, the road he came upon was lined with evergreens, so he took the turn. But a mile later, there was still no sign of a residence. Luckily, the road wasn’t wide enough for Emmett to turn around, so he drove onward and a few minutes later came upon a large timber house at the edge of a lake—beside which was parked Woolly’s car.