by Amor Towles
—You didn’t need permission, so much as . . . initiative.
—But how did you get out?
—Ah! A reasonable question under the circumstances. Salina wasn’t exactly like a prison, Billy, with guard towers and searchlights. It was more like boot camp in the army—a compound in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of barracks and a mess hall and some older guys in uniform who yelled at you for moving too fast when they weren’t yelling at you for moving too slow. But the guys in uniform—our sergeants, if you will—didn’t sleep with us. They had their own barracks, with a pool table, and a radio, and a cooler full of beer. So after lights-out on Saturday, while they were drinking and shooting pool, a few of us would slip out the bathroom window and make our way into town.
—Was it far?
—Not too far. If you jogged across the potato fields, in about twenty minutes you’d come to a river. Most of the time, the river was only a few feet deep, so you could wade across in your skivvies and make it downtown in time for the ten o’clock show. You could have a bag of popcorn and a bottle of pop, watch the feature from the balcony, and be back in bed by one in the morning, leaving no one the wiser.
—Leaving no one the wiser, repeated Billy, with a hint of awe. But how did you pay for the movies?
—Why don’t we change the subject, suggested Emmett.
—Why not! said Duchess.
Sally, who had been drying the skillet, set it down on the stovetop with a bang.
—I’ll go make the beds, she said.
—You don’t have to make the beds, said Emmett.
—They won’t make themselves.
Sally left the kitchen and they could hear her marching up the stairs.
Duchess looked at Billy and raised his eyebrows.
—Excuse me, said Emmett, pushing back his chair.
As he headed upstairs, Emmett could hear Duchess and his brother launching into a conversation about the Count of Monte Cristo and his miraculous escape from an island prison—the promised change of subject.
* * *
• • •
When Emmett got to his father’s room, Sally was already making the bed with quick, precise movements.
—You didn’t mention that you were having company, she said, without looking up.
—I didn’t know I was having company.
Sally fluffed the pillows by giving them a punch on either end, then set them against the headboard.
—Excuse me, she said, squeezing past Emmett in the doorway as she went across the hall to his room.
When Emmett followed, he found her staring at the bed—because Duchess had already made it. Emmett was a little impressed by Duchess’s effort, but Sally wasn’t. She pulled back the quilt and sheet and began tucking them back in with the same precise movements. When she turned her attention to the punching of pillows, Emmett glanced at the bedside clock. It was almost ten fifteen. He really didn’t have time for this, whatever this was.
—If something’s on your mind, Sally . . .
Sally stopped abruptly and looked him in the eye for the first time that morning.
—What would be on my mind?
—I’m sure I don’t know.
—That sounds about right.
She straightened her dress and made a move toward the door, but he was standing in her way.
—I’m sorry if I didn’t seem grateful in the kitchen. All I was trying to say was—
—I know what you were trying to say because you said it. That I didn’t need to go to the trouble of skipping church so that I could make you breakfast this morning; just like I didn’t need to go to the trouble of making you dinner last night. Which is fine and dandy. But for your information, telling someone they didn’t have to go to the trouble of doing something is not the same as showing gratitude for it. Not by a long shot. No matter how much store-bought jam you have in the cabinet.
—Is that what this is about? The jam in the cabinet? Sally, I did not mean to slight your preserves. Of course they’re better than the jam in the cabinet. But I know how much effort it takes for you to make them, and I didn’t want you to feel you had to waste a jar on us. It’s not like it’s a special occasion.
—It may interest you to know, Emmett Watson, that I am quite happy to have my preserves eaten by friends and family when there is no occasion to speak of. But maybe, just maybe, I thought you and Billy might like to enjoy one last jar before you packed up and moved to California without saying so much as a word.
Emmett closed his eyes.
—Come to think of it, she continued, I guess I should thank my lucky stars that your friend Duchess had the presence of mind to inform me of your intentions. Otherwise, I might have come over tomorrow morning and made pancakes and sausage only to find there was no one here to eat them.
