The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  —Great, said Emmett.

  Duchess nodded soberly, but then suddenly snapped his fingers.

  —You know what, Emmett? It doesn’t matter.

  —And why is that?

  —Yesterday, I made the trade of the century. Maybe not as good as Manhattan for a string of beads, but pretty damn close. In exchange for one scuffed-up Studebaker hardtop, I landed you a 1941 Cadillac convertible in mint condition. There couldn’t be more than a thousand miles on her, and the provenance is impeccable.

  —I don’t need your Cadillac, Duchess, wherever it came from. Townhouse gave me back the Studebaker. It’s getting a new coat of paint and I’m picking it up on Monday.

  —You know what, said Duchess, with a finger in the air. That’s even better. Now we’ll have the Studebaker and the Caddy. After we go to the Adirondacks, we can caravan to California.

  —Oooh, said Charity from across the room. A caravan!

  Before Emmett could dispel anybody’s ideas about a caravan to California, a door behind the piano opened and in lumbered the woman who had ridden the tricycle, though now in a giant terrycloth robe.

  —Well, well, she said in a raspy voice. Who do we have here?

  —It’s Emmett, said Duchess. The one I told you about.

  She looked at Emmett with narrowed eyes.

  —The one with the trust?

  —No. The one I borrowed the car from.

  —You’re right, she said with a touch of disappointment. He does look like Gary Cooper.

  —I wouldn’t mind being cooped up with him, said Charity.

  Everyone but Emmett laughed, and no one louder than the big woman.

  As Emmett felt the color rising to his cheeks again, Duchess put a hand on his shoulder.

  —Emmett Watson, let me introduce you to the sprightliest lifter of spirits in the city of New York: Ma Belle.

  Ma Belle laughed again.

  —You’re even worse than your father.

  When everyone was quiet for a moment, Emmett took hold of Duchess by the elbow.

  —It’s been nice to meet you all, he said, but Duchess and I need to be going.

  —Not so soon, said Charity with a frown.

  —I’m afraid we have some people waiting, explained Emmett.

  Then he pressed his fingers into the soft spots of Duchess’s joint.

  —Ow, said Duchess freeing his elbow. If you were in such a hurry, why didn’t you say so? Just give me a minute to talk with Ma Belle and Charity. Then we can go.

  Patting Emmett on the back, Duchess went over to confer with the two women.

  —So, said the redhead, you’re off to Tinseltown.

  —What’s that? asked Emmett.

  —Duchess tells us you’re all going to Hollywood.

  Before Emmett could process this news, Duchess turned and slapped his hands.

  —Well, ladies, it’s been divine. But the time has come for me and Emmett to hit the road.

  —If you must, said Ma Belle. But you can’t leave without having a drink.

  Duchess looked from Emmett to Ma Belle.

  —I don’t think we have time, Ma.

  —Poppycock, she said. Everyone’s got time for a drink. And besides, you can’t head off to California without letting us toast to your good fortune. It’s just not done. Isn’t that right, ladies?

  —Yes, a toast! the ladies agreed.

  Giving Emmett a shrug of resignation, Duchess went to the bar, popped the cork from a bottle of champagne that was waiting on ice, filled six glasses, and handed them around.

  —I don’t want any champagne, Emmett said quietly when Duchess reached him.

  —It’s rude not to join in a toast on your behalf, Emmett. And bad luck to boot.

  Emmett closed his eyes for a moment, then took the glass.

  —First, Ma Belle said, I’d like to thank our friend Duchess for bringing us these lovely bottles of bubbly.

  —Hear, hear! cheered the ladies, as Duchess took a bow at every point of the compass.

  —It is always bittersweet to lose the company of good friends, continued Ma Belle. But we take heart from the fact that our loss is Hollywood’s gain. In closing, I would like to offer you a few lines from that great Irish poet William Butler Yeats: Through the teeth and over the gums, look out stomach here she comes.

  Then Ma Belle emptied her glass at a throw.

