The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —You should have seen us, Townhouse had said one night at Salina as they lay on their bunks in the dark. I was wearing my Easter Sunday suit, which was almost as blue as the car, and she was in a bright yellow dress that was cut so low in the back you could see half her spine. That Skylark could have gone from zero to sixty in four seconds, but I was driving at twenty miles an hour so we could wave at everyone we recognized, and half the people we didn’t. Down 125th we’d go, cruising past all the finely dressed folk out in front of the Hotel Theresa and the Apollo and Showman’s Jazz Club; and when we got to Broadway, I’d turn her around and drive all the way back. Every time we made the circuit, Clarise would slide a little closer, until there was no more closer to slide.

  In the end it was Clarise who suggested they go to Grant’s Tomb to park under the elms, and that’s where they were, making the most of the shadows, when the flashlights of two patrolmen shone into the car.

  It turned out that the owner of the Skylark was one of those finely dressed folk in front of the Apollo Theater. Given all the waving that Townhouse and Clarise had been doing, it didn’t take long for the cops to find them in the park. After untangling the young couple, one of the cops drove Clarise home in the Skylark while the other drove Townhouse to the station in the back of the black-and-white.

  As a minor who had never been in trouble, Townhouse might have gotten off with a stern talking-to had he given up the twins. But Townhouse was no squealer. When the officers asked him how he happened to be behind the wheel of a car he didn’t own, Townhouse said that he’d snuck into Mr. Gonzalez’s office, slipped the key off the hook, and driven the car off the lot when no one was looking. So instead of the stern talking-to, Townhouse got twelve months in Salina.

  —Come on, he said.

  Crossing the street, the two passed the office where Mr. Gonzalez was talking on the phone and entered the repair area. In the first bay was a Chevy with its rear caved in, while in the second was a Roadmaster with a buckled hood, as if the two cars had been on opposite ends of the same collision. Somewhere out of sight, a radio was playing a dance number that to Emmett’s ear could have been the same one he’d heard when they had passed the domino players, though he knew it probably wasn’t.

  —Paco! Pico! Townhouse called above the music.

  The brothers emerged from behind the Chevy, dressed in dirty jumpsuits, cleaning their hands on rags.

  If Paco and Pico were twins, you wouldn’t have guessed so from a glance—the former being tall, thin, and shaggy, the latter stocky and close-cropped. It was only when they broke out into big white-toothed smiles that you could see the family resemblance.

  —This is the friend I was telling you about, said Townhouse.

  Turning to Emmett, the brothers offered him the same toothy grin. Then Paco gestured with his head toward the far end of the garage.

  —It’s over here.

  Emmett and Townhouse followed the brothers past the Roadmaster to the last bay, where a car was under a tarp. Together, the brothers pulled back the cover to reveal a powder-blue Studebaker.

  —That’s my car, said Emmett in surprise.

  —No kidding, said Townhouse.

  —How’d it end up here?

  —Duchess left it.

  —Is it running all right?

  —More or less, said Paco.

  Emmett shook his head. There was just no making sense of what, when, or where Duchess chose to do what he did. But as long as the car was back in Emmett’s possession and in good working order, he didn’t need to make sense of Duchess’s choices.

  Doing a quick circuit, Emmett was pleased to find that there were no more dents in the car than when he had bought it. But when he opened the trunk, the kit bag wasn’t there. More importantly, when he pulled back the piece of felt that covered the spare, he discovered that the envelope wasn’t there either.

  —Everything all right? asked Townhouse.

  —Yeah, said Emmett, closing the trunk with a quiet click.

  Walking toward the front of the car, Emmett glanced through the driver’s window, then turned to Paco.

  —Have you got the keys?

  But Paco turned to Townhouse.

  —We’ve got them, said Townhouse. But there’s something else you need to know.

  Before Townhouse could explain, an angry shout came from the other side of the garage.

  —What the fuck is this!

  Emmett assumed it must be Mr. Gonzalez, annoyed that his sons weren’t at work, but when he turned he saw the one called Maurice marching toward them.

  —What the fuck is this, Maurice repeated, though more slowly, punching every other word.

  After muttering to Emmett that this was his cousin, Townhouse waited for Maurice to reach them before he deigned to reply.

  —What the fuck is what, Maurice?

  —Otis said you were going to hand over the keys, and I couldn’t believe it.

  —Well, now you can.

  —But it’s my car.

  —There’s nothing yours about it.

  Maurice looked at Townhouse with an expression of amazement.

  —You were right there when that nutjob gave me the keys.

  —Maurice, said Townhouse, you’ve been climbing my tree all week and I’ve had just about enough of it. So, why don’t you mind your own business before I mind it for you.

  Clamping his teeth shut, Maurice stared at Townhouse for a moment, then he turned and marched away.

  Townhouse shook his head. As a final slight to his cousin, he adopted the expression of one who was trying to remember the important shit he’d been saying before he was so needlessly interrupted.

  —You were gonna tell him about the car, Paco prompted.

  With a nod of remembrance, Townhouse turned back to Emmett.

