Running the Bulls (13 page)

“I been reading this book,” said Billy. He picked up the facedown book and showed Howard the cover. To Howard's utter amazement the boy was several pages into
The
Sun
Also
Rises.

Billy waited, as if for a pat on the head.

“Well, well,” said Howard. The book was new, its spine intact, its cover shiny, the kind of covers that publishers now like to put on older novels, hoping to reach a younger market. Howard imagined Hollywood just then and a remake of the movie. Harrison Ford would be Jake Barnes. Madonna as Lady Brett. Billy Crystal as Robert Cohn. Antonio Banderas as Pedro Romero, the Spanish bullfighter who becomes Brett's lover. Howard could see these four heads now, all positioned on the cover according to star status, a bull ring behind them, a bull snorting at their backs, the dust of the arena in a passionate swirl over their heads.

“I found it for you the other day,” said Billy, happy to have been of service, even if it was useless service. “But you had already left the store, and so, well, I figured I'd just buy it for myself. Employees get twenty percent off on paperbacks.”

“Well, well,” said Howard, as he searched for a better response. He reached for the book and opened it. “Papa Hemingway. Imagine.” He looked down at the page Billy had dog-earred to mark his place.
“Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?” “What the hell, Robert,” I said. “What the hell.”

“So what do you think so far?” Howard asked. He simply couldn't help himself. It was a literary car wreck all right, and Howard felt compelled to slow down for it. Billy stood and deposited his soft-drink cup in a nearby trash can that had been cleverly hidden within some Birds of Paradise. He turned to Howard, who was just passing the book back to him. Billy took it in his hands, rubbed a finger over the shiny cover—Van Gogh's
Wheat Field with Crows
—as he thought about his answer. Howard had never seen him this pensive when he was actually
required
to read
The
Sun
Also
Rises
for a grade.

“I think they're just very sad people,” Billy said finally. “But then, I'm only on page seven.” Howard nodded in sympathy.

“Keep in mind that it might get worse,” he said. “Well, nice to see you, Billy.” Howard started to turn.

“Wait a sec, Mr. Woods,” Billy implored. Howard racked his brain. How was it Jake had gotten rid of Robert Cohn? Oh yes, he had taken him down to a bar, had a drink, and then said, “Well, listen, I got to get back.” Jake Barnes knew how to get rid of pests, but what could Howard do? Take Billy to McDonald's for another Coke? Squander the boy's last break of the day just to be shed of him?

“What is it, Billy?” Howard asked, waiting.

“I'd like to talk to you about the book, you know, see what you think, see what I think. Maybe we could meet here in the mall. There's a café just around the corner, near the video store.” Howard forced a smile.

“Listen, Billy,” he said. “I'm leaving the country soon, for a time.” It sounded so very, well,
expatriate
, and he liked the tone of it.
Leaving
the
country
soon
for
a
time.

“You going to Norway?” asked Billy.

“Norway?”

“Yeah, I know you were looking at that Norway book.”

“I'm really too busy, Billy, to sit and discuss books,” said Howard. “But maybe sometime next year.” And with that Howard turned on his heel and made a dash past the palms and red fish and lush flowers. He left Billy alone to ponder Papa Hemingway.

***

On the drive home Howard stopped at Red's Tavern to pick up one of Red's famous chicken sandwiches. He would eat it alone in his room, at the Hotel Holiday Shit, hardly a place for old Señor Montoya to roam the premises. But it would have to do until Howard returned from Pamplona, a reborn man with a new plan. He was sure this would happen. It was a
literary
theme,
for Christ's sake. You go, you see, you change. His sandwich sitting beside him on the car seat, as if it were his date to the senior's dance, Howard pulled out of Red's parking lot and turned toward the Holiday Inn. He had decided not to cruise down Patterson Street again, at least not today, maybe not ever. Wind ripped at his thin hair as he shifted the little car into third, let her build herself up to a nice speed. On the floor mat of the passenger seat, weighted down by his own copy of
The
Sun
Also
Rises,
lest he
lose
the blasted thing, was his travel packet to Pamplona. He was going. He was seeing. He was doing it.

