Free Running the Bulls by Cathie Pelletier

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.
    â€œWow, 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.
    â€œYou’re too old to be middle-age crazy,” John told Howard.
    â€œGuess 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.
    â€œGrandpa, take me for a ride,” Eliot begged. “Is it okay, Dad?”
    â€œIt’s up to Grandpa,” said John. “If he has no other pressing engagements.”
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œI’m sure,” said John. “Besides, you need room for Ms. Galore.”
    â€œHasta la vista!” Howard told his son. He released the clutch and the little convertible lurched backward out of the driveway.
    â€œBye, Dad!” Eliot shouted. John waved without looking up.
    â€œDon’t let Grandpa do anything else stupid,” he warned Eliot.
    Then, with some more grinding, and after finally getting the gears shifted into first, Howard and his grandson sped away into the wind.

Deceit
    â€œListen, Jake,” he leaned forward on the bar. “Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it?”
    â€”Robert Cohn, to Jake Barnes, The Sun Also Rises
    On Saturday, knowing that Ellen had not yet received the marital dissolution papers from Mike Harris, Howard almost phoned and asked if he could come home. There was something about a Saturday that pushed him toward nostalgia. In the summers, true, Ellen usually pestered him to mow the lawn, clean the garage, turn off the golf tournament, read a book, trim the hedge, wash the outside windows, walk with her along the Bixley River. And in the winters she pestered him to shovel the walk, fill the bird feeders, turn off the basketball game, read a book, bring in another armload of firewood, order firewood, split firewood into kindling, put up the Christmas lights, take down the Christmas lights. Saturdays were never easy, not with Ellen, but nonetheless they had marked Howard’s years as a domestic male like notches on the