Falling for June: A Novel Read online

  “Just drive out there, Elliot,” I told myself. “Quit being a chicken.”

  A woman walking by on the path in front of my bench saw me talking to myself and quickened her pace. It made me laugh, after having joked the night before with Estrella about the DSM-4. What would she say if she could only see me now? I wondered, sitting there debating with myself. But somehow I knew what she’d say. She’d say to drive out and see Mr. Hadley.

  There was a truck and flatbed trailer parked in the drive when I arrived. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Then I heard a tractor. When I turned around on the porch to look, I saw a backhoe working at the tree line at the far end of the property, beyond the barn.

  It was a nice sunny fall day, but the damp grass still soaked my shoes as I crossed the field.

  “Hey there!” I waved to get the driver’s attention.

  He was pushing dirt into a large hole, and when he saw me he lifted the bucket and turned the engine off.

  “Howdy,” he said, touching the bill of his cap.

  “Do you know where Mr. Hadley is?”

  “The old man? I’m not sure. He walked me out here to show me where to dig. I asked him if he wanted me to come and get him before I put it in the ground—sometimes they like to say a few words or something—but he said no.”

  He paused to gaze off toward the house.

  “Funny thing is he told me he had to go somewhere and tell someone that her favorite horse had died, but then I never did see him leave the house.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “I know where to find him.”

  He touched his hat. “Righty-oh.”

  I heard the backhoe start up again as I walked away.

  I saw him as soon as I rounded the bend that led into the glen. He was sitting beneath the oak tree on the hill, next to June’s grave. His back was to me, but because the waterfall was running lower today without the rain, I could hear that he was talking. I knew it was June he was talking to, and the thought of it melted my heart. I just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him. I turned and walked back the way I had come.

  I was sitting on the back porch an hour and a half later when he came limping slowly down the path. He was having trouble walking, even with his cane. Still, the way the path was worn I could tell he hadn’t lied when he’d told me he went up to Echo Glen every day. He was halfway across the bridge when he saw me. I thought he might ask me why I was there but he didn’t.

  “You came back for the MoonPies, didn’t you,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But I also brought you some tea.” I held up the box. “A Stash sampler. You can’t be drinking that Smooth Move all the time or you’ll never get off the pot.”

  “Son, when a man’s almost eighty years old the toilet is his throne. That’s why us old folk always have padded seats. Come on inside and I’ll put some water on to boil.”

  It felt strangely familiar inside the house, considering I had only been there for the first time the day before. As if it were more a homecoming than a second visit.

  Mr. Hadley took the tea sampler into the kitchen and put water on to boil. “Seems awfully hard to choose with so many flavors,” he said, looking at the box.

  “I like the Chai Spice.”

  “Chai Spice it is then.”

  After he had taken down two mugs and put the tea bags in, he opened the drawer beside the phone and handed me his foreclosure file. “You left this here yesterday.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s a rookie mistake that’ll get you fired in my business. Did you read it?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t mine to read.”

  “You could have read it and not told me.”

  “Is that what you would have done?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “That’s because you young people are loose with the truth. My generation gets a stomachache if we lie.”

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but he had a point. The truth did seem to be a somewhat pliable enterprise for my peers and me. Especially in my line of work. I made a mental note to try to be more honest, even with the little things. And as long as I was being honest, I felt I should confess something.

  “Mr. Hadley, I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your and June’s love story last night with a friend of mine. With that girl from the bar I had told you about. The one I kind of like.”

  “The one with the beautiful Spanish name.”

  “That’s her. Estrella. Anyway, I didn’t mention anything about June being the Barefoot BASE Jumper, since you said I was the only one who knew. I hope that’s okay.”

  He was fiddling with the teapot but I thought I saw him smile. “It makes me happy to think that you found our story interesting enough to share.”

  “Oh, I did. And she did too. That’s why I came back. We have to know what happened in Spain. Or at least that’s one of the reasons I came back. I wanted to tell you about Rosie, but I see you already know. I tried to tell you last night.”

  He gazed out the window in the direction of the field. “That’s Mr. Thorpe’s son out there with the digger. I had him bury her beneath her favorite live oak. She used to stand beneath it for shade in the summer, smelling the air and feeling the breeze. It’s strange that you can bury a horse on your property no problem, but you need a silly cemetery permit to lay your wife to rest on the same land.”

  He looked very tired and very alone standing there in the light of the window. The silence was interrupted when the teapot began whistling. He went over to the stove and filled our mugs.

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Hadley?”

  “Sure, Elliot. But please, call me David. It’s my belief that our spirits don’t age and mine is too young to be called Mister.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No need for sorry.”

  “Okay. What I wanted to ask was . . . well, instead of going to all the trouble of getting the bank to sign off on that short plat in exchange for you leaving, why don’t you try to save your property from foreclosure instead?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, handing me my mug of tea.

