The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —Yes, said Emmett. He is.

  Sitting on the steps beside Billy, Emmett opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note on a piece of Wallace Wolcott’s stationery. Emmett didn’t know if this Wallace Wolcott was Woolly’s great-grandfather or his grandfather or his uncle. But it didn’t matter whose stationery it was.

  Dated the 20th of June 1954 and addressed To Whom It May Concern, the letter stated that the undersigned, being of sound mind and body, left one third of his one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar trust fund to Mr. Emmett Watson, one third to Mr. Duchess Hewett, and one third to Mr. William Watson—to do with as they pleased. It was signed Most Sincereliest, Wallace Wolcott Martin.

  As Emmett closed the letter, he realized that his brother had read it over his shoulder.

  —Was Woolly sick? he asked. Like Dad?

  —Yes, said Emmett. He was sick.

  —I thought he might be when he gave me his uncle’s watch. Because it was a watch for handing down.

  Billy thought for a moment.

  —Is that why you told Duchess that Woolly wanted to be taken home?

  —Yes, said Emmett. That’s what I meant.

  —I think you were right about that, said Billy, nodding in agreement. But you were wrong about the money in the safe.

  Without waiting for Emmett to respond, Billy got up and walked down the hallway. Reluctantly, Emmett followed his brother back into Mr. Wolcott’s office and over to the safe. By the bookshelves was a piece of furniture that looked like the first three steps of a staircase. Dragging it in front of the safe, Billy climbed the steps, rotated the four dials, turned the handle, and opened the door.

  For a moment, Emmett was speechless.

  —How do you know the combination, Billy? Did Woolly tell it to you?

  —No. Woolly didn’t tell it to me. But he told me how his great-grandfather loved the Fourth of July more than any other holiday. So the first combination I tried was 1776. Then I tried 7476 because that’s one way of writing the Fourth of July. After that I tried 1732, the year that George Washington was born, but then I remembered that Woolly’s great-grandfather said that while Washington, Jefferson, and Adams had the vision to found the Republic, it was Mr. Lincoln who had the courage to perfect it. So I tried 1809, the year that President Lincoln was born, and 1865, the year that he died. That’s when I realized it must be 1119 because November 19 was the day of the Gettysburg Address. Here, he said, stepping down from the stairs, come take a look.

  Pushing the stairs to the side, Emmett approached the safe, where, under a shelf of papers, thousands of brand-new fifty-dollar bills were neatly arranged in stacks.

  Emmett ran a hand over his mouth.

  One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he thought. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars of old Mr. Wolcott’s wealth had been handed down to Woolly, and now Woolly had handed it down to them. He had handed it down by means of a last will and testament that was duly signed and dated.

  There could be no question of Woolly’s intent. In that regard, Duchess had been quite right. It was Woolly’s money and he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it. Having been found temperamentally unfit to use it himself, in his absence he wanted his friends to use it as they pleased.

  But what would happen if Emmett finished dragging Duchess to the Studebaker and dumped him at the police station?

  As much as Emmett hated to admit it, Duchess had been right about that too. Once Duchess was in the hands of the cops and it became clear that Woolly was dead, the wheels of Emmett’s and Billy’s future would grind to a halt. Police and investigators would descend upon the house, followed by family members and attorneys. Circumstances would be studied. Inventories taken. Intentions second-guessed. Endless questions asked. And any turns of good fortune would be viewed with the utmost suspicion.

  In another few moments, Emmett would close the door to Mr. Wolcott’s safe. That was a certainty. But once the door was closed, two different futures would be possible. In one, the contents of the safe would remain untouched. In the other, the space below the shelf would be empty.

  —Woolly wanted the best for his friends, observed Billy.

  —Yes, he did.

  —For you and me, said Billy. And for Duchess too.

  * * *

  Once the decision was made, Emmett knew they would need to work quickly, putting things in order and leaving as few traces as possible.

  After closing the door to the safe, Emmett gave Billy the task of cleaning up the office while he saw to the rest of the house.

  First, having gathered up all the tools that Duchess had assembled—the hammer, screwdrivers, and ax—he carried them outside past the breached dory to the work shed.

  Back inside, Emmett went to the kitchen. Certain that Woolly would never have eaten beans out of a can, Emmett put the empty can and Pepsi bottle in a paper bag to be carted out. Then he cleaned the spoon and returned it to the silverware drawer.

  The broken pane of glass in the kitchen didn’t worry him. The authorities would assume that Woolly had broken the pane in order to get inside the locked house. But the rifle cabinet was another matter. That would be more likely to raise questions. Serious questions. After returning the rifle to its place in the cabinet, Emmett removed the croquet ball. Then he repositioned the stack of Adirondack chairs to make it look like they had toppled over and crashed through the glass.

  Now it was time to deal with Duchess.

  Taking him under the arms again, Emmett dragged him down the hallway, out of the muck room, and onto the grass.

  When Emmett and Billy had decided to take their share of the money and leave Duchess behind with his, Billy had made Emmett promise that he wouldn’t hurt Duchess any more than he already had. But every minute that passed increased the risk that Duchess would regain consciousness and pose a whole new set of problems. Emmett had to put him somewhere that would slow him down for a few hours. Or at least long enough for Billy and Emmett to finish their work and be well on their way.