—I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to mention that to you, Sally. But it wasn’t like I was trying to hide it. I talked about it with your father yesterday afternoon. In fact, he was the one who brought it up—saying it might be best if Billy and I were to pull up stakes and make a fresh start somewhere else.
Sally looked at Emmett.
—My father said that. That you should pull up stakes and make a fresh start.
—In so many words . . .
—Well, doesn’t that just sound delightful.
Pushing past Emmett, Sally continued into Billy’s room, where Woolly was lying on his back and blowing at the ceiling, trying to stir the airplanes.
Sally put her hands on her hips.
—And who might you be?
Woolly looked up in shock.
—I’m Woolly.
—Are you Catholic, Woolly?
—No, I’m Episcopalian.
—Then what are you still doing in bed?
—I’m not sure, admitted Woolly.
—It’s after ten in the morning and I’ve got plenty to do. So at the count of five, I’m going to make that bed, whether you’re in it or not.
Woolly jumped out from under the covers in his boxer shorts and watched in a state of amazement as Sally went about the business of making the bed. While scratching the top of his head, he noticed Emmett on the threshold.
—Hey, Emmett!
—Hey, Woolly.
Woolly squinted at Emmett for a moment, then his face lit up.
—Is that bacon?
—Ha! said Sally.
And Emmett, he headed down the stairs and out the door.
* * *
It was a relief for Emmett to be alone behind the wheel of the Studebaker.
Since leaving Salina, he’d barely had a moment to himself. First there was the drive with the warden, then Mr. Obermeyer in the kitchen and Mr. Ransom on the porch, then Duchess and Woolly, and now Sally. All Emmett wanted, all he needed, was a chance to clear his head so that, wherever he and Billy decided to go, whether to Texas or California or someplace else altogether, he could set out in the right frame of mind. But as he turned onto Route 14, what Emmett found himself dwelling on was not where he and Billy might go, it was his exchange with Sally.
I’m sure I don’t know.
That’s how he’d replied when she had asked him what might be on her mind. And in the strictest sense, he hadn’t known.
But he could have made a pretty good guess.
He understood well enough what Sally had come to expect. At one time, he may even have given her cause for expecting it. That’s the sort of thing young people do: fan the flames of each other’s expectations—until the necessities of life begin to make themselves known. But Emmett hadn’t given her much cause for expectations since he went to Salina. When she had sent him those packages—with the homemade cookies and hometown news—he had not replied with a word of thanks. Not on the phone and not in a note. And in advance of coming home, he had not se
nt her word of his pending arrival or asked her to tidy the house. He hadn’t asked her to sweep or make beds or put soap in the bathroom or eggs in the icebox. He hadn’t asked her to do a thing.
Was he grateful to discover that she had chosen to do these things on his and Billy’s behalf? Of course he was. But being grateful was one thing, and being beholden, that was another thing altogether.
As Emmett drove, he saw the intersection with Route 7 approaching. Emmett knew that if he took a right and circled back on 22D, he could reach town without having to pass the fairgrounds. But what would be the point of that? The fairgrounds would still be there whether he passed them or not. They’d still be there whether he went to Texas or California or someplace else altogether.
No, taking the long route wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe letting one imagine for a moment that what had happened already hadn’t happened at all. So not only did Emmett continue straight through the intersection, he slowed the car to twenty miles an hour as he approached the fairgrounds, then pulled over on the opposite shoulder where he had no choice but to give it a good hard look.
For fifty-one weeks of the year, the fairgrounds were exactly like they were right now—four empty acres scattered with hay to hold down the dust. But in the first week of October, they would be anything but empty. They would be filled with music and people and lights. There would be a carousel and bumper cars and colorful booths where one could try one’s hand at pitching or riflery. There would be a great striped tent where, with an appropriate sense of ceremony, judges would convene, confer, and bestow blue ribbons for the largest pumpkin and the tastiest lemon meringue pie. And there would be a corral with bleachers where they would hold the tractor pull and calf roping, and where more ribbons would be awarded by more judges. And back there, just beyond the food concessions, would be a spot-lit stage for the fiddling contest.
