Marvel and a Wonder

by Joe Meno

  _________________

  At a rundown shrimp house, Rick parked the truck so he could wash the blood from his neck and hands. He was in a panic as he barreled into the restroom. He shouted at his reflection in the tilted mirror, slipping off his undershirt, using it to wipe his face, his hands, his ear, then cleaning the gun, someone knocking on the restroom door, Rick barking, “Hold on a fucking minute,” shoving the dirtied undershirt into the bottom of the trash bin, buttoning up his shirt, sliding the pistol in the back of his pants, taking a few deep breaths, staring at the lopsided image within the mirror. Then he shoved the door latch open and rushed out. By the time he was back at the vehicle his hands were shaking again. He climbed inside the black truck, ignoring the girl, and began to pound on the steering wheel with his fists, one blow after another, shouting the same word again and again, “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  The girl curled up away from him, hiding herself against the passenger-side door.

  And then, as if she was meant to understand the terrible disagreement of his thoughts, he hissed, “Anyway, it’s your fucking fault bringing my ass up here.”

  The girl did not think it made any sense to argue. In fact, she did not say much of anything.

  “Okay. We’re gonna sit here a minute and take stock.”

  The girl stayed silent.

  “Let’s just set here and try to think.”

  “I want to go home,” she whispered.

  “That’s where we’re going. I just need to think this through and make sure we don’t screw ourselves by doing anything stupid.”

  “Fuck you! Let me go!” she hissed, shaking her braceleted wrist.

  “You need to shut your mouth right now,” he barked, grabbing her by the chin. “You need to shut the fuck up so I can think this through.”

  The girl pulled her chin free and spat in his face; the words she spoke then were as ferocious as the look in her yellowed eyes: “Fuck you! As soon as we’re back in Plano, I’m telling my grandfather what happened, and then I’m calling the fucking cops!”

  Once she had spoken the words out loud, she realized the dreadful, stupid mistake, the latest mistake in a series of dreadful, stupid mistakes, though maybe this one was going to cost the most. The expression on Rick West’s face now, the eyes going blank, the mouth forming a serious line, a quick series of questions, answers, thoughts, proceedings, actions, all coursing through his brain, before he nodded at her blankly, realizing exactly what he had to do.

  “Really?” he muttered softly. “You’re really gonna call the cops on me?”

  The girl did not reply, only looked down, feeling as if something dear had just been thrown away.

  “Well, missy, you and I are going to have a talk,” he announced, a smile appearing on his thin lips. “You and I are. What we’re going to do is, we’re going to go somewhere private, where we can be alone and talk. We’re going to go somewhere and have a talk and see if we can’t come to an understanding about things. All right, how’s that sound?”

  A flood of terror seized the girl’s body. She did not notice her knees shaking, not until she placed her hand on them. Rick started the truck, sure of himself once again, sure of the course of action he needed to take.

  Along highway I-55, ten, fifteen minutes outside of town, he pulled over to the side of the road, switching off the vehicle, the woods standing witness to what was about to occur. He walked around the front of the truck, opened the passenger-side door, unlocked the handcuffs, and then marched behind her, shoving her into the shadows of the staggered trees, the forest ahead growing darker with each step. As they walked, the girl stumbled ahead of him, glancing back every few feet, Rick prodding her, trying to think how this would all play out, wondering if he ought to wait a few minutes and think this through, but already knowing the answer, already sure of the consequences either way. He stared at the back of her head as she limped along, thinking of how like a foal, how like a nestling deer she had once been, darting among the fence posts on the ranch until she was old enough to ride, and then old man Bolan had her outfitted in the funny tan jodhpurs and red jacket like she was some young aristocrat going foxhunting, which in a way she was, for she’d had her pick of her grandfather’s stable and chose a roan-colored pony about as reckless and lissome as she was. But that girl was somewhere else, and the person walking before him—with the wan red face, sallow eyes, nose running, hair looking like it had forgotten what it was to be washed—was only a job he had been told to do, and now, because of the circumstances, he was going to have to make some tough choices. The girl tripped then, falling to her knees.

