Read Online Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving - Free Book Online
Authors: John Irving
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Psychological, Fathers and sons, Irving, Teenage boys, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +, Fugitives from justice, John - Prose & Criticism, Loggers, Coos County (N.H.)
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twenty-three-year-old would be for a lonely boy coming of age.
Annunziata got off her knees in the bathroom and went down the hall to the kitchen, noting that the door to her son’s bedroom was partially open and the whispering went on and on. In the kitchen, Nunzi took a pinch of salt and threw it over her shoulder. She resisted the impulse to intrude on the two of them, but—first stepping back into the hall—she raised her voice.
“My goodness, Rosie, you must forgive me,” Annunziata announced. “I never even asked you if you wanted to go back to Boston !” Nunzi had tried to make this not appear to be her idea; she’d attempted a neutral or indifferent tone, as if she were speaking strictly out of consideration for what Rosie herself wanted to do. But the murmuring from Dominic’s bedroom was broken by a sudden, shared intake of breath.
Rosie felt the boy gasp against her chest the second she was aware of her own gasp. It was as if they had rehearsed the answer, so perfectly in unison was their response. “No!” Annunziata heard her son and Rosie cry; they were a chorus.
Definitely not a blessing, Nunzi was thinking, when she heard Rosie say, “I want to stay here, with you and Dominic. I want to teach at the school. I don’t ever want to go back to Boston!” (I can’t blame her for that , Annunziata realized; she knew the feeling.)
“I want Rosie to stay!” Nunzi heard her son call out.
Well, of course you do! Annunziata thought. But what would the repercussions of the difference in their ages be? And what would happen if and when the country went to war, and all the young men went? (But not her beloved Kiss of the Wolf—not with a limp like that, Nunzi knew.)
ROSIE CALOGERO KEPT her job and did it well. The young cook also kept his job and did it well—well enough that the breakfast place started serving lunch, too. In a short time, Dominic Baciagalupo became a much better cook than his mom. And whatever the young cook made for lunch, he brought the best of it home for dinner; he fed his mother and his not-really-a-cousin very well. On occasion, mother and son would still cook together, but on most culinary matters, Annunziata yielded to Dominic.
He made meat loaf with Worcestershire sauce and provolone, and served it warm with his multipurpose marinara sauce—or cold, with applesauce. He did breaded chicken cutlets alla parmigiana; in Boston, his mother had told him, she’d made veal Parmesan, but in Berlin he couldn’t get good veal. (He substituted pork for veal—it was almost as good.) Dominic made eggplant Parmesan, too—the sizable contingent of French Canadians in Berlin knew what aubergine was. And Dom did a leg of lamb with lemon and garlic and olive oil; the olive oil came from a shop Nunzi knew in Boston, and Dominic used it to rub roast chicken or baste turkey, both of which he stuffed with cornbread and sausage and sage. He did steaks under the broiler, or he grilled the steaks, which he served with white beans or roasted potatoes. But he didn’t much care for potatoes, and he loathed rice. He served most of his main dishes with pasta, which he did very simply—with olive oil and garlic, and sometimes with peas or asparagus. He cooked carrots in olive oil with black Sicilian olives, and more garlic. And although he detested baked beans, Dominic would serve them; there were lumbermen and mill workers, mostly old-timers who’d lost their teeth, who ate little else. (“The baked beans and pea soup crowd,” Nunzi called them disparagingly.)
Occasionally, Annunziata could get fennel, which she and Dom cooked in a sweet tomato sauce with sardines; the sardines came in cans from another shop Nunzi knew in Boston, and mother and son mashed them to a paste in garlic and olive oil, and served them with pasta topped with bread crumbs, and browned in the oven. Dominic made his own pizza dough. He served meatless pizzas every Friday night—in lieu of fish, which neither the young
Annunziata got off her knees in the bathroom and went down the hall to the kitchen, noting that the door to her son’s bedroom was partially open and the whispering went on and on. In the kitchen, Nunzi took a pinch of salt and threw it over her shoulder. She resisted the impulse to intrude on the two of them, but—first stepping back into the hall—she raised her voice.
“My goodness, Rosie, you must forgive me,” Annunziata announced. “I never even asked you if you wanted to go back to Boston !” Nunzi had tried to make this not appear to be her idea; she’d attempted a neutral or indifferent tone, as if she were speaking strictly out of consideration for what Rosie herself wanted to do. But the murmuring from Dominic’s bedroom was broken by a sudden, shared intake of breath.
Rosie felt the boy gasp against her chest the second she was aware of her own gasp. It was as if they had rehearsed the answer, so perfectly in unison was their response. “No!” Annunziata heard her son and Rosie cry; they were a chorus.
Definitely not a blessing, Nunzi was thinking, when she heard Rosie say, “I want to stay here, with you and Dominic. I want to teach at the school. I don’t ever want to go back to Boston!” (I can’t blame her for that , Annunziata realized; she knew the feeling.)
“I want Rosie to stay!” Nunzi heard her son call out.
Well, of course you do! Annunziata thought. But what would the repercussions of the difference in their ages be? And what would happen if and when the country went to war, and all the young men went? (But not her beloved Kiss of the Wolf—not with a limp like that, Nunzi knew.)
ROSIE CALOGERO KEPT her job and did it well. The young cook also kept his job and did it well—well enough that the breakfast place started serving lunch, too. In a short time, Dominic Baciagalupo became a much better cook than his mom. And whatever the young cook made for lunch, he brought the best of it home for dinner; he fed his mother and his not-really-a-cousin very well. On occasion, mother and son would still cook together, but on most culinary matters, Annunziata yielded to Dominic.
He made meat loaf with Worcestershire sauce and provolone, and served it warm with his multipurpose marinara sauce—or cold, with applesauce. He did breaded chicken cutlets alla parmigiana; in Boston, his mother had told him, she’d made veal Parmesan, but in Berlin he couldn’t get good veal. (He substituted pork for veal—it was almost as good.) Dominic made eggplant Parmesan, too—the sizable contingent of French Canadians in Berlin knew what aubergine was. And Dom did a leg of lamb with lemon and garlic and olive oil; the olive oil came from a shop Nunzi knew in Boston, and Dominic used it to rub roast chicken or baste turkey, both of which he stuffed with cornbread and sausage and sage. He did steaks under the broiler, or he grilled the steaks, which he served with white beans or roasted potatoes. But he didn’t much care for potatoes, and he loathed rice. He served most of his main dishes with pasta, which he did very simply—with olive oil and garlic, and sometimes with peas or asparagus. He cooked carrots in olive oil with black Sicilian olives, and more garlic. And although he detested baked beans, Dominic would serve them; there were lumbermen and mill workers, mostly old-timers who’d lost their teeth, who ate little else. (“The baked beans and pea soup crowd,” Nunzi called them disparagingly.)
Occasionally, Annunziata could get fennel, which she and Dom cooked in a sweet tomato sauce with sardines; the sardines came in cans from another shop Nunzi knew in Boston, and mother and son mashed them to a paste in garlic and olive oil, and served them with pasta topped with bread crumbs, and browned in the oven. Dominic made his own pizza dough. He served meatless pizzas every Friday night—in lieu of fish, which neither the young
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