Running the Bulls Read online

  “Ellen has a cell phone,” Howard said aloud.

  Reality

  “I’ve been through hell, Jake. It’s been simply hell.”

  —Robert Cohn, The Sun Also Rises

  It looked like a slow lunchtime at Chuck E. Cheese’s, and Howard was thankful. The last thing his throbbing head needed was even more kids jumping into a pile of colored balls, or zapping space invaders, or hurling softballs at target holes. While he waited outside in the parking lot for Eliot and Ellen to arrive, he took his travel packet out of the envelope and opened it up. Only eighty miles east of Bilbao, across Euskal Herria, as the Basques call their mountainous region, is Burguete, a town that has long depended on tourists and is most eager for more. Howard wasn’t surprised to read this. This was where Hemingway had stopped to do some trout fishing before he himself ran the bulls, back in 1924. And that’s how Jake Barnes had come to go fishing there with Bill Gorton, in The Sun Also Rises. Reading these words, Howard now wished he had allotted time for a quick trip to Burguete. Hell, why not take the time? He could rent a rod somewhere and do a little trout fishing. And since he’d been unable to find the Hotel Montoya, he would seek out the Basque hotel where Papa had stayed, that charming place three thousand feet above sea level, the little house with the low ceilings and oak-paneled dining room. Howard had read that chapter of the novel just days before. It was so chilly that high up in the mountains, even for a June evening, that Bill Gorton played the piano to keep warm. What was it they had eaten? The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup and the wine. We had fried trout afterward, and some sort of stew, and a big bowl full of wild strawberries. Howard felt quite certain that Ellen would love that little hotel, knowing her penchant for places quaint and cozy. That’s why he had driven out to Bixley Travel Agency, on his way to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and purchased an airline ticket for Mrs. Ellen Woods, who would be flying on American’s flight 5743 from Bangor’s International Airport, on the third of July, to Boston, where she would connect to a British Airways flight to London’s Heathrow. From there, it was straight on in to Bilbao Airport, in España. And luck was with him, for on all the flights the seat next to Mr. Howard Woods was available.

  Howard felt his stomach growl before he heard it. He closed the travel packet and looked at his watch. What was keeping them? And that’s when he saw Ellen. She must have driven in and parked while he was absorbed in the hot vegetable soup, the fried trout, the wild strawberries. Now, she and Eliot were striding across the parking lot, Ellen’s blue sweater draped gracefully from her shoulders, Eliot keeping pace at her side. Ellen was wearing sunglasses and a yellow blouse, a soft pastel color. Howard felt such emotion rush up inside him just then. He had loved this woman for so many years. At the front door, Eliot stopped to tie his shoe while Ellen waited, looking down at the top of her grandson’s head, a smile on her face. She was wearing the faded blue jeans that still made her ass look the way it did back in college. At least to Howard it did. Ellen always denied this, but he knew she liked hearing it. He should have said it more often. He would say it more often. He watched as they disappeared inside, and then he opened his car door.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the inside light, Howard spotted them instantly, at a table over by the stage. Ellen was just draping her sweater around the back of her chair, and Eliot was studying the menu. Howard took a deep breath and then walked toward them. Eliot saw him first, his little face registering instant surprise.

  “Grandpa!” he shouted.

  “Howdy, campers,” said Howard. Ellen looked up then, her own kind of surprise filtering across her face, one followed by a quick flash of anger.

  “You’re having pizza with us!” Eliot added. “Cool!” Howard patted the boy’s head. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Ellen seemed about to say something, perhaps even summon a bouncer who would then bounce Howard out onto the sidewalk. But Eliot, bless him, prevented her from doing so just by his own innocence.

  “This is great!” said Eliot, his face guileless and happy. “I was only pretending that I didn’t care, but I did. I wanted to spend my birthday with you both.” And with that, the boy bounded out of his chair and hugged Howard tightly, his small arms encircling his neck. Then, he went to Ellen and did the same. At least it made Ellen smile. She reached for her purse, took out a roll of quarters, and gave it to Eliot.

  “Now go slowly,” she said, “or you’ll be busted in no time.” Eliot nodded a promise.

  “I want pepperoni on my pizza,” he said, and then he was gone. Howard could see the top of the boy’s head as he went from one machine to another, deciding at last on a game of Asteroids. The waitress appeared and Ellen ordered what they always ordered, a large pizza, half vegetarian, half pepperoni and cheese. When the waitress left, Ellen simply stared at Howard. She had always done this when she was furious with him. And he imagined that she was now as furious as she would ever get.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  Ellen waited for a time before she answered.

  “You must have had quite a night,” she said. Howard thought about this.

  “I did,” he said. “It was tough seeing my whole life packed up in boxes.”

  “It took me some time to erase the phone messages,” Ellen said then. “I had no idea you knew all the words to ‘The Bilbao Song.’”

  He had sung the song on her answering machine? He didn’t even remember it. “And it’s nice that you took the time to teach it to the younger generation. What was her name? Donna, I believe.”

  He had let Donna sing the song, too?