  The ladies all laughed and emptied theirs. Having little choice, Emmett did the same.

  —There, said Duchess with a smile. Was that so bad?

  As Charity excused herself from the room, Duchess began going from one woman to the next in order to express a farewell in a predictably wordy fashion.

  Given the spirit of the moment, Emmett was trying his best to maintain his composure, but he had nearly run out of patience. To make matters worse, what with all the bodies and cushions and tassels, the room had grown overly warm, and the sweet smell of the women’s cigarettes off-putting.

  —Duchess, he said.

  —All right, Emmett. I’m just saying my last goodbyes. Why don’t you wait in the hallway, and I’ll be right with you.

  Setting down his glass, Emmett gladly retreated into the hallway to wait.

  While the cooler air did provide Emmett some relief, the hallway suddenly seemed like it was longer and narrower than it had been before. And that there were more doors too. More doors on his left and more on his right. And though he was looking straight ahead, the arrangement of the doors began to give him a sense of vertigo, as if the axis of the building was being tipped and he might fall the length of the hallway and break through the door at the opposite end.

  It must be the champagne, thought Emmett.

  Shaking his head, he turned and looked back into the living room, only to see that Duchess was now sitting on the edge of the redhead’s couch, refilling her glass.

  —Christ, he said under his breath.

  Emmett began walking back toward the living room, prepared, if necessary, to grab Duchess by the scruff of the neck. But before he had taken two steps, Ma Belle appeared on the threshold and began walking in his direction. Given her girth, there was barely enough room for her to fit in the hallway, and certainly not enough room for her to get past Emmett.

  —Come on, she said with an impatient wave of the hand. Clear the way.

  As she barreled toward him, Emmett, who was backing up, realized that the door to one of the rooms was open, so he stepped inside to let her pass.

  But when she came in line with Emmett, rather than continuing down the hall, she paused and shoved him with a fleshy hand. As he stumbled back into the room, she pulled the door shut and Emmett heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock. Bounding forward, Emmett grabbed the knob and tried the door. When it wouldn’t open, he began banging on it.

  —Open the door! he shouted.

  As he was repeating his demand, he was struck by the memory of a woman shouting the same thing at him through a closed door somewhere else. Then from behind Emmett came the voice of a different woman. A voice that was softer and more inviting.

  —What’s the rush, Nebraska?

  Turning, Emmett discovered the one called Charity lying on her side on a luxurious bed, patting the covers with a delicate hand. Looking around, Emmett saw that there were no windows in the room, only more paintings of ships, including a large one over a bureau that depicted a schooner in full sail leaning into a high wind. The silk wrap that Charity had been wearing was now draped across the back of an arm chair, and she was in a peach-colored negligee with ivory trim.

  —Duchess thought you might be a little nervous, she said in a voice that didn’t sound so childlike anymore. But you don’t need to be nervous. Not in this room. Not with me.

  Emmett began to turn toward the door, but she said n
ot that way, this way, so he turned back.

  —Come over here, she said, and lie down beside me. Because I want to ask you some things. Or I can tell you some things. Or we don’t have to talk at all.

  Emmett felt himself taking a step in her direction, a difficult step, his foot landing on the floorboards with a slow and heavy tread. Then he was standing at the edge of the bed with its dark red covers, and she had taken his hand in hers. Looking down, he could see that she was holding it with the palm turned up, as a gypsy would. Emmett wondered, for a second, with a touch of fascination, if she was about to tell his fortune. Instead, she laid his hand against her breast.

  Slowly, he drew it away from the smooth, cool silk.

  —I’ve got to get out of here, he said. You need to help me get out of here.

  She gave him a little pout, as if he had hurt her feelings. And he felt bad that he had hurt her feelings. He felt so bad that he was inclined to reach out and assure her. Instead, he turned once more toward the door. But this time when he turned, he turned and turned and turned.

  Duchess

  I was in high spirits. That’s my excuse.