“That old Bilbao moon, I won't forget it soon,” Howard sang. Wind ripped at the sides of his mouth, the words streaming out like water. “That old Bilbao moon, just like a big balloon.” What had become of Andy Williams? Was he still dating Ethel Kennedy, his fellow senior? Was Ethel wearing Andy's ring, her husband dead long enough that America could finally allow it? “That old Bilbao moon would rise above the dune, while Tony's Beach Saloon rocked with an old-time tune.” Howard's eyes welled with tears. Did he miss Andy Williams that much? He wiped the warm tears away, steering with one hand. “No paint was on the door, the grass grew through the floor, of Tony's two by four, on the Bilbao shore, but there were friends galore, and there was beer to pour, and moonlight on the shore, that old Bilbao shore.”

Howard slowed the Aston Martin down to an easy crawl. He simply could not stop the tears from seeping out of his eyes. He didn't
want
to cry, had no inclination at all. This warm liquid seemed to be washing up out of him from a place he had no control over.
There
were
friends
galore, and there was beer to pour.
The truth was that his whole generation was slowly disappearing, one by one, being picked off by snipers in a war they had no control over. What had happened to Mack Fortin, who retired from the college five years earlier? Bill Foote, the year before? Carolyn Stubbs? Rod Blakely? Where the hell had they gone? Were they all wrapped in cocoons somewhere, dangling from attics and basements, no longer useful to anyone, not even themselves? Where the hell was Andy Williams, that's what Howard would like to know.

***

The chicken sandwich from Red's Tavern half-eaten, Howard opened a second bottle of the beer that room service had delivered to his door. He had even availed himself of a bucket of ice from the constant supply just outside. He was about fifty minutes away from happy hour and his first rum of the day, so the beer would tide him over nicely. He opened the package from Eloise and spread it out before him on his little brown table. He took up the historical page first and scanned it.
One
of
the
reasons
that
the
history
of
the
ancient
kingdom
of
Navarre
is
so
rich
is
that
it
is
crossed
by
the
Pilgrim
Way, Camino de Santiago. The region's capital, Pamplona, a quiet and pleasant city, is world-famous for the Running of Bulls. To
find
fashionable
ambience
at
a
later
hour, try a part of town known as Barrio de San Juan, especially
Avenida de Bayona and
surroundings.

Fashionable ambience.

Howard took another swig of the beer. Damn it, it all sounded exciting. Maybe this was a secret those brave explorers knew: You can avoid the unpleasant circumstances of your everyday life by heading out on some dangerous mission, a sea route to India, a passage through the Bering Strait, a little jaunt to the moon. Howard was thinking of what he might encounter
after
he ran the bulls—Everest wasn't that high—when the phone bleated him out of his reverie. It was Ellen.

“What would you like me to do with your mail, Howard?” she said. “Do you want it forwarded to the Holiday Inn?”

Howard,
not
Howie.
And certainly not
sweetheart.
He took a deep breath, surprised as he was to hear her voice.

“That will be fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Ellen said. “I'm happy to do it. But since I found divorce papers from Mike Harris among my
own
mail, I assume that you intend to live elsewhere than this house. Therefore, could you possibly have your address officially changed at the post office?”

Howard didn't know what to say. He had assumed she'd break down and phone him eventually. As he thumbed through those papers in Mike Harris's office, he had noticed the blank line where Ellen was to put her name. He could even envision her sitting at the kitchen table with that morning's mail, her fingers twirled about the handle of a coffee cup—
World's Best Grandma
—wearing that fuzzy pink bathrobe she often wore after her shower. She would open the envelope and stare at it, speechless, mouth open, eyes misting. The second she knew what it was, the instant she saw the word
divorce,
she would rip the thing to pieces, maybe even spilling coffee on her fuzzy robe in the process. Then, she would rush to the green wall phone near the refrigerator and call Howard, weeping, begging for their old life back again. So then, if this were the case, why did he want to thrust the knife a bit deeper into her heart? Because he
had
to,
that was the only answer he could find. He had to show her how serious and hurtful her act had been. It had forced him to lie awake at night, wondering if every single event in their past had been a sham. The birthday cake she baked for him, that same year of her infidelity, for instance. Was she thinking of Ben Collins as she sifted the flour, cracked the eggs, chopped the walnuts? And if he was now suspicious of such tiny events, then what of the big ones that were still to come: the children graduating and marrying and having children of their own. Had Ben sneaked into her mind on those important days, too? Ellen had ruined the past is what she'd done, no tiny feat.

But, nonetheless, Howard still felt positive she would contact him, for there was no doubt she knew where he was, considering John and Patty had mouths. But to call him about changing his address at the post office so that she would never have to see his name written on an envelope again?
I'm happy to do it.
That was a bit much.

