Running the Bulls (28 page)

***

Howard had almost always run in the mornings, except for the past few days, his schedule being thrown off-kilter by the workers from Morgan's Home Builders. He had no way of knowing that Ellen often visited the cemetery in the late afternoon. But he found out as he crested the top of Stony Hill Road and saw the little gray Celica pulled up and parked by the wrought iron gates. The snow had stopped again, and again the afternoon sun was breaking from behind clouds. The iron bars of the cemetery lay in shadows upon the white snow next to the Celica. When Howard saw that it was, indeed, Ellen, saw the smallness of her out by the grave that must be Eliot's, over in the upper corner of the graveyard, he picked up his pace. He was a half mile further down Stony Hill Road when he finally turned, tears in his eyes, and ran back to the cemetery. As he had hoped, it was a long enough jog that the tears were gone by the time he reached the gate.

Ellen was sitting on the snowy ground by the edge of grave. Considering Howard had not been there since that hot day in July, when they had buried Eliot, he hadn't imagined that the grass would grow so fast on his grandson's resting place. But it had. The mound must have been green all through August, for now brown spikes of grass thrust up through the thin layer of snow, grass rigid with autumn, with impending winter. But there must have been that little spurt of life before the winter cold stung the roots into submission. A smattering of floral bouquets covered the mound, two of them still quite fresh. Howard supposed this was Ellen's and Patty's doings. He also supposed that it had been women who put daisies on those ancient Neanderthal graves, a need for everlasting beauty, even in death. Ellen was staring at Eliot's name, inscribed with a deep flourish of lettering on the tombstone. She looked up as Howard approached. For a few seconds they said nothing. Howard saw that someone had left a baseball at the bottom of the headstone. He recognized it immediately. It was the one Howard had given John, signed by Carl Yastrzemski that lovely summer's day, years ago, that Howard and his son had taken in a game at Fenway Park. John must have left it there for his own son, passing the treasure on. Howard looked away, a lump rising in his throat, a burning again in his eyes.

“I brought the violet,” Ellen said, and pointed to a little pot with an African violet growing up out of it. He was surprised at the sound of her voice, the lilt in it. Was he forgetting, after forty long years? Can it happen that quickly? Would he eventually forget Eliot's voice, too? He hoped not. He hoped to hell he didn't. “When Eliot visited, he used to admire the purple flowers on mine.”

Howard smiled at the warm memory of this. He looked down at Ellen. She seemed tinier than he remembered her, as if she were melting inside the thick black jacket, what she called her
autumn
coat. Maybe she was disappearing, alone now in the big house on Patterson Street, alone in her marriage bed, maybe she was dissolving in sadness. Like Patty was dissolving. In a short time, Howard knew in his heart, Patty Woods would be gone all together if they didn't do something to save her. He thought about Eliot then, really thought about him in a way he had not allowed himself to do yet, because the flesh and blood of the boy was too painful to remember. Eliot, small and loving, an admirer of the Florida Gators. Innocent. Eliot Lane Woods would know about
forgiveness.

Howard reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the little car, the red Galaxy with its yellow headlights. He had carried it in his pocket every day that he ran, wondering if that was the day he'd stop and leave it for Eliot. It all takes time. He leaned down and put it on the ground of Eliot's grave, on top of the rich soil that was already churning itself toward winter, waiting, knowing in its core that there is such a thing as spring. He wanted it to stay there with his grandson, next to the flowerpots and the baseball, Eliot, who was now grown wiser than all the humans he left behind. Ellen smiled to see it.

“That looks like that Galaxy you wanted,” she said. “Remember? Back when Greta was just born? I always felt guilty that we couldn't afford it.” She looked up at him then. “That's why I think your little James Bond car is a great idea.”

“You do?” asked Howard. The truth was that he had been wavering. It had nothing to do with Ford's blatant turkey bribe and everything to do with the notion that maybe he belonged behind the wheel of a car more befitting his age. Ellen never failed to amaze him. And this is what had kept their life together interesting for forty years.

