Running the Bulls Page 13

  “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.

  “Why ain’t you talking to me?” Pete wondered.

  Howard thought about this.

  “Among all those unfortunate women you bedded,” he said to Pete, “was there not one teacher of English grammar?” Pete thought for a few seconds, serious, as if he were taking inventory for a tax auditor.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Ellen taught history, didn’t she?” Howard ignored the comment.

  “Shouldn’t we go?” Larry asked. “It starts at eight.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” Pete said, and looked at his watch.

  Howard put his drink down on the bar and gave Pete Morton his full attention.

  “It’s a singles dance, for crying out loud,” Howard said. “You can’t go. You’re married!” Pete held a finger up to his lips.

  “Shhh,” Pete whispered. “Carolyn’s gone to Boston. Her hysterical sister is finally having a hysterectomy.”

  “That doesn’t make you single,” Howard insisted. Pete looked up at him, that sad look coming to his face, the one that probably got him laid behind the stadium all through his high school football days.

  “So who’s gonna tell on me?” Pete asked, sincerely. “You?”

  “Maybe,” said Howard.

  “You’re not divorced yet,” Pete reminded Howard. “Besides, if you guys don’t take me with you, neither of you will get laid.”

  Howard felt sick to his stomach. How was this happening? How had he been spit through some kind of time warp, spit back to a place he had once hated. He had failed miserably at Boy Meets Girl. He had despised the whole experience before he met and fell madly in love with Ellen. He had loathed it because, unlike Pete Morton, he’d never been good at it. Howard even suspected that some men and women marry people they don’t even like, just so they’ll always have someone to go to the dance with. Someone to eat with. Someone to sleep with. But Howard Woods had been lucky. Howard Woods had met and married Ellen. And now, he was being tested again. Senior Meets Seniorette. He could almost hear the personnel over at the nursing home: Be sure to have her back by ten o’clock, Mr. Woods, in time for her medication.

  “You ready, boys?” Howard heard Larry ask. Larry had the night off since a deejay would be employed in the ballroom, and not much would be going on in the lounge in the way of dancing. Larry stood, straightened his tie. He looked good in the dark blue suit he was wearing, even if the buttons on the jacket seemed ready to pop. Pete put his drink down on the bar. Ever the jock, he had on khakis and a white shirt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tie. He shook it out to its full length and went to work fitting it around his neck.

  “There,” Pete said, when he’d finished. “How’s that look?”

  Howard could never stay mad at Pete. That’s the way it had always been: the cool guys always draw the other guys back, sooner or later. They reel them in like lost fish. Howard reached over and grabbed Pete’s tie, undid it, then tied it correctly. He straightened it.

  “You’re helpless, you know that?” he asked. Pete smiled and planted a mock punch on Howard’s arm.

  “Okay, Team Viagra, let’s head out!” Pete shouted. “The opposite sex awaits.”

  As Howard tipped back the last of his rum, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar, flanked on each side by Larry and Pete. He felt a sudden embarrassment for the three of them. They looked, well, trapped. Just to the right of Howard’s head was poor Lola Falana, her firm young breasts peeping from the top of her dress. And William Cohen, whose photograph was so positioned that his eyes seemed forever locked on Lola’s cleavage. Trapped. Forever. Grecian urns in Maine.

  Howard put his glass down and followed Pete Morgan to the door of the lounge. He looked forward to the next rum, the one with the pleasant and soothing fists.

  ***

  As Howard Woods saw it, whoever had the audacity to still refer to the large hangar inside the Holiday Inn as a ballroom should be given a ribbon for creativity. The once haughty ballroom, the very spot where William Cohen had been served a chicken stew dinner to help sustain him on his walk across Maine, now looked like the indoor courtyard of some third-rate French bordello. From the tall windows overlooking the parking lot, faded red-velvet curtains sagged from bent and tarnished rods. Scarlett O’Hara might have found enough material to make herself a decent pair of pantaloons, but Howard doubted a gown could be coaxed from the threadbare panels. The rug on the ballroom floor had far too many diamonds in the pattern. If one stared at it for more than a few seconds, the diamonds began to spin and twirl, as if the floor were one huge disco ball. Faded murals along the walls depicted proud scenes from Bixley’s history: the founding fathers landing at Discovery Point, on the Bixley River, 1843, looking more like tired Fuller Brush salesmen than pioneers; several scruffy soldiers marching off to join the Civil War, circa 1860; the opening of Bixley Community College, in 1939; the creation of the nature park, in 1965; and, well, that was pretty much it.