  The trunk of the Cadillac? he wondered.

  The problem with the trunk was that once Duchess regained consciousness, he would either be able to get out of it quickly or not at all, bad outcomes both.

  The work shed?

  No. There would be no way to secure its doors from the outside.

  As Emmett was looking toward the shed, another idea presented itself, an interesting idea. But suddenly, at Emmett’s feet Duchess emitted a groan.

  —Shit, said Emmett to himself.

  Looking down, he could see that Duchess was moving his head lightly from side to side, on the verge of coming to. As Duchess emitted another groan, Emmett looked back over his shoulder to make sure that Billy wasn’t there. Then bending over, he lifted Duchess by the collar with his left hand and punched him in the face with his right.

  With Duchess again at rest, Emmett dragged him in the direction of the shed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, they were ready to go.

  Unsurprisingly, Billy had done a perfect job of restoring the office. Every book was back on its shelf, every paper in its stack, every drawer in its slot. The only thing he hadn’t replaced was the bust of Abraham Lincoln because it was too heavy. When Emmett picked it up and began looking around for a place to set it down, Billy crossed to the desk.

  —Here, he said, placing a finger on the spot where the faintest outline of the sculpture’s base could be seen.

  As Billy waited by the kitchen door, Emmett locked the doors to the front porch and the muck room and then made a final swing through the house.

  Returning to the bedroom upstairs, he stood in the doorway. His intention had been to leave everything exactly as he’d found it. But seeing the empty brown bottle, Emmett picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then he said one last goodbye to Wallac
e Woolly Martin.

  As he was closing the door Emmett noticed his old book bag on a chair and realized that the one he had loaned Duchess must be somewhere in the house as well. After checking all the bedrooms, Emmett searched the living room and found it lying on the floor next to a couch where Duchess must have spent the night. Only as he was headed for the kitchen to join Billy did Emmett remember and retrieve the fedora from the high-back chair.

  As they walked from the kitchen past the dock, Emmett showed Billy that Duchess was safe and sound. In the front seat of the Cadillac, he tossed Duchess’s book bag and the hat. In the trunk of the Studebaker, he put two paper bags—one with the trash from the kitchen, the other with their share of Woolly’s trust. As he was about to close the trunk, he was reminded that just nine days before, he had been standing in the same spot when he received his father’s legacies: the money, and the quote from Emerson, which was half excuse, half exhortation. Having come fifteen hundred miles in the wrong direction, on the verge of traveling three thousand more, Emmett believed that the power within him was new in nature, that no one but he could know what he was capable of, and that he had only just begun to know it himself.

  Closing the trunk, he joined Billy in the front seat, turned the key, and pushed the starter.

  —I had originally been thinking that we’d spend the night up here, Emmett said to his brother. What do you say we pick up Sally and hit the road, instead?

  —That’s a good idea, said Billy. Let’s pick up Sally and hit the road.

  As Emmett backed the car in an arc in order to face it toward the driveway, Billy was already studying his map—with a furrowed brow.

  —What is it? asked Emmett.

  Billy shook his head.

  —This is the fastest route from where we are.

  Placing his fingertip on Woolly’s big red star, Billy moved it along various roads headed in a southwestern trajectory from the Wolcotts’ to Saratoga Springs and Scranton, then westward to Pittsburgh, where they would finally rejoin the Lincoln Highway.

  —What time is it? asked Emmett.

  Looking at Woolly’s watch, Billy said that it was one minute to five.

  Emmett pointed to a different road on the map.

  —If we went back the way we came, he said, we could start our journey in Times Square. And if we hurry, we could get there just as all the lights are coming on.

  Billy looked up in his wide-eyed way.

  —Could we, Emmett? Could we, really? But wouldn’t that take us out of our way?

  Emmett made a show of thinking for a second.

  —A little out of our way, I suppose. But what day is it?

  —It’s the twenty-first of June.

  Emmett put the Studebaker in gear.

  —Then we’ve got thirteen days to make the crossing, if we mean to be in San Francisco by the Fourth of July.

  Duchess

  I returned to consciousness with a sensation of drifting—like one who’s sitting in a boat on a sunny afternoon. And as it turned out, that’s exactly where I was: sitting in a boat on a sunny afternoon! Giving my head a shake in order to clear it, I put my hands on the gunwales and hoisted myself up.

  The first thing I noted, I’ll readily admit, was the natural beauty before me. Though I was never much of a country mouse—finding the great outdoors to be generally uncomfortable and occasionally inhospitable—there was something deeply satisfying about the scenery. What with the pine trees rising from the lakeshore, and the sunlight cascading from the sky, and the surface of the water stirred by a gentle breeze. One couldn’t help but sigh at the majesty of it all.

  But thanks to the ache in my keister, I was brought back to reality. Looking down, I could see that I was sitting on a pile of painted stones. Picking one of them up in order to consider it more closely, I realized that not only was there dried blood on my hand, there was dried blood all down the front of my shirt.

  Then I remembered.