  Without a word, though with a tenderness he now felt he could afford, he reached down and lifted her up by her armpit. He marched her deeper into the forest, him taking a quick glance behind to make sure they were alone—no houses or places of business for miles. She fell once again, legs shaking, her body collapsing onto the leaves and twigs and dingy pine needles, him standing above her, frowning, the girl now crawling on her hands and knees, not fighting it but unable to get control of herself, the sound of her snuffling reminding him of the time she had been thrown from a pony and had the wind knocked out of her—more scared than hurt probably. A fog of sympathy clouded his mind just then—him remembering the sight of her in those funny tan breeches, holding her own rear, her tiny face wound up in inconsolable anger, glaring at the animal out of the corner of those wide blue eyes—and drifting in this reverie for a moment too long, he gave her an opening. For when he leaned over to get her to her feet, she turned with a sharp-edged stone in hand and swung it firm against the side of his face, catching him against the corner of his left eye, his boots flying out from under him, the dead leaves and stony earth coming up hard against the back of his head. Before the pain crept all the way across his jaw, he almost laughed, thinking of what a dolt he had been, what a greenhorn, knowing at once that she was and had always been much smarter, much more conniving than anyone ever wanted to admit. He saw the flash of the dirty-blond hair blaze above him, framed by the light breaking through the tops of the trees, and tasted blood in his mouth. She was running. He lay on his side and watched her dart through the woods, her hair like a long blond flame, his eyes still unable to focus on anything. It was almost like falling in love.

  * * *

  Near eleven a.m., the pale-blue pickup headed southbound, the boy’s foot against the gas pedal, his leg growing sore, his grandfather snoring beside him, side mirrors rattling along I-65, fuel gauge ticking treasonously back and forth, the vehicle’s engine screeching like some mythical cornet signaling the end of the world.

  * * *

  The girl hurried up a culvert along the western edge of the highway toward the pickup truck but then paused, skidding in the gravel, realizing she had not bothered to take the keys. Instead, she was still holding the stone. She cursed, a sound that was not even a word, and glanced over her shoulder to see if he was after her yet. He was not. What now? What the fuck was she supposed to do now? And then, in a rare moment of decisive judgment, she ran toward the back of the silver trailer, found the bolt, slid it away from her body, and gave the door a shove. The silver ramp slid down, the door flying open. The swart odor of the trailer struck her as she began shouting, the horse unconcerned, its gray-white tail flapping back and forth. She stomped on the ramp, then slapped its muscular buttocks, but the horse would not move. Finally, remembering the stone, she picked it up and pounded it against the side of the trailer, screaming at the top of her lungs, and watched the horse as it gave a start, scrambling out of the silver pen, tramping down the ramp, both of them dashing off along the highway in opposite directions: one going south, one going north.

  * * *

  Without hurry—as the grandfather was no longer capable of moving faster than a shifting, lopsided amble—they made their way into the motel lobby, the old man lurching forward, pulling the brim of the white hat down over the top of his eyes, the boy opening the glass door befor
e him, holding it for his granddad, the two of them crossing the gray thatched carpet, treading beneath the fluorescent lamps to the front counter which was shielded in bulletproof glass. It was empty behind the Formica ledge, no clerk on hand. The old man surveyed the lobby, finding a young Pakistani fellow busy at the arcade machine in the corner of the room. The machine whistled and chimed as the young man tapped the red buttons frantically. The grandson squinted behind his glasses and smiled, immediately recognizing the sound effects and melody of the game’s music before he had a chance to see the machine itself. It was Donkey Kong. The original. He was sure as soon as he heard the digitized character jump. The youthful clerk glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to the screen, reprimanding himself, “Jesus. Watch out.” As a flaming digital barrel crushed the clerk’s tiny pixilated hero, he cursed, slapping the joystick. “I can’t ever get past this level.” The game was now over, a sad tune playing, as the clerk turned to face Jim and his grandson, greeting them politely, hurrying through the employee door, then reappearing behind the plane of plexiglass.

  “Sorry about that. Single or double?” the clerk asked, his voice muffled behind the plastic partition.

  “Neither one. We’re looking for someone,” Jim rasped, leaning close to the glass. “They were toting a horse.”

  The clerk stared at the old man and frowned. “You don’t want a room?”

  Jim itched his nose with the back of his hand. The boy stood by his side, quietly watching. “No sir. Like I said, we’re here looking for somebody. They had a horse trailer with them. It was a man and a girl. I believe their license plates were from Texas. I was hoping to get some information about them,” and here Jim slid a folded twenty-dollar bill through the opening in the partition. The clerk stared down at it and shook his head.

