When Danny got up (before his dad), he found the note Ketchum had left on the kitchen table. To Danny’s surprise, it was neatly typed. Ketchum had gone up to the third-floor writing room and used the typewriter there, but Danny hadn’t heard the creaking of the floor above his bedroom-he hadn’t heard the stairs creak, either. Both he and the cook had slept through the sound of the typewriter, too-not a good sign, the old logger could have told them. But Ketchum’s note said nothing about that.
I’VE SEEN ENOUGH OF YOU FELLAS FOR A TIME! I MISS MY DOG, AND I’M GOING TO SEE HIM. BY THE TIME I’M BACK HOME, I’LL BE MISSING YOU, TOO! EASY ON THE RED WINE, DANNY. KETCHUM.
Carl was happy to see Ketchum’s truck leave. The cowboy must have been growing impatient, but he waited for the Mexican cleaning woman to come and go; that way, the deputy had no doubt. With the guest bedroom empty-Lupita had made it up as good as new-Carl was convinced that Ketchum wasn’t coming back. Yet the cowboy had to wait another night.
The cook and his son ate their dinner at home on the evening of December 27. Dominic had found a kielbasa sausage in the meat market and had browned it in olive oil, and then stewed it with chopped fennel and onions and cauliflower in a tomato sauce with crushed fennel seeds. The cook served the stew with a warm, fresh loaf of rosemary-and-olive bread, and a green salad.
“Ketchum would have liked this, Pop,” Danny said.
“Ah, well-Ketchum is a good man,” Dominic said, to his son’s amazement.
Not knowing how to respond, Danny attempted to further compliment the kielbasa stew; he suggested it might make a suitable addition to the more bistro-like or low-key menu at Kiss of the Wolf.
“No, no,” the cook said dismissively. “Kielbasa is too rustic-even for Kiss of the Wolf.”
All Danny said was: “It’s a good dish, Dad. You could serve it to royalty, I think.”
“I should have made it for Ketchum-I never made it for him,” was all Dominic said.
THE COOK’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE, he ate with his beloved Daniel at a Portuguese place near Little Italy. The restaurant was called Chiado; it was one of Dominic’s favorites in Toronto. Arnaud had introduced him to it when they’d both been working downtown on Queen Street West. That Thursday night, December 28, both Danny and his dad had the rabbit.
During Ketchum’s Christmas visit, it had snowed and it had rained-everything had frozen and thawed, and then it all froze again. By the time the cook and his son took a taxi home from Chiado, it had started to snow once more. (Dominic didn’t like to drive downtown.) The imprints of the cowboy’s footsteps in the crusty old snow on the outdoor fire escape were faint and hard to see in the daylight; now that it was dark, and snowing, Carl’s tracks were completely covered. The ex-cop had taken off his parka and his boots. He’d stretched out on the couch in Danny’s third-floor writing room with the Colt.45 revolver clasped to his chest-in the scenario he’d imagined, the old sheriff had no need of a holster.
The voices of the cook and his writer son reached Carl from the kitchen, though we’ll never know if the cowboy understood their conversation.
“At fifty-eight, you should be married, Daniel. You should be living with your wife, not your father,” the cook was saying.
“And what about you, Pop? Wouldn’t a wife be good for you?” Danny asked.
“I’ve had my opportunities, Daniel. At seventy-six, I would embarrass myself with a wife-I would always be apologizing to her!” Dominic said.
“For what?” Danny asked his dad.
“Occasional incontinence, perhaps. Farting, certainly-not to mention talking in my sleep,” the cook confided to his son.
“You should find a wife who’s hard of hearing-like Ketchum,” Danny suggested. They both laughed; the cowboy had to have heard their laughter.
“I was being serious, Daniel-you should at least have a regular girlfriend, a true companion,” Dominic was saying, as they came up the stairs to the second-floor hall. Even from the third floor, Carl could have singled out the distinguishing sounds of the cook’s limp on the stairs.
“I have women friends,” Danny started to say.
“I’m not talking about groupies, Daniel.”
“I don’t have groupies, Pop-not anymore.”
“Young fans, then. Remember, I’ve read your fan mail-”
“I don’t answer those letters, Dad.”
“Young-what are they called?-’editorial assistants,’ maybe? Young booksellers, too, Daniel… I’ve seen you with one or two. All those young people in publishing!”
“Young women are more likely to be unattached,” Danny pointed out to his dad. “Most women my age are married, or they’re widows.”
“What’s wrong with widows?” his father asked. (At that, they’d both laughed again-a shorter laugh this time.)
“I’m not looking for a permanent relationship,” Danny said.
“I can see that. Why?” Dominic wanted to know. They were at opposite ends of the second-floor hall, at the doorways to their respective bedrooms. Their voices were raised; surely the cowboy could hear every word.
“I’ve had my opportunities, too, Pop,” Danny told his dad.
“I just want all the best for you, Daniel,” the cook told him.
“You’ve been a good father-the best,” Danny said.
“You were a good father, too, Daniel-”
“I could have done a better job,” Danny quickly interjected.
“I love you!” Dominic said.
“I love you, too, Dad. Good night,” Danny said; he went into his bedroom and quietly closed the door.
“Good night!” the cook called from the hall. It was such a heartfelt blessing; it’s almost conceivable that the cowboy was tempted to wish them both a good night, too. But Carl lay unmoving above them, not making a sound.
Did the deputy wait as long as an hour after he’d heard them brush their teeth? Probably not. Did Danny once more dream about the windswept pine on Charlotte ’s island in Georgian Bay -specifically, the view of that hardy little tree from what had been his writing shack there? Probably. Did the cook, in his prayers, ask for more time? Probably not. Under the circumstances, and knowing Dominic Baciagalupo, the cook couldn’t have asked for much-that is, if he’d prayed at all. At best, Dominic might have expressed the hope that his lonely son “find someone”-only that.
Did the floorboards above them creak under the fat cowboy’s weight, once Carl decided to make his move? Not that they heard; or, if Danny heard anything at all, he might have happily imagined (in his sleep) that Joe was home from Colorado.
Not knowing how dark it might be in the house at night, the cowboy had tested those stairs from the third-floor writing room with his eyes closed; he’d counted the number of steps in the second-floor hall to the cook’s bedroom door, too. And Carl knew where the light switch was-just inside the door, right next to the eight-inch cast-iron skillet.
As it turned out, Danny always left a light on-on the stairs from the kitchen to the second-floor hall, so there was plenty of light in the hall. The cowboy, slipping silently in his socks, padded down the hallway to the cook’s bedroom and opened the door. “Surprise, Cookie!” Carl said, flicking on the light. “It’s time for you to die.”
Maybe Danny heard that; perhaps he didn’t. But his dad sat up in bed-blinking his eyes in the sudden, white light-and the cook said, in a very loud voice, “What took you so long, you moron? You must be dumber than a dog turd, cowboy-just like Jane always said.” (Without a doubt, Danny heard that.)
“You little shit, Cookie!” Carl cried. Danny heard that, too; he was already kneeling on the floor, pulling the Winchester out of the open case under his bed.