Running the Bulls (18 page)

When they finally found Howard's door, the unlocking of it had presented another kind of obstacle. Howard put both of his drinks down on the hallway floor and fished the card that was his key out of his pocket.

“How the hell am I supposed to open my door with
this
?” Howard had asked, as he held the card key up and peered through the holes in it. “This should get you a book at the library, not open your door.”

It was Donna's turn to try, and she did so, giggling when she couldn't hit the slot. That was when Howard looked down the long corridor to see Wally and Larry, both peering around the corner, watching like voyeurs. The card finally clicked in the door.

“Fucking A!” Donna said, jubilant. She pushed the door open and then went with it, landing with a
splat
on the floor inside. Howard managed to help her up onto the bed before he went back outside to fetch their drinks. That's when he peered again down the corridor. There they were, Larry and Wally, their faces like two shiny moons glistening at the other end of the hall.

“Howdy, boys!” Howard shouted. He heard Donna laugh from within the room. He slammed and locked the door, still grinning to know that he had just become a legend in the lounge.

Donna sat up on the king-size bed and patted her hand atop the mattress.

“How do you sleep on this?” she asked. “I wasn't here a week before I had a new box spring and a Sealy Posturepedic delivered to my room.” This made her laugh again, a giggle that seemed to be part hiccups and part belch. “I charged it to the bastards who own this place.” She reached for a Bloody Mary and tried her best to get the straw to go into her open mouth. But, as the key had done earlier, the straw kept hitting outside the slot. The more the straw turned away from Donna's mouth, the more she giggled. Howard finally staggered over and helped guide the straw home. Donna sucked on it loudly. This struck them as insanely funny and they laughed together, the camaraderie of drunks. But then, this had been their MO all night long. This was what had bonded them, along with their broken hearts: they had the same sense of humor.

“God, that was funny!” said Donna. She began unbuttoning her white silk blouse, oblivious to the spots of tomato juice that dotted the front. Howard sat in the lumpy chair and watched, ice clinking in his glass of rum as he swirled it. He imagined this action a sexy one, swirling one's drink as a woman undressed. That was until he spilled the rum on the front of his own shirt. Seeing this, Donna giggled again. She took her blouse off and threw it at him. It hit his chest and lay there, silk clinging to sweat. Jennifer Kranston flashed into Howard's mind just then. Ah, yes, Jennifer! She had been one of the first students he'd ever taught. She was young, but so was he back then. He was young and married. He had wanted Jennifer Kranston every damn time she glided into the classroom. But he had denied himself that lovely student. He was her professor, after all. And, like Donna's ex-boyfriend, he had a wife and kids.

When Donna unhooked her bra and let her breasts fall free, Howard moved from the chair and onto the bed next to her. She was not a beauty, not like Jennifer, or Ellen. But she had become soft, and vulnerable, which is saying a lot for corporate America. Howard put his lips against the warm skin of her neck as his hand came up and touched her breast. He kneaded it gently and Donna moaned.

“God, I am so horny,” she whispered. This almost stopped him. It seemed too much too soon, an admission that Ellen would never have risen to. Not even with Ben Collins. “I was supposed to go to Boston this weekend, to visit Anthony,” Donna added. She stood, wavering a bit, and unzipped her skirt. Her breast was pulled from Howard's hand then and he let it go. What was it about this breast? In his drunken stupor, Howard had been trying to put a finger on it, so it speak. And then, naked and soft and seeming to need him so, Donna stepped directly in front of his face. She lifted one of her breasts and guided the nipple into his mouth. Howard bit it gently and then took both of her breasts into his hands.

“You look wonderful,” he said to her, and she seemed to like this. She smiled as she leaned toward him and kissed his forehead. She slipped her panties down and kicked them away with one foot. Still standing before him, she reached for one of his hands and pulled it down between her legs. She quickly separated his middle finger from the others and then urged him to push it into her. He did so, and she groaned. It was all so different to Howard. Women had not been like this in his day, at least not the women
he
knew and dated. Where did these newer girls learn such things? He imagined Donna studying these maneuvers at some corporate seminar, a new strategy on how to fuck the American consumer.
First, trainees, you separate the fingers…
watch
closely
now
as
Paula
Simms, our marketing director, demonstrates.
But, dammit, Howard Woods had come of age in the early 1950s, when the Kinsey Report was still dripping its controversial ink. When Howard first got a copy of the report and read the entire thing from cover to cover he was changed forever. He could no longer look at Ralph and Agnes Craig, who lived next door in the beige ranch-style, in the same way ever again. He couldn't even look at his own parents the same way. His conclusion back then was that there should be a law about people over thirty having sex like that. But hey, it was the 1950s. Maybe there
was
a law.

