Last Night in Twisted River (68 page)

“His most symbolic undertaking,” another critic had commented.

There was no telling what Ketchum might have said about the
symbolic
word, Danny knew, but the writer didn’t doubt what the fearless riverman would have
thought:
Symbolism and subtlety
and
restraint added up to “dodging the squeamish stuff,” which Ketchum had already criticized Danny for.

And would the old logger have liked how Danny answered the repeated political questions he was asked during the promotional trips he took to publicize
In the After-Hours Restaurant?
(In 2005, the novelist was still answering political questions—and there were a few translation trips for
In the After-Hours Restaurant
yet to come.)

“Yes, it’s true—I continue to live in Canada, and will continue to live here,” Danny had said, “though the reason for my leaving the United States has been, as an old friend of my family once put it,
removed.”
(It had been Ketchum, of course, who’d used the
removed
word in reference to the deceased cowboy—more than once.)

“No, it’s
not
true that I am ‘politically opposed,’ as you say, to living in the U.S.,” Danny had said, many times, “and—just because I live in Canada, and I’m a Canadian citizen—I do
not
intend to stop writing about Americans, or about behavior I associate with being an American. It could even be argued that living in a foreign country—especially in Canada, which is right across the border—enables me to see America more clearly, or at least from a slightly less American perspective.” (Ketchum would certainly have recognized the writer’s sources for
that
answer, though the combative woodsman wouldn’t necessarily have appreciated how tactful Danny usually was in answering those questions regarding the novelist’s political opposition to his country of birth.)

“It’s too soon to say,” the writer was always saying—in response to how the attacks of September 11, and President Bush’s retaliation to those attacks, had
affected
the United States; in response to where the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were
headed;
in response to whether or not Canada would be
dragged into
a recession, or a depression. (Because the U.S. was fast approaching one, or both, wasn’t it? From the Canadian journalists, that was generally the implication.)

It was going on four years since Ketchum had called the United States “an empire in decline;” what might the old logger have called the country now? In Canada, the questions Danny was asked were increasingly political. Most recently, it had been someone at the
Toronto Star
who’d asked Danny a battery of familiar questions.

Wasn’t it true that the United States was “hopelessly overextended, militarily”? Wasn’t the federal government “wallowing under massive debt”? And would the writer care to comment on America’s “belligerent, warmongering nature”? Wasn’t the bestselling author’s “former country,” as the Canadian journalist referred to the United States, “in decay”?

For how much longer, Danny wondered, would the answers to these and other insinuating questions fall into the too-soon-to-say category? The writer knew that he couldn’t get away with that answer forever. “I am a slow processor—I mean, as a
writer,”
Danny liked to preface his remarks. “And I’m a
fiction
writer—meaning that I won’t ever write
about
the September Eleventh attacks, though I may use those events, when they’re not so current, and then only in the context of a story of my own devising.” (The combined evasiveness and vagueness of
that
cautious manifesto might have elicited from Ketchum something along the lines of the embattled woodsman’s mountains-of-moose-shit expletive.)

After all, Danny was on record for saying that the 2000 U.S. election—the one Bush “stole” from Gore—was, indeed, a “theft.” How could the writer
not
comment on the 2004 version, when Bush had beaten John Kerry with questionable tactics and for the worst of all reasons? In Danny’s view, John Kerry had been a hero twice—first in the war in Vietnam, later in his protests against it. Yet Kerry was viewed with disfavor by America’s bully patriots, who were either stupid or stubborn enough to
still
be defending that misbegotten war.

What Danny had said to the media was that his so-called former country occasionally made him remember and appreciate Samuel Johnson’s oft-quoted “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” Regrettably, that wasn’t all Danny said. In some instances, sounding like Ketchum, the writer had gone on to say that in the case of the 2004 U.S. election, the
scoundrel was
not only George W. Bush; it was every dumber-than-dog-shit American voter who’d believed that John Kerry wasn’t
patriotic
enough to be the U.S. president.