“I'll take care of it,” Howard said. He waited for her to say something else, something sensible, damn it, like
Howie, you need to stop this nonsense and come home,
so that he could say,
No
way, Ellen, no damn way,
and then hang up on her again. His breathing was much too loud now, as if he were about to hyperventilate.

“Thank you, Howard,” Ellen said. “I appreciate the consideration. There's just one more thing. Eliot's birthday is coming up, and since we used to take him to lunch on his birthday, well, how can we arrange it this year?”

“What do you mean?” Howard asked. Somehow, and foolishly he now realized, he had assumed they would still take their only grandson out for a birthday lunch. For
his
sake, not
theirs.
Some rituals were unbreakable. Weren't they?

“If you don't mind,” said Ellen, “I'll take him to lunch and perhaps you can take him to dinner. That way, it won't be awkward for him or for us.”

“Sure,” said Howard, “whatever is best.” Before he could even ask how she was doing, if he had even
wanted
to ask, and he didn't, Ellen said a quick good-bye and then hung up.
Every
action
has
an
equal
and
opposite
reaction.
Howard suddenly remembered that line from his old high school physics class.
If
you
push
on
something, it will push back on you.
It was the second of Sir Isaac Newton's laws of physics. Or was it the third? Howard had never been very good at physics, a fact that was now showing up in his personal life.

The phone had grown warm against his face, but he held it for a few more seconds. It was as if the dead silence that floated to him all the way from Ellen's house had its own kind of heartbeat, a living thing that deserved to be kept alive, at least for a little time. But then, to his dismay, the dial tone clicked on, the connection broken. Howard put the phone back in its cradle and looked at his watch. Only thirty more minutes until
la
hora
feliz
.

“Oh darling, I've been so miserable…”

—Brett Ashley,
The
Sun
Also
Rises

It was a week later that Howard stopped by John's house to pick up those items of his that Patty had gathered in his wake. He had heard nothing from Ellen, nor had he asked about her. She had continued to send his mail on to the Holiday Inn, and that's all that mattered to him. He would do a change of address card when he knew just where he would be living for the rest of his life. He felt quite certain it wouldn't be at the Holiday Inn near the ice machine, but how to be sure? As Howard turned into the drive, he saw John sitting on the front porch with a cold beer. This was surprising. After all, it was just past eight o'clock in the morning. That was early to be drinking beer, not to mention that John was known for never missing a day's work, not even when he felt ill. Howard pulled the little Aston Martin into a puddle of shade cast off by the immense elm at the edge of the drive and cut the engine. He got out and straightened the legs of his pants, smoothed away the wrinkles. How the hell had James Bond kept his trousers in such good condition? Each time Howard crawled out of that tiny car, his pants looked like they'd been in a street brawl.

He could feel John's eyes upon him the full distance up to the porch.

“Hola!” John said. He held up the beer. “Cerveza, Señor Woods?”

Howard climbed the steps of the porch and stood peering down at his son. John was still in his T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Why aren't you at work?” Howard asked. A fatherly scold was there in his voice, but he couldn't help it. Some things die hard.

“Am I grounded?” John wondered. Then he smiled, that big smile that had won him so many friends through high school and college.

“I'm simply asking as a concerned person,” Howard lied, “and not as your father.”

“Well, concerned person,” said John. “Sit a spell. Put your feet up.” He gestured to the chair next to him, a rocker. Howard sat down and set it to rocking with his foot.

“You shore do look mighty comfy, Pa,” said John. He took a long drink of his beer. Howard inspected him closely.

“Are you on some kind of drug?” he asked. John smiled again.

“The elixir of life, Father,” he replied. “Pure, sweet life, and the last time I checked, it was legal.” Howard frowned.

“Patty called to say she found my razor blades and other things,” he said.

“Can we trust you with razor blades?” John asked. When Howard said nothing, John gestured at the house.

“It's all in a bag, just inside the door.”

“And where is Patty?” asked Howard, caution lining his words.

John gestured again, this time at the street.

“Gone for her power walk,” he said. He raised the beer again.

Howard said nothing. So, they'd had a little fight, had they? Well, it could mend, as long as John kept away from what's her name, the filly with the full mane of hair and the firm flanks.

Howard went on inside the house just as Eliot came flying down the stairs, his schoolbag bouncing off his back. This surprised Howard more.

“Why aren't you already at school?” he asked, after the boy had stopped long enough to give his grandfather a worthy hug. Eliot shrugged.

“I'm not good at getting up early,” he said. He smiled at Howard, a miniature version of his father's own captivating smile, then headed for the front door.

