IT HAD BEEN a bitterly confusing morning for Six-Pack Pam, who liked to work in her garden early-even earlier than she fed the dogs or made coffee for herself, and while her hip lasted. First Ketchum had come and disrupted everything, in his inimitable fashion, and she’d put the sulfa powder on Hero’s wounds-all this before she fed her own dear dogs and made the coffee. It was because of Ketchum’s willful disruption of her day, and treating the wretched dog who’d been mauled by a bear, that Six-Pack had turned her television on a little later than usual, but she still turned the TV on soon enough.
Pam was thinking that it was partly her own fault: After all, she’d asked to see Danny and that Italian woman who’d been the cook’s lover-the Injun Jane replacement, as Six-Pack thought of Carmella. Pam had wanted to make her peace with them, but now she felt conflicted. The shock of Danny being almost thirty years older than his father had been-that is, when Six-Pack had last seen the little cook-was upsetting. And, having made her apologies to Danny and Carmella, Pam was only now realizing that it was Ketchum’s forgiveness she wanted; that was confusing, too. Moreover, treating Hero’s wounds had made her cry, as if they were Ketchum’s wounds she was impossibly trying to heal. It was exactly at this bewildering moment-at the height of her most bitter disappointment, or so Six-Pack imagined-when she turned on the TV.
The world was about to overwhelm her, too, but Six-Pack didn’t know that when she saw the wreckage caused by the first of the hijacked passenger jets; American Airlines Flight 11, flying out of Boston, had crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center, where the plane tore a gaping hole in the building and set it on fire. “It must have been a small plane,” someone on television said, but Six-Pack Pam didn’t think so.
“Does that look like a hole a small plane would leave, Hero?” Six-Pack asked the wounded Walker bluetick. The dog had his eye on Six-Pack’s male German shepherd; both dogs were under the kitchen table. The stoic bear hound didn’t respond to Pam’s question. (Living with Ketchum had made Hero overfamiliar with being spoken to; with Ketchum, the dog knew that no response was expected.)
Pam just kept watching the news about the plane crash. On the TV, it looked like a bright, sunny day in New York City, too-not the kind of day a pilot has a visibility problem, Six-Pack was thinking.
Six-Pack was regretting that she’d ever said she once “kinda fancied Cookie”-hadn’t that been how she’d put it? Pam could have kicked herself for saying that within Ketchum’s diminished hearing. Every time she thought their relationship was improving, if not exactly back on track, it seemed to Six-Pack that she said the dead-wrong thing-or that Ketchum did.
She’d left a lot of men, and had been left by them, but busting up with Ketchum had hit her the hardest-even when Six-Pack considered that leaving Carl had caused the cowboy to very nearly kill her. The deputy sheriff had raped her on a dock at night-at the Success Pond boat launch. Afterward a couple who had witnessed it had taken Pam to the Androscoggin Valley Hospital in Berlin, where she’d spent a few days recuperating. This had led to Six-Pack getting a job in the hospital, which she liked; she had a cleaning job, most nights, while her dogs were sleeping. Talking to some of the patients made Pam feel less sorry for herself. Printed in small, neat letters on her hospital uniform was the word SANITIZATION. Six-Pack doubted that many of the patients ever mistook her for a nurse, or a nurse’s aide, but she believed she was nevertheless a comfort to some of them-as they were to her.
Six-Pack Pam knew she would have to have her hip replaced, and every time the hip hurt her, she thought about the cowboy banging her on the dock-how he’d pushed her face against a boat cleat, which was what had given her the scar on her upper lip-but the worst of it was she’d told Ketchum that the woodsman really should kill Carl. This was the worst, because Six-Pack hadn’t known how strongly Ketchum believed that he should have killed the cowboy years ago. (And when the deputy sheriff shot Cookie, Ketchum’s self-recriminations never ceased.)
Pam was sorry, too, that she’d ever told Ketchum what Carl had done following that fatal collision on Route 110-this was out on the Berlin-Groveton road, where the highway ran alongside Dead River. Two teenagers who weren’t wearing their seat belts had slammed head-on into a turkey truck. The turkeys were already dead; they’d been “processed,” as they say in the turkey-farming business. The truck driver survived, but he’d suffered a neck injury and had briefly lost consciousness; when he came to, the driver was facing the two dead teenagers. The boy, who’d been driving, was run through by his steering column, and the girl, who was pinned in the passenger seat, had been decapitated. Carl was the first one from law enforcement on the scene, and-according to the turkey-truck driver-the cowboy had fondled the dead, decapitated girl.
Carl claimed that the truck driver was out of his head; after all, he’d snapped his neck and had blacked out, and when he came to, he was evidently hallucinating. But the cowboy had told Pam the truth. What did it matter that he’d played with the headless girl’s tits-she was dead, wasn’t she?
To which Ketchum had said-not for the first, or the last, time-“I should just kill that cowboy.”
Six-Pack now said to Hero and her German shepherd: “You two should stop eyeballin’ each other that way.” It was a little after nine in the morning-exactly eighteen minutes after the first passenger jet had hit the north tower-when the second hijacked airliner, United Airlines Flight 175 (also flying out of Boston), crashed into the south tower of the World Trade Center and exploded. Both buildings were burning when Six-Pack said to the assembled dogs, “Tell me that was another small plane, and I’ll ask you what you’ve been drinkin’ with your dog food.”
Hero tentatively licked some of the sulfa powder on his claw wounds, but the taste of it stopped the dog from licking further. “Don’t that taste special?” Pam asked the bear hound. “You lick that off, Hero, I’ve got more.”
In what appeared to be a calculated non sequitur, Hero lunged at the German shepherd; both dogs were going at it, under the kitchen table, before Six-Pack was able to separate them with the water pistol. She kept it loaded with dishwasher detergent and lemon juice, and she squirted both dogs in their eyes-they hated it. But it had hurt Pam’s hip to drop down on all fours and crawl under the kitchen table with the fighting dogs, and she was in no mood to listen to President Bush, who came on television at 9:30, speaking from Sarasota, Florida.
Six-Pack didn’t despise George W. Bush to the degree that Ketchum did, but she thought the president was a smirking twerp and a dumbed-down daddy’s boy, and she agreed with Ketchum’s assessment that Bush would be as worthless as wet crap in even the smallest crisis. If a fight broke out between two small dogs, for example, Ketchum claimed that Bush would call the fire department and ask them to bring a hose; then the president would position himself at a safe distance from the dogfight, and wait for the firemen to show up. The part Pam liked best about this assessment was that Ketchum said the president would instantly look self-important, and would appear to be actively involved-that is, once the firefighters and their hose arrived, and provided there was anything remaining of the mess the two dogs might have made of each other in the interim.
True to this portrait, President Bush said on TV that the country had suffered an “apparent terrorist attack.”
“Ya think?” Six-Pack asked the president on television. Characteristic of people who lived alone, discounting her dogs, Pam talked back to the people on TV-as if, like the dogs, the people on television could actually hear her.