Those remarks would be repeated—especially that bit about the “bully patriots,” not to mention singling out “every dumber-than-dog-shit American voter.” The novelist Daniel Baciagalupo had indeed written and published eight novels under the nom de plume of Danny Angel, and Danny and his father had fled the United States and come to Canada—an act of emigration to evade a madman who wanted to kill them, a crazy ex-cop who eventually
did
kill Danny’s dad—but the way it appeared to most of the world was that Daniel Baciagalupo had chosen to
stay
in Canada for political reasons.

As for Danny, he was getting tired of denying it; also, sounding like Ketchum was easier. Danny, pretending to be Ketchum, had commented on a recent poll: Twice as many Americans had expressed more unrestrained loathing at the prospect of gay marriage than they’d registered even mild anxiety about the outcome of the war in Iraq. “Bush’s regressive gay-bashing is reprehensible,” the writer had said. (A comment like that further contributed to Danny’s political reputation; sounding like Ketchum was very quotable.)

On the refrigerator in his Toronto kitchen, Danny had compiled a list of questions for Ketchum. But they didn’t look like a list; they hadn’t been assembled in an orderly way. There were many small scraps of paper taped to the fridge. Because Danny had dated each note, the recorded information on the door of the refrigerator resembled a kind of calendar of how the war in Iraq was proceeding. Soon the fridge would be covered.

Even the most anti-American of the writer’s Canadian friends found his refrigerator politics a futile and juvenile exercise. (It was also a waste of Scotch tape.) And the same year
In the After-Hours Restaurant
was published, 2002, Danny had gotten in the habit of listening on the radio to a patriotic country-music station in the States. Danny could find the channel only late at night; he suspected that the signal was clearest when the wind was blowing north across Lake Ontario.

Did Danny do this to make himself angry at his
former
country? No, not at all; it was
Ketchum’s
response to the crappy country music Danny wished he could hear. The writer longed to hear the old logger say, “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with dumb-shit patriotism—it’s delusional! It signifies nothing but the American need to
win.”
Might not Ketchum have said something like that?

And now, with the war in Iraq almost two years old, wouldn’t Ketchum also have railed that the majority of Americans were so poorly informed that they failed to see that this war was a
distraction
from the so-called war against terror—not a furtherance of that avowed war?

Danny had no quarrel with seeking out and destroying al-Qaeda—“Seek out and destroy fucking Hamas and Hezbollah while you’re at it!” Ketchum had thundered—but Saddam’s Iraq had been a
secular
tyranny. Did most Americans understand the distinction? Until we went there, there’d been no al-Qaeda in Iraq, had there? (It didn’t take much for Danny to be over his head, politically; he wasn’t as sure of himself as Ketchum had been. Danny didn’t read as much, either.)

What would the raging woodsman from Coos County have said about the United States declaring an end to “major combat operations” in Iraq in May 2003—less than two months after the war had begun? It was tempting to wonder.

The questions for Ketchum on Danny’s refrigerator may have been a reminder of the war’s folly, but the writer had to wonder why he’d bothered to keep such an overobvious account; it served Danny no purpose, other than to depress him.

To the separate but similar-sounding denials by U.S. secretary of state Colin Powell and British prime minister Tony Blair—who swore in May 2003 that intelligence about Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction was neither distorted nor exaggerated in order to justify the attack on Iraq—Danny could imagine Ketchum saying, “Show me the weapons, fellas!”

At times, Danny recited the questions for Ketchum to the dog. (“Even the dog,” Ketchum might have quipped, “is smart enough to know where this war is headed!”)

Daniel Baciagalupo would be sixty-three this coming mud season. He was a man who’d lost his only child and his father, and he lived alone—not to mention that he was a
writer
. Naturally, Danny
would
talk and read aloud to the dog.

As for Hero, he seemed unsurprised by Danny’s somewhat eccentric behavior. The former bear hound was used to being spoken to; it usually beat getting mauled by a bear.

THE DOG WAS OF INDETERMINATE AGE.
Ketchum had been vague about how old this particular Hero was—meaning how many generations were descended from that
first
“fine animal,” which the current Hero represented. There were more gray hairs on Hero’s muzzle than Danny remembered, but the Walker bluetick’s mottled-white and bluish-gray coat made the gray hairs of
age
harder to distinguish. And that Hero was lame was not only an indication that the dog was advanced in years; the claw wounds from the bear-mauling had healed long ago, though the scars were very visible, and that hip, where the bear had clawed Hero, suffered from some joint damage. The mangled, mostly missing ear had also healed, but the scar tissue was black and furless.

