by Amor Towles
When it comes to waiting, has-beens have had plenty of practice. Like when they were waiting for their big break, or for their number to come in. Once it became clear that those things weren’t going to happen, they started waiting for other things. Like for the bars to open, or the welfare check to arrive. Before too long, they were waiting to see what it would be like to sleep in a park, or to take the last two puffs from a discarded cigarette. They were waiting to see what new indignity they could become accustomed to while they were waiting to be forgotten by those they once held dear. But most of all, they waited for the end.
—Where is he, Fitzy?
Fitzy shook his head more at himself than at me.
—Like I said, Duchess, I haven’t seen him in weeks. I swear to it.
—Normally, I’d be inclined to believe any word that fell from your lips. Particularly when you swore to it.
That one made him wince.
—It’s just that when I sat down, you didn’t seem so surprised to see me. Now, why would that be?
—I don’t know, Duchess. Maybe I was surprised on the inside?
I laughed out loud.
—Maybe you were at that. Though, you know what I think? I think you weren’t surprised because my old man told you I might be coming around. But in order for him to have done that, he must have spoken to you in the last few days. In fact, it probably happened while you were sitting right here.
I tapped the table with a finger.
—And if he told you he was hightailing it out of town, he must have told you where he was headed. After all, you two are as thick as thieves.
At the word thieves, Fitzy winced again. Then he looked even more downcast, if such a thing could be imagined.
—I’m sorry, he said softly.
—What’s that?
I leaned a little forward, like I couldn’t quite hear him, and he looked up with what appeared to be a genuine pang of regret.
—I’m so sorry, Duchess, he said. I’m sorry I put those things about you in that statement. Sorry that I signed it.
For a guy who didn’t want to talk, suddenly you couldn’t stop him.
—I had been drinking the night before, you see. And I get real uneasy around police, but especially when they’re asking me questions. Questions about what I might have seen or heard, even though my sight and hearing weren’t what they used to be. Or my memory either. Then when the officers began to express some frustration, your father took me aside and tried to help refresh my memory. . . .
As Fitzy went on, I picked up the bottle of whiskey and gave it a gander. In the middle of the label was a big green shamrock. It made me smile to see it. I mean, what luck did a glass of whiskey ever bring anyone. And Irish whiskey at that.
As I sat there feeling the weight of the bottle in my hand, it suddenly occurred to me that here was another fine example of something that had been carefully crafted for one purpose, yet was perfectly suited to another. Hundreds of years ago, the whiskey bottle had been designed to have a body that was big enough for holding, and a neck that was narrow enough for pouring. But if you happened to invert the bottle, taking hold of the neck, suddenly it’s as if it had been designed to hit a blighter over the head. In a way, the whiskey bottle was sort of like a pencil with an eraser—with one end used for saying things, and the other for taking them back.
Fitzy must have been reading my mind because he was suddenly very quiet. And from the expression on his face, I could see that he had become frightened. His face had grown pale and the tremor in his fingers had gotten noticeably worse.
It may well have been the first time in my life that someone had become frightened of me. In a way, I couldn’t believe it. Because I hadn’t the slightest intention of hurting Fitzy. What would be the point? When it came to hurting Fitzy, he had the whole concession.
But under the circumstances, I figured his trepidation could be used to my advantage. So when he asked if we could just call it water under the bridge, I made a show of slowly setting the bottle down on the table.
—Would that I could, I mused. Would that I could turn back the clock and allow you to undo what you have done, Patrick FitzWilliams. But alas, my friend, the water isn’t under the bridge. It isn’t over the dam, for that matter. Rather, it is all around us. In fact, it is right here in this very room.
He gave me such a look of woe that I almost felt sorry for him.
—Whatever the reasons you did what you did, Fitzy, I think we can agree that you owe me one. If you tell me where my old man is, we’ll call it even. But if you don’t, I’ll have to use my imagination to think of some other way for the two of us to settle up.
Sally
I found my father out on the north corner fixing a stretch of fence with Bobby and Miguel, their horses standing idly by and a few hundred head of cattle grazing on the range behind them.
Turning off the road onto the shoulder, I skidded to a stop right where they were working and climbed from the cab as they shielded their eyes from the dust.
Always the comedian, Bobby made an elaborate show of coughing while my father shook his head.
—Sally, he said, you keep driving that truck over rough road like that and it’s going to give out on you.
—I imagine I know by now what Betty can handle and what she can’t.
—All I can say is that when the transmission falls out, don’t expect me to replace it.
—Don’t you worry about that. Because if I know what to expect from my truck, I know even better what to expect from you.
He was silent for a moment, and I suspect he was trying to decide if he should send the boys on their way.
—All right, he said, as if he were coming to an understanding with himself. You’ve barreled out here for a reason. I can see that plain enough. You might as well tell me what it is.
