Marvel and a Wonder by Joe Meno

me like I should be the one to take a peek, because I had the lower rank, and so I took out my sidearm and tried to squeeze my way through. The whole thing was about as wide as a bread box, and I poked my head inside but there was nothing but black.”
    “What did you see?” the boy asked.
    “I didn’t see anything. But I heard something, this low kind of moan, and I thought it was a demon who was going to pull me up the chimney, and I got my flashlight out and tried to see what was ahead of me as I was climbing up, but there was no room to maneuver, so I put the flashlight in my mouth and started climbing, and the chimney was all at odd angles, and I could hear the moan again, and I looked up and saw this face, but it wasn’t a face, just this pale white shape peering back at me, and I screamed and the face screamed back and I tried to get my arm up to shoot, but I couldn’t, so I screamed again and then I glimpsed a face, the face of some nineteen-year-old boy, the kid we had been looking for who had gone AWOL. For some reason, he thought to hide in a chimney and he got stuck and broke his leg trying to escape. Eventually we got him out, and he did his time before getting shipped back to the front line. But the thing of it was, I was scared. I thought for sure I was going to die up in that chimney.”
    The boy sniffled again and set down his spoon. “So?”
    “So I’m telling you this because it’s okay to be scared. Scared means you’re smart. Scared keeps you alive. There ain’t nothing you can do to avoid being scared. But being scared all the time isn’t any way to live.”
    The boy stared into his empty bowl.
    “Finish up and meet me in the coop. We got eggs to candle yet.”
    The boy nodded, contemplating the murky reflection in his spoon.
    Later, sometime after lunch, the grandfather was cleaning the dishes in the sink when he glanced up across the field and saw Quentin feeding the horse, one hand holding the bucket of oats, the other on the animal’s neck, the boy singing or talking. Jim smiled, holding the boy’s dirty plate in his hands.
    * * *
    On the first Friday of August, Jim Northfield came for a visit. He pulled his dilapidated gray Chevy into a corner of the drive and climbed out, stepping around the mud in his Sears catalog boots, which looked like they had never been worn.
    The grandfather peered up from the rusty irrigation hose and grinned. “To what do we owe the honor?” he called out, putting down the wrench before standing.
    Jim Northfield smiled and made his way over. “I’ve got some news.”
    “You could have phoned. You didn’t need to come all the way out here.”
    “I don’t mind driving for good news.”
    “Hate to see you get your fancy boots dirty.”
    Jim Northfield’s smile grew. “You like these?”
    “Those boots look like they cost more than I make in six months.”
    “Well, you should have paid better attention in school.”
    “Ha. There wasn’t any school when I was a kid,” the grandfather joked.
    “I know, I know. But you still walked uphill both ways.”
    The grandfather chuckled. “What brings you out?”
    “I came to see your horse. I like to meet all my clients face to face.”
    The grandfather tipped his hat.
    * * *
    Rodrigo led it out to the squared-off pasture, holding the fancy reins in his hand. The sun fell on its coat, making it look like the mare was built of silver, like the ornament on some king’s tomb. Then it began to run, its pink nostrils tightening then going wide, long legs crossing the muddy field quickly.
    “What do you say?” the grandfather asked.
    “She’s a beaut. You time her yet?”
    “Time her? What do I know about racehorses?”
    “You don’t have to be an expert to see that animal likes to run.”
    The grandfather nodded, conceding the point. “So what’s this good news you brought?”
    “I got ahold of someone at the delivery company; said they weren’t allowed to give out the name of the folks who hired