It was right by the cotton-candy vendor, of all places, on the last night of the fair that Jimmy Snyder had chosen to pick his fight.
When Jimmy called out his first remark, Emmett thought he must be talking to someone else—because he barely knew Jimmy. A year younger, Emmett wasn’t in any of Jimmy’s classes and didn’t play on any of his teams, so he had little reason to interact with him.
But Jimmy Snyder didn’t have to know you. He liked running people down whether he knew them or not. And it didn’t matter for what. It could have been for the clothes you were wearing, or the food you were eating, or the way your sister crossed the street. Yes, sir, it could have been about anything, as long as it was something that got under your skin.
Stylistically speaking, Jimmy was one for framing his insults as inquiries. Looking curious and mild, he’d ask his first question to no one in particular. And if that didn’t hit a sore spot, he’d answer the first question himself, then ask another, circling ever inward.
Isn’t that cute? was the question he’d posed when he’d seen Emmett holding Billy’s hand. I mean, isn’t that the cutest thing you ever saw?
When Emmett realized that Jimmy was referring to him, he brushed it off. What did he care if he was seen holding his younger brother’s hand at the county fair. Who wouldn’t be holding the hand of a six-year-old boy in the middle of a large crowd at eight in the evening?
So Jimmy tried again. Shifting gears, as it were, he wondered out loud whether the reason Emmett’s father hadn’t fought in the war was because he’d been 3-C, the Selective Service classification that allowed farmers to defer. This struck Emmett as an odd taunt given how many men in Nebraska had received the 3-C designation. It struck him as so odd that he couldn’t help but stop and turn around—which was his first mistake.
Now that Jimmy had Emmett’s attention, he answered the query himself.
No, he said, Charlie Watson wouldn’t have been 3-C. ’Cause he couldn’t grow grass in the Garden of Eden. He must have been 4-F.
Here, Jimmy turned a finger around his ear to imply Charlie Watson’s incapacity to reason.
Granted, these were juvenile taunts, but they had begun to make Emmett grit his teeth. He could feel the old heat rising to the surface of his skin. But he could also feel that Billy was tugging at his hand—maybe for the simple reason that the fiddling contest was about to begin, or maybe because, even at the age of six, Billy understood that no good could come from engaging with the likes of Jimmy Snyder. But before Billy could tug Emmett away, Jimmy took one more crack at it.
No, he said, it couldn’t have been because he was 4-F. He’s too simple to be crazy. I suppose if he didn’t fight, it must have been because he was 4-E. What they call a conscientious—
Before Jimmy could say the word objector, Emmett had hit him. He had hit him without even letting go of his brother’s hand, extending his fist from his shoulder in one clean jab, breaking Jimmy’s nose.
It wasn’t the broken nose that killed him, of course. It was the fall. Jimmy was so used to speaking with impunity that he wasn’t prepared for the punch. It sent him stumbling backward, arms flailing. When his heel caught on a braid of cables, Jimmy fell straight back, hitting his head on a cinderblock that was bracing the stake of a tent.
According to the medical examiner, Jimmy landed with such force that the corner of the cinderblock dug a triangular hole an inch deep into the back of his skull. It put him in a coma that left him breathing, but that was slowly sapping his strength. After sixty-two days, it finally drained the life out of him altogether, as his family sat at his bedside in their fruitless vigil.
Like the warden said: The ugly side of chance.
Sheriff Petersen was the one who brought the news of Jimmy’s death to the Watsons’ doorstep. He had held off on pressing charges, waiting to see how Jimmy would fare. In the meantime, Emmett had maintained his silence, seeing no virtue in rehashing the events while Jimmy was fighting for his life.