I opened the passenger-side door, took out the For Sale sign that was lying on the seat, and held it up so he could get a good long look at it.
—I found this in the trash.
He nodded.
—That’s where I put it.
—And where, if you don’t mind my asking, did it come from?
—The Watson place.
—Why would you take down the For Sale sign from the Watson place?
—Because it’s no longer for sale.
—And how would you happen to know that?
—Because I bought it.
He said this in a curt and definitive manner, trying to show that he’d been about as patient as he intended to be, that he didn’t have time for this sort of talk, that he and the boys had work to do, and that the moment had come for me to get in my truck and head back to the house, where, surely, I should be in the middle of making supper by now. But he was talking to the wrong person if he thought he knew something about patience that I didn’t know.
For a moment, I bided my time. Without taking a step, I looked off in the distance in a thoughtful fashion, then I turned my gaze right back upon him.
—The speed with which you bought the place . . . It makes one wonder just how long you’ve been lying in wait to do so.
Bobby pushed the dust on the ground with the tip of his boot and Miguel looked back at the cattle while my father scratched the back of his neck.
—Boys, he said after a moment, I suspect you’ve got some work to do.
—Yes, sir, Mr. Ransom.
They mounted their horses and rode off toward the herd in the unhurried fashion of men at work. My father didn’t turn to watch them go, but he waited for the sound of their hooves to recede before he spoke again.
—Sally, he said, using his I’m-going-to-say-this-once-and-only-once voice, there’s been no lying and there’s been no waiting. Charlie defaulted on his mortgage, the bank foreclosed, they put it up for sale, and I bought it. That’s all there is to it. I
t didn’t come as a surprise to anyone at the bank, it won’t come as a surprise to anyone in the county, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. Because that’s what ranchers do. When the opportunity presents itself and the price is right, a rancher will add to his land, contiguously.
—Contiguously, I said, impressed.
—Yes, he replied. Contiguously.
We stared at each other.
—So, in all those years that Mr. Watson struggled with the farm, you were too busy to lend a hand. But the moment the opportunity presented itself, your appointment book was clear. Is that about it? It sure sounds like lying and waiting to me.
For the first time, he raised his voice.
—Damn it, Sally. What did you expect me to do? Drive over there and take up his plow? Plant his seeds and harvest his crops? You cannot live another man’s life for him. If a man has got the least bit of pride, he wouldn’t want you to. And Charlie Watson may not have been a very good farmer, but he was a proud man. Prouder than most.
I gave the distance another thoughtful look.
—It is interesting, though, isn’t it, how even as the bank was getting ready to put the property on the market, you were sitting on the porch step, telling the son of the owner that maybe it was time for him to pick up stakes and make a fresh start somewhere else.
He studied me for a moment.
—Is that what this is about? You and Emmett?
—Don’t try to change the subject.
He shook his head again, like he had when I’d first arrived.
—He was never going to stay, Sally. Any more than his mother was. You watched it yourself. As soon as he could, he took a job in town. And what did he do with his first bit of savings? He bought himself a car. Not a truck or a tractor, Sally. A car. Though I have no doubt that Emmett grieved deeply for the loss of his father, I suspect he was relieved by the loss of the farm.
—Don’t talk to me about Emmett Watson like you know him so well. You don’t know the first thing that’s going through his mind.
—Maybe. But after fifty-five years in Nebraska, I think I can tell a stayer from a goer.
—Is that so, I said. Then tell me, Mr. Ransom: Which am I?
You should have seen his face when I said that. For a moment he went all white. Then, just as quickly, he went red.
—I know it’s not easy for a young girl to lose her mother. In some ways it’s harder on her than it is on the husband who’s lost his wife. Because a father is not equipped to raise a young girl in the manner she should be raised. But that is especially so when the girl in question is contrary by nature.
Here he gave me a good long look, just in case it wasn’t perfectly clear that he was talking about me.
—Many has been the night that I have knelt at the side of my bed and prayed to your mother, asking for guidance on how best to respond to your willfulness. And in all these years, your mother—God rest her soul—has not answered me once. So I have had to rely on my memories of how she cared for you. Though you were only twelve when she died, you were plenty contrary already. And when I would express my concern about that, your mother would tell me to be patient. Ed, she would say, our youngest is strong in spirit, and that should stand her in good stead when she becomes a woman. What we need to do is give her a little time and space.
It was his turn to look off in the distance for a moment.
—Well, I trusted your mother’s counsel then and I trust it now. And that’s why I have indulged you. I have indulged you in your manner and your habits; indulged you in your temper and your tongue. But Sally, so help me God, I have come to see that I may have done you a terrible disservice. For by giving you full rein, I have allowed you to become a willful young woman, one who is accustomed to nursing her furies and speaking her mind, and who is, in all likelihood, unsuited to matrimony.
Oh, he enjoyed delivering that little speech. Standing there with his legs apart and his feet planted firmly on the ground, he acted as if he could draw his strength straight from the land because he owned it.
