The Lincoln Highway

by Amor Towles

  Turning to Billy, I stuck out my arms and said:

  —What’d I tell you, kid?

  Emmett

  At the start of Emmett’s junior year, the new math teacher, Mr. Nickerson, had presented Zeno’s paradox. In ancient Greece, he’d said, a philosopher named Zeno argued that to get from point A to point B, one had to go halfway there first. But to get from the halfway mark to point B, one would have to cross half of that distance, then halfway again, and so on. And when you piled up all the halves of halves that would have to be crossed to get from one point to another, the only conclusion to be drawn was that it couldn’t be done.

  Mr. Nickerson had said this was a perfect example of paradoxical reasoning. Emmett had thought it a perfect example of why going to school could be a waste of time.

  Just imagine, thought Emmett, all the mental energy that had been expended not only to formulate this paradox, but to pass it down through the ages, translating it from language to language so that it could be scratched on a chalkboard in the United States of America in 1952—five years after Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier over the Mojave Desert.

  Mr. Nickerson must have noticed Emmett’s expression at the back of the classroom, because when the bell rang, he asked Emmett to stay.

  —I just want to make sure you followed the argument this morning.

  —I followed it, said Emmett.

  —And what did you think?

  Emmett looked out the window for a moment, unsure of whether he should share his point of view.

  —Go ahead, encouraged Mr. Nickerson. I want to hear your take.

  All right then, thought Emmett.

  —It seemed to me a long and complicated way of proving something that my six-year-old brother could disprove in a matter of seconds with his own two feet.

  But as Emmett said this, Mr. Nickerson didn’t seem the least put out. Rather, he nodded his head with enthusiasm, as if Emmett was on the verge of making a discovery as important as Zeno’s.

  —What you’re saying, Emmett, if I understand you, is that Zeno appears to have pursued his proof for argument’s sake rather than for its practical value. And you’re not alone in making that observation. In fact, we have a word for the practice, which is almost as old as Zeno: Sophistry. From the Greek sophistes—those teachers of philosophy and rhetoric who gave their students the skills to make arguments that could be clever or persuasive but which weren’t necessarily grounded in reality.

  Mr. Nickerson even wrote the word out on the chalkboard right below his diagram of the infinitely bisected journey from A to B.

  Isn’t that just perfect, thought Emmett. In addition to handing down the lessons of Zeno, scholars have handed down a specialized word, the sole purpose of which is to identify the practice of teaching nonsense as sense.

  At least that’s what Emmett had thought while standing in Mr. Nickerson’s classroom. What he was thinking as he walked along a winding, tree-lined street in the town of Hastings-on-Hudson was maybe Zeno hadn’t been so crazy after all.

  * * *

  That morning, Emmett had come to consciousness with a sensation of floating—like one who’s being carried down a wide river on a warm summer day. Opening his eyes, he found himself under the covers of an unfamiliar bed. On the side table was a lamp with a red shade that cast the room in a rosy hue. But neither the bed nor the lamplight were soft enough to mollify the ache in his head.

  Emitting a groan, Emmett made an effort to raise himself, but from across the room came the patter of bare feet, then a hand that gently pressed against his chest.

  —You just lie there and be quiet.

  Though she was now wearing a simple white blouse and her hair was pulled back, Emmett recognized his nurse as the young woman in the negligee who, the night before, had been lying where he was lying now.

  Turning toward the hallway, Charity called out, he’s awake, and a moment later Ma Belle, dressed in a giant floral housedress, was standing in the doorway.

  —So he is, she said.

  Emmett hoisted himself up again, this time with more success. But as he did so, the covers fell from his chest and he realized with a start that he was naked.

  —My clothes, he said.

  —You think I’d let them put you in one of my beds while dressed in those filthy things, said Ma Belle.

  —Where are they . . . ?

  —Waiting for you right there on the bureau. Now, why don’t you get yourself out of bed and come have something to eat.

  Ma Belle turned to Charity.

  —Come on, honey. Your vigil here has ended.

  When the two women closed the door, Emmett threw back the covers and rose carefully, feeling a little uneasy on his feet. Crossing to the bureau he was surprised to find his clothes freshly laundered and neatly folded in a pile, his belt coiled on top. As Emmett buttoned his shirt, he found himself staring at the painting he had noticed the night before. Only now he could see that the mast was at an angle not because the ship was leaning into a high wind, but because it was foundering against the rocks with some sailors hanging from the rigging, others scrambling into a dory, and the head of one bobbing in the high white wake on the verge of being either dashed upon the rocks or swept out to sea.

  As Duchess never tired of saying: Exactly.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Emmett exited the bedroom, he made a point of turning to his left without looking down the vertiginous succession of doors. In the lounge, he found Ma Belle in a high-back chair with Charity standing at her side. On the coffee table were a breakfast cake and coffee.

  Dropping onto the couch, Emmett ran a hand over his eyes.

  Ma Belle pointed to a pink rubber bag on a plate beside the coffee pot.

  —There’s an ice pack, if you’re partial to them.

  —No thanks.

  Ma Belle nodded.

