—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 not 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.