“Wait for me,” Howard said to Donna. He took off his shirt and then his pants and tossed them onto the lumpy chair in the corner. Wearing only his boxers, he pulled her down onto the bed and again took her left breast in his hand. He lowered his mouth to it. What was it about this breast? He tried not to think this thought, for he could feel the stiffness of his penis, its intensity against the warmth of her leg. He had already learned, somewhere in his midforties, not to deny the penis its urgency. But the more he squeezed and kissed Donna's breasts, the more they felt as if small, hard balls were rolling about just below the skin. And then he knew. The breasts weren't real! He was holding two sacs filled with some liquid. So this is what Pete Morgan had been complaining about, all those mornings and afternoons on the golf course, about those women he had met and bedded in middle America.
It's like holding a couple bags of putty,
Pete always said.
I
tell
you, a tit just isn't a tit anymore.
But Howard had paid little attention to Pete's lamentations, assuming he, himself, would never know what two bags of putty felt like, happily married to Ellen as he was.

Donna reached down and began fumbling with Howard's boxer shorts.

“Get these off,” she whispered. “Hurry.”

Howard kicked the boxers off. She reached down and put her hand on his penis, began stroking it.

“Nice,” she said. How could he help it? He was proud of himself in that instance, when he dared pause to think of it.
Yes,
sir, the good old pump nature had given him. Nice, indeed.
Suddenly, Donna was up on all fours, her head tossed back to look at him.

“Put it in,” she said. Howard could only stare.
Doggy style?
He hardly knew this woman. It had taken Ellen and him years to build away from the missionary style and toward something more, well,
secular.

“Hurry up,” Donna ordered, the corporate side of her now returning. Howard was afraid she might bark, or even bite, considering the style of sex she was demanding. He crawled up behind her and peered over her shoulder. She was swaying back and forth then, a soft humming noise coming from her throat. He put one hand on her waist and inched in closer. He reached down and lifted his penis with the other hand. At least
it
didn't seem intimidated by this young woman. He leaned forward on his knees as he entered her. She opened her mouth just then and let the hum escape, like it was some kind of chant, a mantra maybe. Ice rained down outside the door.
Clink
clank
clunk.
Howard shut his eyes. He tried to block out both the ice and Donna's incessant hum, which was now beginning to sound like an outboard motor. The quick sex had somehow quelled the merriment of the alcohol.
How
had
it
gotten
this
bad
this
fast
between
Ellen
and
him?
That's what kept running through his mind as he pushed forward, Donna pushing back to meet him, a hum with each thrust.

Suddenly, there came a great hiss, one which Howard knew didn't originate in Donna Riley's throat. He had heard a milder form of this hissing before. But where? Donna hummed again, as if answering even his thoughts. And then he remembered! In that instant, as if knowing he was onto it, the box spring crashed through and onto the floor with a thud. Howard was pulled free of Donna and thrown up over her, as if they were two dogs being separated by some invisible animal control officer. His forehead hit the headboard with a dead
thud.

For a few long seconds there was only silence as they both realized what had happened.
Clink
clank
clunk.
The ice machine seemed more busy than usual. And then Donna laughed again. But this time, Howard sensed a sadness in the laugh. It was the kind of laugh he had always reserved for Charlie Chaplin. Sure, the Little Tramp was funny, but how can you fully laugh at someone so hungry they boil and eat a shoe? Donna laughed that kind of pitying laugh. She arched her back, her elbows poking into his stomach, and he realized then that she was pinned beneath him. He did his best to lift his head from the headboard and flop over onto his back. The coils of the mattress hissed again as they accepted the weight of him. Donna pushed steamy, wet hair back from her face and looked over at him.

“Howie, you ought to order yourself a new Sealy,” she said. “And move away from the ice machine.” Howard only nodded. He wondered if he could charge a new mattress to the bastards who owned the place, as Donna had done, and especially now that it appeared he would be living there forever. Now that he was flat on his back, he was coming to realize just how drunk the two of them were. Donna turned on her side then, away from him. In no time small snores were floating over to Howard, coming from the same throat that had produced the infernal hum. He closed his eyes. It seemed if he didn't, he might cry, and that might wake the young woman who slept soundly at his side. He wouldn't want that. Tomorrow would bring with it a sad reckoning, and she would need her strength to meet it head-on.
He's gone back to his wife and kids.
Funny, but that's exactly where Howard Woods wished he, too, could go.

***

When Howard opened his eyes, it was almost dawn. He had forgotten to pin the curtains and now light was leaking in through the perpetual part in the center, a thin stream of pink and yellow sky. He could see that the sparrow was already busy coming and going from its nest in the Holiday Inn sign. Donna Riley was gone. The only proof that she had even been there were the two glasses sitting beneath the pineapple lamp, tomato juice and lipstick smeared around their rims. Howard brought a finger up to touch his right temple. There seemed to be a small bell beneath the skin there, one that was being steadily rung. He hoped his face wasn't bruised, remembering that he had not tried to break his fall against the headboard. He stared up at the ceiling, more distant now that the box spring was flat on the floor.
How
had
it
gotten
this
bad, this fast?
He decided he would wait for sunrise before he dragged himself up and into the shower. As he looked down at his white arms, his white legs, a terrified notion hit him. What if he saw, engraved and swollen in his skin, a dozen or so tattoos? He had read about sailors, drunk to the gills, engaging in all sorts of self-mutilations. He lifted his arm, afraid he might see a big corporate-red heart with Eva Braun written inside it, next to Mom. But his pale skin was still unblemished, except for the marks and ravages of time. He turned his head to watch the sparrow.

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

“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 vacation 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.