Страница 122 из 147
It was still only a little after seven in the morning, and once Da
A Kris Kristofferson song from the seventies was playing on the radio. Da
This could be our last good night together; We may never pass this way again .
When Ketchum steered the truck south on Route 16, with the Androscoggin now ru
“Shit, Da
“My goodness, Mr. Ketchum-” Carmella started to say, but Da
“Why the left hand, Ketchum?” Da
“Shit, Da
Da
“Shit-I promised your mom, too!” Ketchum shouted.
Da
Sometimes, especially when Ketchum was drunk, Da
Now they drove alongside the Androscoggin in silence, before Da
“My left hand is my good hand!” Ketchum cried.
Carmella cleared her throat; it might have been the awful bear smell. Without turning her head to look at either of them, but speaking instead to the dashboard of the truck-or perhaps to the silent radio-Carmella said: “Please tell us the story, Mr. Ketchum.”
CHAPTER 15. MOOSE DANCING
IT WAS NO SURPRISE TO DANNY THAT THE STORY OF KETCHUM’S left hand was not immediately forthcoming. By the time the truck passed the Pontook Reservoir-and Da
“Are we going to Paris, for some reason?” the writer asked.
“ West Dummer,” Ketchum corrected him, “or what’s left of it.”
“Does anyone call it West Dummer anymore?” Da
“I do,” Ketchum answered.
Crossing the new bridge over Phillips Brook, they went the way young Dan had gone to school when Injun Jane was driving him. Long ago, it had seemed a never-ending trip from Twisted River to Paris; now the time and the road flew by, but not the bear smell.
“Don’t get your balls crossed about it, Da
It’s probable that Carmella was simply fighting nausea; the combination of the rough surface of the dirt road with the rank smell in the truck’s cab must have made her feel sick. Da
Even with a stick shift, Ketchum managed to drive right-handed. He stuck his left elbow out the driver’s-side window, with the fingers of his left hand making only coincidental contact with the steering wheel; Ketchum clenched the wheel tightly in his right hand. When he needed to shift gears, his right hand sought the navel-high knob on the long, bent stick shift-in the area of Carmella’s knees. Ketchum’s left hand tentatively took hold of the steering wheel, but for no longer than the second or two that his right was on the gearshift.
Ketchum’s driving was a fairly fluid process, as seemingly natural and unpla
“Why didn’t you put the bear in the back of the pickup?” Da
“I was in Maine, remember?” Ketchum said. “I shot the bear in New Hampshire, but I had to drive in and out of Maine. I have New Hampshire plates on my truck. If the bear had been in the back of my pickup, some game warden or a Maine state trooper would have stopped me. I have a New Hampshire hunting license,” Ketchum explained.
“Where was Hero?” Da
“Hero was in the back of the pickup-he was bleeding all over,” Ketchum said. “Live critters bleed more than dead ones, because their hearts are still pumping,” the old logger told Carmella, who appeared to be suppressing a gag reflex. “I just buckled the bear in your seat belt, Da
Ketchum would have sat up taller in the cab than the dead bear, Da
“Hell, I wiped the bear blood off the seat,” the river driver was saying, as the truck pulled into Paris. “I do wonder, though, how long the critter’s reek will last. Bears do smell something awful, don’t they?”
Ketchum dropped the truck down to first gear, his rough right hand briefly brushing one of Carmella’s knees. “I’m not trying to feel you up, Carmella,” the logger said to her. “I didn’t plan on my stick shift ending up between your legs! We’ll put Da