"Thank you again," Danny told the old man, taking Carmella's arm. They were trying to leave L. L. Cote's, but the salesman stopped them.
"Only an Injun would call it Lost Nation Road," he said. "That proves it!"
"Proves what?" Danny asked him. "Ketchum isn't an Indian."
"Ha!" the salesman scoffed. "Half-breeds are Injuns!"
Danny could sense Carmella's rising indignation--almost as physically as he could feel her weight against his arm. He had managed to steer her to the door of the sporting-goods store when the salesman called after them. "That fella Ketchum is a Lost Nation unto himself!" the salesman shouted. Then, as if he'd thought better of it--and with a certain measure of panic in the afterthought--he added: "Don't tell him I said so."
"I suppose Ketchum shops here, from time to time--doesn't he?" Danny asked; he was enjoying the fat old salesman's moment of fear.
"His money's as good as anybody's, isn't it?" the salesman said sourly.
"I'll tell him you said so," Danny said, guiding Carmella out the door.
"Is Mr. Ketchum an Indian?" she asked Danny, when they were back in the car.
"I don't know--maybe partly," Danny answered. "I never asked him."
"My goodness--I've never seen a bearded Indian," Carmella said. "Not in the movies, anyway."
THEY DROVE WEST OUT OF TOWN on Route 26. There was something called the Errol Cream Barrel & Chuck Wagon, and what appeared to be an immaculately well-kept campground and trailer park called Saw Dust Alley. They passed the Umbagog Snowmobile Association, too. That seemed to be about it for Errol. Danny didn't turn off the highway at Akers Pond Road; he simply noted wh
ere it was. He was sure Ketchum would be easy to find in the morning--Lost Nation or no Lost Nation.
A moment later, just as it was growing dark, they drove alongside a field encircled by a high fence. Naturally, Carmella read the sign on the fence out loud. "'Please Do Not Harass the Buffalo'--well, my goodness, who would do such a thing?" she said, indignant as ever. But they saw no buffalo--only the fence and the sign.
The resort hotel in Dixville Notch was called The Balsams--for hikers and golfers in the warm-weather months, Danny supposed. (In the winter, for skiers certainly.) It was vast, and largely uninhabited on a Monday night. Danny and Carmella were practically alone in the dining room, where Carmella sighed deeply after they'd ordered their dinner. She had a glass of red wine. Danny had a beer. He'd stopped drinking red wine after his dad died, though Ketchum gave him endless shit about his decision to drink only beer. "You don't have to lay off the red wine now!" Ketchum had shouted at him.
"I don't care if I can't sleep anymore," Danny had told the old logger.
Now Carmella, after sighing, appeared to be holding her breath before beginning. "I guess it goes without saying that I've read all your books--more than once," she began.
"Really?" Danny asked her, feigning innocence of where this conversation was headed.
"Of course I have!" Carmella cried. For someone who's so happy, what is she angry with me for? Danny was wondering, when Carmella said, "Oh, Secondo--your dad was so proud of you, for being a famous writer and everything."
It was Danny's turn to sigh; he held his breath, for just a second or two. "And you?" he asked her, not so innocently this time.
"It's just that your stories, and sometimes the characters themselves, are so--what is the word I'm looking for?--unsavory," Carmella started in, but she must have seen something in Danny's face that made her stop.
"I see," he said. Danny might have looked at her as if she were another interviewer, some journalist who hadn't done her homework, and whatever Carmella really thought about his writing, it suddenly wasn't worth it to her to say this to him--not to her darling Secondo, her surrogate son--for hadn't the world hurt him as much as it had hurt her?
"Tell me what you're writing now, Secondo," Carmella suddenly blurted out, smiling warmly at him. "You've been rather a long time between books again--haven't you? Tell me what you're up to. I'm just dying to know what's next!"
NOT MUCH LATER, after Carmella went to bed, some men were watching Monday Night Football at the bar, but Danny had already gone to his room, where he left the television dark. He also left the curtains open, confident in how lightly he slept--knowing that the early-morning light would wake him. He was only a little worried about getting Carmella up and going in the morning; Danny knew that Ketchum would wait for them if they were late. The lamp on the night table was on, as Danny lay in bed, and there on the table, too, was the jar containing his father's ashes. It would be Danny's last night with the cook's ashes, and he lay looking at them--as if they might suddenly speak, or give him some other indication of his dad's last wishes.
"Well, Pop, I know you said you wanted this, but I hope you haven't changed your mind," Danny spoke up in the hotel room. As for the ashes, they were in what was formerly a container of Amos' New York Steak Spice--the listed ingredients had once been sea salt, pepper, herbs, and spices--and the cook must have bought it at his favorite fancy meat market in their neighborhood of Toronto, because Olliffe was the name on the label.
Danny had gotten rid of most, but not all, of the contents; after he'd placed his father's ashes in, there'd been room to put some of the herbs and spices back in as well, and Danny had done so. If someone had questioned him about the container at U.S. Customs--if they'd opened the jar and had a whiff--it still would have smelled like steak spice. (Perhaps the pepper would have made the customs officer sneeze!)
But Danny had brought the cook's ashes through U.S. Customs without any questioning. Now he sat up in bed and opened the jar, cautiously sniffing the contents. Knowing what was in the container, Danny wouldn't have wanted to sprinkle it on a steak, but it still smelled like pepper and herbs and spices--it even looked like crushed herbs and a variety of spices, not human ashes. How fitting for a cook, that his remains had taken up residency in a jar of Amos' New York Steak Spice!
Dominic Baciagalupo, his writer son thought, might have gotten a kick out of that.
Danny turned out the lamp on the night table and lay in bed in the dark. "Last chance, Pop," he whispered in the quiet room. "If you don't have anything else to say, we're going back to Twisted River." But the cook's ashes, together with the herbs and spices, maintained their silence.
DANNY ANGEL ONCE WENT ELEVEN YEARS between novels--between East of Bangor and Baby in the Road. Again, a death in the family would delay him, though Carmella had been wrong to suggest that the writer was once more taking "rather a long time between books." It had been only six years since his most recent novel was published.