Running the Bulls (6 page)

“Remember the week Ellen went to visit Grandma by herself?” Howard asked. John thought deeply, trying to remember. “You must have been about ten years old,” Howard reminded him. “I taught an English comp class that summer.”

John brightened in memory. “We ate hot dogs all week long!” he said. Howard nodded. “And played poker every night, you, me, Micky Pilcher, and your teaching buddies. Until you caught Micky with the marked deck. It was great. It was like camping out for a week. ”

“Well,” said Howard, “we weren't the only ones camping out. Your mother shuffled off to Buffalo with old Ben Collins.”

“What?”
asked John. “What are you talking about?”

Howard told him, told him about the useless airline ticket, bought and paid for with hard-earned teaching dollars. Told him about driving Ellen to the airport, picking her up from the airport, while all the time Ben Collins was probably parked nearby, hidden behind a fake nose attached to dark glasses. She was supposed to be visiting her mother for a week, as they had done every year since their marriage, until Howard's mother-in-law passed away. And the one time he couldn't join Ellen because he was offering up his services to aid another needy human being—in truth, he hadn't cared much for Grady Mullins, and even less for Ellen's mother—she had spent the week sneaking in and out of some motel room like a teenager, telling her mother lies, no doubt, about dinners with friends, movies, who knew the scope of her deception once she got started?

“Jesus,” John said, and shook his head. Howard was almost pleased. Now, maybe now, he would get a little well-deserved sympathy instead of this
forgiveness
crap. What kind of a defense was
that
?

“I've got an appointment tomorrow with Mike Harris.”

“Your
lawyer
?” John seemed stunned at this.

“Absolutely,” said Howard. “Time's a-wasting, my boy. No need to drag this out.”

“Jesus,” John said again, and sat on the sofa next to Howard. He looked so put out with the latest news about Buffalo, and now divorce proceedings, that Howard was almost sorry he had told him.

Eliot bounced into the room. Gator, the dog he had named after his favorite football team, the Florida Gators, paraded along at his heels.

“When do we eat?” Eliot asked.

“Soon,” said John. “I've ordered Mexican.”

“You told Mommy you'd cook,” said Eliot.

“Eliot, please,” John said. He sounded weary. Howard could tell his thoughts were more on his mother's trip to Buffalo than on dinner. His thoughts were on that meeting Howard had set with Mike Harris.

“You even promised to cook vegetables,” Eliot said.

“Which would you rather have?” John asked. “Enchiladas from Jose's Cantina? Or corn on the cob that I've personally boiled?”

“That's easy,” said Eliot. “Enchiladas.”

“Good,” said John. “I'll call you when the chow arrives. What Mommy doesn't know won't hurt her.”

Eliot disappeared, Gator wagging at his heels. Howard was reminded of Billy Mathews as he watched Gator's tail twitch out of sight.

“Hey!” Howard yelled. He could hear the sound of Eliot's footsteps, which were now treading upstairs. “Grandpa will tell you a good-night story before bed.” He heard Eliot call back, pleased with the promise. Then he looked over at John.

“Did you mean that?” Howard asked his son.

“Did I mean what?”

“What Patty doesn't know won't hurt her?”
Confucius
says, “Study the past, if you would divine the future.”

“I was talking about Mexican food, Dad, for crying out loud,” John answered. “Don't get analytical on me.”

“Deception starts with the little things,” Howard said. “It's the first sign of a crack in the marriage. I know that now, but I didn't know it back when I could've used it. Back when my marriage was covered with cracks, like a goddamn spider's web. So I say this to you as a warning, son. Always be truthful. Okay?”

John said nothing.

“Okay?” Howard asked again.

“No hablo español,”
John finally answered.

***

On the way home from his meeting the next day with Mike Harris, Howard listened in horror as the Probe GT whined to a halt and refused to move an inch further. He left it sitting at the curb in front of the Bixley bank and Jose's Cantina:
Mexican
Foods
for
All
Occasions,
and he called AAA to come and fetch it.

“Take the goddamn thing to Jeff's Used & Classic Cars, on Ridgemont Drive,” Howard told Triple A.