  The waitress put a Diet Coke in front of him and Howard almost hugged her, thankful for a moment’s break. Ellen picked up her own Diet Coke and sipped it. Howard noticed that she had no trouble finding the straw. He felt warm shame fill him just then. The waitress left.

  “I’m sorry for turning up like this,” he said. “But I wanted to see you.” He waited. Game machines rang out from around the room, asteroids being fired upon, gophers eating their way up through tunnels, Pac-Men gobbling fruit, Froggers frogging. The laughter of the children made Howard’s head ring.

  “I see you’ve got a nasty bump,” said Ellen. “I trust there won’t be some kind of lawsuit accompanying it. You know, statutory rape, for instance.”

  Howard felt a smidgen of his own anger rise up then.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I was just settling down to retirement when you drop a bomb on me in the middle of the night.”

  And then, as if someone had poured ice water all over him, moments from the night before flashed back to Howard Woods. He had not only let Donna leave messages on Ellen’s machine, he had insisted she do so. What was that last one, the one she left as they made their way to Howard’s room, before they played “Here, bulley, bulley” in the corridor, Donna’s corporate red jacket enough to entice any self-respecting bull. Ice water, tons of it, rushed through Howard at that moment. Oh, Howie, baby, oh that feels good, that feels so good, do it again, Howard, oh baby!

  It had seemed so damn funny at the time.

  Eliot rushed back to the table just then and grabbed his drink. His face was flushed from the intensity of the game.

  “I just beat my high score,” he told Howard, who smiled at his grandson. He was such a handsome little boy, but even better, he was kind. There was something inherently good in Eliot, as if the best of his parent’s genes had gotten together when they created him.

  Before Eliot could go back to his game, the stage curtains pulled open and the house band at Chuck E. Cheese’s began a song. Eliot smiled and slid into his chair to listen. The waitress put a large hot pizza down on the table in front of them. They had done this so many times with Eliot, he and Ellen had. Howard had grown to hate every one of the mechanical singers in the Chuck E. Cheese’s band, but he had taken Eliot there for every special occasion, a good grade in school, a spring vacat
ion getaway, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, many times. The boy never seemed to tire of the place, so he and Ellen had always gritted their teeth and pretended to enjoy the mechanical band and the roving host in the silly mouse suit. Howard took a piece of pizza and began to eat it. With his hangover, a thundering noise accompanied each bite he chewed. The Chuck E. Cheese’s band was blasting out Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” and now Howard excused himself, pretending he had to use the bathroom.

  Inside the men’s room door, he leaned against the wall, waiting for the big mechanical bear, and the big mechanical rabbit, and the mechanical girl with the pigtails and freckles, and the mechanical boy who looked to be suffering from some kind of mutative disease, to finish belting out the song. When he came out again, Eliot was playing another game of Asteroids. Howard sat back down at the table with Ellen, who was resting her chin on one hand as she kept an eye on Eliot. He saw that her hair was a still a bit damp from the shower. Even from across the table, he could smell that natural yet perfumy smell of her skin. All around him, zings and pings and pongs and whirs rang out nonstop. It was as if someone had designed a Sartrian place called Hangover Hell, and now Howard had been sent there for eternity, to wait for Godot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ticket to Spain. He put it down next to Ellen’s plate.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A ticket to Bilbao,” he said, and smiled. “I thought that if you came with me, we could make it a retirement getaway. After I run the bulls, we can go sightseeing.”

  Ellen stared at him, that sardonic look on her face.

  “I’ve read up on that whole area,” Howard said. He could feel balls of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. “There’s this road called the Route of Don Quixote, named for you know who. There are even windmills along that route. Imagine.”

  Ellen stared at him.

  “Okay,” he said, as if conceding something. “If you come, I won’t run the bulls.” He took a deep breath.

  Ellen stared.

  “I want you to know that while I’m not ready to forgive you, I’m ready to forget,” Howard added. He had practiced these words all morning. They had even seemed logical, almost sagacious, on the drive over to Chuck E. Cheese’s. Now, he had delivered them to her. He waited for her to speak. Then he was sorry that she did.

  “You’re amazing,” Ellen said. He hoped she meant this in a good way but something told him she didn’t. She reached down then and picked up the ticket to Spain. She put it in Howard’s shirt pocket, patted it, as if to say good-bye to it forever.

  “You started this, Ellen,” Howard said then. He wanted to say as much as he could before Eliot returned. “You and Ben started this.”

  Ellen had a soft smile on her face as she studied Howard’s own features.

  “Do you know how difficult it’s been to be your wife and mother all these years?” she asked. “Find my papers, Ellen. Where are my shoes, Ellen? What’s for dinner, Ellen? Did you iron my shirt, Ellen? Do we have any cornflakes, Ellen? Now I’m free, Howie. So don’t you worry about forgiveness.”

  She stood then, reaching for her sunglasses and sweater. He sensed that if he couldn’t keep her a while longer that he wouldn’t see her again for some time. Would she really get a restraining order against him? He hated to call her bluff on that one.

  “I want to talk this out,” Howard said. He was glad the guys at the bar wouldn’t hear this, especially right on the heels of their respect for him, considering his conquest of the night before. And then he hated himself for even thinking this. “I still haven’t signed the divorce papers,” he added.

