Last Night In Twisted River

“Maybe Granddaddy built your inuksuk,” Da

“The rocks don’t fall down,” Charlotte said. “Granddaddy had nothing to do with our inuksuk. A native built it-it won’t ever fall down.”

“But what do they mean, exactly?” Da

“They imply origins, respect, endurance,” Charlotte answered, but this was too vague to satisfy the writer in Da

As for what an individual inuksuk meant-“Well, shit,” as Ketchum had said, “it seems to matter which Injun you ask.” (Ketchum believed that some inuksuit were nothing but meaningless heaps of rocks.)

Da

It was obvious, of course, which fool intruder Ketchum meant-an eighty-three-year-old retired deputy sheriff, all the way from fucking New Hampshire! “And the safety?” Da

The way the old logger put it was: “If the cowboy can hear the safety click off, he’s already too close to you.”

Da

“Just think of it,” Dominic had said to his son and Ketchum. “If Joe were alive, he would be in his mid-thirties-probably with a couple of kids of his own.”

“Joe would be older than Charlotte was when I first met her,” Da

“Actually, Daniel,” his father said, “Joe would be only a decade younger than you were-I mean, at the time Joe died.”

“Whoa! Stop this shit!” Ketchum cried. “And if Injun Jane were still alive, she’d be eighty-fucking-eight! I doubt she’d even be speaking to any of us-not unless we somehow managed to elevate our conversation.”

But the very next day, Ketchum had presented Da

True, Baby in the Road (as might be expected) was dedicated as follows: “My son, Joe-in memoriam.” It was the second dedication to Joe-the third, overall, in memoriam. Dominic found this depressing.

“I can’t help it if the people I know keep dying, Pop,” Da

All the while, Ketchum had continued to demonstrate the sliding action of the Winchester, the ejected shotgun shells flying all around. One of the live shells (a deer slug) would be lost for a time in the discarded wrapping paper for other Christmas presents, but Ketchum kept loading and unloading the weapon as if he were mowing down a horde of attackers.

“If we live long enough, we become caricatures of ourselves,” Da

IT WAS BOXING DAY in Canada. A writer Da

“Some fella from the CBC wanted me to go on a radio show,” Ketchum told Da

“Dear God,” Dominic said again.

“Just because you’re sober, don’t think you’re a good driver, Cookie-you best let Da

The cowboy could have killed them all that night, but Carl was a coward; he wouldn’t risk it, not with Ketchum in the house. The deputy didn’t know that the youth-model 20-gauge was under Da

Ketchum never lingered long in Toronto once Christmas was over. A pity he hadn’t brought Hero with him and then-for some reason-left the dog with the cook and his son after Ketchum went back across the border. Carl couldn’t have entered the house on Cluny Drive, or hidden himself in the third-floor writing room, if Hero, that fine animal, had been there. But the dog was in Coos County, staying with Six-Pack Pam-terrorizing her dogs, as it would turn out-and Ketchum left early the next morning for New Hampshire.

When Da

I’VE SEEN ENOUGH OF YOU FELLAS FOR A TIME! I MISS MY DOG, AND I’M GOING TO SEE HIM. BY THE TIME I’M BACK HOME, I’LL BE MISSING YOU, TOO! EASY ON THE RED WINE, DANNY. KETCHUM.

Carl was happy to see Ketchum’s truck leave. The cowboy must have been growing impatient, but he waited for the Mexican cleaning woman to come and go; that way, the deputy had no doubt. With the guest bedroom empty-Lupita had made it up as good as new-Carl was convinced that Ketchum wasn’t coming back. Yet the cowboy had to wait another night.

The cook and his son ate their di