Next, he called Bixley Cab and caught a ride over to Jeff Henson's place, on the outside of Bixley, what used to be a large and empty field until Jeff opened a used car garage a year earlier. Doing well with that first venture, Jeff added the classic cars as a way to foster his own love of a well-made product. Since Howard taught both of the Henson sons, he and Jeff had talked vintage cars at more than one college ball game. Howard had intended to stop at the garage for months now, each time he passed by in the rattling Probe GT, an opportunity to take a look at the models Jeff had to offer. Some of them were real beauties: a 1955 Chevy that looked like it had never been driven a single mile, much less seen any hormonal action in the backseat; a shiny silver Corvette Stingray, early 1960s; a Packard; a Kaiser Manhattan; and a white 1935 Lincoln convertible with red leather interior. It was unlikely that Jeff would sell that many classic cars in Bixley, but then, he didn't care. As he explained to Howard, during one of the many lax moments of the basketball game against Bangor School of Divinity, “As long as Maria thinks it's a business and not a hobby, she won't care how many classic cars I buy.”

While he waited for Jeff to appear, Howard admired the Lincoln—they'd been born the same year—by pressing a finger into the red leather of its seats. He'd been trying for the past hour to forget his abrupt meeting with Mike Harris. He was also trying to forget about the dastardly Probe GT—may he never enter into Bixley Performance Ford again, since all they wanted was to sell him another lemon—when Jeff came outside to greet him.

“Hey, Howard,” he said. “I was wondering when I was gonna see you in here. What can I do for you?”

“I want to get rid of a Ford Probe GT,” Howard said.

“One of their lemons?” asked Jeff. It seemed the whole world knew about the problems Ford was having with their Probes, at least everyone but Howard, and how many more Probe
owners
?

“Will you take it off my hands?” Howard asked, and Jeff nodded, which was good of him, considering that the tow truck was pulling into the lot at that very moment, the Probe's shiny blue ass high in the air.

“What can I put you into?” asked Jeff. “I just got a Toyota Camry in, and it's only about two years old.”

But Howard was remembering the scene in his lawyer's office as he stared down at the Lincoln's red seats. It seemed, at least according to Mike Harris, that the divorce would go off without a hitch. “Pardon the pun there,” Mike had said, and laughed, batting Howard on the back as though divorce were a game of golf. “If Ellen's agreeable, there should be no problem. Marital dissolution papers are the best route to take. You just split everything fifty-fifty down the middle.” And then Howard had signed a few pieces of paper, let Mike pump his right hand, and that was it. “I'll be sending Ellen a registered letter,” Mike said. “I'll call you. I'll keep you posted.” As Howard drove away, he wasn't sure what he had expected: violins playing in the wings, the receptionist weeping tears instead of filing her nails, sympathy flowers delivered from old friends? The execution of the thing had been cold and quick. And much too fast. Howard had hoped Mike would tell him to go home first, wait a month or two, mull it over, be certain of his heart
and
his mind. But, apparently, with so many divorces being processed every day, one had to be quick on one's feet. Well, so be it. Howard could take it. But the Ford Probe was obviously torn up by the whole thing because it broke down, finally, whimpering to a stop and refusing to carry Howard anywhere anymore, not now that he'd finally gone and filed for a divorce from that nice lady with the red highlights in her silvery hair, the one who always kept the car so clean.

“Are you in a Toyota frame of mind?” Jeff was asking, and Howard remembered that he was now on foot. He needed wheels.

“I'm looking for something kind of, well, classy and sporty,” Howard told Jeff. “You know, a middle-age-crazy kind of car.”

Jeff thought for a minute, then smiled.

“I've got just the thing,” he said. “Follow me.”

Jeff Henson took Howard around to the back, past more modern cars, most likely ones traded in, like the Probe was about to be. They stopped before a 1962 Aston Martin DB, a black convertible, a stunning sight. In the summer sunshine it shone like a chunk of smooth ebony. Howard whistled.

“Remember the old James Bond movies?” Jeff asked, and Howard nodded. Who could forget those cameo roles played out by the little sports car, back when 007 was having problems of his own, with spies as well as with women? Howard nearly swooned. What a car, looking more as if an Italian had designed it rather than a Scottish chap, broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, perfectly fit at the rear.

