by Amor Towles
What was the name of the family? The assistant wanted to know.
When I replied it was the family of Woolly Martin, he asked me to hold again. A few nickels later, Reverend Speers was on the line. First, he wanted to express his deepest sympathies for my loss, and his wishes that my father rest in peace. He went on to explain that Woolly’s family, the Wolcotts, had been members of the St. Bartholomew’s congregation since its founding in 1854, and that he had personally married four of them and baptized ten. No doubt he had buried a good deal more.
In a matter of minutes, I had the phone numbers and addresses of Woolly’s mother, who was in Florida, and the two sisters, who were both married and living in the New York area. I tried the one called Kaitlin first.
The Wolcotts may have been members of St. Bartholomew’s since its founding in 1854, but Kaitlin Wolcott Wilcox must not have paid much attention to the lessons. For when I said that I was trying to find her brother, she became wary. And when I said I’d heard he might be staying with her, she became outright unfriendly.
—My brother is in Kansas, she said. Why would he be here? Who told you that he would be here? Who is this?
And so forth.
Next I dialed Sarah. This time the phone rang and rang and rang.
When I finally hung up, I sat there for a moment, drumming my fingers on my father’s desk.
In my father’s office.
Under my father’s roof.
Going into the kitchen, I retrieved my purse, counted out five dollars, and left them by the phone in order to cover the cost of the long-distance calls. Then I went to my room, took my suitcase from the back of my closet, and started to pack.
* * *
The journey from Morgen to New York took twenty hours spread over the course of a day and a half.
To some that may seem like an onerous bit of driving. But I don’t believe that I’d had twenty hours of uninterrupted time to think in my entire life. And what I found myself thinking on, naturally enough I suppose, was the mystery of our will to move.
Every bit of evidence would suggest that the will to be moving is as old as mankind. Take the people in the Old Testament. They were always on the move. First, it’s Adam and Eve moving out of Eden. Then it’s Cain condemned to be a restless wanderer, Noah drifting on the waters of the Flood, and Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt toward the Promised Land. Some of these figures were out of the Lord’s favor and some of them were in it, but all of them were on the move. And as far as the New Testament goes, Our Lord Jesus Christ was what they call a peripatetic—someone who’s always going from place to place—whether on foot, on the back of a donkey, or on the wings of angels.
But the proof of the will to move is hardly limited to the pages of the Good Book. Any child of ten can tell you that getting-up-and-going is topic number one in the record of man’s endeavors. Take that big red book that Billy is always lugging around. It’s got twenty-six stories in it that have come down through the ages and almost every one of them is about some man going somewhere. Napoleon heading off on his conquests, or King Arthur in search of the Holy Grail. Some of the men in the book are figures from history and some from fancy, but whether real or imagined, almost every one of them is on his way to someplace different from where he started.
So, if the will to move is as old as mankind and every child can tell you so, what happens to a man like my father? What switch is flicked in the hallway of his mind that takes the God-given will for motion and transforms it into the will for staying put?
It isn’t due to a loss of vigor. For the transformation doesn’t come when men like my father are growing old and infirm. It comes when they are hale, hearty, and at the peak of their vitality. If you asked them what brought about the change, they will cloak it in the language of virtue. They will tell you that the American Dream is to settle down, raise a family, and make an honest living. They’ll speak with pride of their ties to the community through the church and the Rotary and the chamber of commerce, and all other manner of stay-puttery.
But maybe, I was thinking as I was driving over the Hudson River, just maybe the will to stay put stems not from a man’s virtues but from his vices. After all, aren’t gluttony, sloth, and greed all about staying put? Don’t they amount to sitting deep in a chair where you can eat more, idle more, and want more? In a way, pride and envy are about staying put too. For just as pride is founded on what you’ve built up around you, envy is founded on what your neighbor has built across the street. A man’s home may be his castle, but the moat, it seems to me, is just as good at keeping people in as it is at keeping people out.
I do believe that the Good Lord has a mission for each and every one of us—a mission that is forgiving of our weaknesses, tailored to our strengths, and designed with only us in mind. But maybe He doesn’t come knocking on our door and present it to us all frosted like a cake. Maybe, just maybe what He requires of us, what He expects of us, what He hopes for us is that—like His only begotten Son—we will go out into the world and find it for ourselves.
* * *
• • •
As I climbed out of Betty, Emmett, Woolly, and Billy all came spilling out of the house. Billy and Woolly both had big smiles on their faces, while Emmett, per usual, was acting like smiles were a precious resource.
Woolly, who had obviously been raised right, wanted to know if I had any bags.
—How nice of you to ask, I replied without looking at Emmett. My suitcase is in the back of the truck. And Billy, there’s a basket in the back seat, if you’d be so kind. But no peeking.
—We’ll get everything, said Billy.
As Billy and Woolly carried my things inside, Emmett shook his head.
—Sally, he said with more than a hint of exasperation.
—Yes, Mr. Watson.
—What are you doing here?
