“Stay in Canada,” Ketchum told him. “If you’re living in a foreign country, you’ll see what’s true, and what isn’t true, back in the old U.S.A. -I mean, more clearly.”
“I know that’s what you think,” Danny said.
“The poor people in those towers-” Carmella started to say, but she stopped. Carmella was no match for Ketchum’s pessimism, either.
The three of them were in the bar at The Balsams, watching the TV at 4 P.M., when someone on CNN said there were “good indications” that the Saudi militant Osama bin Laden, who was suspected of coordinating the bombings of two U.S. embassies in 1998, was involved in the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon-this was based on “new and specific” information, meaning since the attacks.
An hour and a half later, after Ketchum had consumed four beers and three shots of bourbon, and when Danny was still drinking his third beer, CNN reported that U.S. officials said the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania could have been headed for one of three possible targets: Camp David, the White House, or the U.S. Capitol building.
Carmella, who was sipping only her second glass of red wine, said: “I’ll bet on the White House.”
“Do you really think I should marry Six-Pack?” Ketchum asked Danny.
“Just try living with her,” Danny suggested.
“Well, I did that-once,” the old riverman reminded him. “I can’t believe Six-Pack wanted to fuck Cookie!” Ketchum cried. Then, out of consideration for Carmella, he added: “Sorry.”
The three of them went into the dining room and ate an enormous meal. Danny kept drinking beer, to Ketchum’s disgust, but Ketchum and Carmella went through two bottles of red wine, and Carmella retired early. “It’s been a difficult day for me,” she told them, “but I want to thank you, Mr. Ketchum, for showing me the river-and for everything else.” Carmella was assuming that she wouldn’t see Ketchum in the morning, and she wouldn’t; even when he’d been drinking, Ketchum was an earlier and earlier riser. Both gentlemen offered to walk Carmella to her hotel room, but she wouldn’t hear of it; she left them in the dining room, where Ketchum immediately ordered another bottle of red wine.
“I’m not going to help you drink it,” Danny told him.
“I don’t need your help, Danny,” Ketchum said.
For a small person, which Danny was, the problem with drinking only beer was that he began to feel full before he felt drunk, but Danny was determined not to let Ketchum tempt him with the red wine. Danny still imagined that the red wine had played some role in the cowboy’s murder of his father. On the very day the cook’s ashes were scattered in Twisted River, Danny didn’t want to belittle the memory of that terrible night when Carl killed Danny’s dad, and Danny gave all three rounds of the 20-gauge to the cowboy.
“You’ve got to let yourself go, Danny,” Ketchum was saying. “Be more daring.”
“I’m a beer drinker, Ketchum-no red wine for me,” Danny told him.
“For Christ’s sake-I mean, as a writer!” Ketchum said.
“As a writer?” Danny asked.
“You keep skirting the darker subjects,” Ketchum told him. “You have a way of writing around the periphery of things.”
“I do?” Danny asked him.
“You do. You seem to be dodging the squeamish stuff,” Ketchum told him. “You’ve got to stick your nose in the worst of it, and imagine everything, Danny.”
At the time, this struck Danny as less in the spirit of literary criticism than it appeared to be a direct invitation to spend the night in the cab of Ketchum’s truck-or in the smokehouse with the skinned, smoking bear.
“What about the bear?” Danny suddenly asked the woodsman. “Won’t the fire in the smokehouse go out?”
“Oh, the bear will have smoked enough for now-I can start the fire up again tomorrow,” Ketchum told him impatiently. “There’s one more thing-well, okay, two things. First of all, you don’t seem to be a city person-not to me. I think the country is the place for you-I mean, as a writer,” Ketchum said more softly. “Secondly-though I would suggest this is more important-you have no need for the fucking nom de plume anymore. As I’m aware that the very idea of a pen name once affected you adversely, I think it’s time for you to take your own name back. Daniel always was your dad’s name for you, and I’ve heard you say, Danny, that Daniel Baciagalupo is a fine name for a writer. You’ll still be Danny to me, of course, but-once again, as a writer-you should be Daniel Baciagalupo.”
“I can guess what my publishers will say to that idea,” Danny said to the logger. “They’ll remind me that Danny Angel is a famous, best-selling author. They’re going to tell me, Ketchum, that an unknown writer named Daniel Baciagalupo won’t sell as many books.”
“I’m just telling you what’s good for you-as a writer,” Ketchum told him almost offhandedly.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” the writer said a little peevishly. “I should rename myself Daniel Baciagalupo; I should live in the country, in Canada; I should let myself go-that is, be more daring as a writer,” Danny dutifully recited.
“I think you’re catching on,” the logger told him.
“Is there anything else you would recommend?” Danny asked him.
“We’ve been an empire in decline since I can remember,” Ketchum said bluntly; he wasn’t kidding. “We are a lost nation, Danny. Stop farting around.”
The two men stared at each other, poised over what they were drinking-Danny forcing himself both to keep drinking and to continue looking at Ketchum. Danny loved the old logger so much, but Ketchum had hurt him; Ketchum was good at it. “Well, I look forward to seeing you for Christmas,” Danny said. “It won’t be that long now.”
“Maybe not this year,” Ketchum told him.
The writer knew he was risking a blow from Ketchum’s powerful right hand, but Danny reached for the logger’s left hand and held it against the table. “Don’t-just don’t,” Danny said to him, but Ketchum easily pulled his hand away.
“Just do your job, Danny,” the old river driver told him. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
VI. POINTE AU BARIL STATION, ONTARIO, 2005
CHAPTER 16. LOST NATION
FOR THREE WINTERS NOW, THE WRITER DANIEL BACIAGALUPO-who’d reclaimed the name that the cook and Cousin Rosie had given him-spent the months of January and February, and the first two weeks of March, on Turner Island in Georgian Bay. The island still belonged to Charlotte, the onetime love of Danny’s life, but Charlotte and her family had no desire to set foot on the frozen lake or those frigid, snow-covered rocks in the heart of the winter, when they lived happily in Los Angeles.
Danny had actually improved the place-not only according to Ketchum’s standards. Andy Grant had taped heated electrical cables to the waste lines that were used during the winter. These same pipes were also wrapped with a foil insulation and covered with an ice-and-water membrane. Danny could have had running hot water by applying similar heat-line and insulation methods to the water pipe running to the bay, but Andy would have had to do a lot more work-not to mention move the hot-water heater inside the main cabin to ensure that those pipes wouldn’t freeze. It was simpler for Danny to chop a hole in the ice on the lake, and carry the water from the bay in a bucket. This amounted to a lot of chopping and carrying, but-as Ketchum would have said-so what?
There wasn’t just the ice-chopping; there was a lot of wood to cut. (Ketchum’s chainsaw was a big help.) In the ten weeks Danny was there, he cut all the wood he would need the following winter-with enough left over for Charlotte and her family to use on those summer nights when it was cool enough to have a fire.