  Emmett had hit me with the butt of the rifle!

  He had burst through the door while I was trying to open the safe. We’d had a difference of opinions, something of a scuffle, and a bit of tit for tat. In the interest of theatrics, I had brandished a gun, waving it in the general direction of Billy. But having leapt to the wrong conclusion about my intentions, Emmett had grabbed the rifle and let me have it.

  He may even have broken my nose, I thought. Which would explain why I was having so much trouble breathing through my nostrils.

  As I reached up to give my injury a gingerly probe, I heard the engine of a car revving. Looking to my left, I saw the Studebaker, as yellow as a canary, backing up, idling, then roaring out of the Wolcotts’ drive.

  —Wait! I shouted.

  But as I leaned to my side in order to call Emmett’s name, the boat took a dip toward the water.

  Lurching back, I carefully resumed my place in the center.

  Okay, I thought to myself, Emmett knocked me out with the rifle. But then rather than taking me to the police station as threatened, he set me adrift in a rowboat without a paddle. Why would he do that?

  Then my eyes narrowed.

  Because little Mr. Know-It-All had told him I couldn’t swim. That’s why. And by setting me adrift on the lake, the Watson brothers figured they would have all the time they needed to get into the safe and claim Woolly’s inheritance for themselves.

  But even as I was having this ugly thought—a thought for which I will never be able to fully atone—I noticed the stacks of cash in the bow.

  Emmett had gotten into the old man’s safe, all right, just like I knew he would. But rather than stranding me empty-handed, he had left me with my rightful share.

  It was my rightful share, wasn’t it?

  I mean, isn’t that about what fifty thousand dollars would look like?

  Naturally curious, I began moving toward the front of the boat in order to do a quick accounting. But as I did so, the shifting of my weight lowered the front of the boat and water began pouring in through a hole in the bow. Retreating quickly to my seat, the bow lifted, and the inrush stopped.

  This wasn’t just any rowboat, I realized, as water sloshed about my feet. This was the rowboat that was being repaired by the boathouse. And that’s why Emmett had loaded the stones in the stern. To keep the compromised bow above the waterline.

  The ingenuity of it, I thought with a smile. A boat with a hole and no oars in the middle of a lake. It was like a setup for Kazantikis. The only thing better would have been if Emmett had tied my hands behind my back. Or put me in cuffs.

  —All right then, I said, feeling every bit up to the challenge.

  By my estimate, I was a few hundred feet from shore. If I leaned back, stuck my hands in the water, and paddled gently, I should be able to make my way safely to solid ground.

  Reaching my arms over the back of the boat turned out to be surprisingly awkward, and the water turned out to be surprisingly cold. In fact, every few minutes I had to interrupt my paddling in order to warm my fingers.

  But just as I was beginning to make progress, a late afternoon breeze began picking up, such that every time I took a break from paddling, I would find myself drifting back toward the center of the lake.

  To compensate, I started paddling a little faster and taking shorter breaks. But as if in response, the breeze blew harder. So much so, that one of the bills flitted off the top of its stack and landed about twenty feet away on the surface of the water. Then off flitted another. And another.

  Paddling as fast as I could, I stopped taking breaks altogether. But the breeze kept blowing and the bills kept taking flight, fluttering over the side of the boat, fifty bucks at a crack.

  Having no other choice, I stopped paddling, rose to my feet, and started creeping forward. When I took my second little step, the bow dipped an inch too far and water began flowing i
n. I took a step back and the inflow stopped.

  There would be no doing this cautiously, I realized. I was going to have to make a grab for the cash, then retreat quickly back to the stern before too much water had entered the boat.

  Steadying myself with my arms before me, I prepared for the lunge.

  All it required was deftness. A quick motion combined with a gentle touch. Like when you’re removing a cork from a bottle.

  Exactly, I thought to myself. The whole endeavor shouldn’t take more than ten seconds. But without Billy to assist, I’d have to do the countdown on my own.

  At the word Ten, I took the first step forward and the boat rocked to the right. At Nine I compensated by stepping to the left and the boat lurched left. At Eight, what with all the rocking and lurching, I lost my balance and tumbled forward, landing right on top of the cash as water rushed in through the breach.

  Reaching for the gunwale, I tried to push myself up, but my fingers were so numb from the paddling that I lost my grip and fell forward again—whacking my broken nose on the bow.

  With a howl, I reflexively scrambled to my feet as the freezing water continued to rush in around my ankles. With all of my weight in the front of the boat and the stern rising up behind me, painted stones rolled toward my feet, the bow took another dip, and I went head over heels into the lake.

  Kicking at the depths with my feet and slapping at the surface with my arms, I tried to take a deep breath of air, but took a deep breath of water instead. Coughing and thrashing, I felt my head go under and my body begin to sink. Looking up through the dappled surface, I could see the shadows of the bills floating on the water like autumn leaves. Then the boat drifted over me, casting a much larger shadow, a shadow that began to extend outward in every direction.

  But just when it seemed as if the entire lake would be subsumed in darkness, a great curtain was raised and I found myself standing on a crowded street in a busy metropolis, except that everyone around me was someone I knew, and all of them were frozen in place.