—What am I doing here? Well, let me see. I didn’t have much on the calendar that was particularly pressing. And I have always wanted to see the big city. And then there was that small matter of sitting around yesterday afternoon and waiting for the phone to ring.
That took him down a notch.
—I’m sorry, he said. The truth is I completely forgot about calling you. Since leaving Morgen, it’s been one problem after another.
—We all do have our trials, I said.
—Fair enough. I won’t bother with excuses. I should have called. But when I failed to, was it really necessary for you to drive all the way here?
—Maybe not. I suppose I could have crossed my fingers and hoped that you and Billy were all right. But I figured you’d want to know why the sheriff came to see me.
—The sheriff?
Before I could explain, Billy had his arm around my waist and was looking up at Emmett.
—Sally brought more cookies and preserves.
—I thought I told you no peeking, I said.
Then I tussled his hair, which clearly had not been washed since I’d seen him last.
—I know you said that, Sally. But you didn’t mean it. Did you?
—No, I didn’t mean it.
—Did you bring strawberry preserves? asked Woolly.
—I did. And raspberry too. Speaking of preserves, where’s Duchess?
Everybody looked up a little surprised, as if they’d only just noticed that Duchess was missing. But at that very moment, he emerged from the front door wearing a shirt and tie under a clean white apron, saying:
—Dinner is served!
Woolly
Oh, what a night they were having!
To start things off, at the stroke of eight Duchess opened the front door to reveal Emmett on the doorstep, a cause for celebration in itself. Not fifteen minutes later—just after Woolly had presented his uncle’s watch to Billy—there was a small explosion and who to their wondering eyes should appear, but Sal
ly Ransom, having driven all the way from Nebraska. And before they had a chance to celebrate that, Duchess was standing in the doorway announcing that dinner was served.
—Right this way, he said, as they all went back inside.
But instead of heading to the kitchen, Duchess led them into the dining room, where the table had been set with china and crystal and the two candelabra, even though it wasn’t a birthday or holiday.
—My, oh my, said Sally when she came through the door.
—Miss Ransom, why don’t you sit here, said Duchess, pulling out her chair.
Then Duchess seated Billy next to Sally, Woolly across the table, and Emmett at the head. Duchess reserved the other end of the table for himself, the one that was closest to the kitchen door, through which he promptly disappeared. But even before the door had stopped swinging, he was back with a napkin over his arm and a bottle of wine in hand.
—You can’t appreciate a good Italian dinner, he said, without a little vino rosso.
Circling the table, Duchess poured a glass for everyone, including Billy. Then having set the bottle down, he was through the kitchen door and back again, this time carrying four plates at the same time with one in each hand, and another balanced on the crook of each arm—the exact set of circumstances, thought Woolly, for which the swinging door had been designed!
After zipping once around the table in order to serve a plate to everyone else, Duchess disappeared and reappeared in order to serve one to himself. Only this time when he came through the door, his apron was gone and he was wearing a vest with all the buttons buttoned.
When Duchess resumed his seat, Sally and Emmett were staring at their plates.
—What in tarnation, said Sally.
—Stuffed artichokes, said Billy.
—I didn’t make them, Duchess confessed. Billy and I picked them up earlier today on Arthur Avenue.
—That’s the main drag in the Italian section of the Bronx, said Billy.
Emmett and Sally both looked from Duchess to Billy and back to their plates, no less perplexed.
—You scrape the meat off the leaves with your bottom teeth, explained Woolly.
—You what? said Sally.
—Like this!
In order to demonstrate, Woolly plucked one of the leaves, scraped it with his teeth, and dropped it on his plate.
Within a matter of minutes, everyone was having a grand old time plucking leaves, and sipping wine, and discussing with due admiration the very first person in the history of mankind who’d had the audacity to eat an artichoke.
When everyone had finished their appetizer, Sally straightened the napkin in her lap and asked what they were having next.
—Fettuccine Mio Amore, said Billy.
Emmett and Sally looked to Duchess for an elaboration, but since he was clearing plates, he asked Woolly to do the honors.
So Woolly told them the whole story. He told them of Leonello’s—that restaurant at which no reservations were taken and no menus given. He told them of the jukebox and the mobsters and Marilyn Monroe. He told them of Leonello himself, who went from table to table greeting his customers and sending them drinks. And finally, he told them how when the waiter came to your table, he didn’t even mention Fettuccine Mio Amore, because if you didn’t know enough to ask for it, then you didn’t deserve to eat it.
—I helped make it, said Billy. Duchess showed me how to properly slice an onion.
Sally was staring at Billy in a mild state of shock.
—Properly?!
—Yes, said Billy. Properly.
—And how, pray tell, is that?
Before Billy could explain, the door swung open and Duchess appeared with all five plates.
As he had been describing Leonello’s, Woolly could see that Emmett and Sally were a little skeptical, and he couldn’t blame them. For when it came to telling stories, Duchess was a bit of a Paul Bunyan, for whom the snow was always ten feet deep, and the river as wide as the sea. But after the very first bite, everyone at the table could set their doubts aside.
—Isn’t this delicious, said Sally.