But Jimmy’s pals did not maintain their silence. They talked about the fight often and at length. They talked about it in the schoolhouse, at the soda fountain, and in the Snyders’ living room. They told of how the four of them had been on their way to the cotton-candy stand when Jimmy bumped into Emmett by mistake; and how before Jimmy even got the chance to apologize, Emmett had punched him in the face.
Mr. Streeter, Emmett’s attorney, had encouraged him to take the stand and tell his own version of events. But whatever version prevailed, Jimmy Snyder was still going to be dead and buried. So Emmett told Mr. Streeter that he didn’t need a trial. And on March 1, 1953, at a hearing before Judge Schomer in the county courthouse, after freely admitting his guilt, Emmett was sentenced to eighteen months at a special juvenile reform program on a farm in Salina, Kansas.
In another ten weeks, the fairgrounds wouldn’t be empty, thought Emmett. The tent would be raised and the stage rebuilt and the people would gather once again in anticipation of the contests and food and music. As Emmett put the Studebaker in gear, he took little comfort from the fact that when the festivities commenced he and Billy would be more than a thousand miles away.
* * *
Emmett parked along the lawn at the side of the courthouse. As it was Sunday, only a few stores were open. He made quick stops at Gunderson’s and the five-and-dime, where he spent the twenty dollars from his father’s envelope on sundries for the journey west. Then after putting his bags in the car, he walked up Jefferson to the public library.
At the front of the central room, a middle-aged librarian sat at a V-shaped desk. When Emmett asked where he could find the almanacs and encyclopedias, she led him to the reference section and pointed to various volumes. As she was doing so, Emmett could tell that she was scrutinizing him through her glasses, giving him a second look, as if maybe she recognized him. Emmett hadn’t been in the library since he was a boy, but she could have recognized him for any number of reasons, not least of which was that his picture had been on the front page of the town paper more than once. Initially, it w
as his school portrait set alongside Jimmy’s. Then it was Emmett Watson being taken into the station house to be formally charged, and Emmett Watson descending the courthouse steps in the minutes after his hearing. The girl at Mr. Gunderson’s had given him a similar look.
—Can I help you find anything in particular? the librarian asked after a moment.
—No, ma’am. I’m all set.
When she retreated to her desk, Emmett pulled the volumes he needed, brought them to one of the tables, and took a seat.
For much of 1952, Emmett’s father had been wrestling with one illness or another. But it was a flu he couldn’t shake in the spring of ’53 that prompted Doc Winslow to send him to Omaha for some tests. In the letter Emmett’s father sent to Salina a few months later, he assured his son that he was back on his feet and well on the road to recovery. Nonetheless, he had agreed to make a second trip to Omaha so that the specialists could do a few more tests, as specialists are wont to do.
Reading the letter, Emmett wasn’t fooled by his father’s folksy assurances or his wry remark on the penchants of medical professionals. His father had been using mollifying words for as long as Emmett could remember. Mollifying words to describe how the planting had gone, how the harvest was coming, and why their mother was suddenly nowhere to be found. Besides, Emmett was old enough to know that the road to recovery was rarely lined with repeat visits to specialists.
Any doubts as to Mr. Watson’s prognosis were swept aside one morning in August when he stood up from the breakfast table and fainted right before Billy’s eyes, prompting a third trip to Omaha, this one in the back of an ambulance.
That night—after Emmett had received the call from Doc Winslow in the warden’s office—a plan began to take shape. Or to be more accurate, it was a plan that Emmett had been toying with for months in the back of his mind, but now it was in the forefront, presenting itself in a series of variations that differed in timing and scope, but which always took place somewhere other than Nebraska. As his father’s condition deteriorated over the fall, the plan became sharper; and when he died that April, it was clear as could be—as if Emmett’s father had surrendered his own vitality to ensure the vitality of Emmett’s intentions.