Last Night in Twisted River

"The cote de boeuf is for two," Danny told him.

"That's why I noticed it," Ketchum said. He had been drinking Steam Whistle on tap, but he'd switched to Alexander Keith by the bottle; the ale had a little more to it. "Constipated Christ!" Ketchum suddenly exclaimed. "There's a wine that costs a hundred and sixty-eight dollars!"

Danny saw that it was a Barolo Massolino, from Piedmont. "Let's have it," the writer said.

"Just so long as you're paying," Ketchum told him.

OUT IN THE KITCHEN, it was bedlam as usual. The cook was helping Scott with the profiteroles, which were served with caramel ice cream and a bittersweet-chocolate sauce; Dominic was preparing the croutons and the rouille for Joyce and Kristine's fish soup as well. It had been the cook's task, earlier, to make the tagliatelle for the veal scallopini, and tonight the pasta would also be served with Silvestro's duck confit. But Dominic had made the tagliatelle long before the restaurant (and the kitchen) got busy; he'd started a red-wine reduction with rosemary, too.

It was noisier in the kitchen than usual that Saturday night, because Dorotea, the new dishwasher, had a cast on her right wrist and thumb, and she kept dropping the pans. Everyone was taking bets on what Ketchum was going to order. Silvestro had suggested the special cassoulet, but Dominic said that no sane woodsman would willingly eat beans--not if there was another choice. The cook predicted that Ketchum would have the cote de boeuf for two; Joyce and Kristine said that the old ri

ver driver would probably order both the lamb chops and the liver.

"Or he'll split the cote de boeuf with Daniel, and have either the lamb chops or the liver, too," Dominic speculated.

Something about the feel of the warm handle on the skillet with the red-wine reduction was distracting him, but the cook couldn't locate the true source of his distraction. Lately he'd noticed that his old memories were clearer--he meant more vivid--than his more recent memories, if that was actually possible. For instance, he'd found himself remembering that Rosie had said something to Ketchum just before, or just after, they'd all gone out on the ice together. But had Ketchum first said, "Give me your hand"? The cook thought so, but he wasn't sure.

Rosie had very distinctly said: "Not that hand--that's the wrong hand." She'd quickly created a little distance between herself and Ketchum, but was this before or somehow during the damn do-si-doing? Dominic did but didn't remember, and that was because he'd been drunker than Rosie and Ketchum.

Anyway, what was the wrong-hand business about? the cook was wondering; he didn't really want to ask Ketchum about it. Besides, Dominic was thinking, how much would the eighty-three-year-old logger remember about that long-ago night? After all, Ketchum was still drinking!

One of the younger waiters ventured a guess that the old riverman wouldn't order anything for dinner. He'd already had three Steam Whistles on tap and a couple of Keiths; the old logger couldn't possibly have room for dinner. But the young waiter didn't know Ketchum.

Patrice popped into the kitchen. "Ooh-la-la, Dominic," Arnaud said. "What is your son celebrating? Danny ordered the Barolo Massolino!"

"I'm not worried," the cook replied. "Daniel can afford it, and you can count on Ketchum drinking most of the wine."

It was their last night in the kitchen before the long vacation; everyone was working hard, but they were all in a good mood. For Dominic, however, the unknown source of his distraction lingered; he kept feeling the familiar handle of the warm skillet. What is it? he was wondering. What's wrong?

In the cook's bedroom in the house on Cluny Drive, the bulletin boards with those countless photographs all but eclipsed from view (or consideration) the eight-inch cast-iron skillet. Yet that skillet had crossed state boundaries and, more recently, an international border; that skillet surely belonged in the cook's bedroom, though its once-legendary powers of protection had probably passed (as Carmella once speculated) from the actual to the symbolic.

The eight-inch cast-iron skillet hung just inside the doorway to Dominic's bedroom, where it went almost unnoticed. Why had the cook been thinking about it so insistently--at least since Ketchum had arrived (in his usual unannounced fashion) for Christmas?

Dominic wasn't aware that Danny had lately been thinking about the old frying pan, too. There was a certain sameness about that skillet; it was unchanged. The damn pan just hung there in his father's bedroom. It was a constant reminder to the writer, but a reminder of what?