“Hey, listen, I'll drive you, pal,” Howard offered. “I got the
little
car with me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Eliot grinned back at him.

“Dad says you look like Magilla Gorilla in that little car,” he said.

“Your dad is just jealous,” said Howard. “Now, how about that lift? Just let me get this stuff your mom left for me.” Howard had already found the bag:
razor
blades, a tie, two magazines, a shirt, a Spanish dictionary.
But by the time he turned back to his grandson, Eliot was already halfway out the door.

“No thanks, Grandpa,” the boy shouted back to Howard. “I'm riding with David and his mom. David is always late too. See you for my birthday. Grandma says she'll drop me off at the restaurant.”

The door slammed and the boy was gone. Howard stood at the front window and watched as Eliot's schoolbag, the tiny body hurrying beneath it, disappeared up the street. He opened the door and came outside to find John reading the paper. John looked up at the bag in Howard's arms.

“Oh good,” he said. “I see you found your schoolbag.”

Howard stared down the street, still able to hear the sound of Eliot's voice as the boy met up with David, at David's white house on the corner, and then the roar of a car's engine. Soon, a light gray BMW eased past John's house. The horn tooted. Howard saw small white hands waving like surrender flags from behind the car windows. Eliot, waving. John looked up from his newspaper and waved back.

Howard went down the steps, the bag still secure in his arms, and headed for the Aston Martin.

“Y'all come back now, ya hear?” John shouted from the porch.

That did it.

Howard spun on his heel and trod back up the walk. He leaned forward so that no neighbor who happened to be having late-morning coffee on some screened-in patio would hear him.

“You need to get a grip,” Howard said, his finger pointing at John's chest.

Then, he turned and headed back to where his car was waiting, like the small, black shell of a turtle.

“Hasta la vista!” said John.

Before Howard could crawl back into the sensible safety of the Aston Martin, Patty came power walking up the sidewalk, her clasped fists rising up and down in the air, up and down.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
It looked to Howard as it she were engaged in some sort of boxing match with an invisible foe. Lots of uppercuts.

“Hi, Dad,” Patty said, when she saw Howard. He smiled. He had always liked Patty. Once her fists were lowered, she looked so young and cute, even vulnerable in those pink jogging duds, which were now wet with sweat. Her long dark hair was trussed up in a thick ponytail. Patty leaned against the car in order to stretch her leg muscles.

“I won't hug you,” she told Howard. “I'm all sweat.”

“I'll take a rain check,” Howard said.

“By the way, can you keep Eliot on Saturday night?” Patty asked. “I've got rehearsals. And Grandma Ellen is going to some dance.” The muscles around Howard's mouth did a series of dance moves themselves.

“What dance?” he asked.

“Some dance they're having in the ballroom at the Holiday Inn,” said Patty. “Guess that's like having it at
your
house, huh?” She smiled as she reached down to the pouch she carried around her waist and took out a timer watch. She snapped a few buttons and then stared hard at the numbers on the watch's face. Howard glanced over at John, who appeared engrossed in his paper.

“I'd love to watch Eliot,” said Howard. “You know that.” Patty looked up, as if she had forgotten that she'd even asked Howard a question. She held the timer up for Howard to see.

“I'm getting faster,” Patty said, triumphant. “I think that's a good thing.”

“Trouble is,” Howard continued, “I was planning on going to that same dance myself.” Patty simply shrugged.

“No problem, Dad,” she said. “We'll find someone. David's mom is probably cool.” As Howard watched, Patty went on up the walk, her pink running tights disappearing into the house like a swirl of cotton candy. There was not so much as a nod to her husband, who still lounged in the chair with his newspaper and beer.

“Did you know your mother is going to a dance Saturday night?” Howard shouted up at the porch. John lifted his head and considered this statement.

“Why shouldn't she?” he asked. “Thanks to you, she's a single woman in every way but on paper.” This angered Howard more than he could say. John went back to reading. Howard waited a few seconds.

“Why can't
you
keep Eliot?” he asked. Maybe it was none of his business, but he couldn't help himself. John looked up.

“I got plans,” he said. “You know, with the guys.” Then he winked.

As Howard drove away from his son's house, he caught a glimpse of John Woods in the rearview mirror. He had gone back to reading the paper, a shank of dark hair falling down on his forehead. His son, Howard's son,
backward.
And then the lilac bush at David's house loomed out of nowhere and John Woods disappeared in a cloud of purple blossoms and green leaves.

