Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving Page B

too.
    But once Ketchum had been forced to improvise, and Dominic had witnessed the astonishingly successful result. A drunken logger had been too pugnacious and too big for Ketchum to shake upside down. Ketchum kept dropping the man, who was not only choking to death—he was trying to kill Ketchum, too.
    Ketchum repeatedly punched the madman in the upper abdomen—all uppercuts. Upon the fourth or fifth uppercut, the choker expectorated a large, unchewed piece of lamb, which he had inadvertently inhaled.
    Over the years, the cook had modified Ketchum’s improvisational method to suit his own smaller size and less violent nature. Dominic would slip under the flailing arms of the choker and get behind him or her. He would hold the victim around the upper abdomen and apply sudden, upward pressure with his locked hands—just under the rib cage. This had worked every time.
    In the kitchen, when Dot began to flail her arms, Dominic quickly ducked behind her. “Oh, my God, Cookie —save her!” May cried; the children-grandchildren crisis was momentarily off her mind, if not entirely forgotten.
    With his nose in the warm, sweaty area at the back of Dot’s neck, the cook could barely join his hands together as he reached around her. Dot’s breasts were too big and low; Dominic needed to lift them out of the way to locate where Dot’s rib cage ended and her upper abdomen began. But when he held her breasts, albeit briefly, Dot covered his hands with her own and forcefully shoved her butt into his stomach. She was laughing hysterically, not choking at all; crazy May and the rest of the kitchen helpers were laughing with her. “Oh, Cookie—how did you know that’s how I like it?” Dot moaned.
    “I always thought that Cookie was a do-it-from-behind kind of guy,” May said matter-of-factly.
    “Oh, you little dog!” Dot cried, grinding against the cook. “I just love how you always say, ‘Behind you!’”
    Dominic finally freed his hands from her breasts; he lightly pushed himself away from her.
    “I guess we’re not big enough for him, Dot,” May said sorrowfully. Something mean had entered her voice; the cook could hear it. I’m going to pay for the children-grandchildren remark, Dominic was thinking. “Or maybe we’re just not Injun enough,” May said.
    The cook didn’t so much as look at her; the other kitchen helpers, even Dot, had turned away. May was defiantly patting the lamb hash flat against the griddle with the spatula. Dominic reached around her and turned the griddle off. He touched his fingers to the small of her back as he passed behind her. “Let’s pack up, ladies,” he said, almost the same way he usually said it. “You and May can pack the meals to the river-men,” the cook told Dot. “The rest of us will drive till we find the loggers on the haul road.” He didn’t speak to May, or look at her.
    “So Dot and I do all the walkin’?” May asked him.
    “You should walk more than you do,” Dominic said, still not looking at her. “Walking’s good for you.”
    “Well, I made the damn BLTs—I guess I can carry them,” Dot said.
    “Take the lamb hash with you, too,” the cook told her.
    Someone asked if there were any “ultra-Catholic” French Canadians among the river drivers; maybe Dot and May should pack some of the chickpea soup to the river site, too.
    “I’m not carryin’ soup on my back,” May said.
    “The mackerel-snappers can pick the bacon out of the BLTs,” Dot suggested.
    “I don’t think there are any mackerel-snappers among these river-men,” Dominic said. “We’ll take the chickpea soup and the venison stew to the loggers on the haul road. If there are any angry Catholics among the river drivers, tell them to blame me.”
    “Oh, I’ll tell them to blame you, all right,” May told him. She kept staring at him, but he wouldn’t once look at her. When they were going their separate ways, May said: “I’m too big for you to ignore me,