“Sure I do,” Ellen said. “You think I haven't seen you flying around town with the top down?” He smiled. He certainly
hoped
she had seen him. That had been part of the plan, after all.

“Wanna go for a ride sometime?” he asked.

“I don't want to make Pussy Galore jealous,” Ellen said.

“She'll get over it,” said Howard.

Evening was falling, the sun dropping, the early autumn night moving in. He could feel the cold beginning to penetrate his jacket. He took a deep breath, full of the richness of fall, the clean, cold air.

“Can I take you to dinner?” Howard asked. Ellen waited a few seconds before she answered.

“How about if I cook instead? Chicken cacciatore.”

He nodded his approval.

“I'll bring the wine.”

“This time, try not to throw it, okay?”

“I'll try.”

Ellen reached out and touched the petals of the African violet. Surely she knew that it would freeze during the night. But it would hold its purple flowers for a couple hours, at least, and that would be enough. That would be an eternity.

“We bought him that damn bicycle,” Ellen said then, as if this thought was too much to keep to herself any longer. She took a tissue from her jacket's pocket and blew her nose. The tip of it was already red with cold.

“Guilt is part of this, Ellen,” Howard said. He was impressed with how wise he sounded in that instant, how brave. “Don't be tricked, sweetheart. Guilt is part of it.” He felt big, uncontrollable tears well in his eyes, but he wasn't ashamed if Ellen saw them. They would be a family awash in tears before time came around with its salve and its rolls of gauze. Never a
healing,
no. But a means to keep the wound wrapped, a way to stop the flow of blood. A promise of
distance,
eventually, sweet, lovely
distance.
And
forgiveness.
After all, the greatest part of life is just that, Howard had come to realize. It begins with us forgiving our parents for forcing us to be born. With forgiving
ourselves,
for being foolish enough to take part in the first place, despite all our misgivings. For scurrying like blind moles across The Big Landfill, a place where rules are bent or broken, a kingdom where unfairness runs rampant.

He had called her sweetheart.

“What about tonight?” he said to Ellen then. “What about dinner
tonight
?” It almost surprised him. Ellen stood, brushed the snow and dried grass from her jeans. He walked with her back to the car. She opened the door and turned to face him.

“Bring red wine, okay?” Ellen asked. “It goes better with chicken.”

Howard nodded. Then he stood and watched as the gray Celica backed out onto Stony Hill Road. Ellen waved, a quick, sweet wave, and Howard waved back. Soon, the car had disappeared beyond the crest of hill. He listened to the sound of its engine, growing more and more distant, until it, too, was gone.

As Howard ran back toward the cabin, he wondered if it would happen over dinner, perhaps while they were eating their salads with the artichoke hearts, that Ellen would ask him to move back home. Or maybe
he
would be the one to ask, at the very second the cork came popping out of the wine bottle, his cue to speak. Maybe they would go out for dinner, instead, and it would happen then. He imagined an ending to their own novel, his and Ellen's. He would drive to her house again for dinner. He would ring the bell, but only once, showing a Hemingway kind of control. Ellen would open the door, look at him, tears in her eyes.
Darling, I've been so miserable,
she would say. Howard would merely nod, for he had learned how cruel and vicious words can be. He knew now how words go deep. They go like horns into the gut, the heart, the soul.

Listen, Ellen,
he would say,
going
to
another
country
doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.
And she would smile, and so he would take her out to see the town, not in a taxi, but in the little black Aston Martin. He would put the top down so that the cold, autumn wind could sing through her reddish hair. As they drove, all the houses of Bixley would look
sharply
white,
just as they had from the taxi that last night in Madrid, with tears stinging Brett's eyes, with Jake wanting her more than ever. Howard would take Ellen to dinner at the Café Le Bixley, where a girl would bring them hot bowls of soup and wine. And on the way home, Ellen would put her head against his chest, and she would say something Brettish, like,
Oh, Howie, we could have had such a damned good time together.
But now, now, Howard would know just what to say. He wouldn't say what Jake did. He wouldn't say,
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Hell no, he was far too wise for that now. Howard would kiss the softness of her face. He would kiss her and then he would whisper,
We
still
can, Ellen. We still can.