***

Saturday, the day of the dance, seemed like the longest day Howard had lived through yet. It was long in the same way the days of childhood are long, stretched to their full length by sheer expectation. He had lain for most of the day upon his rickety bed at the Holiday Inn and read
The
Sun
Also
Rises.
The Hemingway boys were already in Burguete, up in the lovely mountains of Spain, fishing in the Irati River and saying clever things back and forth like,
Were
you
ever
in
love
with
her? Sure. For how long? Off and on for a hell of a long time.
And this was on a drunken fishing trip, guys and wine and wiggly worms. How could anyone say Hemingway was antiwomen?

Howard was just starting chapter thirteen, with the arrival of Michael's letter to Jake, saying that
Brett
passed
out
on
the
train
when his alarm clock went off. He looked at it for a couple seconds before he reached over and silenced it. Had the world always known sadness? Were people always hurting each other, since the very beginning? He looked back at the clock. Six thirty. Time to shower, shave, and get ready for his first singles dance in almost forty-five years.

***

“Hey look, everybody!” Pete Morton shouted from his lopsided bar stool. “Here comes Dances with Bulls!”

Howard heard a ripple of laughter as he let his eyes adjust to the smoky dimness of the Holiday Inn lounge. There they all were, the
guys,
if you will. Pete. Wally. And, of course, Larry, who was passing around a photograph. It had arrived just that day, it seems, from good ole Freddy “The Mattress Mogul” Wilson, who was still on vacation in the Bahamas.

“You can be a real wise-ass, you know that?” Howard asked Pete. Pete grinned that silly grin he should have given up in his twenties, a grin as lopsided as his bar stool.

“How'd you like to be Freddy for about five minutes?” Larry asked. He was brandishing the photo as if it were something rare and wonderful. Howard took it from Larry's hand and studied it closely. Freddy had on a purple shirt that was emblazoned with big yellow flowers. What made sensible men and women don such garments the moment they step a foot upon the sands of an island? Freddy had been going to Quick Tan, the tanning bed out at the mall, for weeks before he actually felt the hot sun of Nassau. Weeks. Now, his teeth jumped out from his bronzed face like big white tiles set in brown earth. On Freddy's large head sat a Panama hat one size too small. On his bronzed right arm was the young brunette salesclerk he had hired just the month before.

“I shoulda gone into mattresses instead of music,” Larry said. He had been peering over Howard's shoulder all this time, his breath warm on Howard's neck. “He looks good, don't he?” Larry added. It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Howard nodded, but the truth was that Freddy Wilson's face, with sixty-five years of wear and tear, and sporting a couple of drastic face-lifts, had come to resemble a leather purse from another time, something a flapper might have carried next to her raccoon coat. Overall, Freddy himself reminded Howard of a tired alligator trapped in a skintight suit. Howard handed the photograph back to Larry.

“So, how's it hanging?” Pete Morton asked. Howard heard but ignored him. Instead, he gestured to Wally that he was in dire need of his rum. Wally poured a Bacardi on ice and set it down in front of Howard.

“I expect that dance is gonna be packed,” Wally said, “especially if they send a courtesy van to the nursing home. My ass'll be busy all night.”

Howard sipped his drink. He could feel Pete Morton's eyes burning holes the size of golf balls into him. He said nothing.
A
courtesy
van
from
the
nursing
home?
How had it grown so rotten, so fast? Weren't they all well-functioning men just a short time ago? Their bladders were as durable as good wine flasks, their teeth were all intact, their penises were still rising happily, saluting anything and everything that moved. And most of the women they married still carried their wombs with them, like pocketbooks. Now, well, it seemed to Howard that his generation had become a junkyard of useless parts. Bladders were deflated, teeth were artificial, hairs were falling daily, and penises were being pumped to attention like sad, old tires. Would anyone even
care
if they signed their donor cards?

“Well?” he heard Pete Morton ask. Howard turned and looked at him.
Dances
with
Bulls.
Leave it to the bastard to come up with something so funny it would stick. And this one would stick, oh yes, Howard could tell. He even wished he, himself, had thought of it first, had beaten Pete to the draw. That would have taken away some of the sting.

“Well,
what?”
asked Howard. He took a generous gulp of the rum and felt it beat its way down his throat. By the second drink, the fists of the alcohol would be tinier, almost soothing. By the third, those fists would be downright caressing. Howard was drinking more than he had back in his college days. But, well, things are different when one is a
senior.