John Irving - Last Night In Twisted River

Was the compound overrun with revelers? Was every last room of the old farmhouse (now the guesthouse) occupied- as was, evidently, the new house that Danny had built for himself and Joe? The lights were also on in the famous writer’s so-called writing shack, as if the partygoers were even partying there.

But Danny had left only the kitchen light on, in the new building; he’d left the other rooms (and the other buildings) dark. The music was loud and conflicting-it was coming from both the new building and the guesthouse, and every window must have been open. It was a wonder that someone hadn’t called the police about the noise; though the writer’s compound had no near neighbors, almost anyone driving by had to have heard the clashing music. Danny heard it, and saw all the lights ablaze even before he turned in to his driveway, where he stopped his car and turned off the engine and his headlights. There were no other cars around, except Joe’s. (It was parked in the open garage, where Joe had left it the last time the boy had been home from school.) From the far end of his driveway, Danny could see that even the lights in the garage were on. If Amy were ever to forgo arriving via parachute, the writer was thinking, maybe this was how she would announce herself.

Or was it a prank? Pranks weren’t Armando DeSimone’s style. Other than Armando, Danny had no close friends in the Putney area-certainly no one who would have felt comfortable coming on the writer’s property uninvited. Had Dot and May already called Carl? But those bad old broads didn’t know where Danny lived, and if the cowboy had somehow managed to find Danny Angel, wouldn’t the retired deputy have preferred the dark? Surely, the former constable and deputy sheriff wouldn’t have turned on all the lights and the music; why would Carl have wanted to announce himself?

Furthermore, there was no occasion for a surprise party-not that the writer could think of. Maybe it was Armando, Danny was reconsidering, but the choice of music couldn’t have been Armando’s or Mary’s. The DeSimones liked to dance; they were Beatles people. This sounded like eighties’ music-the stuff Joe played when he was home. (Danny didn’t know what the music was, but there were two separate sounds-both of them terrible, at war with each other.)

The tap-tap of the flashlight on the driver’s-side window made Danny jump in the seat. He saw it was his friend Jimmy, the state trooper. Jimmy must have turned off the headlights of his patrol car when he’d slipped into the driveway and had parked broadside, behind Danny’s car; he’d cut the police car’s engine, too, not that Danny could possibly have heard the trooper’s arrival over the music.

“What’s with the music, Danny?” Jimmy asked him. “It’s a little loud, isn’t it? I think you should turn it down.”

“I didn’t turn it on , Jimmy,” the writer said. “I didn’t turn on the lights or the music.”

“Who’s in your house?” the trooper asked.

“I don’t know,” Danny said. “I didn’t invite anyone.”

“Maybe they’ve come and gone-shall I have a look?” Jimmy asked him.

“I’ll come with you,” Danny told the trooper.

“Have you had any letters from a crazy fan lately?” Jimmy asked the writer. “Or any hate mail, maybe?”

“Nothing like that for a while,” Danny told him. There’d been the usual religious nuts, and the assholes who constantly complained about the writer’s “unseemly” language or the “too-explicit” sex.

“Everyone’s a fucking censor nowadays,” Ketchum had said.

Once he published East of Bangor - his so-called abortion novel-the hate mail might heat up for a while, Danny knew. But there’d been nothing of a threatening nature recently.

“There’s nobody out to get you-no one you know about, right?” Jimmy asked.

“There’s someone who thinks he has a score to settle with my dad-someone dangerous,” Danny said. “But this can’t be about that,” the writer said.

Danny followed the trooper into the kitchen of the new house first. Little things were amiss: The oven door was open; a bottle of olive oil lay on its side on the counter, but the cap was screwed on tight and the oil hadn’t leaked. Danny walked into the living room, where he could shut off the loudest of the head-pounding music, and he noted that a coffee-table lamp now lay on the couch, but nothing appeared to have been damaged. The deliberate but small disturbances signified mischief, not vandalism; the television had been turned on, but without sound.

Though Danny had walked through the dining room on his way to the living room, which was the source of half the music, he’d noticed only that one of the chairs at the dining-room table had been upended. But Jimmy had lingered there, at the table. When Danny turned the music off, Jimmy said, “Do you know whose dog this is, Danny? I believe it’s one of a pair of dogs I know out on the back road to Westminster West. The dogs belong to Roland Drake. Maybe you know him-he went to Windham.”

The dead dog had stiffened since Danny last saw him-he was the husky-shepherd mix, the one Rooster had killed. The dog lay fully extended, with a frozen snarl, on the dining-room table. One of the dog’s paws, contorted by rigor mortis, pressed flat the note Danny had composed to the hippie carpenter. Where Danny had typed, “Enough is enough, okay?” the hippie had replied in longhand.

“Don’t tell me-let me guess,” the writer said to the state trooper. “I’ll bet the asshole wrote, ‘Fuck you!’-or words to that effect.”

“That’s what he wrote, Danny,” Jimmy said. “I guess you know him.”

Roland Drake -that asshole! Danny was thinking. Armando DeSimone had been right. Roland Drake had been one of Danny’s writing students at Windham College, albeit briefly. Drake had dropped the course after his first teacher’s conference, when Danny told the arrogant young fuck that good writing could rarely be accomplished without revision. Roland Drake wrote first-draft gibberish-he had a halfway decent imagination, but he was sloppy. He paid no attention to specific details, or to the language.

“I’m into writing, not rewriting,” Drake had told Danny. “I only like the creative part.”

“But rewriting is writing,” Danny said to the young man. “Sometimes, rewriting is the most creative part.”

Roland Drake had sneered and walked out of Danny’s office. That had been their only conversation. The boy hadn’t been as hairy then; perhaps Drake hadn’t been as drawn to the hippie persuasion when he was younger. And Danny had trouble recognizing people he previously knew. That was a real problem with being famous: You were always meeting people for what you thought was the first time, but they would remember that they’d already met you. It was probably an additional insult to Drake that Danny hadn’t remembered him-not just that Danny had told Drake to mind his dog (or dogs).

“Yes, I know Roland Drake,” Danny said to Jimmy. He told the state trooper the story-including the part about Rooster killing the dog that now lay stiffly on the dining-room table. From Danny’s typed note, Jimmy could see for himself how the writer had tried to make peace with the asshole hippie. The writer carpenter, as Armando had called him, didn’t know when enough was enough-no more than Roland Drake knew that rewriting was writing, and that it could be the most creative part of the process.

Danny and Jimmy went through the rest of the main house, turning off lights, putting things in order. In Joe’s bathroom, the bathtub had been filled. The water was cold, but there was no mess; there’d been no spills. In Joe’s bedroom, one of the boy’s wrestling-team photos had been removed from the picture hook on the wall and was propped up (by a pillow) against the headboard of the bed. In Danny’s bathroom, one of his suit jackets (on a coat hanger) had been hung on the shower-curtain rod; his electric razor and a pair of dress shoes were in the otherwise-empty bathtub. All the bath towels were piled at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom.