Running the Bulls (27 page)

Howard fell asleep with the book broken open across his chest. He dreamed then, the most vivid and colorful dream that he had since childhood, maybe ever. It was more a dream of life than it was a dream of the subconscious, so he was positive that it was happening. It was happening and he was caught up in it, unable to break free of the colors and sounds. It opened beautifully, filmlike, to the excited noise of a fiesta and the dust of the streets rising up in brown clouds. He even felt the intense heat, so hot that perspiration ran down the back of his neck. He knew instantly that he was in Pamplona, and that the bulls were about to run through the streets. And then Howard saw them, thousands of them, coming from the nearby villages, coming from the distant cities of the world, all dressed in sparkling white shirts and waving the red neck scarves,
los
sanfermines,
those skillful dodgers. They were filling up the square in front of city hall, the same square Howard had seen so many times in the pictures of his travel packet. Then a man, a
councilor,
jumped up onto a platform and turned to the mass of faces before him. This is when Howard realized that he was one of those faces, in that sea of men. He, Howard Woods, of Bixley, Maine, was about to run the bulls! He looked down then and saw that his shirt was pure white, spotless, and in his hand was the red neck scarf. “People of Pamplona!” the councilor shouted. “Long live San Fermín!” Howard smiled. He had read that this would be shouted in Spanish and Basque, but the councilor was speaking English, which was very nice of him. And then noise exploded all around as a rocket soared high over the square and then burst into stars. As he stared up at the fireworks, Howard knew what John's bomb had looked like to the faces on the ground. And then a festive cry rang out from the thousands of voices around him, as if a great bell were being rung. He felt himself being pushed along with the crowd. Now there was music in the air as the street bands beat out their songs. Voices sang in unison, sweet and pure:
We
ask
San
Ferm
í
n, as our Patron, to guide us through the Bull Run and give us his blessing.
He saw vendors along the way, reaching out to him with cups of champagne, sandwiches, sunglasses, sombreros, ice cream. He tried to take some of their offerings, but they rushed past him in a blur, as he was pushed along with the wall of bodies, all those white shirts moving
en
masse,
all those red scarves being waved about in the air. He was exhilarated, the heat, the music, the sweat of life unfolding as it was, like a great, unstoppable pinwheel. And then, someone shouted,
“Los toros!”
and Howard knew the bulls were coming. The film sped up then, much too fast for his liking, and he was pushed violently now. The crowd was changing; he could sense it, the happy faces growing stern, blossoming into anger. “Kill the bull!” someone shouted in English. And then hundreds of hands were raised into the air from out of the mass of bodies, hundreds of white shirtsleeves, the silver blades of hundreds of knives flashing in the hot sun. Howard realized then that the
sanfermines
were stabbing the bull, again and again and again. He turned to the man next to him, hoping he could help stop it. There was a banner floating above this man's head: BULLFIGHTING IS CRUEL TO ANIMALS! It was the man Howard had read about in the newspaper, that fateful day Ellen told him about Ben, and he had driven to John's and waited for his son to wake up. It was the animal rights activist! “Do something!” Howard shouted to him. “Help me stop this!” The man turned toward Howard then, his banner streaming above his head, and that's when Howard realized that he no ears. Just as his students had no ears in those Macbeth lectures he'd been giving in his nightmares, ever since his retirement. Now Howard was frightened, his body tingling the way it does from the fear that comes with a nightmare. “We aren't supposed to kill it!” Howard shouted to the man on his other side. “We're just supposed to run alongside!” Now this man turned to look at Howard. His brownish hair was shoulder length, his eyebrows thick and full. He was dressed like the other
sanfermines,
the white shirt, the red belt, the neck scarf. Howard recognized him instantly. It was Roddy Burkette. “It has to die anyway,” said Roddy. “It has to die later, in the arena, so why not now?” Howard felt panic then. He had to find a way to save the bull. He elbowed through the crowd of skillful dodgers, that sea of faces, the boiling mass of hands, of knives. As they fell back, they reached out and touched his white shirt with their fingers, leaving behind their bloody prints. And then, finally, Howard managed to reach the bull, so great was his desire to rescue it. He pulled away the last man who was kneeling over the animal's body, which he knew must be dying. He pulled away the last
sanfermine
from the bull, only it wasn't the bull. It was Eliot. Howard knelt and picked the boy's head up into his lap. He cradled it. “Oh, Eliot,” he whispered. “I wish it had been me instead of you.” Eliot opened his eyes then and looked up at Howard. “I know, Grandpa,” Eliot said. “But it's okay now. It's almost over. And it doesn't hurt so much, not as much as I thought it would.” Howard could only nod. He held the small body of his grandson up tight to his chest, which is what he wished he could have done the day Eliot had lain in the street, dying alone in that pool of blood. Eliot. And then, in the bizarre scheme of dreams, Howard began to sing to his grandchild, not a lullaby, for dreams don't care for such sensible things. “That old Bilbao moon, I won't forget it soon,” Howard sang, and in the dream he was just as good as Andy Williams. “That old Bilbao moon, just like a big balloon.”

When Howard woke, he was already crying. He could still feel the warmth of Eliot's body pressed against the sweat of his chest. Warmth, a thing that could be touched, alive, like electricity. And then the dream was shaken away from him like a cobweb, and Howard realized that the warmth was only the sweat of the dream itself, dampening his T-shirt. And now, the warmth, the wet, was growing cold as the night air reached it. Cold, as Eliot's body must be, the sweet earth swallowing it up in its mouth, churning it into fertilizer. Howard didn't think the cry from deep within him would ever stop. It came out of his body as if it had teeth, tearing at his gut, his flesh, his heart, ripping away any sense of shelter he had ever known. It was much worse than the night of Eliot's funeral, and he had thought
that
was as bad as it would get. And then it was over.

He went into the small bathroom where he bathed cool water onto his face, then patted it dry with a towel. The sky outside the window was just ripening with dawn. He went out to the other room and lit the oil lamp on the table. He put more wood in the stove and then, nothing but time on his hands, he stood before the photo of Ben Collins that was taped to his mirror. He hoped Ben could help him with this one, this big question. Had his life been lived for nothing? Maybe not. He had, after all, endured. The truth is that he'd been
skillfully
dodging
the great issues of his life,
all
his
life.
He would give the goddamn symbolists their due, their crust of bread:
He'd been running the bulls for as long as he could remember.
As he peered into Ben's eyes, Howard wondered if he would visit Roddy Burkette one day, in his jail cell. Or if he couldn't visit, maybe he would find a place in his heart that would forgive Roddy, who seemed to need no help in his own self-destruction. One day.
It
all
takes
time.

“I'm growing up, Ben,” Howard said to the tired and sick face in the photo. “By God, I'm finally gonna do it.” How could he have ever dreamed that he would show Ellen the photo of Ben Collins? What had he been thinking, in those raw days of his naivete? He had known for some time now that the photo would be his secret, and Ben's secret. He felt strangely protective of Ben Collins these days. They'd been through a lot together. Howard saw his own face then, just behind Ben's, his reflection staring at him from the mirror. He could feel the swelling already coming to his eyes. But it would be gone by daybreak. A lot of things would be gone by then. And that was the new knowledge Howard Woods must now learn to live with. It all takes time and then, then, the
comeback's
the thing.

Could You Come Hotel Montana Madrid Am Rather In Trouble Brett.

Lady Ashley Hotel Montana Madrid Arriving Sud Express Tomorrow Love Jake.

—Brett's and Jake's telegrams,
The
Sun
Also
Rises

Snowflakes were falling among the bare birches as Howard boiled water for his morning coffee. He threw the right amount of grounds into the bubbling water and then went into the little bedroom to dress. By the time he poured a cup and took it out to the front porch, the snow had stopped and a pale, yellow sun had broken through. The late-straggling loon was gone. At least Howard hadn't heard it in the early hours as light came in over the lake, followed by daybreak. It would seem that the loon had looked at its options, and had chosen an arduous journey over certain death. That's what life was all about, really, the options. Canada Jays spotted him and swooped down to the ground by the front steps. They had already learned that Howard would toss them a scrap of morning bagel or a piece of doughnut. They had come to depend upon him for this, and he felt good about that.

There on the porch of the cabin, with the sun hitting the rocking chair full blast, Howard settled down with a yellow legal pad and a fountain pen. It had been his favorite way of writing, his preferred
accoutrements,
for as long as he could remember. A good old-fashioned pad of paper and a nice sturdy pen with lots of ink.

He stared at the pad thoughtfully for a time, and then he wrote the first sentence. It would come just after Brett told Jake that she didn't want to be one of those bitches that ruin children, and so she had sent the boy bullfighter, her lover, away for good. In Howard's version, they would be drinking in the back of the taxi, Brett leaning against Jake's chest.

“I don't like it you know,” she said.

“Like what?”

“The bullfight, the bloody fight. I don't like it one bit, darling, it's terrible.”

I didn't answer her just then. A prostitute, a
poule,
I recognized from the Palace Hotel was just going upstairs at Botin's for her dinner. She would probably have the suckling pig and then drink some
rioja
alta.
She looked up as the taxi passed and smiled. I had thought her pretty once, but now she had aged in the short time I had been away. But so had I.

“Then we won't do it,” I said.

“Do what?”

“The bulls, we won't go again to Pamplona.”

“It's ghastly, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jake, do you mean it?”

“I don't want to be one of those bastards who ruins bulls,” I said.

“I'm glad we won't do it.”

Brett was smoking again. Her cigarettes were an American brand and quite inferior. I knew that she would die of lung cancer if she didn't stop smoking. A lot of people were dying. More than in the war.

“Let's go back to the bar at the Hotel Montana,” I said. “At least the bartender there is nice.” It was difficult anymore to find someone polite in food service.

“It's ghastly, isn't it?”

“We'll have a nightcap.”

“Do you think we should stop drinking?” Brett asked. She looked very frightened. I thought she might cry.

“They say two glasses of red wine a day is good for the heart.” I would order us a bottle of
rioja
alta
.

“I'm going to quit smoking soon,” said Brett. “Maybe New Year's. Oh, darling, wouldn't it be lovely?”

“We'll quit the wine too, one day.”

“And then, Jake, we'll be just like everyone else.”

“Wouldn't it be pretty to think so?” I said.

THE END

Howard smiled. In a day or two, he would dig out his old Smith Corona typewriter and beat away at the keys, just as Papa himself had done. He would type the thing up, give it body, give it a bit of respectability. After all, Ernest Hemingway had written the novel in the mid-1920s, when he was still just a boy. What did he know of what was to come? The damn stock market hadn't even fallen yet. Gertrude Stein was happily holding court at her salon, and Fitzgerald was still dancing in the streets with Zelda, the ink not dried on
Gatsby.
How could Papa have known what the '30s and '40s would bring, much less the '50s and '60s? No wonder he wrote about cynical human beings, irresponsible men and women whose greatest quest was to turn life into one endless and glittering party. Howard saw this as his chance to help Papa out. Granted, no one would see it but the gray jays and the chickadees. But that was okay. That didn't matter. Maybe he would mail it out one day to a magazine, just to appease the Politically Correct Police who were now roaming the valleys and dells of American literature. He'd toss them a bone, sharks that they were. Papa would understand. He knew all about sharks, knew how they follow the boat, eating away at the body until nothing but the head remains. It had won him the Pulitzer Prize, this shark knowledge.

By the time Howard dressed for his run and came down the steps of the cabin, it was again snowing, light and feathery. The ground was already white, with just flashes of yellow here and there where all those autumn leaves had piled up. Winter was trying hard to happen, but autumn was still holding its ground. But soon, soon, the snows would come full force.

Howard changed his run. He went straight into town this time, and on past the church to the post office. He had a couple of bills waiting for him and another letter from the Ford Motor Company.
Dear
Howard. We have learned from our files that you have fully purchased your 1995 Probe. That's exciting news since a new model awaits you! But time is running out, Howard! P.S. When you stop in with this letter and take a test drive before November 25, 1998, we'll give you a certificate for a free holiday turkey!
He didn't waste his energy on balling up this one. Instead, he tossed it into the big trash barrel at the post office. Inside the barrel were other letters from Ford, the envelopes all addressed with a computer's script font, so that they would appear to be handwritten. Apparently, Howard Woods wasn't the only one who had gotten a personal love letter that day from the Ford Motor Company.

As he jogged into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, the fresh snow was just starting to cover the big green H on the sign. A light dusting was all the weathermen had predicted, and that's what it looked like,
a
dusting.
The morning sun would take it all away. By late October, it would be back and it would stay for months. Howard slowed his quick stride down to a walk. As he reached the towering sign, he stopped. He took off his gloves and put them into the pockets of his jacket. He wanted to catch his breath a bit before he went inside. It was almost four o'clock and already Pete's Jeep was in the yard, along with several other vehicles. Howard knew this meant the
sanfermines,
those
aficionados,
would be leaning on their elbows at the bar. There were a few footprints barely noticeable in the light snow, signs that people had recently passed that way. And that's when Howard remembered again that day when he, and Ellen, and Ben, and Vera—now that he had a name for her—had all come to the Holiday Inn together for a drink after some school activity. It had been snowing that day, too, fat flakes covering the sidewalk as they parked their cars and then made their way toward that perpetual smell of egg rolls and weenies. And that's when Howard had balled up a fistful of thick, wet snow, shaped it into a snowball and tossed it at Ben Collins, who had quickly tossed one back. He could almost hear their old voices ringing out, and the sounds of their boots stomping off the snow before they went inside for one of Wally's famous martinis. Those were the days when the Holiday Inn was more a virgin than a
poule,
a faded prostitute that still lurks on street corners in old novels. They thought they'd be husbands and wives forever, didn't they? Teachers, forever in their prime.

“Hey look, everybody!” Pete Morton shouted, as Howard stepped into the dimly lighted lounge. “It's Dances with Squirrels!”

Things hadn't changed much. Larry left his spot behind the keyboards to come over to the bar and shake Howard's hand.