  Howard studied the faded painting of the college. Other than the addition of the gymnasium and several more classroom buildings, the place hadn’t changed much at all. He reached out his hand and put a finger on the brick-red paint at the upper end of Bixley Hall. That’s where his office had been, where it still was, with someone else now using the sturdy desk, filling the rickety drawers with test papers, saturating the window with fernlike plants. Someone else, ready to teach Macbeth all over again. Poor Macbeth, poor weary bastard. Howard couldn’t help but stare at the tiny likeness of Bixley Hall, as if he might find himself there, a small glob of flesh-colored paint, peering out through the yellow globs that were windows. He’d spent a lot of his life behind those windows. A lot of his life. And then, even though he had been trying hard to avoid it, he looked directly at the yellow window that was the teacher’s lounge. This is where Ellen and Ben Collins had given up their cigarettes together. Had they kissed in that room? Had they done things even worse?

  “You’ll find alcoholic and nonalcoholic refreshments at the table over there,” said a young voice from behind him. Howard turned to see a girl, no more than twenty, who had obviously been hired to act as hostess. She was
nicely dressed, a red pantsuit clinging to the youthful curves of her body. And she seemed to take her job quite seriously. There was even a desk for her, set up just inside the entrance, which was where Pete was now waiting, two drinks already in hand. “There are also cheeses, vegetables, and dips on the table.” She pointed, the way a stewardess points at the emergency exits. “And it’s all for fifteen dollars,” she continued, “unless you’ve prepaid.” She waited, her eyes intent on Howard, who finally realized that she wanted him to produce his ticket or pay her the cover charge.

  “Sorry,” he said. He shuffled a hand around among the bills in his pocket and came out with a twenty. The hostess took it and quickly gave him his change. Then, before Howard could protest, or even question her intent, she grabbed his hand and stamped the top of it, firmly. Howard looked down at the letters now emblazoned on his skin in purple ink: Senior Dance Summer 1998 it announced.

  “Here,” said Pete. He handed Howard a rum. “Next one’s on you.”

  Howard could see Larry Ferguson’s head bobbing away over in the corner. Larry was already surrounded by a small gaggle of women, the Bixley Bowling Babes, who came every Thursday night after the game to hear Mr. Mellow in the lounge. Larry claimed to have bedded half of the team. Now that the pump was in his life, his plans were to go back for the second half, this time with a little more compassion since he needed it in return.

  “Let’s mingle,” suggested Pete. Howard followed him, nodding at faces he either knew well, knew briefly, or didn’t know at all, faces that were sometimes tired, or expectant, or sad, or blissfully happy. It apparently did take all types to run the world. And all those types had paid fifteen dollars to attend the Senior Singles Dance.

  “Ooh, looking good, looking good,” Pete whispered, as if to Howard, but it was really meant for a woman who was just passing by. Her short blond hair was stylish, her white dress impeccable, her lips a full red. She had taken good care of herself over the years. Like Ellen, this woman would always be beautiful. Howard could tell by the arrogant way in which she held her head that she had been in charge back in high school. And she was in charge now, having two female followers tagging just behind her, neither of them even close to looking as good as she. But that’s the way it was supposed to be. Some things never change. Once captain of the cheerleading squad, always captain.

  All Howard—who was Pete’s follower—wanted was to get through the crowd of people, past the blond and her friends. His mission was to pretend interest in the plates of veggies at the snack table so that he might scan the room. So far he hadn’t seen Ellen.

  “Yes, sir,” Pete added, and this time he said it directly to the blond. “Looking damn good.”

  The blond appeared bored. She shot Pete a look of pure disdain.

  “Why don’t you tell it to the marines?” she suggested. Pete considered this.

  “I am the marines,” he said. “Or at least I used to be.”

  This made the blond smile. She gave him a more in-depth look as she continued to push her way through the crowd. Then Pete did a double take. The blond did a double take. They turned and faced each other. A few seconds hung like smoke in the air. Then Pete’s face broke into a massive smile. The blond smiled too and shook her head. She had the kind of lacquered hair that never moved.

  “I’ll be damned,” the blond said. “Pete Morgan.” He nodded.

  “I’ll be damned right back,” Pete said. “Abigail Reed.”

  “You dog,” said Abigail. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” said Pete, “not since we dated.”

  “You either,” said Abigail.

  “Would you two excuse me?” Howard asked, and pushed on past them. He had no intention of watching as Pete and Abigail rediscovered their high school selves.

  ***

  After nearly an hour of grating deejay music, carrot sticks, olives, and thin strips of cheese on Wheat Thins, Howard could still find no sign of Ellen. Had she changed her mind about coming? He was amazed at how expectant his insides had grown, the kind of fluttering he had known back in those days before Ellen agreed to wear his class ring. He would have thought that, at his age, all the butterflies had long migrated. He had even left the snack table for a time and taken up his vigil from one of the metallic folding chairs along the wall. He saw plenty of other seniors, but no Ellen, and no Molly. Then he had even positioned himself for a time near the door to the ladies’ room, remembering how often he used to complain about Ellen’s frequent trips to the bathroom when the two were out for a night of dancing. No Ellen. Plenty of chitchat floated by as “the girls” went inside to pee, fluff their hair, and reapply their lipstick. Howard was amazed at the differences in before and after. There was more in the dynamics of the ladies’ room than met the male eye. And perfume! Tons of it wafted out each time the door opened and closed, clouds thick enough to intoxicate the masses. Howard was so sick of smelling sugar in the air that he wished he had some kind of foxhole to dig down into, the way World War I soldiers had avoided mustard gas. And then, when he least expected it, there she was.