Most disconcerting to anyone encountering Hero for the first time was that the veteran bear hound was missing an eyelid—on the opposite side of the dog’s fierce face from his mangled ear. The eyelid was lost in Hero’s last confrontation with Six-Pack’s German shepherd, though—according to Pam—Hero had gained the upper hand in the dogs’ final, kennel-clearing fight. Six-Pack was forced to put the shepherd down. She’d never held it against Hero, however; by Pam’s own account, the two dogs had always and sincerely hated each other.

To the writer, the battle-scarred bear hound was a living replica of Coos County, where lethal hatreds were generally permitted to run their course. (As elsewhere, Danny considered—whenever he happened to glance at the questions for Ketchum on his refrigerator door.)

In January 2004, the number of U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq since the start of the war had climbed to five hundred. “Hell, five hundred is nothing—it’s just getting started,” Danny could imagine the old logger saying. “We’ll be up to five
thousand
in just a few more years, and some asshole will be telling us that peace and stability are right around the corner.”

“What do you think about that, Hero?” Danny had asked the dog, who’d pricked up his one ear at the question. “Wouldn’t our mutual friend have been entertaining on the subject of this war?”

Danny could tell when the dog was really listening, or when Hero was actually asleep. The eye without the eyelid followed you when Hero was only pretending to sleep, but when the dog was truly dead to the world, the pupil and the iris of the constantly open eye traveled somewhere unseen; the cloudy-white orb stared blankly.

The onetime bear hound slept on a zippered dog bed stuffed with cedar chips in the Toronto kitchen. Contrary to Danny’s earlier opinion, Ketchum’s stories of Hero’s farting
hadn’t
been exaggerated. On the dog bed, Hero’s preferred chew toy was the old sheath for Ketchum’s biggest Browning knife—the one-footer that the riverman used to stash over the sun visor on the driver’s side of his truck. The sheath, which had absorbed the sharpening oil from Ketchum’s oilstone knife sharpener, was possibly still redolent of the slain bear that had once ridden in the cab of the truck; from the way Hero seemed neurotically attached to the lightly gnawed sheath, Danny understandably believed so.

The foot-long Browning knife itself proved to be less useful. Danny had taken the knife to a kitchen-supply store, where they’d tried unsuccessfully to resharpen it; Danny’s repeated efforts to rid the knife of any residue of Ketchum’s sharpening oil, by putting the knife in the dishwasher, had dulled the blade. Now the knife was dull
and
oily, and Danny had hung it in a most visible but unreachable part of his Toronto kitchen, where it resembled a ceremonial sword.

Ketchum’s guns were another matter. Danny hadn’t wanted them—not in Toronto. He’d given them to Andy Grant, with whom Danny went deer hunting every November. Killing Carl had made it easier for Danny to shoot deer, though he’d refused to fire a shotgun. (“Never again,” he’d said to Andy.) Danny used Ketchum’s Remington .30-06 Springfield instead. In a wooded area, even at reasonably close range, it was harder to hit a deer with that prized collectible, but the kick of the carbine—or the resonance of the short-barreled rifle’s discharge, in his ear—was different from what Danny remembered of the 20-gauge.

Andy Grant knew the Bayfield area like the back of his hand; he’d hunted there as a boy. But, for the most part, Andy took Danny deer hunting on what was more familiar terrain for Danny—that area west of Lost Tower Lake, between Payne’s Road and Shawanaga Bay. In the vicinity of the winter snowmobile portage, and sometimes within sight of the back dock on Charlotte’s island, was a natural runway—a virtual game path for deer. That way, every November, Danny could look across the gray water at his winter destination. There were places on the mainland, overlooking Shawanaga Bay, where you could see the back dock on Turner Island—even the roof of Granddaddy’s cabin, where Ketchum had once thrown the skin from that rattlesnake he’d shot.