  “Well, since you have twenty-five thousand to part with. You did offer me that much, didn’t you? Why don’t you let me try to negotiate some kind of mortgage modification that will allow you to catch up and keep the property?”

  “I’m so upside down in this place,” he said.

  “But what if they’d lower the payment?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s no incentive for the bank to sign the quitclaim unless they’re getting something in return. And my agreeing to sign over the property in lieu of foreclosure is our bargaining chip, you see.”

  “Yes, but what if I could somehow get them to do both?”

  “Oh, I doubt you could do that.”

  “I can be very convincing.”

  He sighed, looking around the kitchen. His eyes settled on June’s painting of Echo Glen.

  “No,” he said, “I think it’s almost time for me to leave this house anyway. No sense in dragging it out. And besides, the money I had intended to pay you with is tied up right now.” He looked back at me, a serious expression on his face. “Let’s just focus on getting the short plat signed, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Sure. But I just thought—”

  “Enough of that talk,” he said, cutting me off. “Didn’t you say you wanted to hear the rest of the story? Let’s take our tea into the living room and I’ll tell you. I think I left off with that crazy wife-to-be of mine racing me to Aranda de Duero on a rusty bicycle. I wanted a pillow and she wanted some wine.”

  30

  WITH HIS WATCH still in June’s pocket he couldn’t say for sure what time it was, but
it must have been well after one in the morning when they finally pedaled into the sleeping streets of the old Spanish town. It was so quiet in the square he could hear the pigeons cooing and rustling up in the old stones of the church they stopped in front of to rest and get their bearings.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired before in my life,” David said, offering June his water bottle.

  “I’m surprised these old bikes held up,” she replied.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised these old bones did,” David said with a laugh. Then he looked around at the deserted square, a few gas lanterns casting pools of light onto the cobblestones. “You’d think there’d be an inn or a hotel, wouldn’t you? Where did you say Jose works again? In some underground bodega off the main square here somewhere?”

  June nodded. “There’s supposed to be a network of old Roman cellars all beneath the town.” She opened her pack. “Sebastian gave me an address. Although I’m sure they’ve long since closed.”

  “Let’s find it and wait for them to open,” David suggested. “I could lie down and sleep right here on the street.”

  The square was dark but they eventually found the address above the door of a tiny street-level shop. They had propped their bikes against a wall and were just sitting down on the curb out front to wait for morning when the shop door opened and someone came out. June stood to chase after the shadowy figure. David followed.

  “Disculpe,” she called. “Habla usted inglés?”

  The figure turned around, and they saw that it was a man wearing a hooded cloak. “Sí, señorita,” he said.

  “Can you tell us where to find Jose Antonio Villarreal? He’s supposed to work here in a bodega and the address we were given is for the shop you just came out of.”

  The man glanced around nervously, eyeing David and June with suspicion. Then he gestured toward the shop door. “Just go inside and down the escalera, señorita. You’ll find him.”

  He turned without another word and hurried away into the shadows. Once he was gone, June leaned up onto her tiptoes and kissed David passionately on the lips.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Just in case we get murdered,” she said.

  Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the shop entrance.

  It was dark inside, but a lone candle was burning in a glass urn against the far wall where a little door stood open and a set of steps led down into the gloomy depths. They could see lights and shadows moving below, hear the quiet singsong murmur of hushed voices speaking Spanish. They looked at each other and shrugged. David took the lead as they descended the stairs.

  At the bottom of the steps a stone passageway led to an open cellar door. Inside the cellar were several men and women standing around a tall table, looking intently at something on the tabletop. The cellar walls were lined with racks of wine.

  “Jose, is that you?”

  At the sound of David’s voice Jose spun around. There was a flash of surprise on his face, followed by recognition and a quick smile. “Señor David.”

  “I’m afraid I lost your lucky walking stick.”

  Jose waved this away. “Something lost, something better found. This must be June.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cheek. Then he did the same with David before gesturing grandly for them to enter. “Come in, come in. Join us. Juan, get down two bottles of the ’seventy-eight. Let’s celebrate the safe return of our comrades.”

  They were introduced to the others and within minutes all were standing around the table, drinking wine and chatting like old friends. A platter of cold tapas was produced, and David snacked heartily on fresh cheeses and stuffed olives, hungry after their long ride. The table had a map spread on its surface. In the center of the map was a bullring.

  “What’s the map for?” he asked.

  “Ah”—Jose sighed—“this is plaza de toros, where the festival is taking place tomorrow. We are planning a protest but have just been informed that the policía are erecting a perimeter this year. We won’t be allowed within two hundred meters of any entrance, subject to arrest.”

  “What are you protesting?” David asked.