“Jesus, Howie, it's good to see you,” said Larry. “We been thinking about you. We're all real sorry, you know, the bad news.” Howard nodded. He didn't want to talk about Eliot. He only wanted to think about Eliot, in the safety of his own mind, his own thoughts, his own memories, until he could come to some kind of terms with it all. The guys understood. He knew they wouldn't mention it again. They were guys.

Wally started to pour him a rum, but Howard shook his head.

“A glass of red wine,” he said.

That's when Howard noticed that Bernie, the groundskeeper at the golf course, was sitting on a lopsided stool at the very end of the bar. The course had been shut down for the season, and, as usual, Bertie had nothing but time on his hands until next May. It was common knowledge that Bertie only turned up in the lounge after the last golf ball had been hit out at the course. It was Bertie's own code, and he'd stuck by it for years. He was on the telephone now, sounding more frustrated than ever.

“I
know
it's caused by algae feeding on the liquid,” Bertie was saying, most likely to some laboratory he'd read about in New Zealand, since he'd gone through most of the North American labs. “I been fighting that thing for five years. What I
don't know
is how to stop it. And all it's doing right now is resting up until spring.”

As Howard sipped his wine, he turned and looked across the room. How he and Ellen had loved that place in its heyday. It was the perfect retreat from college students who thought it too dull, too boring as a hangout. But it had been the ideal place for his and Ellen's crowd, with its plush sofas and chairs, a place to munch on microwave egg rolls and those perpetual weenies floating in a reddish sauce that even Bertie wouldn't try to classify. And, of course, they'd listen as Larry Ferguson banged away on his piano and sang the songs they loved to hear. Sinatra. Captain & Tennille. John Denver. How many times had Howard twirled Ellen about out there on the dance floor?
Ellen.
He'd been trying not to think of her, either.

“Hey, Howie, your new mattress is in!”

Howard looked over to where the jukebox sat and saw Freddy Wilson, his skin more tanned than ever, his teeth glowing white in his brown face. Freddy was sitting at a table with a very young woman, one who would most likely sell mattresses for the Mogul before the night was over.

Howard took the stool that had been designated his, during all those many happy hours when he had been holed up in room number seventeen. Pete came and sat next to him, took out his cigar, and lit it up. Howard read Pete's T-shirt: God Grant Me the Senility to Forget Those People I Never Liked in the First Place.

Larry came and sat on Howard's other side, the stool squeaking beneath his weight. He looked at Howard and smiled.

“So what've you been up to?” Larry asked. Howard thought about that for a moment.

“Well, like most existentialists,” he said, “I've been getting up early every morning to search for values in a universe of chance.” It was Larry's turn to think. Here was a man who had risen early every morning to search for his
pump.

“Me, too,” said Larry. Apparently, it had sounded like a good plan to the lounge singer. He gestured to Wally. “Another tomato juice, Wal.”

On the mirror behind the bar were more Polaroid pictures of Larry's pump. Howard leaned forward in order to see them better. The pump had gotten around. New England Aquarium. Fenway Park. In one, it was sitting outside Cheers, the Boston bar made famous from television. Larry noticed that Howard was staring.

“Fucking bitch,” said Larry. “But the joke was on her. She actually did me a favor. It's back.”

“What is?” Howard asked. He imagined the pump arriving at Larry's door, wearing a red blazer, with a steamer trunk in tow.

“
You
know,” said Larry. He threw a quick look downward at his crotch.
“It.”

“Oh,” said Howard. “I guess that's a good thing, then.”

“I found me another doctor,” said Larry. “Know what my problem was?” Howard shook his head. How could he possibly guess, unless it was an algae that was feeding on the iron-rich liquid just beneath the surface of Larry's scrotum.

“It was nothin' but a case of Nervous Nuts,” said Pete.

“Don't be a wise guy,” said Larry. He looked at Howard. “It was stress and too much alcohol. But I'm back good as new and making up for lost time. That bitch can just keep the damn thing.”

“What's that?” asked Howard, and pointed to a fresh newspaper clipping that was taped just above the yellowing publicity photo that Lola Falana had signed.
To
Wally, Thanks for coming. Love, Lola.
Wally brightened.

“It was in the papers last week,” he said. “I finally found out where Lola is. She's born again and living with her parents in Philly.” Then he added, “She's got MS.”

A silence fell over them then, their own way of wishing Lola Falana the best, of wishing life had been kinder to her. But she was a girl with pizzazz and they all knew it. Somehow, Lola would not only survive, she would prosper.

“Man, she was something,” said Pete. “Remember when her boob came out of her dress on Johnny Carson?”

Howard stood. His wineglass was still half-full, but he pushed it back across the bar toward Wally.

“I better run, guys,” he said. “And I mean that literally.”

Before Howard left the lounge, Pete had an original thought. “Hey, Runs Without Bulls!” Pete shouted. “Don't be a stranger.”