by Joe Meno
“The place I was stationed in, they had all kinds of superstitions. The people up there said there were demons that lived in the jungle. And sometimes you’d believe them. There were all kinds of weird lights, like tracer bullets. Strange things were always happening up there. One time, my partner Stan and me were driving in the jeep, and I had to take a leak, so we pulled over and I went off in the brush a little way, trying not to step on a mine, and there was this tree full of dead mice. They had been hung there with string, hundreds of them. Like a kind of sacrifice, I guess. I guess some of them were rats. Well, I seen them and I ran off. It was spooky. These Koreans, they had hung them up there to keep the demons of the woods happy. I was convinced it really was haunted.
“Another time, Stan and me were driving somewhere else. He outranked me, so he always drove. He said I drove like a civilian. We were driving and this Korean fella jumps out of the woods, right in front of the jeep, like he was going to kill himself. Stan swerved out of the way, and the vehicle goes off the road, into a ditch. I swear I nearly broke my neck. Stan gets out, he runs over and grabs the guy and starts shouting at him in Korean, and I ask him what it’s all about. And then he tells me that the guy said he had a demon. And the only way to get rid of a demon was to scare him out. So the guy jumped in front of the jeep trying to scare off the demon but he almost got all three of us killed. Stan said later that it wasn’t the first time something like that happened.
“So this one night, a soldier goes AWOL, some nineteen-year-old kid, and we searched all the regular hangouts, the dives, and we’re about out of ideas when a local came up to the jeep waving his arms, saying there was a ghost in his chimney. Stan and I looked at each other and followed the old man to his house. Their houses weren’t really houses, just shacks, I guess, and the old man was pointing and Stan glanced at 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 them.”
“Hmm.”
“Then just last weekend I was over in South Bend; met a few of the boys I went to law school with. One of them is a federal judge now. I told him about your predicament. He asked me if you had the transfer of property. I said yes. He told me he thought you were in the clear. He said if it was his client, he’d tell ’em to keep his mouth shut. Things like this happen all the time.”
“But it ain’t ours.”
“Listen, I can keep trying to get ahold of those folks on the East Coast for you, but the thing is, that horse was sent to you, for whatever reason.”
“There wasn’t any reason.”
“Who are we to say?”
“It was sent to us by mistake.”
“Don’t you read your Bible? A miracle is a miracle. You don’t question that sort of thing.”
The grandfather frowned and thought on that, staring across the field.
* * *
Before turning in that evening, the grandfather knocked on the boy’s bedroom door to say goodnight.
The boy looked up from his video game, nodded, and, just as the grandfather was walking away, asked, “Sir?”
“Hm.”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“Hm?”
“The horse. Where do you think it came from?”
The grandfather smiled. “I don’t know.”
The boy said goodnight, then went back to his game.
* * *
One week after that, on a Thursday around four p.m., there was a long-distance call from New York, from the office of a female lawyer asking to speak with Jim Falls. The grandfather stood in the kitchen and held the phone to his ear, then took a seat at the table, trying to steady himself.
“This is him,” the grandfather said. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to call.”
The voice on the line introduced herself as Lila Winn, saying she represented the office of the executor of the will that had awarded Jim the horse. Apparently, several parties were now challenging the executor’s interpretation, which, in their opinion, had “injudiciously”
reallocated a number of the deceased’s holdings. The ownership of the horse as well as several other assets were being called into question.
“Is the animal still in your possession?” the distant female voice asked. “Or has it been sold?”
“No, we’ve been taking care of it. I told my friend this was all some sort of mistake. I’m happy you all figured it out, but we’ll be mighty upset to see the horse go.”
“Well, as of right now, Mr. Falls, the horse technically belongs to you. Or at least until these other countersuits are settled. Which may not be for some time.”
“No? Well, how long?”
“I’ve known cases like this to go on for years.”
“Years,” Jim repeated. Then again, quieter, “Years.” He held the yellow plastic receiver in the crook of his neck. “So you’re telling me it’s mine?”
“For now. Or at least until this other business is adjudicated. Is this the best number to reach you at?”
“Yes ma’am.” And then he asked, “Do you mind saying that all again? About the horse.”