“They're coming back big time,” said Jeff. “But the new models, the DB7, cost a pretty penny, over a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, and only about two hundred of them out there for sale. But this one, this one's got personality.”

Howard had paced the circumference of the car and now he stood looking at its grille, which stared back with a kind of tight smirk. He imagined himself flying, wind in his hair, shards of his old life strewn along the highway behind him. It was a Hemingway kind of car.

“I want it,” said Howard.

***

Howard pulled the Aston Martin into John's empty drive and just sat there, drinking in the smell of the leather, the contour of the seat beneath his ass cheeks. He had left the top down as he flew out of Jeff's parking lot, and now strands of his hair were mussed. But Howard didn't mind. He simply patted them back down as best he could and reminded himself to start carrying a brush in the glove compartment.
No problema.
He felt as if he'd always driven the Aston Martin, Pussy Galore clinging for dear life in the passenger seat as he took a turn at ninety miles an hour and lived to tell of it. With just such a scene in mind, he leaned back against the upholstery and closed his eyes. Feeling the heavy pull of his lids, he tried to remember how long it had been since he'd had a decent sleep. But he knew, didn't he? It had been three small days ago. And here he was, about to become divorced, driving around in a 1962 Aston Martin convertible, just a month and a week away from skillfully dodging the bulls at Pamplona. John could bitch all he liked, but Howard had already phoned Bixley Travel Agency and bought a round-trip ticket to Spain. Considering the dangerous task that lay ahead, he hoped he would actually be able to use the return portion of the ticket. He was assured that his travel packet would contain all the essentials. Rental car information. Maps. Hotel confirmation. Suggested dining spots. The works. Apparently, running the bulls was more complicated than getting a divorce. But everything was fast these days. Howard remembered Johnny Carson, someone he missed almost as much as he missed Ellen, talking about drive-through funeral services in California. “Honk if you think he's in heaven,” Johnny had advised. Howard wondered if Ben Collins had had such a service. He could imagine himself as a drive-through mourner at Ben's funeral, at the wheel of the Aston Martin DB, honking a few times, spitting a few angry pebbles out behind his tires. Ben Collins was dead. Funny thing. Howard wondered if Ben knew the pain he was causing, so many years after the action, causing pain even after his disappearance from the earth. Would he care, if he did know? Was pain a man-made notion that required a physical body? Howard had never embraced the hereafter, not like Ellen did. He tended to look upon himself and his fellow man as, well, walking fertilizer, until the fertilizer would be put to good use one day, deep in the earth, nourishing the roots of a tree or a field of wild mustard. Considering his own mortality, Howard fell sound asleep.

He woke to honking and opened his eyes to find John's big hog of a station wagon bearing down on him, overshadowing the little convertible. John got out from behind the wheel, Eliot bounding from the passenger seat with his schoolbag.

“Wow, Grandpa!” Eliot was saying, as Howard sat up behind the wheel and smoothed his thin hair back in place. “Neat car!”

Eliot opened the passenger door and piled in, bouncing happily in the seat. John approached slowly on the driver's side, his eyes taking in every inch of the car.

“You're too old to be middle-age crazy,” John told Howard.

“Guess you can say I blossomed since retirement,” Howard offered, remembering poor Billy Mathews. He grinned up at John. Eliot had found the button to the glove compartment and was now searching among the papers in there.

“Grandpa, take me for a ride,” Eliot begged. “Is it okay, Dad?”

“It's up to Grandpa,” said John. “If he has no other pressing engagements.”

“No,” said Howard, “nothing pressing. Oh, I have to pick up my airline ticket to Spain, but I got plenty of time to do that.”

John shook his head, a gesture of surrender. He gave the Aston Martin one more full look before going back to the station wagon, which he pulled up to the curb in front of the house, freeing Howard's path. Then, briefcase under his arm, John headed for his front door.

“Sure you don't want to come?” Howard said to John's retreating back. “We can stuff you in here somewhere.” Howard ground the gear into reverse. It would take some getting used to, the manual shifting. The last car he owned that wasn't automatic was the Thunderbird he had bought back in college.