  —I never understood the attraction myself. After a big night, I wouldn’t want a bag of ice anywhere near me.

  A big night, thought Emmett with a shake of the head.

  —What happened?

  —They gave you a mickey, said Charity with a mischievous smile.

  Ma Belle scowled.

  —It wasn’t a mickey, Charity. And there was no they. It was just Duchess being Duchess.

  —Duchess? said Emmett.

  Ma Belle gestured at Charity.

  —He wanted to give you a little present. In honor of finishing your time at that work farm. But he was worried you might get a case of the jitters—what with your being a Christian and a virgin.

  —There’s nothing wrong with being a Christian or a virgin, Charity said supportively.

  —Well, I’m not so sure about that, said Ma Belle. Anyway, in order to set the mood, I was supposed to suggest a toast and Duchess was going to put a little something in your drink to help you relax. But the little something must have been stronger than he thought it was, because once we got you into Charity’s room, you spun around twice and out went the lights. Isn’t that right, honey?

  —It’s a good thing you landed in my lap, she said with a wink.

  Both of them seemed to find this an amusing turn of events. It just made Emmett grind his teeth.

  —Oh, don’t get all angry on us now, said Ma Belle.

  —If I’m angry, it’s not with you.

  —Well, don’t get angry with Duchess either.

  —He didn’t mean no harm, said Charity. He just wanted you to have a good time.

  —That’s a fact, said Ma Belle. And at his own expense.

  Emmett didn’t bother pointing out that the intended good time, like the champagne the night before, had been paid for with his money.

  —Even as a boy, said Charity, Duchess was always making sure that everybody else was having a good time.

  —A
nyway, continued Ma Belle, we’re supposed to tell you that Duchess, your brother, and that other friend . . .

  —Woolly, said Charity.

  —Right, said Ma Belle. Woolly. They’ll all be waiting for you at his sister’s house. But first, you should have something to eat.

  Emmett ran a hand over his eyes again.

  —I’m not sure I’m hungry, he said.

  Ma Belle frowned.

  Leaning forward, Charity spoke a little under her breath.

  —Ma Belle doesn’t generally serve breakfast.

  —You’re damn right, I don’t.

  After accepting a cup of the coffee and a slice of the coffee cake in order to be polite, Emmett was reminded that half the time, manners are there for your own good. For as it turned out, the coffee and cake were just what he needed. So much so that he readily accepted the offer of seconds.

  As he ate, Emmett asked how the ladies had come to know Duchess when he was a boy.

  —His father worked here, said Charity.

  —I thought he was an actor.

  —He was an actor all right, said Ma Belle. And when he couldn’t get any work onstage, he acted like a waiter or a maître d’. But for a few months after the war, he acted like our ringmaster. Harry could act like just about anything, I suppose. But most of the time, he acted like his own worst enemy.

  —In what way?

  —Harry’s a charmer with a soft spot for the sauce. So while he could talk his way into a job in a matter of minutes, he could drink his way back out of it almost as quickly.

  —But when he was working at the Circus, chipped in Charity, he would leave Duchess with us.

  —He’d bring Duchess here? asked Emmett, a little shocked.

  —That’s right, said Ma Belle. At the time, he was probably about eleven years old. And while his father was downstairs, he’d work up here in the lounge. Taking hats and pouring drinks for the customers. He made good money too. Not that his father let him keep it.

  Emmett looked around the room, trying to imagine Duchess at the age of eleven taking hats and pouring drinks in a house of ill repute.

  —It wasn’t like it is now, Ma Belle said, following his gaze. Back then on a Saturday night, the Circus was standing-room-only and we had ten girls working up here. And it wasn’t just the boys from the Navy Yard. We had society people.

  —Even the mayor came, Charity said.

  —What happened?

  Ma Belle shrugged.

  —Times changed. The neighborhood changed. Tastes changed.

  Then she looked around the room a little nostalgically.

  —I thought it was the war that was going to put us out of business; but in the end, it was the suburbs.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shortly before noon, Emmett was ready to take his leave. Receiving a peck on the cheek from Charity and a shake of the hand from Ma Belle, he thanked them for the clean clothes, for the breakfast, for their kindness.

  —If you could just give me the address, I’ll be on my way.

  Ma Belle looked at Emmett.

  —What address?

  —The one for Woolly’s sister.

  —Why would I have that?

  —Didn’t Duchess leave it with you?

  —He didn’t leave it with me. How ’bout you, honey?

  When Charity shook her head, Emmett closed his eyes.

  —Why don’t we check the phone directory, Charity suggested brightly.

  Charity and Ma Belle both looked to Emmett.

  —I don’t know her married name.

  —Well, I guess you’re shit-out-of-luck.

  —Ma, chided Charity.

  —All right, all right. Let me think.

  Ma Belle looked off for a moment.

  —This friend of yours—Woolly. What’s his story?

  —He’s from New York. . . .

  —So we gathered. But what borough?

  Emmett looked back without understanding.

  —What neighborhood. Brooklyn? Queens? Manhattan?

  —Manhattan.

  —That’s a start. Do you know where he went to school?

  —He went to boarding school. St. George’s . . . St. Paul’s . . . St. Mark’s . . .

