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“How can it be nobody’s fault?” the twelve-year-old asked.
“It’s my fault, then,” his dad told him. “It will never be your fault, Daniel. It’s all mine. And it was an accident.”
Of course the cook was thinking about Constable Carl; in the constable’s world, there was no such thing as a no-fault accident. In the cowboy’s mind, if you could call it that, good intentions didn’t count. You can’t save yourself, but you can save your son, Dominic Baciagalupo was thinking. (And for how many years might the cook manage to save them both?)
For so long, Da
“Of course you did, Daniel-I know you did.”
“Were you do-si-doing her?” the twelve-year-old asked.
“Yes,” his father answered. “I loved Jane, too. Just not like I loved your mom,” he added. Why was it necessary for him to say that? the cook asked himself guiltily. Dominic had truly loved Jane; he must have been yielding to the fact that there was no time to grieve for her.
“What happened to your lip?” the boy asked his dad.
“Six-Pack smacked me with her elbow,” the cook answered.
“Were you do-si-doing Six-Pack, too?” his son asked him.
“No, Daniel. Jane was my girlfriend-just Jane.”
“What about Constable Carl?” young Dan asked.
“We have a lot to do, Daniel,” was all his dad would tell him. And they didn’t have a lot of time, the cook knew. Before long, it would be light outside; they had to get started.
IN THE CONFUSION and sheer clumsiness that followed, and in their frantic haste, the cook and his son would find a multitude of reasons to relive the night of their departure from Twisted River -though they would remember the details of their forced exit differently. For young Dan, the monumental task of dressing the dead woman-not to mention bringing her body down the cookhouse stairs, and toting her to her truck-had been herculean. Nor did the boy at first understand why it was so important to his father that Jane be correctly dressed-that is, exactly as she would have dressed herself. Nothing missing, nothing awry. The straps to her stupendous bra could not be twisted; the waistband of her mammoth boxer shorts could not be rolled under; her socks could not be worn inside out.
But she’s dead! What does it matter? Da
As for Dominic, he would forever be grateful to Ketchum-for it was Ketchum who’d acquired a dolly for the cookhouse, on one of his drunken binges in Maine. The dolly was useful in unloading the dry goods from the trucks, or the cases of olive oil and maple syrup-even egg cartons, and anything heavy.
The cook and his son had strapped Jane onto the dolly; thus they were able to bring her down the cookhouse stairs in a semi-upright position, and wheel her standing (almost straight) to her truck. However, the dolly had been no help getting Injun Jane into the cab, which the cook would later recall as the “herculean” part of the task-or one herculean part, among several.
As for the instrument of death, Dominic Baciagalupo would pack the eight-inch cast-iron skillet among his most cherished kitchen items-namely, his favorite cookbooks, because the cook knew he had no time, and scant room, to pack his kitchenware. The other pots and pans would stay behind; the rest of the cookbooks, and all the novels, Dominic would leave for Ketchum.
Da
The cook’s car was a 1952 Pontiac station wagon-the so-called semiwoodie Chieftain Deluxe. They’d made the last real “woodie” in 1949; the semiwoodie had fake wooden panels outside, offset against the maroon exterior, and real wood inside. The interior had maroon leather upholstery, too. Because of Dominic’s lame left foot, the Pontiac Chieftain Deluxe came with automatic transmission-in all likelihood making it the only vehicle with automatic transmission in the settlement of Twisted River -which made it possible for Da
Considering the contingencies of their escape from Twisted River, it was a good thing that Da
Of course, Dominic’s maroon semiwoodie was the only car of its kind in town. The ’52 Pontiac Chieftain might not pass u
“Are you crazy?” Da
“So the drunken cowboy will wake up in the morning and think he did it,” the cook told his son.
“What if Constable Carl is awake when we get there?” the boy asked.
“That’s why we have a back-up plan, Daniel,” his dad said.
A misty, almost imperceptible rain was falling. The long maroon hood of the Chieftain Deluxe glistened. The cook wet his thumb on the hood; he reached inside the open driver’s-side window and rubbed the spot of dried blood off his son’s forehead. Remembering his goodnight kiss, Dominic Baciagalupo knew whose blood it was; he hoped it hadn’t been the last kiss he would give Daniel, and that no more blood (not anyone’s blood) would touch his boy tonight.
“I just follow you, right?” young Dan asked his dad.
“That’s right,” the cook said, the back-up plan foremost in his mind as he climbed into the cab of Jane’s truck, where Jane was slumped against the passenger-side door. Jane wasn’t bleeding, but Dominic was glad that he couldn’t see the bruise on her right temple. Jane’s hair had fallen forward, covering her face; the contusion (it was swollen to the size of a baseball) was pressed against the passenger-side window.
They drove, a caravan of two, to the flat-roofed, two-story hostelry where Six-Pack was renting what passed for a second-floor apartment. In the rearview mirror of Jane’s truck, the cook had only a partial view of his son’s small face behind the wheel of the ’52 Pontiac. The Chieftain’s exterior visor resembled that of a baseball cap pulled low over the windshield-eyes of the eight-cylinder station wagon with its shark-toothed grille and aggressive hood ornament.