Running the Bulls by Cathie Pelletier Page B

there was more to it than just a long nose—and so John had promised to cook dinner.
    â€œCome on, Dad,” said John, “enough is enough. When are you going to quit acting like a kid and go on home?”
    â€œÂ¿Habla mucho español?” Howard wished to know. From what he’d read, the Spanish question mark was upside down to English readers. Howard imagined himself standing on his head at the airport in Madrid, asking questions of passersby.
    â€œMom is all torn up about this,” John said. “She won’t say much to me, but she’s told Patty.”
    â€œAre we speaking of Ellen O’Malley, the former Ellen Woods?” asked Howard. “Good. Let her be torn up. Let her be gored by this, if you will. That’s certainly how I feel.” He sloshed the rum around in his glass, clinking the ice. Then he took another drink.
    John looked over at the bottle sitting on his bar, the one Howard had picked up on his way back from the bookstore.
    â€œBacardi, huh?” John asked. “And on the rocks, no less.” Howard shrugged, a why not? shrug. He had been a Tom Collins man in his heyday, but, as he had suggested to Ellen O’Malley, what man could drink a Tom Collins and keep his mind off Ben all at the same time? Besides, Bacardi was the best he could do until he got his hands on some Pernod. Or was it called absinthe? That was the drink of matadors, by God. Driven through the streets behind crowds of skillfully dodging men and boys. Howard smiled. He leaned back on the sofa and put his feet up on the ottoman.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” asked John.
    â€œOh, nothing,” Howard said, furtively. “Nada.”
    â€œCome on, what’s up your sleeve?” John persisted. “What’s going on in that retired brain of yours?”
    Howard smiled again, mysteriously this time. He felt almost smug. After years of being the one whose job it was to pry the truth from his son, now he was hoarding facts. He, Howard, had always been a good and obedient son to his own father, and maybe that was part of his problem. He had never given the elder Woods any worry. The truth was that the old man would have kicked his ass to kingdom come had Howard disobeyed him. He wondered if courage and valor are forced, out of necessity, to skip generations. That was often true of artists and writers. How many famous creators gave birth to famous creators? There were the Bruegels, the father and a couple of sons. A few writers, yes—the Dumas men came to mind, the old man and the illegitimate boy. Howard couldn’t think of any composers. And singers, well, he was able to come up with Frank and Nancy Sinatra, but surely that combo wouldn’t qualify, given the fact that Nancy couldn’t sing.
    â€œYou ever hear of San Fermín?” Howard asked.
    â€œNo,” said John. “Don’t tell me Mother has slept with him, too?” Howard laughed at this, such a laugh that he was obliged to lean forward and whack his own knee. John caught the fever and laughed along with him.
    â€œI think this is called a tension breaker,” John noted. He went to the bar and poured himself another scotch. “Now what was this nonsense last night about Buffalo?”
    Howard held up his glass for a second Bacardi.
    â€œRemember 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. ”
    â€œWell,” said Howard, “we weren’t the only ones camping out. Your mother shuffled off to Buffalo with