Last Night In Twisted River

say, ‘Behind you!’”

Dominic finally freed his hands from her breasts; he lightly pushed himself away from her.

“I guess we’re not big enough for him, Dot,” May said sorrowfully. Something mean had entered her voice; the cook could hear it. I’m going to pay for the children-grandchildren remark, Dominic was thinking. “Or maybe we’re just not Injun enough,” May said.

The cook didn’t so much as look at her; the other kitchen helpers, even Dot, had turned away. May was defiantly patting the lamb hash flat against the griddle with the spatula. Dominic reached around her and turned the griddle off. He touched his fingers to the small of her back as he passed behind her. “Let’s pack up, ladies,” he said, almost the same way he usually said it. “You and May can pack the meals to the river-men,” the cook told Dot. “The rest of us will drive till we find the loggers on the haul road.” He didn’t speak to May, or look at her.

“So Dot and I do all the walkin’?” May asked him.

“You should walk more than you do,” Dominic said, still not looking at her. “Walking’s good for you.”

“Well, I made the damn BLTs-I guess I can carry them,” Dot said.

“Take the lamb hash with you, too,” the cook told her.

Someone asked if there were any “ultra-Catholic” French Canadians among the river drivers; maybe Dot and May should pack some of the chickpea soup to the river site, too.

“I’m not carryin’ soup on my back,” May said.

“The mackerel-snappers can pick the bacon out of the BLTs,” Dot suggested.

“I don’t think there are any mackerel-snappers among these river-men,” Dominic said. “We’ll take the chickpea soup and the venison stew to the loggers on the haul road. If there are any angry Catholics among the river drivers, tell them to blame me.”

“Oh, I’ll tell them to blame you, all right,” May told him. She kept staring at him, but he wouldn’t once look at her. When they were going their separate ways, May said: “I’m too big for you to ignore me, Cookie.”

“Just be glad I’m ignoring you, May,” he told her.

THE COOK HAD NOT expected to see Ketchum among the loggers loading the trucks on the haul road; even injured, Ketchum was a better river driver than any of the men on the river site. “That moron doctor told me not to get the cast wet,” Ketchum explained.

“Why would you get the cast wet?” Dominic asked him. “I’ve never seen you fall in.”

“Maybe I saw enough of the river yesterday, Cookie.”

“There’s venison stew,” one of the kitchen helpers was telling the loggers.

There’d been an accident with one of the horses, and another accident with the tractor-powered jammer. Ketchum said that one of the French Canadians had lost a finger unloading logs from a log brow, too.

“Well, it’s Friday,” Dominic said, as if he expected accidents among fools on a Friday. “There’s chickpea soup for those of you who care that it’s Friday,” the cook announced.

Ketchum noted his old friend’s impatience. “What’s the matter, Cookie? What happened?” Ketchum asked him.

“Dot and May were just fooling around,” the cook explained. He told Ketchum what had happened-what May had said about Injun Jane, too.

“Don’t tell me-tell Jane,” Ketchum told him. “Jane will tear May a new asshole, if you tell her.”

“I know, Ketchum-that’s why I’m not telling her.”

“If Jane had seen Dot holding your hands on her tits, she would have already torn Dot a new asshole, Cookie.”

Dominic Baciagalupo knew that, too. The world was a precarious place; the cook didn’t want to know the statistics regarding how many new assholes were being torn every minute. In his time, Ketchum had torn many; he would think nothing of tearing a few more.

“There’s roast chicken tonight, with stuffing and scalloped potatoes,” Dominic told Ketchum.

Ketchum looked pained to hear it. “I have a date,” the big man said. “Just my luck to miss stuffed chicken.”

“A date?” the cook said with disgust. He never thought of Ketchum’s relationships- mainly, with the dance-hall women-as dates. And lately Ketchum had been seeing Six- Pack Pam. God only knew how much they could drink together! Dominic Baciagalupo thought. Having saved her, the cook had a soft spot for Six-Pack, but he sensed that she didn’t like him much; maybe she resented being saved.

“Are you still seeing Pam?” Dominic asked his hard-drinking friend.

But Ketchum didn’t want to talk about it. “You should be concerned that May knows about you and Jane, Cookie. Don’t you think you should be a little worried?”

Dominic turned his attention to where the kitchen helpers were, and what they were doing; they had set up a folding table by the side of the haul road. There were propane burners in the wanigan; the burners kept the soup and the stew hot. There were big bowls and spoons on the folding table; the loggers went into the wanigan, each with a bowl and a spoon in hand. The women served them in the wanigan.

“You don’t look worried enough, Cookie,” Ketchum told him. “If May knows about Jane, Dot knows. If Dot knows, every woman in your kitchen knows. Even I know, but I don’t give a shit about it.”

“I know. I appreciate it,” Dominic said.

“My point is, how long before Constable Carl knows? Speaking of assholes,” Ketchum said. He rested his heavy cast on the cook’s shoulder. “Look at me, Cookie.” With his good hand, Ketchum pointed to his forehead-at the long, livid scar. “My head’s harder than yours, Cookie. You don’t want the cowboy to know about you and Jane-believe me.”

Who’s your date? Dominic Baciagalupo almost asked his old friend, just to change the subject. But the cook didn’t really want to know who Ketchum was screwing-especially if it wasn’t Six-Pack Pam.

Most nights, increasingly, when Jane went home, it was so late that Constable Carl had already passed out; the cowboy wouldn’t wake up until after she’d left for work in the morning. There was only the occasional trouble- mostly when Jane went home too early. But even a dumb drunk like the constable would eventually figure it out. Or one of the kitchen helpers would say something to her husband; the sawmill workers were not necessarily as fond of the cook and Injun Jane as the rivermen and the other loggers were.

“I get your point,” the cook said to Ketchum.

“Shit, Cookie,” Ketchum said. “Does Danny know about you and Jane?”

“I was going to tell him,” Dominic answered.

“Going to,” Ketchum said derisively. “Is that like saying you were going to wear a condom, or is that like wearing one?”

“I get your point,” the cook said again.

“Nine o’clock, Sunday morning,” Ketchum told him. Dominic could only guess that it was a date of two nights’ duration that Ketchum was having-more like a spree or a bender, maybe.

IN TWISTED RIVER, if there were nights the cook could have concealed from his son, they would have been Saturday nights, when the whoring around and drinking to excess were endemic to a community staking an improbable claim to permanence in such close proximity to a violent river-not to mention the people, who made a plainly perilous living and looked upon their Saturday nights as an indulgence they deserved.

Dominic Baciagalupo, who was both a teetotaler and a widower not in the habit of whoring around, was nonetheless sympathetic to the various self-destructions-in-progress he would witness on an average Saturday night. Maybe the cook revealed more disapproval for Ketchum’s behavior than he would ever show toward Twisted River ’s other louts and miscreants. Because Ketchum was no fool, perhaps the cook had less patience for Ketchum’s foolishness, but to a smart twelve-year-old-and Danny was both observant and smart-there appeared to be more than impatience motivating his father’s everlasting disappointment in Ketchum. And if Injun