  “The torture of bulls, of course, my comrade. They say it is rich in tradition and we say tradition is no excuse not to change. There are other ways now, besides. They can dance with the bulls. Jump over them. But no torture, no blood.”

  June seemed to take an immediate and keen interest in this disobedient endeavor, looking very closely at the map and asking Jose what exactly they had planned.

  “We want to make the spectators aware,” he said. “We want to make a statement about how inhumane it is.”

  A woman at the table who appeared to be Spanish but spoke with an Australian accent held up a matador costume and several vials of red dye. “We had planned to lie in front of the entrance covered in fake blood while a matador walked among us, as if proud to have slain his fellows. Let them see how it would feel if the victims were people instead of bulls. But now, as you can see, that plan is shot.”

  “We don’t mind being arrested for the cause,” Jose added. “However, there is no point if we are nabbed before we can even get near the bullring. No point.”

  “Well, this is all very interesting,” David interjected, “but I was thinking maybe we could find a bed to rest in. If it’s not too much trouble. It’s been a hell of a long day.”

  “But of course,” Jose said, setting his wineglass down and straightening his posture as if ashamed to have been caught slacking on his manners. “I will take you to my place at once.”

  But June was paying them no mind, looking intently at the map instead. She glanced back up at the matador costume.

  “That thing looks like it might fit me,” she said.

  The Australian woman glanced at the costume in her hand. “I think it would, yes.”

  David did not like where this was going. “June, what are you up to?”

  June looked at David, a mischievous grin forming slowly at the edges of her mouth. “Are you up for a little adventure, my love?”

  “Oh gosh. Maybe after I’ve had some sleep.”

  June turned to Jose. “I might just have an idea if you know someone who has an airplane.”

  The big doors stood open and the crowds were funneling through, buying beers and renting seat cushions on their way into the bullring. David was nervous, silently chastising himself for even allowing June to go through with this little stunt. But June would be June, and he had been so tired the night before after walking halfway across Spain, followed by their bike ride, that he would have agreed to almost anything in exchange for a soft place to lie down and a real pillow.

  “You sure she’ll be okay?” David asked Jose.

  “She’ll be fine, comrade. It is understood that we will do something every year. The worst they do is hold us in the cárcel until the festival is through. Two days. It’s a small price to pay.”

  “Two days in the hoosegow sounds like a pretty high price to me,” David said. “Especially every year.”

  “Perhaps,” Jose replied. “But still a much smaller price than the one paid by the bulls.”

  David could think of no argument to counter this, so he sucked up his worry and followed Jose toward their seats.

  The open-air arena was infused with a strange energy—excitement for sure, but with something else vibrating beneath the surface as well; jubilation laced with bloodlust, perhaps. David himself had never seen a live bullfight from the stands, and the way things were to work out, he never would.

  They had paid for barreras tickets in the sombra section—ringside in the shade—giving them a clear view of the open-air arena and the blue sky above. As the grandstands filled, David glanced around, recognizing several familiar faces from the bodega the night before. He felt a shiver of excitement run up his spine, as
if he were an important agent involved in some urgent and subtly brewing conspiracy. He felt it even more when Jose palmed him a vial of red dye.

  Wait for the band, he reminded himself, wait for the band.

  As the seconds passed, his nervousness grew. The stands were nearly filled now, and legs and elbows pressed into David, adding to his anxiety. There was a rail in front of them, and on the other side of the rail was a sunken alley that circled the ring. There were several offset splits in the wall wide enough to provide access into the ring for the banderilleros and other costumed assistants to the toreros who were now gathered in this alley, looking out over the wall into the empty ring.

  David was about to ask Jose how June would be able to time her entrance, since there was no way she could hear the band, but before he could get out the first word, everything seemed to unravel at once.

  First, several uniformed officers stepped out in front of the stands and scanned the crowd. One of them recognized Jose, saying something to his partner and pointing.

  “Mierda!” Jose said. “I’ve been spotted.” He nudged David and passed him his vial of dye, saying, “It’s all up to you now, comrade. Good luck.” Then he took off, shouting, “Con permiso! Con permiso!” as he leaped over legs and knees, running the length of the grandstand and disappearing into the vestibule that led out of the arena. The officers gave chase.

  David was now sitting there alone with two vials of dye when the band began playing a lively marchlike pasodoble tune. He knew this was his cue, but he was frozen with fear and confusion. He heard shouting and saw several of his fellow conspirators hopping down into the alley and making for the slits that led into the bullring, stripping off and casting aside their shirts along the way, men and women both. Their backs were marked with messages deriding the cruelty of the art. The band played on, oblivious, as the protesters successfully gained the ring, pouring their vials of dye onto their now-naked torsos and falling to the arena floor in the poses of wounded animals—seven in total, missing only Jose and David. And, of course, June.