  All day, I had been hopscotching from one pleasant surprise to the next. First, I’d been given the run of Woolly’s sister’s house and ended up with a fine set of threads; I’d had a nice visit with Ma Belle and the girls; against all odds, Emmett had shown up, giving me the chance (with Charity’s help) to perform my third good deed in as many days; and now, here I was sitting behind the wheel of a 1941 Cadillac heading into Manhattan with the top down. The only wrench in the works was that Woolly and I had ended up with Billy in tow.

  When Emmett had shown up at Ma Belle’s, it hadn’t occurred to me for one second that he had brought along his brother, so I was a little surprised to find him at Woolly’s side. Don’t get me wrong. Billy was a sweet kid as far as kids go. But he was also something of a know-it-all. And if know-it-alls are prone to get under your skin, no know-it-all gets under your skin like a young know-it-all.

  We hadn’t even been together for an hour and he had already corrected me three times. First, it was to point out that the Sutter sisters hadn’t been shooting each other with real guns—like I was the one who needed an introduction to the elements of stagecraft! Next, it was to point out that a seal is a mammal, not some kind of fish, because it has warm blood and a backbone and yatata, yatata, yatata. Then as we were driving onto the Brooklyn Bridge with the skyline stretching before us in all its glory, and I happened to ask in my elevated state whether anyone could think of a single example in the history of mankind of a river crossing that felt more transformative, rather than quietly appreciating the poetry of the moment and the spirit of the remark, the kid—who’s sitting in the back seat like a little millionaire—felt the necessity of chiming in.

  —I can think of an example, says he.

  —The question was rhetorical, says I.

  But now he’s got Woolly intrigued.

  —What’s your example, Billy?

  —The crossing of the Delaware by George Washington. On Christmas night in 1776, General Washington crossed the river’s icy waters to sneak up on the Hessians. Catching them unawares, Washington’s troops routed the enemy and captured one thousand prisoners. The event was memorialized in a famous painting by Emanuel Leutze.

  —I think I’ve seen that painting! exclaimed Woolly. Isn’t Washington standing in the bow of a rowboat?

  —Nobody stands in the bow of a rowboat, I pointed out.

  —In Emanuel Leutze’s painting, Washington is standing in the bow of a rowboat, said Billy. I can show you a picture, if you’d like. It’s in Professor Abernathe’s book.

  —Of course, it is.

  —That’s a good one, said Woolly, who was always up for a bit of history.

  As it was Friday night, there was some traffic and we ended up coming to a stop at the top of the bridge—which provided us with the perfect opportunity to appreciate the view in silence.

  —I know another one, said Billy.

  Woolly turned toward the back seat with a smile.

  —Which one, Billy?

  —When Caesar crossed the Rubicon.

  —What happened that time?

  You could almost hear the kid sitting up in his seat.

  —In 49 B.C. when Caesar was the governor of Gaul, the Senate, which had become wary of his ambitions, recalled him to the capital, instructing him to leave his troops at the banks of the Rubicon. Instead, Caesar marched his soldiers across the river into Italy and led them straight to Rome, where he soon seized power and launched the Imperial Era. That’s where the expression crossing the Rubicon comes from. It means passing a point of no return.

  —Another good one, said Woolly.

  —Then there was Ulysses, who crossed the river Styx. . . .

  —I think we get the idea, I said.

  But Woolly wasn’t finished.

  —What about Moses? he asked. Didn’t he cross a river?

  —That was the Red Sea, said Billy. It was when he was—

  No doubt the kid had intended to give us chapter and verse on Moses, but for once, he interrupted himself.

  —Look! he said, pointing in the distance. The Empire State Building!

  All three of us turned our attention to the skyscraper in question, and that’s when the idea hit me. Like a little bolt of lightning, it zapped me on the top of the head and sent a tingling sensation up and down my spine.

  —Isn’t that where his office is? I asked, peeking at Billy in the rearview mirror.

  —Whose office? asked Woolly.

  —Professor Abercrombie’s.

  —You mean Professor Abernathe’s?

