THE THREE OF THEM WERE RIDING in the bear-fouled truck again-Danny once more in the middle, and Carmella as close to the open passenger-side window as she could get-when Ketchum turned on the radio in the stinking cab. It wasn’t yet three o’clock in the afternoon, but Mayor Giuliani was having a press conference. Someone asked the mayor about the number of people killed, and Giuliani answered: “I don’t think we want to speculate about that-more than any of us can bear.”
“That sounds like a good guess,” Danny said.
“And you’re thinking about moving back here-isn’t that right?” Ketchum asked Danny suddenly. “Didn’t I hear you say that there was no real reason for you to stay in Canada -not anymore-and that you were inclined to come back to your own country? Weren’t you recently complaining to me that you didn’t really feel like a Canadian-and, after all, you were born here, you really are an American, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Danny answered; the writer knew enough to be careful with Ketchum’s line of questioning. “I was born here-I am an American. Becoming a Canadian citizen didn’t make me a Canadian,” Danny said more assertively.
“Well, that shows you how stupid I am-I’m just one of those slow fellas who believes what he reads,” the old riverman said slyly. “You know, Danny, I may have been a long time learning to read, but I read pretty well-and quite a lot-nowadays.”
“What are you driving at, Ketchum?” Danny asked him.
“I thought you were a writer,” Ketchum told him. “I read somewhere that you thought nationalism was ‘limiting.’ I believe you said something about all writers being ‘outsiders,’ and that you saw yourself as someone standing on the outside, looking in.”
“I did say that,” Danny admitted. “Of course, it was an interview-there was a context-”
“Fuck the context!” Ketchum shouted. “Who cares if you don’t feel like a Canadian? Who cares if you’re an American? If you’re a writer, you should be an outsider-you should stay on the outside, looking in.”
“An exile, you mean,” Danny said.
“Your country is going to the dogs-it has been, for some time,” Ketchum told him. “You can see it better, and write about it better, if you stay in Canada -I know you can.”
“We were attacked, Mr. Ketchum,” Carmella said weakly; her heart wasn’t in the argument. “Are we going to the dogs because we were attacked?”
“It’s what we make out of the attack that counts,” Ketchum told her. “How’s Bush going to respond? Isn’t that what matters?” the old logger asked Danny, but the writer was no match for Ketchum’s pessimism. Danny had always underestimated the former river driver’s capacity for following things through to their worst-possible conclusion.
“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.”