“Leave me the dog-let me look after Hero,” Pam said to Ketchum. “They don’t take dogs at The Balsams-and you should stay the night there, Ketchum, ’cause you’ll be drinkin’.”
“Just so you’re paying,” Ketchum said to Danny.
“Of course I’m paying,” Danny said.
All the dogs had come in the dog door and were huddled in the kitchen. There’d been no more hollering-not since Ketchum had shouted, “A myriad!”-and the dogs were anxious about so many humans standing around in Six-Pack’s small kitchen without any yelling.
“Don’t get your balls crossed, Hero-I’ll be back tomorrow,” Ketchum told the bear hound. “You don’t have to work at the hospital tonight?” the former river driver asked Six-Pack.
“I can get out of it,” she told him disinterestedly. “They like me at the hospital.”
“Well, shit-I like you, too,” Ketchum told her awkwardly, but Six-Pack didn’t say anything; she’d seen her opportunity pass. All Pam could do was position her aching body between the two children (belonging to one of the young women) and that unreliable German shepherd; the dog was just plain bonkers. Six-Pack knew that her odds of preventing the shepherd from biting the kids were far better than the possibility that she could ever persuade Ketchum to live with her again. He’d even offered to pay for her hip replacement-at that fancy fucking hospital near Dartmouth-but Pam speculated that Ketchum’s generosity toward her damaged hip had more to do with the logger’s infinite regret that he’d not killed the cowboy than it served as a testimony to Ketchum’s enduring affection for her.
“Everybody out. I want my kitchen back-everybody out, now,” Six-Pack suddenly said; she didn’t want to break down in front of a bunch of strangers. All but one of Pam’s mutts, as Ketchum called them, sidled out the dog door before Six-Pack could say to them, “Not you.” But the dogs were used to the everybody-out command, and they moved more quickly than the two women with young children or old Henry, the former sawyer and double-digit amputee.
Paying no heed to Pam’s command, the lunatic German shepherd and Hero stood their ground; the dogs were engaged in a macho standoff, in opposite corners of the kitchen. “No more trouble from you two,” Pam said to them, “or I’ll beat the livin’ shit out of you.” But she’d already started to cry, and her voice lacked its customary firepower. The two dogs weren’t afraid of Six-Pack anymore; the dogs could sense when a fellow creature was defeated.
THE THREE OF THEM WERE RIDING in the bear-fouled truck again-Danny once more in the middle, and Carmella as close to the open passenger-side window as she could get-when Ketchum turned on the radio in the stinking cab. It wasn’t yet three o’clock in the afternoon, but Mayor Giuliani was having a press conference. Someone asked the mayor about the number of people killed, and Giuliani answered: “I don’t think we want to speculate about that-more than any of us can bear.”
“That sounds like a good guess,” Danny said.
“And you’re thinking about moving back here-isn’t that right?” Ketchum asked Danny suddenly. “Didn’t I hear you say that there was no real reason for you to stay in Canada -not anymore-and that you were inclined to come back to your own country? Weren’t you recently complaining to me that you didn’t really feel like a Canadian-and, after all, you were born here, you really are an American, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Danny answered; the writer knew enough to be careful with Ketchum’s line of questioning. “I was born here-I am an American. Becoming a Canadian citizen didn’t make me a Canadian,” Danny said more assertively.
“Well, that shows you how stupid I am-I’m just one of those slow fellas who believes what he reads,” the old riverman said slyly. “You know, Danny, I may have been a long time learning to read, but I read pretty well-and quite a lot-nowadays.”
“What are you driving at, Ketchum?” Danny asked him.
“I thought you were a writer,” Ketchum told him. “I read somewhere that you thought nationalism was ‘limiting.’ I believe you said something about all writers being ‘outsiders,’ and that you saw yourself as someone standing on the outside, looking in.”
“I did say that,” Danny admitted. “Of course, it was an interview-there was a context-”
“Fuck the context!” Ketchum shouted. “Who cares if you don’t feel like a Canadian? Who cares if you’re an American? If you’re a writer, you should be an outsider-you should stay on the outside, looking in.”
“An exile, you mean,” Danny said.
“Your country is going to the dogs-it has been, for some time,” Ketchum told him. “You can see it better, and write about it better, if you stay in Canada -I know you can.”
“We were attacked, Mr. Ketchum,” Carmella said weakly; her heart wasn’t in the argument. “Are we going to the dogs because we were attacked?”
“It’s what we make out of the attack that counts,” Ketchum told her. “How’s Bush going to respond? Isn’t that what matters?” the old logger asked Danny, but the writer was no match for Ketchum’s pessimism. Danny had always underestimated the former river driver’s capacity for following things through to their worst-possible conclusion.
“Stay in Canada,” Ketchum told him. “If you’re living in a foreign country, you’ll see what’s true, and what isn’t true, back in the old U.S.A. -I mean, more clearly.”
“I know that’s what you think,” Danny said.
“The poor people in those towers-” Carmella started to say, but she stopped. Carmella was no match for Ketchum’s pessimism, either.
The three of them were in the bar at The Balsams, watching the TV at 4 P.M., when someone on CNN said there were “good indications” that the Saudi militant Osama bin Laden, who was suspected of coordinating the bombings of two U.S. embassies in 1998, was involved in the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon-this was based on “new and specific” information, meaning since the attacks.
An hour and a half later, after Ketchum had consumed four beers and three shots of bourbon, and when Danny was still drinking his third beer, CNN reported that U.S. officials said the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania could have been headed for one of three possible targets: Camp David, the White House, or the U.S. Capitol building.
Carmella, who was sipping only her second glass of red wine, said: “I’ll bet on the White House.”
“Do you really think I should marry Six-Pack?” Ketchum asked Danny.
“Just try living with her,” Danny suggested.
“Well, I did that-once,” the old riverman reminded him. “I can’t believe Six-Pack wanted to fuck Cookie!” Ketchum cried. Then, out of consideration for Carmella, he added: “Sorry.”
The three of them went into the dining room and ate an enormous meal. Danny kept drinking beer, to Ketchum’s disgust, but Ketchum and Carmella went through two bottles of red wine, and Carmella retired early. “It’s been a difficult day for me,” she told them, “but I want to thank you, Mr. Ketchum, for showing me the river-and for everything else.” Carmella was assuming that she wouldn’t see Ketchum in the morning, and she wouldn’t; even when he’d been drinking, Ketchum was an earlier and earlier riser. Both gentlemen offered to walk Carmella to her hotel room, but she wouldn’t hear of it; she left them in the dining room, where Ketchum immediately ordered another bottle of red wine.
“I’m not going to help you drink it,” Danny told him.
“I don’t need your help, Danny,” Ketchum said.
For a small person, which Danny was, the problem with drinking only beer was that he began to feel full before he felt drunk, but Danny was determined not to let Ketchum tempt him with the red wine. Danny still imagined that the red wine had played some role in the cowboy’s murder of his father. On the very day the cook’s ashes were scattered in Twisted River, Danny didn’t want to belittle the memory of that terrible night when Carl killed Danny’s dad, and Danny gave all three rounds of the 20-gauge to the cowboy.