  —When I told the cops last night that I hadn’t seen Duchess, they must not have believed me. Because this morning they were back, asking questions up and down the block. Like whether anyone had seen a couple of white boys hanging out on my stoop, or driving around the neighborhood—in a light-blue Studebaker . . .

  Emmett closed his eyes.

  —That’s right, said Townhouse. Whatever trouble Duchess has gotten himself into, it looks like he was in your car when he got into it. And if your car was involved, the cops will eventually get around to thinking that you’re involved too. That’s one of the reasons I stashed it here instead of leaving it on the street. But the other reason is that when it comes to paint jobs, the Gonzalez brothers are artistes. Ain’t that right, boys?

  —Los Picassos, replied Pico, speaking for the first time.

  —After we’re through with her, said Paco, even her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.

  The two brothers began laughing, but stopped when they saw that neither Emmett nor Townhouse had joined in.

  —How long would it take? asked Emmett.

  The brothers looked at each other, then Paco shrugged.

  —If we get started tomorrow and make good headway, we could have her ready by . . . Monday morning?

  —Sí, said Pico nodding in agreement. El lunes.

  Another delay, thought Emmett. But since the envelope was missing, he couldn’t leave New York until he found Duchess anyway. And Townhouse was right about the car. If the police were actively looking for a light-blue Studebaker, there was no point in driving one.

  —Monday morning it is, said Emmett. And thanks to you both.

  Outside the garage, Townhouse offered to walk Emmett back to the subway, but Emmett wanted to know something first.

  —When we were at your stoop and I asked where Duchess was going, you hesitated—like someone who knows something that he doesn’t want to admit to knowing. If Duchess told you where he was headed, I need you to tell me.

  Townhouse blew some air.


  —Look, he said, I know you like Duchess, Emmett. So do I. He’s a loyal friend in his own crazy way, and he’s one of the most entertaining shit slingers whom I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. But he is also like one of those guys who are born with no peripheral vision. He can see everything that’s right in front of him, see it more clearly than most, but the second that something is pushed an inch to the left or right, he doesn’t even know it’s there. And that can lead to all kinds of trouble. For him, and for anyone within spitting distance. All I’m saying, Emmett, is now that you’ve got your car, maybe you should let Duchess be.

  —Nothing would make me happier than to let Duchess be, said Emmett, but it’s not so simple. Four days ago, just as Billy and I were about to head to California, he took off with Woolly in the Studebaker, which was problem enough. But before my father died, he put an envelope with three thousand dollars in the trunk of the car. It was there when Duchess drove off, and now it’s gone.

  —Shit, said Townhouse.

  Emmett nodded.

  —Don’t get me wrong: I am glad to have the car back. But I need that money.

  —All right, Townhouse said, nodding his head in concession. I don’t know where Duchess is staying. But before he left yesterday, he was trying to convince me to join him and Woolly at the Circus.

  —The circus?

  —That’s right. In Red Hook. On Conover Street right near the river. Duchess said he was going to be there tonight for the six o’clock show.

  * * *

  • • •

  As the two walked from the body shop to the subway station, Townhouse went the long way around in order to point out landmarks. Not the landmarks of Harlem, but the landmarks of their conversations. Places that had come up in the course of their time together, mentioned as they worked side by side in the fields or lay on their bunks at night. Like the apartment building on Lenox Avenue where his grandfather had kept pigeons on the roof, the same roof where he and his brother had been allowed to sleep on hot summer nights. And the high school where Townhouse had been a star shortstop. And on 125th Street, Emmett got a glimpse of that lively stretch of road on which Townhouse and Clarise had driven back and forth on their ill-fated Saturday night.

  In leaving Nebraska, Emmett had little to regret. He didn’t regret leaving behind their home or their possessions. He didn’t regret leaving behind his father’s dreams or his father’s grave. And when he had driven those first few miles of the Lincoln Highway, he had savored the sensation of putting distance between himself and his hometown, even if he was headed in the wrong direction.

  But as they walked through Harlem and Townhouse pointed out the landmarks of his youth, Emmett wished that he could return to Morgen, if only for a day, in the company of his friend, so that he could point out the landmarks of his life, the landmarks of the stories that he had told to pass the time. Like the airplanes that he had so painstakingly assembled and that still hung over Billy’s bed; and the two-story house on Madison, the first that he’d helped build in Mr. Schulte’s employ; and the wide, unforgiving land that may have bested his father, but which never lost its beauty in his eyes. And yes, he would show Townhouse the fairgrounds too, just as Townhouse without shame or hesitation had shown him the lively stretch of road that had led to his undoing.

  When they reached the subway station, Townhouse followed Emmett inside and stayed with him right up until the turnstiles. Before they parted, almost as an afterthought, he asked if Emmett wanted him to come along that night—when he went looking for Duchess.

  —That’s all right, replied Emmett. I don’t imagine he’ll give me any trouble.

  —No, he won’t, agreed Townhouse. At least, not as intended.

  After a moment, Townhouse shook his head and smiled.

  —Duchess gets some crazy ideas into his head, but he was right about one thing.