  At first he was simply struck with her soft and quiet beauty, youthful and vibrant, a dire contrast to the calculated appearance of Pete’s friend, Abigail Reed. Even a stranger could tell by Ellen’s demeanor that she was completely unconscious of her looks. Or, at least, they weren’t the most important thing about her. And her smile seemed genuine, especially compared to those superficial smiles that were flashing like Kodak bulbs across the dance floor as men and women met, danced, and ate Wheat Thins. And yet, there was a sadness on Ellen’s face, or did Howard imagine this, maybe even wish for it? As he watched, she slipped out of her white cotton sweater and draped it across the back of one of the folding chairs. Then she and Molly made their way, side by side, to the food and beverage table, where they asked for glasses of white wine. At least, that’s what the bartender poured and presented to them. They seemed content to talk to each other and weren’t scanning the room with their eyes, as many of the other women had been doing.

  Howard pulled back behind two men who were talking golf so that Ellen and Molly wouldn’t see him. He watched, wondering why she had no interest in searching the room for him. He imagined that she and Molly were discussing one of their classes, pots or ballet, for they were busily chatting. That’s when Howard spotted Larry, just a few feet away, in deep discussion with a woman who looked to be in her late fifties.

  “The tension ring is very important,” Larry was saying. “It’s important for about thirty minutes.” As Howard watched, the woman slipped away from Larry and disappeared into the crowd. Larry sidled over to Howard, leaned in close.

  “I don’t get these chicks,” Larry whispered. “When was the last time she saw thirty minutes of good, stiff, you-know-what?”

  “I think you should be less forthcoming, Larry,” Howard suggested.

  Someone, some teenaged chaperone, had dimmed the lights and now the music grew softer and more romantic. Howard wondered if he should ask Ellen to dance. He went to the beverage and snack table for yet another rum, thinking it would give him more courage. Then, he stopped by the deejay’s booth and requested “It’s All in the Game.” By the time Howard got back to his lookout behind the golfers, Ellen was gone. Frantic, he searched the faces along the wall, then returned to the door of the ladies’ room. He was standing there, like a useless tampon, waiting, when the song began. Many a tear has to fall but it’s all in the game. He felt electric tentacles of pain shoot throughout his gut, his chest, his arms. Currents of longing. He needed to find her.

  Just then Pete Morgan appeared with Abigail Reed hanging on to his arm for support. It was easy to tell that she was already drunk. When she saw Howard, she beamed.

  “Imagine this dog never tracking me down once his divorce was final,” Abigail said. “And there I am in windy Chicago, still carrying a crush
for him.” She whacked Pete on the arm and giggled. Pete, in turn, looked at Howard.

  “Woof, woof,” Pete said, and winked. “Did you find Ellen?”

  Howard shook his head. It was none of Pete’s business.

  “I gotta pee,” Abigail confessed. Like Brett Ashley on the train, Abigail Reed looked about to pass out. She pushed up on her tiptoes to kiss Pete’s face and then sashayed into the ladies’ room. Pete turned to Howard, a desperate look on his face.

  “Quick,” Pete said, “before she gets back. Give me the key to your room.”

  “Are you insane?” Howard asked. “Get your own room.” Does adolescence never go away? he wondered. Does it lurk in a corner of the brain, like a computer virus?

  “Come on, for crying out loud,” said Pete. “I’m talking an hour or two, tops.”

  Howard reluctantly shoved the keys into Pete’s waiting palm.

  “Don’t do anything exotic with my pillows,” he said. Then, his mind back on Ellen, he wove his way in and out of the dancers until he found himself on the other side of the room. He assumed she had met up with someone from her teaching days and was chatting up a storm somewhere. Each time he saw reddish hair with a silvery shine to it, he examined the face just below. Not Ellen. Not Ellen. Not Ellen. Once in a while he won’t call. But it’s all in the game. And then he saw her, in one of the last places he thought to look. Ellen was on the dance floor.

  Dancing.

  Howard stood for some time and watched the spectacle unfold. He knew the man who was dipping his wife, oh yes. Floyd Prentiss. Good old Floyd. Floyd had taught psychology at the college, and, like many psychologists, was in personal need of serious counseling. But there he was, smiling down at Ellen’s face. Surely he didn’t think he had a chance with Ellen O’Malley Woods? What bothered Howard was how Ellen was smiling up at Floyd. Many a tear has to fall.