“It’s yours, for now,” she said softly.
“For now,” he repeated. “Do you think you can do me one more favor, miss?”
“If I can.”
“Do you think you can tell me where it came from? Who sent it, I mean.”
“I’m not able to give out that information at this time.”
“No?” Jim frowned. “We’d just like to know, that’s all.”
“I understand. I’m just not authorized to give out that information at the moment.”
“I see. Well, this certainly is interesting. I . . . I thank you for the call.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Falls. Have a good evening.”
Jim said goodbye and set the phone back on the wall, holding his hand against the cool plastic device, waiting for it to begin to ring again, to tell him it was all a joke. But it did not. He thought maybe the conversation had taken place inside some childhood dream—the fields gone purple, a girl with an apple for a face, a tea kettle that could speak. He stood there in the kitchen with his hand on the phone for a long while.
* * *
In the dark later that same night, the grandfather crept out alone to the stable and put a hand on the mare’s neck. What if? he began to think, looking into its blue-black eyes, measuring the gentle slope of its shoulder, feeling its breath on the palm of his other hand. What if? What if it really is ours? What if we were to race it? What if this might be the thing, the one thing that saved us?
_________________
But soon August was more than halfway over; summer was already coming to an end. The grandfather felt an ambivalence about this, as he did with most things; though the heat would be gone and with it the reek of the henhouse—the odor altogether unignorable, unpleasant, the chalky smell of dry feed, sawdust, and molted feathers forever hanging about their clothes, their hair, their fingernails—soon Rodrigo would be heading back to Mexico and the boy to school, which meant that the grandfather would have to once again work the farm on his own. On the other hand, there was the mare and a host of other prospects, a life that had, before the horse’s appearance, seemed impossible.
On a Saturday morning in the middle of August, just around ten a.m., a big shot named Bill Evens came around to appraise the animal. Bill Evens was an operator, a former state congressman, and construction contractor who owned nine or ten racehorses, which he kept on an immense spread of land about forty minutes south of town.
He drove up to the farmhouse in a brand-new Ford pickup without an introduction or invitation, his wide, bald head covered with a dented straw cowboy hat, dark prescription glasses obscuring his face. He walked right over to the small pasture they had set up and leaned against the snake-rail fence, then let out a piercing whistle.
“Look at them hinds,” he said, squatting down, grinning through the fence.
Jim came out of the coop, a Delaware rooster in hand. “Howdy.”
Evens turned and smiled. “She looks like a racer,” he announced, grinning wider. He stood and extended a wide hand for Jim to shake. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Name’s Evens. I own the Triple A, near Bellwood.”
Jim nodded and shook the stranger’s hand. It was the practiced grip of a politician or businessman. Jim set the rooster down near his feet.
“You looking to sell?” Evens asked.
Jim shook his head, turning to look at the mare.
“You race her?”
“We let her run.”
“Against other horses?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of your profession.”
“Profession? Hell, you talk about it like it’s a legitimate business. All it is is a disease. My wife got me to enroll in Gamblers Anonymous. I go to the meetings then right off to the track.”
Jim frowned.
“Jim Northfield told me you got her as an inheritance. Is that right?”
Jim nodded again.
“Some inheritance. Well, I’d like to see her run. I’d like to see if she’s as game as she looks.”
Jim called for Rodrigo, who set down the peeps’ medicine and walked over, tipping his hat.
“Mister Jim?”
“Rodrigo, Mr. Evens here wants to see the horse run. Do you mind taking her for a ride?”
Rodrigo glanced from Evens back to Jim and winked. “Sure, sure, no problem.” He dashed off and then grabbed the saddle from inside the dog-hanged stable.
Ten minutes later they were off, Rodrigo riding close like a jockey, the mare tearing across the field with a headlong ferocity, coming up to the turn at the end of the oblong meadow, hooves colliding against the dirt with their daring rhythm. Then they bolted back around, Evens turning to watch the gray-white blur; he let out another wet-sounding whistle and pushed back his hat.
“You need to get her on a track. See what time she draws.”
Jim nodded, unsure how to respond. Evens took note of the other man’s suspicion and grinned. “Here’s what I tell you I’m going to do. I’d like to set up a race, your horse against one of mine. I’ll give you three-to-one odds. To be honest, I’d just like to see what she can do.”