  —What’s that? asked Emmett.

  —I did feel much better after hitting him.

  Sally

  Half the time when you could use the help of a man, he’s nowhere to be found. He’s off seeing to one thing or another that could just as easily be seen to tomorrow as seen to today and that just happens to be five steps out of earshot. But as soon as you need him to be somewhere else, you can’t push him out the door.

  Like my father at this very minute.

  Here it is Friday at half past twelve, and he’s cutting his chicken fried steak like he was some kind of surgeon and the life of his patient depended upon every placement of the knife. And when he has finally cleaned his plate and had two cups of coffee, for once in a blue moon he asks for a third.

  —I’ll have to brew another pot, I warn.

  —I’ve got time, he says.

  So I dump the spent grinds in the trash, rinse out the percolator, fill it back up, set it on the stove, and wait for it to simmer, thinking how nice it must be in this relentless world to have so much time at your bidding.

  * * *

  For as long as I can remember, my father has gone into town on Friday afternoon to run his errands. As soon as he’s through with lunch, he’ll climb in his truck with a purposeful look and head off to the hardware store, the feedstore, and the pharmacy. Then around seven o’clock—just in time for supper—he’ll pull into the driveway with a tube of toothpaste, ten bushels of oats, and a brand-new pair of pliers.

  How on God’s green earth, you may rightly wonder, does a man turn twenty minutes of errands into a five-hour excursion? Well, that’s an easy one: by yakking. Certainly, he’s yakking with Mr. Wurtele at the hardware store, Mr. Horchow at the feedstore, and Mr. Danziger at the pharmacy. But the yakking isn’t limited to the proprietors. For on Friday afternoons, in each of these establishments an assembly of seasoned errand runners convenes to forecast the weather, the harvest, and the national elections.

  By my estimation, a solid hour is spent prognosticating at each one of the stores, but apparently three hours isn’t enough. Because after predicting the outcomes of all the day’s unknowables, the assembly of elders will retire to McCafferty’s Tavern, where they can opine for two hours more in the company of bottles of beer.

  My father is nothing if not a creature of habit so, as I say, this has been going on for as long as I remember. Then suddenly about six months ago, when my father finished his lunch and pushed back his chair, rather than heading straight out the door to his truck, he went upstairs to change into a clean white shirt.

  It didn’t take long for me to figure that a woman had somehow worked her way into my father’s routine. Especially since she was partial to perfume, and I’m the one who has to wash his clothes. But the questions remained: Who was this woman? And where on earth did he meet her?

  She wasn’t someone in the congregation, I was pretty sure of that. Because on Sunday mornings when we filed out of the service onto the little patch of grass in front of the chapel, there wasn’t a woman—married or unmarried—who gave him a measured greeting or an awkward glance. And it wasn’t Esther who keeps the books at the feedstore, because she wouldn’t’ve recognized a bottle of perfume if it fell from the heavens and hit her on the head. I might have thought it was one of the women who are known, upon occasion, to stop in at McCafferty’s, but once my father started changing his shirt, he stopped coming home with the smell of beer on his breath.

  Well, if he didn’t meet her at church, the stores, or the bar, I just couldn’t figure it. So I had no choice but to follow him.

  On the first Friday in March, I made a pot of chili so I wouldn’t have to worry about cooking dinner. After serving my father lunch, I watched out of the corner of my eye as he went out the door in his clean white shirt, climbed in his truck, and pulled out of the drive. Once he was half a mile down the road, I grabbed a wide-brimmed hat from the closet, hopped into Betty, and set off on my own.

  Just like always, he made his first stop at the hardware
store, where he did a bit of business and whiled away an hour in the company of like-minded men. Next it was off to the feedstore and then the pharmacy, where there was a little more business and a lot more whiling. At each of these stops a few women made an appearance in order to do a little business of their own, but if he exchanged more than a word with them, it wasn’t so’s you’d notice.

  But then at five o’clock, when he came out of the pharmacy and climbed in his truck, he didn’t head down Jefferson on his way to McCafferty’s. Instead, after passing the library, he took a right on Cypress, a left on Adams, and pulled over across from the little white house with blue shutters. After sitting for a minute, he got out of his truck, crossed the street, and rapped on the screen door.

  He didn’t have to wait more than a minute for his rap to be answered. And standing there in the doorframe was Alice Thompson.

  By my reckoning, Alice couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight years old. She was three grades ahead of my sister in school and a Methodist, so I didn’t have cause to know her very well. But I knew what everyone else knew: that she had graduated from Kansas State and then married a fellow from Topeka who got himself killed in Korea. A widow without children, Alice had returned to Morgen in the fall of ’53 and taken a job as a teller at the Savings and Loan.

  That’s where it must have happened. While going to the bank was not a part of my father’s Friday routine, he did stop in every other Thursday in order to pick up the payroll for the boys. One week he must have ended up at her window and been taken by her mournful look. The following week I could just imagine him carefully picking his place in line so that he’d end up at her window instead of Ed Fowler’s, and then doing his damnedest to make a little conversation while she was trying to count the cash.