  —Exactly. How does it go, Billy? I write to you from the junction of Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue on the isle of Manhattan. . . .

  —Yes, said Billy, his eyes opening wide. That’s how it goes.

  —Then why don’t we pay him a visit.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Woolly was disconcerted by my suggestion. But Billy wasn’t.

  —We can pay him a visit? he asked.

  —I don’t see why not.

  —Duchess . . . , said Woolly.

  I ignored him.

  —What’s that he calls you in the introduction, Billy? Dear Reader? What author wouldn’t want to receive a visit from one of his dear readers? I mean, writers must work twice as hard as actors, right? But they don’t get any standing ovations, or curtain calls, or people waiting outside the backstage door. Besides, if Professor Abernathe didn’t want to receive visits from his readers, why would he have put his address on the first page of his book?

  —He probably wouldn’t be there at this hour, countered Woolly.

  —Maybe he’s working late, I countered right back.

  As the traffic began to move again, I pulled into the right lane in order to take the uptown exit, thinking to myself that if the lobby wasn’t open, we were going to climb that building like King Kong.

  * * *

  • • •

  Having headed west on Thirty-Fifth Street, I took the left onto Fifth Avenue and pulled over right in front of the building’s entrance. A second later, one of the doormen was on me.

  —You can’t park there, buddy.

  —We’re just going to be a minute, I said, slipping him a five. In the meantime, maybe you and President Lincoln can get to know each other.

  Now, instead of telling me where I couldn’t park, he was opening Woolly’s door and ushering us into the building with a tip of the hat. Capitalism, they call it.

  As we entered the lobby, Billy had a look of anxious excitement. He just couldn’t believe where we were and what we were about to do. In his wildest dreams, he hadn’t imagined it. Woolly, on the other hand, looked at me with a frown that was decidedly out of c
haracter.

  —What? I said.

  Before he could answer, Billy was tugging at my sleeve.

  —How will we find him, Duchess?

  —You know where to find him, Billy.

  —I do?

  —You read it to me yourself.

  Billy’s eyes opened wide.

  —On the fifty-fifth floor.

  —Exactly.

  With a smile I gestured to the elevator bank.

  —Are we taking the elevator?

  —We’re certainly not taking the stairs.

  We boarded one of the express cars.

  —I’ve never been in an elevator, Billy said to the operator.

  —Enjoy the ride, the operator replied.

  Then he pulled the lever and sent us shooting up into the building.

  Normally, Woolly would have been humming a ditty on a ride like this, but I was the one who was doing the humming tonight. And Billy, he was quietly counting the floors as we passed them. You could tell by the movement of his lips.

  —Fifty-one, he mouthed. Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.

  At the fifty-fifth floor, the operator opened the doors and we disembarked. When we proceeded from the elevator bank into the hallway, we found rows of doors stretching to our left and right.

  —What do we do now? asked Billy.

  I pointed to the nearest door.

  —We’ll start there and work our way around the floor until we find him.

  —Clockwise? Billy asked.

  —Anywise you like.

  So we set about going from door to door—clockwise—and Billy would read out the names that were etched on the little brass plaques, just like he’d called out the floors on the elevator, only this time out loud. It was quite a parade of paper pushers. In addition to attorneys and accountants, there were brokers of real estate, insurance, and stocks. Not from the big firms, you understand. These were the shops operated by the guys who couldn’t make it in the big firms. The guys who resoled their shoes, and read the funny pages while waiting for the phone to ring.

  The first twenty shingles Billy read in a punchy, upbeat manner, like each one was a pleasant little surprise. The next twenty he read with a little less enthusiasm. After those, his delivery began to flag. You could almost hear the thumb of reality beginning to press down on that spot in the soul from which youthful enthusiasm springs. Reality was almost certainly going to leave its mark on Billy Watson tonight. And that mark was likely to stay with him for the rest of his life as a helpful reminder that while the heroes in storybooks are usually figments of the imagination, most of the men who write about them are figments of the imagination too.