Maybe it would take a day, two weeks, a month, but it would be soon. That's all Howard knew. He felt it in his bones. The way Billy Mathews felt the urge to lead a small and happy life. He felt what the squirrels feel each time ice rims the shore of the lake. It would be soon, and it was
about
time.
At the age of sixty-three, Howard Woods was headed straight for his future. It would happen just like it does in a book, because lives are like that. Howard imagined himself putting the book of his and Ellen's life together high up on a shelf, the one in his old study at Patterson Street. But before he did, he would say the speech to her that he'd wanted to say for such a long, long time:
I
forgive
you, Ellen Ann O'Malley Woods, with your lovely green eyes and your ability to endure. I forgive you, sweetheart, with all my heart and soul. Now, now, can
you
forgive
me?

1.
The novel opens with a dramatic confrontation, as Ellen reveals her infidelity to Howard. Why might the author choose to begin the story at this point? How does it affect your reading of the novel?

2.
How do you respond to Howard's claim that he needs to “pay his dues”? What does he mean by this? Why does he think running the bulls in Pamplona will allow him to pay his dues?

3.
Howard refers frequently to Ernest Hemingway's
The
Sun
Also
Rises
. What associations or expectations about Hemingway and his work do you bring to this book? How do those associations resonate with this novel?

4.
The characters in this story frequently act contrary to their own best interests or true desires; for example, Howard initiates divorce proceedings, not because he truly wants a divorce but as a means of punishing Ellen. How do these misguided efforts shape your feelings about the characters?

5.
What do you make of Howard's encounters with his former student, Billy Mathews? What do they suggest about the depth of his distress?

6.
Ellen tells Howard that he is “a coward.” Do you agree with that? What portrait emerges, over the course of the novel, of their married life?

7.
How do you respond to Howard's encounter with Donna Riley, the hotel manager? Does his infidelity somehow balance or cancel out Ellen's?

8.
What do you make of Howard's nostalgia for the 1950s? Does he really believe it was a better time? In what ways does he undermine his nostalgic visions even as he creates them?

9.
The author has referred to this novel as a “coming-of-age” story about a sixty-three-year-old man. How does the description resonate with your experience of the book?

10.
Critics have called Pelletier a writer with “a unique ability to be simultaneously sympathetic and wickedly funny.” In what ways does
Running
the
Bulls
achieve such a balance?

A Year After Henry

Available August 2014 from Sourcebooks Landmark

An exquisite new novel from acclaimed author Cathie Pelletier.

Bixley, Maine. One year after Henry Munroe's fatal heart attack at age forty-one, his doting parents, prudish wife, rebellious son, and wayward brother are still reeling. So is Evie Cooper, a bartender, self-proclaimed “spiritual portraitist,” and Henry's former mistress. While his widow Jeanie struggles with the betrayal, Henry's overbearing mother is making plans to hold a memorial service. As the date of the tribute draws closer and these worlds threaten to collide, the Munroes grapple with the frailty of their own lives and the knowledge that love is all that matters.

With her trademark wry wit and wisdom, Cathie Pelletier has crafted an elegant and surprisingly uplifting portrait of the many strange and inspiring forms that grief can take in the journey to overcoming loss.

Praise for Cathie Pelletier

“That master juggler of literary tears and laughter is at it again.” —Wally Lamb, author of
She's Come Undone

“Nobody walks the knife-edge of hilarity and heartbreak more confidently than Pelletier.” —Richard Russo, author of
Empire Falls