Then his expression softened and he gave me a look of sympathy that served only to infuriate.
Tossing the sign at his feet, I turned and climbed in the cab of my truck. Putting her in gear, I revved the engine, then drove down the road at seventy miles an hour, kicking up every piece of gravel, taking every divot, so that the chassis shook and the doors and windows rattled. Swerving into the entrance of the ranch, I aimed her at the front door and skidded to a stop with five feet to spare.
It was only as the dust blew past that I noticed a man with a hat sitting on our porch. And it was only when he rose and stepped into the light that I could see it was the sheriff.
Ulysses
As Ulysses watched the Watson boys retreat from the campfire in order to get ready for bed, Stew came to his side.
—They moving on tomorrow?
—No, said Ulysses. The older boy’s got some business to see to uptown. He should be back in the afternoon and they’ll be spending the night.
—All right then. I’ll keep their bedding in place.
—You can keep mine too.
Stew turned a little sharply in order to look at Ulysses.
—You staying another night?
Ulysses looked back at Stew.
—That’s what I just said, didn’t I?
—That’s what you said.
—There a problem with that?
—Nope, said Stew. No problem by me. Just that I seem to remember someone saying at some point that he never spent two nights in a row in the same place.
—Well then, said Ulysses, come Friday, he will have.
Stew nodded his head.
—I left some coffee on the fire, he said after a moment. I guess I’ll go see to it.
—Sounds like a good idea, said Ulysses.
After watching Stew return to the campfire, Ulysses found himself scanning the lights of the city all the way from Battery Park to the George Washington Bridge—lights that held no enticement for him and promised no comfort.
But Billy had told him about the understanding he had with his brother, and it struck Ulysses as a reasonable one. He would stay two nights on the island of Manhattan. Come tomorrow, he and the boy would pass time as acquaintances, so the next day they could part company as friends.
FIVE
Woolly
As they pulled into his sister’s driveway, Woolly could see that no one was home.
Woolly could always tell when a house was empty just by looking at the windows. Sometimes when he looked at the windows, he could hear all the activity inside the house, like the sounds of footsteps running up and down the stairs or celery stalks being chopped in the kitchen. Sometimes, he could hear the silence of two people sitting alone in different rooms. And sometimes, like now, from the way the windows looked back, he could tell that no one was home.
When Woolly turned off the engine, Duchess whistled.
—How many people did you say live here?
—Just my sister and her husband, Woolly replied. Although my sister’s expecting.
—Expecting what? Quintuplets?
Woolly and Duchess got out of the Studebaker.
—Should we knock? asked Duchess.
—They won’t be here.
—Will you be able to get in?
—They like to keep the front door locked, but they often leave the door in the garage open.
Woolly followed Duchess to one of the garage doors and watched as he pulled it up with a rattle.
Inside, the first two bays were empty. The first bay must have been where his sister parked, thought Woolly, because the oil spot on the concrete had the shape of a great big balloon—just like the one in Billy’s book. The oil spot in the second bay, on the other hand, looked like one of those little storm clouds that han
g over the head of a character in the funny papers when he’s in a bad mood.
Duchess whistled again.
—What is that, he said, pointing to the fourth bay.
—A Cadillac convertible.
—Your brother-in-law’s?
—No, said Woolly a little apologetically. It’s mine.
—Yours!
Duchess spun on Woolly with an expression of such exaggerated surprise it made Woolly smile. Duchess didn’t get surprised very often, so it always made Woolly smile when it happened. Woolly followed Duchess as he crossed the garage to have a better look.
—Where’d you get it?
—I inherited it, I guess. From my father.
Duchess gave Woolly a solemn acknowledgment. Then he walked the length of the car, running his hand along the long black hood and admiring the whitewall tires.
Woolly was glad that Duchess hadn’t walked all the way around the car, because on the other side were the dents in the door from when Woolly had bumped into a lamppost.
“Dennis” had been very, very upset when Woolly had arrived with the dents one Saturday evening. Woolly knew that “Dennis” had been very, very upset because that’s exactly how upset he’d said he was.
Just look at what you’ve done, he said to Woolly, while glaring at the damage.
Dennis, said his sister, interceding. It isn’t your car. It’s Woolly’s.
Which was probably something that Woolly should have said: It isn’t your car, “Dennis.” It’s mine. But Woolly hadn’t thought to say it. At least, he hadn’t thought to say it until after Sarah had said it already. Sarah always knew the right thing to say before Woolly did. When Woolly was in the middle of a conversation at boarding school or at a party in New York, he often thought to himself how much easier the conversation would be going if Sarah were there to say the right things on his behalf.
But the evening he had arrived with the dents in the door and Sarah had said to “Dennis” that the car wasn’t his, it was Woolly’s, this had only seemed to make “Dennis” more upset.