Jim gave the man an uneasy stare. There was $112 in his checking account until the first of the month. He itched his nose and considered the bet. Evens offered another big-operator smile. “So what do you say?”
“I’ll take your bet,” Jim muttered. “I’ll put up two hundred. But I want five-to-one.”
They shook on it, deciding the race would be the following afternoon. “My wife goes to church all day,” Bill said.
Jim nodded softly and then they both turned back to stare at the animal, their eyes wincing in the sunlight.
* * *
As soon as it was dawn that Sunday morning, Jim went out alone to feed the horse and watch it run, not bothering to tack up, letting the animal hurl itself this way and that without a rider, loose, momentary, its eyes gleaming as it tore along the fence. The grandfather snuck a Fuji apple from his coat pocket and, pulling out his utility knife, split it into a pair of uneven halves. A bleary wetness filled the air, from the metallic tang of the blade and the sweetness of the fruit. The grandfather held one half of the apple in his hand while placing the other half along the irregular plane of the fence rail to be gobbled up as the animal fled past.
Sometime later the boy joined him at the fence line. The horse jetted before them. The grandfather again had a feeling that their lives were about to change.
* * *
That afternoon they looked in on the corn; the grandfather pulling a green ear free, checking to be sure it was clean of worms. Together he and the boy squatted in the rows, the wind whispering through the leaves, the silks brushing up against one another like some forgotten music. “Here,” he said, handing the ear to the boy. “What do you see?”
The boy looked at the green ear and shrugged. “Some corn.”
“Any bugs?”
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The boy dug his fingernails into the kernels. “No.”
“You sure?”
The boy squinted again. “Pretty sure.”
The grandfather nodded, satisfied, and said, “Good.” The rows swayed over their heads like the echoes of a distant church. In all honesty, it was as close as the grandfather liked to get to any kind of service. He listened to the cornrows for a moment longer and then said: “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the boy asked.
“Just listen.”
The boy sniffled and tilted his ear toward the sky. “What am I listening for?”
“Shhh.”
The boy tilted his head again, eyes squinting in concentration. There again was the pleasant murmur. The grandfather smiled, then hearing it, the boy did too.
* * *
Rodrigo soon arrived from town, having hitchhiked the few miles over. They were not used to seeing him on a Sunday and noticed his black hair had been slicked back with soap, his vaquero shirt buttoned all the way up. Together the three of them led the horse into the trailer. The boy kept the animal calm by talking quietly to it. What he was whispering neither the grandfather nor Rodrigo was sure. But it was placid clomping inside the trailer, and even when the door was locked shut, it still didn’t utter a neigh. Then they drove over to Evens’s spread, on the back forty of which he had built a racetrack, complete with aluminum stands. Evens, in his straw hat, waved the blue pickup over, then helped lead the mare out himself.
“If you want a jockey, I’d be happy to loan you one of mine,” he grinned. “Free of charge, of course. Your fella, he looks a little long is all.”
Jim glanced over at Rodrigo, who quietly nodded.
* * *
The race took place on Evens’s racetrack with Evens’s horse and two of his jockeys. Jim thought that he had made a mistake somewhere. The other horse was a black, long-necked gelding, which took careful, high, prancing steps. It was ridden by a jockey in blue. Jim’s mare was being ridden by a stubby man in an orange helmet. Evens patted the orange-helmed jockey on his rear and pretended to whisper, “Just because I’m your boss doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give it your all,” smacking the flanks of the mare with the same easy motion. The white horse whinnied, charging at Evens until the jockey reined her in. Then another farmhand fitted the mare with purple blinders. The horse kicked a little so the grandfather gently touched its nose, placing the palm of his hand against its muzzle. Then he and the boy and Rodrigo followed Evens to the aluminum stands and stood behind the metal railing. There were eight or nine onlookers—some neighbors, retired layabouts, all friends of Evens. He greeted each cordially and offered the grandfather a cigar, which Jim accepted but did not light. The two horses came down the track, their jockeys piloting them into their stalls. One of Evens’s farmhands closed the gates and backed away from the course.