Okay, it was the same skillet he'd used to kill Injun Jane; as such, it had set Danny and Dominic's flight in motion. It was the same skillet Dominic had used to whack a bear--or so the myth began. In fact, it was the same eight-inch cast-iron skillet Danny's dad had used to clobber Ketchum--not a bear. But Ketchum had been too tough to kill. ("Only Ketchum can kill Ketchum," the cook had said.)

Danny and his dad had been thinking about that, too: Even at eighty-three, only Ketchum could kill Ketchum.

The young waiter now came back into the kitchen. "The big man wants the cote de boeuf for two!" he announced, in awe. Dominic managed a smile; he would smile again when Patrice popped into the kitchen a little later, just to tell him that his son had ordered a second bottle of the Barolo Massolino. Not even a cote de boeuf for two, and uncountable bottles of Barolo, could kill Ketchum, the cook knew. Only Ketchum, and Ketchum alone, could do it.

IT WAS SO HOT IN THE KITCHEN that they'd opened the back door to the alley--just a crack--though it was a very cold night, and an uncommonly strong wind repeatedly blew the door wide open. In the cold weather, Crown's Lane, the alleyway behind the restaurant, was a hangout for homeless people. The restaurant's exhaust fan blew into the alley, creating a warm spot--a good-smelling one, too. An occasional homeless person appeared at the door to the kitchen, hoping for a hot meal.

The cook could never remember whether Joyce or Kristine was the smoker, but one of the young women chefs was once startled by a hungry homeless person when she was smoking a cigarette in the alley. Since then, all of those working in the kitchen, and the waitstaff, were aware of the homeless people seeking warmth and a possible bite to eat in the near vicinity of the kitchen door. (This was also Patrice's delivery door, though there were never any deliveries at night.)

Now Dominic once more went to close the door, which the bitter wind had again blown wide open, and there was one-eyed Pedro--Patrice's most popular homeless person, because Pedro never failed to compliment the chef (or chefs) for whatever food he was given. His real name was Ramsay Farnham, but he'd been disowned by the Farnham family--a fine, old Toronto family, famous patrons of the arts. Now in his late forties or early fifties, Ramsay had repeatedly embarrassed the Farnhams. As a last straw, at an impromptu press conference at an otherwise forgettable cultural event, Ramsay had announced that he was giving away his inheritance to an AIDS hospice in Toronto. He also claimed to be finishing a memoir, explaining why he'd half-blinded himself. He said he had lusted after his mother his whole adult life, and while he'd never had sex with her--nor murdered his father--he had truly wanted to. Hence he'd blinded himself only in one eye, the left one, and had renamed himself Pedro--not Oedipus.

No one knew if Pedro's eye patch covered an empty eye socket or a perfectly healthy left eye, or why he'd picked Pedro for his new name. He was cleaner than most homeless people; while his parents would have nothing to do with him, perhaps there were other, more sympathetic members of the Farnham family who allowed Ramsay (now Pedro) to have an occasional bath and wash his clothes. Of course he was insane, but he'd received an excellent education and was preternaturally well-spoken. (As for the memoir, either it was forever a work-in-progress or he'd not written a word of it.)

"Good evening to you, Dominic," one-eyed Pedro greeted the cook, while Dominic was dealing with the windblown kitchen door.

"How are you, Pedro?" the cook asked. "A little hot food might do you some good on a cold night like this one."

"I've been entertaining similar thoughts, Dominic," Pedro replied, "and while I'm aware that the exhaust fan is most imprecise, I believe I detect something special tonight--something not on the menu--and unless my nose deceives me, Silvestro has outdone himself, yet again, with a cassoulet."

Dominic had never known Pedro's nose to deceive him. The cook gave the homeless gentleman a generous serving of the cassoulet, warning him not to burn himself on the baking dish for the beans. In return, Pedro volunteered to hold the kitchen door open--just a crack--with his foot.

"It is an honor to smell the aromas of Patrice's kitchen firsthand, unadulterated by the exhaust fan," Pedro told Dominic.