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Carmella nodded; she just looked out the passenger-side window at the Androscoggin. Maybe ten miles later, she said: “That’s a powerful-looking river.” Da
Ketchum had told Da
Ketchum had been worried about Carmella’s mobility in the woods. “I can drive us most of the way, but it will entail a little walking to get to the right place on the riverbank,” Ketchum had said.
In his mind’s eye, Da
“If, one day, you ever want to see the place where your boy perished, I would be honored to show you,” was how Ketchum had put it to her. Carmella had so wanted to see the river basin where the accident happened, but not the logs; she knew the logs would be too much for her. Just the riverbank, where her dear Gamba and young Dan had stood and seen it happen-and maybe the exact spot in the water where her one-and-only Angelù hadn’t surfaced. Yes, she might one day want to see that, Carmella had thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Ketchum,” she’d said that day, when the logger and the cook were leaving Boston. “If you ever want to see me-” Carmella had started to say to Dominic.
“I know,” the cook had said to her, but he wouldn’t look at her.
Now, on the occasion of Da
Yet on the long drive north, there’d been no bewailing her beloved Angelù-and only one comment from Carmella on the cook’s passing. “I lost my dear Gamba years ago, Secondo-now you’ve lost him, too!” Carmella had said, with tears in her eyes. But she’d quickly recovered herself; for the rest of the trip, Carmella gave Da
Carmella continued to refer to Dominic by his nickname, Gamba-just as she called Da
“Nonsense, Secondo-I suppose I was flattered,” Carmella told him in the car, with a dismissive wave of her plump hand. “I only worried that the sight of me would have a damaging effect on you-that you might be permanently attracted to fat, older women.”
Da
Like his dad, Da
“I wonder if you’re seeing someone now-someone special, that is,” Carmella said, after a pause of a mile or more.
“No one special,” Da
“If I can still count, you’re almost sixty,” Carmella told him. (Da
“I was, but she moved on,” Da
Carmella sighed. She had brought her melancholy with her in the car; what was melancholic about Carmella, together with her undefined disapproval of Da
“Besides,” Da
Carmella sighed again, as if to note (ambiguously) both her pleasure and displeasure-she was displeased by her failure to steer the conversation where she’d wanted it to go. The subject of what was wrong with Da
ALL THE WAY FROM BOSTON, he’d found Carmella’s conversation dull-the self-righteousness of her old age was depressing. She would lose her way in what she was saying, and then blame Da
Just then, in the high-contrast, late-afternoon light, they drove past the small sign for ANDROSCOGGIN TAXIDERMY. “My goodness-’Moose Antlers for Sale,’” Carmella said aloud, attempting to read more minutiae from the sign. (She’d said, “My goodness,” every minute of the drive north, Da
“Want to stop and buy a stuffed dead animal?” he asked her.
“Just so long as it’s before dark!” Carmella answered, laughing; she patted his knee affectionately, and Da