"I know Danny, and he knows me," Six-Pack quickly said to Joyce. "I ain't some kinda groupie, or anythin' like that." (At the time, Pam was eighty-four. It's not likely that Joyce mistook her for a groupie--not even a writer's groupie.)
Kristine ran to get Patrice, while Joyce and Silvestro welcomed Six-Pack inside. By the time Patrice brought Danny back to the kitchen, Silvestro had already persuaded Pam to try the duo of foie gras and duck confit with a glass of Champagne. When Danny saw Six-Pack, his heart sank; Six-Pack Pam was no Lady Sky, and Danny guessed that something had to be wrong.
"Is Ketchum with you?" the writer asked her, but Danny already knew that Ketchum would have come in the front door--no matter how the old woodsman was dressed.
"Don't get me started, Danny--not here, and not till I've had somethin' to eat and drink," Six-Pack said. "Shit, I was drivin' all day with that fartin' dog--we only stopped to pee and gas up the truck. Ketchum said I should have the lamb chops."
That's what Six-Pack had. They ate together at Danny's usual table by the window. Pam ate the lamb chops, holding them in her fingers, with her napkin tucked into the open neck of one of Ketchum's flannel shirts; when she was done eating, she wiped her hands on her jeans. Six-Pack drank a couple of Steam Whistles on tap, and a bottle of red wine; she ordered the cheese plate in lieu of dessert.
Ketchum had given her very detailed directions to Danny's house, warning her that if she arrived near dinnertime, she would probably find Danny at Kiss of the Wolf. The logger had also provided Six-Pack with directions to the restaurant. But when she looked inside Kiss of the Wolf--Six-Pack was tall enough to peer over the frosted-glass part of the large window facing Yonge Street--some of those overdressed types among the restaurant's Rosedale clientele must have discouraged her from just walking in. She'd gone searching for a rear entrance instead. (That Rosedale crowd can be snooty-looking.)
"I put Hero's dog bed in the kitchen--he's used to sleepin' in kitchens," Pam said. "Ketchum told me to let myself in, 'cause you never lock the place. Nice house. I put my stuff in the bedroom farthest away from yours--the one with all them pictures of that pretty lady. That way, if I have one of my nightmares, I might not wake you up."
"Hero's here?" Danny asked her.
"Ketchum said you should have a dog, but I ain't givin' you one of mine," Six-Pack said. "Hero ain't the friendliest critter to other dogs--my dogs sure as shit won't miss him."
"You drove all this way to bring me Hero?" Danny asked. (Of course the writer understood that there was probably more purpose to Six-Pack's visit than bringing him the bear hound.)
"Ketchum said I was to see you in person. No phone call, not a letter or a fax--none of that chickenshit stuff," Six-Pack told him. "Ketchum musta meant it seriously, 'cause he put everythin' in writin'. Besides, there's other crap he wanted you to have--it was all in his truck."
"You brought Ketchum's truck?" Danny asked her.
"The truck ain't for you--I'm drivin' it back," Pam said. "You wouldn't want it for city drivin', Danny--you wouldn't want it anyway, 'cause it still smells like a bear took a shit in it."
"Where's Ketchum? What happened?" the writer asked her.
"We should go walk the dog, or somethin'," Six-Pack suggested.
"Someplace more private, you mean?" Danny asked.
"Christ, Danny, there's people here with their noses born outta joint!" Six-Pack said.
Kiss of the Wolf was crowded that night; since the name change, and Patrice's back-to-bistro renovation, the restaurant was packed most nights. Some nights, Danny thought the tables were too close together. As the writer and Six-Pack Pam were leaving, Pam appeared to be favoring her bad hip, but Danny soon realized that she'd meant to lean on the adjacent table, where a couple had been staring at them throughout their dinner. Because he was famous, Danny was used to--almost oblivious to--people staring at him, but Pam (apparently) hadn't taken kindly to it. She upset the wineglasses and water on the couple's table; suddenly seeming to catch her balance, Six-Pack struck the seated gentleman in his face with her forearm. To the surprised woman at the wrecked table, Six-Pack said: "That's 'cause he was gawkin' at me--as if my tits were showin', or somethin'."
Both a waiter and a busboy rushed to the ruined table to make amends, while Patrice smoothly glided up to Danny, embracing the writer at the door. "Another memorable evening--most memorable, Daniel!" Patrice whispered in Danny's ear.
"I'm just a back-door kinda person," Six-Pack said humbly to Kiss of the Wolf's owner and maitre d'.
Once they were out on Yonge Street, and while they were waiting for the crossing light to change, Danny said to Six-Pack: "Just tell me, for Christ's sake! Tell me everything. Spare me no detail."
"Let's see how Hero's doin', Danny," Six-Pack said. "I'm still rehearsin' what I gotta say. As you might imagine, Ketchum left me with a shitload of instructions." As it had turned out, Ketchum put several pages of "instructions" in an envelope in the glove compartment of his truck. The door to the glove compartment had been left open purposely, so that Pam couldn't miss seeing the envelope, which was pinned under Ketchum's handgun. ("A better paperweight bein' unavailable at that time," as Six-Pack said.)
Now Danny saw that Ketchum's truck was parked in the driveway of the Cluny Drive house, as if the former riverman had changed his mind about coming for Christmas. Appearing to guard his dog bed, Hero growled at them--a surly greeting. Pam had already put the sheath for Ketchum's foot-long Browning knife in the bear hound's bed; maybe it served as a pacifier, the writer considered. He'd spotted the long Browning knife on the kitchen countertop, and had quickly looked away from the big blade. The dog's farting had filled the kitchen--possibly, the entire downstairs of the house. "God, what's wrong with Hero's eye?" Danny asked Pam.
"No eyelid. I'll tell ya later. Just try no
t to make him feel self-conscious about it," Six-Pack said.
Danny saw that she'd put Ketchum's favorite chainsaw in the gym. "What am I going to do with a chainsaw?" the writer asked her.
"Ketchum said you should have it," Six-Pack told him. Perhaps to change the subject, she said: "If I had to guess, Hero has to take a crap."
They walked Hero in the park. Christmas lights twinkled in the neighborhood surrounding them. They brought the dog back to the kitchen, where Danny and Six-Pack sat at the kitchen table; the bear hound sat at what seemed a purposeful distance, just watching them. Pam had poured herself some whiskey in a shot glass.
"I know you know what I'm gonna tell ya, Danny--you just don't know the how of it," she began. "I see the story startin' with your mother--all because Ketchum was fuckin' your mom instead of learn-in' ta read, ain't that right?" Six-Pack said. "So, anyway--here's the endin'."
LATER, WHEN THEY UNLOADED THE TRUCK TOGETHER, Danny was grateful that Six-Pack had postponed telling him the story. She'd given him time to prepare himself for it, and while he'd been waiting to hear what had happened to Ketchum, Danny had already imagined a few of the details--the way writers do.