  —He’s Catholic! said Charity.

  Ma Belle rolled her eyes.

  —Those aren’t Catholic schools, honey. Those are WASP schools. Fancy ones at that. And having known more than my share of their alumni, I’d bet you a blue blazer that your friend Woolly is from the Upper East Side. But which one did he go to: St. George’s, St. Paul’s, or St. Mark’s?

  —All of them.

  —All of them?

  When Emmett explained that Woolly had been kicked out of two, Ma Belle shook with laughter.

  —Ho, boy, she said at last. If you get thrown out of one of those schools, to get into another you need to come from a pretty old family. But to get thrown out of two and go to a third? You need to have arrived on the Mayflower! So what’s this Woolly character’s real name?

  —Wallace Wolcott Martin.

  —Of course, it is. Charity, why don’t you go in my office and bring me the black book that’s in my desk drawer.

  When Charity returned from the room behind the piano, Emmett was expecting her to have a little address book. Instead, she was carrying a large black volume with a dark red title.

  —The Social Register, explained Ma Belle. This is where everybody’s listed.

  —Everybody? asked Emmett.

  —Not my everybody. When it comes to the Social Register, I’ve been on it, under it, behind and in front of it, but I’ve never been in it. Because it was designed to list the other everybody. Here. Make room, Gary Cooper.

  When Ma Belle dropped onto the couch at Emmett’s side, he could feel the cushions sink a few inches closer to the floor. Glancing at the cover of the book, Emmett couldn’t help but notice it was the 1951 edition.

  —It’s out of date, he said.

  Ma Belle gave him a frown.

  —You think it’s easy to get ahold of one of these?

  —He doesn’t know, said Charity.

  —No, I suppose not. Listen, if you were looking for some Polish or Italian friend whose grandparents landed on Ellis Island, then, first of all, there wouldn’t be no book in which to look. But even if there was a book, the problem would be that those sort change their names and addresses like they change their clothes. That’s why they came to America in the first place. To get out of the rut their ancestors put them in.

  With a show of reverence, Ma Belle laid her hand on the book in her lap.

  —But with this crowd, nothing ever changes. Not the names. Not the addresses. Not a single damn thing. And that’s the whole point of who they are.

  It took Ma Belle five minutes to find what she was looking for. As a young man, Woolly didn’t have his own entry in the registry, but he was listed as one of the three children of Mrs. Richard Cobb, née Wolcott; widow of Thomas Martin; member of the Colony Club and the DAR; formerly of Manhattan, currently of Palm Beach. Her two daughters, Kaitlin and Sarah, were both married and listed with their husbands: Mr. & Mrs. Lewis Wilcox of Morristown, New Jersey, and Mr. & Mrs. Dennis Whitney of Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.

  Duchess hadn’t said which sister they were staying with.

  —Either way, said Ma Belle, you’ve got to go back to Manhattan to catch the train. If I were you, I’d start with Sarah, since Hastings-on-Hudson is a shorter ride and has the added benefit of not being in New Jersey.

  * * *

  When Emmett left Ma Belle’s, it was already half past twelve. In the interest of saving time, he hailed a cab, but when he instructed the driver to take him to the train station in Manhattan, the driver asked which one.

  —The
re’s more than one train station in Manhattan?

  —There’s two, pal: Penn Station and Grand Central. Which do you want?

  —Which one is bigger?

  —Both is bigger than the other.

  Emmett had never heard of Grand Central, but he remembered the panhandler in Lewis saying that the Pennsylvania Railroad was the largest in the nation.

  —Penn Station, he said.

  When Emmett arrived, he figured he had chosen well because the façade of the station had marble columns that towered four stories over the avenue, and the interior was a vast expanse under a soaring glass ceiling with legions of travelers. But when he found the information booth, Emmett learned that there were no trains to Hastings-on-Hudson leaving from Penn. Those were on the Hudson River Line out of Grand Central. So instead of going to Sarah’s house, Emmett boarded the 1:55 for Morristown, New Jersey.

  When he arrived at the address that Ma Belle had given him, he asked the cabbie to wait while he went to knock on the door. The woman who answered said that yes, she was Kaitlin Wilcox, in a reasonably friendly manner. But as soon as Emmett asked whether her brother, Woolly, happened to be there, she grew almost angry.

  —Suddenly, everyone wants to know if my brother is here. But why would he be? What’s this all about? Are you in league with that girl? What are you two up to? Who are you?

  As he made his way quickly toward the cab, Emmett could hear her shouting from the front door, demanding once more to know who he was.

  So it was back to the Morristown depot, where Emmett took the 4:20 to Penn Station, then a cab to Grand Central, which, as it turned out, had its own marble columns, its own soaring ceiling, its own legions of travelers. There, he waited half an hour to board the 6:15 for Hastings-on-Hudson.

  When Emmett arrived shortly after 7:00, he climbed into his fourth taxi of the day. But ten minutes into the ride, he saw the meter advance a nickel to $1.95, and it occurred to him that he might not have enough money for the fare. Opening his wallet, he confirmed that the various trains and taxis had left him with only two dollars.