—I’ve got to hand it to you both, said Emmett. Then raising his glass, he added: To the chefs.
To which Woolly responded: Hear, hear!
And hear, hear said they all.
* * *
• • •
The dinner was so delicious that everyone asked for a second helping, and Duchess poured some more wine, and Emmett’s eyes began to glitter as Sally’s cheeks grew red, and the candle wax dribbled delightfully down the arms of the candelabra.
Then everyone was asking somebody else to tell something. First, it was Emmett asking Billy to tell about the visit to the Empire State Building. Then it was Sally asking Emmett to tell about the ride on the freight train. Then Woolly asking Duchess to tell about the magic tricks that he had seen on the stage. And finally, it was Billy asking Duchess if he knew any magic tricks.
—Over the years, I suppose I’ve learned a few.
—Will you do one for us?
Taking a sip of wine, Duchess thought for a moment, then said: Why not.
After pushing back his plate, Duchess took the corkscrew from the pocket of his vest, removed the cork, and set it on the table. Then picking up the wine bottle, he poured out the dregs, and forced the cork back inside—not simply into the neck where it usually resides, but all the way through the neck so that it dropped down to where the dregs had been.
—As you can see, he said, I have placed the cork in the bottle.
Then he passed the bottle around so that everyone in turn could confirm the bottle was made of solid glass and the cork was truly inside. Woolly even turned the bottle upside down and gave it a shake in order to prove what everyone knew in principle: that if it was hard to push a cork all the way into a bottle, it was impossible to shake it back out.
When the bottle had completed its circuit, Duchess rolled up his sleeves, held up his hands to show that they were empty, then asked Billy if he would be so kind as to give us a countdown.
To Woolly’s great satisfaction, not only did Billy accept the task, he used the tiny little second hand in the dial of his new watch in order to execute it precisely.
Ten, he said as Duchess picked up the bottle and lowered it into his lap out of sight. Nine . . . Eight . . . , he said, as Duchess breathed and exhaled. Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . , as Duchess began rolling his shoulders back and forth. Four . . . Three . . . Two, as his eyelids fell so low it looked like he had closed them altogether.
How long is ten seconds? thought Woolly as Billy’s countdown took place. It is long enough to confirm that a heavyweight boxer has lost his bout. Long enough to announce the arrival of another new year. But it didn’t seem anywhere near long enough to remove a cork from the bottom of a bottle. And yet, and yet, at the very moment that Billy said One, with one hand Duchess thumped the empty bottle on the table, and with the other set the cork upright at its side.
With a gasp, Sally looked at Billy and Emmett and Woolly. And Billy looked at Woolly and Sally and Emmett. And Emmett looked at Billy and Woolly and Sally. Which is to say that everybody looked at everybody. Except for Duchess, who stared straight ahead with the inscrutable smile of a sphinx.
Then everyone was talking all at once. Billy was pronouncing it magic. And Sally was saying, I never! And Woolly was saying, Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. And Emmett, he wanted to see the bottle.
So Duchess passed the bottle around and everyone got to see that it was empty. Then Emmett suggested, rather skeptically, that there must have been two bottles and two corks, and Duchess had made the switch in his lap. So everyone looked under the table and Duchess turned around with his arms extended, but there was no second bottle to be found.
Now everyone was talking again, asking Duchess to show them how he di
d it. Duchess replied that a magician never reveals his secrets. But after a proper amount of pleading and prodding, he agreed to do so, nonetheless.
—What you do, he explained after returning the cork to the bottom of the bottle, is take your napkin, slide the folded corner into the bottle’s neck like so, toss the cork until it lands in the trough of the fold, then gently withdraw.
Sure enough, as Duchess gently pulled, the folded napkin corner wrapped around the cork, drew it through the neck, and liberated it from the bottle with a satisfying pop.
—Let me try, said Billy and Sally at once.
—Let’s all try! suggested Woolly.
Bounding from his chair, Woolly dashed through the kitchen into the pantry where “Dennis” stored his wine. Grabbing three bottles of vino rosso, he brought them into the kitchen, where Duchess pulled the corks so that Woolly could pour the contents down the drain.
Back in the dining room, Billy, Emmett, Sally, and Woolly each forced their own corks down into their own bottles and folded their own napkins as Duchess circled the table giving helpful instructions.
—Fold it a little more at the corner like this. . . . Toss the cork up a little more like that. . . . Get it to rest a little deeper in the trough. Now pull, but gently.
Pop, pop, pop went Sally’s, and Emmett’s, and Billy’s corks.
Then everyone looked to Woolly, a circumstance which generally made Woolly want to get up and leave the room. But not after dining on artichokes and Fettuccine Mio Amore with four of his closest friends. Not tonight!
—Hold on, hold on, he said. I’ve got it, I’ve got it.
Biting the tip of his tongue, Woolly jostled and coaxed, then ever so, ever so gently he began to tug. And as he tugged, everyone around the table, even Duchess, held their breath until the moment that Woolly’s cork went pop and they all erupted into a great round of hurrahs!