—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.