  Ellen looked down at him for a few seconds, as if considering his proposal.

  “I want some time to myself,” she said. He could tell she meant it. “The blame is not all yours, I know that.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Howard. He had no intention of hiding the sarcasm, given her statement.

  “But you took what should have been a private issue between a husband and wife and you turned it into an extravaganza. You rallied all the troops you could. I’ve seen a side of you I never knew existed, Howard, and it’s a side I don’t like.”

  “Ditto,” he said. He stared down at the pizza on his plate.

  “Life is a tough place,” Ellen said then. “And that’s what your problem is. Do you know why?” He shook his head, but he felt sure she was about to enlighten him.

  “Your problem, Howie, is that you’re a coward,” Ellen said. She turned then, and walked away from the table. He watched as she paused at the Asteroids machine to say something to Eliot and then kiss the boy good-bye. Putting her sunglasses atop that cute Irish nose, she went out the door, with not so much as a glance back at Howard’s table.

  Before Howard could dissect her words, the curtains opened and the Chuck E. Cheese’s band was ready to sing again, this time “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.” Eliot hurried back to the table to listen.

  “Grandma says you’re driving me home,” Eliot said, excited. “Cool. I like your tiny car.”

  Howard noticed that Ellen hadn’t bothered to pick up the check. Sure, he was annoying as a husband, not to mention a coward, but he wasn’t too annoying or cowardly to foot the bill. He motioned to their waitress, who either didn’t see him or didn’t want to see him. Howard put his MasterCard down on top of the bill and waited. He looked at Eliot, who was listening to the band.

  “So how’ve you been, kid?” Howard asked.

  Eliot drank some of his Coke before he responded.

  “I’ve been busy, Grandpa,” he said. “David and I are building a BattleBot.”

  “A what?” asked Howard. He tried again to get the waitress’s attention. She was telling some kind of wild story to another of the waitresses. Now and then she looked Howard’s way but went back to her tale. He could only hope she hadn’t been at the Holiday Inn lounge the night before.

  “BattleBot,” said Eliot. “They’re robots that you build to fight other robots. We’re gonna kick butt with ours.”

  Howard smiled. Seeing the waitress again look his way, he waved the check in the air. She then went back to her story.

  “BattleBots, huh?” Howard said. “You need any help, you just ask.” Eliot considered this.

  “David’s dad is helping us,” he said. “He’s an engineer.”

  Howard nodded. Of course. What would a retired English professor know about artificial intelligence?

  “So what else have you been up to?” Howard asked. He didn’t want to pump the child—to use another meaning of that verb—but he was hoping to find out just how close the nuclear families were to blowing up, his and Eliot’s.

  “I been spending lots of time with Grandma now that she lives alone,” said Eliot.

  “That so?” said Howard, and felt instant jealousy. Before he moved into the Holiday Inn, he, too, had spent lots of time with his grandson. Now he knew why. Patty and John were too damn busy in their own lives, which were spinning in opposite directions.

  While Eliot trudged off to the bathroom, Howard took the check and walked over to his waitress. She seemed surprised that he needed her.

  “I was on my way to your table,” she said to him, defiant.

  Howard couldn’t help but remember the words he had just read. The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup and the wine. We had fried trout afterward, and some sort of stew, and a big bowl full of wild strawberries. What had happened to the good ole days? To waitresses who came and went with bowls of soup and strawberries, nothing more on their minds than to please the guests? What was wrong with people?

  “You were talking to your friend,” Howard told her.

  “Don’t get rude with me,” the young woman said loudly. Howard looked around, embarrassed. He was only trying to pay his damn bill. Was that a crime?

  “What’s going on here?” a voice decla
red from behind. Howard swung around and looked directly up at a giant mouse. It was the Chuck E. Cheese’s mascot, supposed to be Chuck E. himself, just as that clown with the orange hair was supposed to be Ronald McDonald. Were Americans now doomed to discuss company policy with the mascots? Howard could see the two of them, sitting down at some conference table, he with his usual rum, the mouse with a chunk of mozzarella.

  “I’m just trying to pay my bill,” said Howard.

  “This guy is being an asshole,” the waitress told the mouse.

  “I am not,” Howard insisted. He gave the mouse a stern look. He had no intentions of backing down on this issue because, damn it, he was right. He could hear the guys in the bar now, Wally and Larry and Pete. First he went to bed with Eva Braun, and then he wrestled a giant mouse.

  “Listen, pal,” said the mouse. Howard could smell pepperoni and onions on the breath coming from behind the plastic snout. “We don’t need the customers giving our waitresses shit.”

  “Are you people all insane?” Howard asked. He was sincere about this question. “All I want is to pay you the money I owe and then leave her a tip for being rude and ineffective.”

  “See what I mean?” the waitress asked.

  The mouse moved in close and peered down at Howard, the kind of threatening stance animals take in the wild. Howard realized that it must be very hot inside that furry getup. After all, that wasn’t Chuck E. Cheese’s himself in there, but some pimply young man full of testosterone. He handed the waitress his credit card. But, damn it, he was only leaving a fifteen percent tip, whether she liked it or not.