  “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “We just want to know if they’re staying here.”

  “I’m not supposed to give out that information.”

  Jim frowned, tapping his fingers against the cold metal counter.

  “What if you just nodded? Could you do that and let me know if they checked out or not?”

  “My mom and dad, they own this place. They put their whole life savings into it . . . and I . . . I don’t think I oughta. We don’t want any kind of trouble.”

  The grandfather sighed, pulling the white cattleman hat down over his eyes once again. He knocked his fist against the counter and struck on a thought. “How about we buy a room? Can you put us in the same room they were in?”

  The boy behind the counter smiled, his dark face widening in complicity. “Yes sir. Will that be cash or charge?”

  * * *

  Lying on his back, Rick realized he had been watching the sky through the shapes of the trees for a long while. He was dazed by the black and gold and green of the sunlight on the leaves and the figures they made. He blinked and found his left eye sticky with blood. He sat up, or tried to, and then felt the swell of his jaw, his head throbbing. He pressed two fingers to his brow and the tips came back wet. He must have had a good-sized gash up there. When he finally managed to sit up, his head swam with spotted light. He grabbed a corner of his shirt, held it over his left eye, and stumbled back toward the highway. All around, and from the trees above, the birds were chirping, telling him to lay back down. He nearly did, his legs buckling a little, him grabbing the side of a tree for balance.

  The truck was parked exactly where he had left it. He trudged toward it, immediately noticing one of the silver doors of the horse trailer had been flung open. Then his ears began to ring with heat. He limped over, holding his hand out against the trailer—the surface of which was hot and dusty—and made his way around to the rear where he saw the depth of the girl’s duplicity: in her escape, she had turned the fucking horse loose, here, right on the outskirts of this worthless goddamn city. The sight of the empty trailer, its floor littered with hay and manure, a pool of urine standing near the back corner, its ramp down, the smell of the horse itself still betraying the air, almost made him vomit. He bent over, holding the shirt to the side of his head, and staggered against the truck. He had been outsmarted. Twice. He had been outsmarted twice by this spoiled, unremarkable girl.

  The highway traffic rumbled past, the sound of which caused his brain to vibrate unpleasantly. He wavered there, trying to think of what to do next. There was the horse. And the girl. And the cut above his eye. He felt himself going faint. First, the horse. Then the cut. Because he was going to bleed to death driving around if he didn’t get it fixed. After that, if he got the horse, and if he got his eye fixed, then there would be the girl. One at a time. First things first. He thought of a sergeant named Ron Poland whom he had buddied around with in the navy. A nice enough fellow who always repeated the same damn thing when he was drunk: “First things first. First things first: we get liquor. Then we meet some girls. First, we eat. Then we fight. Okay? First things first.”

  His knees felt like he was on shore leave. He was happy reminiscing like this. He was getting pleasantly light-headed thinking about all those times. Bells rang in his head, the traffic roaring past like the engine of his old ship: the USS Abraham Lincoln. No. No, that wasn’t the name of the first one. What was the name of it? Jesus. He had to get his head together. Shoot. Take a deep breath. Good. He moved the shirt away from his forehead and saw it was stained a motley red. Shit.

  He climbed inside the vehicle, searching for the keys in his pocket; upon finding them he realized his eyelashes were stuck together with blood. He breathed for a moment and saw the driver’s-side door was hung wide open; he was sitting there in a fog, staring at nothing, and bleeding. What had that girl done to him? He glimpsed the digital clock on the dashboard, even though his left eye was now closed with blood. It occurred to him that it was now one o’clock in the afternoon, though for the life of him, he could not remember why this even mattered.

  _________________

  The black man glanced up from the battered blade of the riding mower—the machine lying on its side, its metallic undercarriage gleaming, greased, exposed—running the whetstone against the edge, trying to get it sharpened once again, hoping to get one more run from it before he was forced to order its replacement from Dallas. Beyond the green hummocks of Spring Hills, the cemetery was peaceful at this time of the day, the headstones placed at solemn intervals, extending in all directions as far as the eye could see. Peering over the top of his glasses—the glasses which were all but useless, as the prescription was a good ten or twenty years out of date; his daughter, who would take care of such things, had finally gotten married to a man from her church and had moved away to New Orleans sometime back—the man felt a tremor run through him, right down to his toes. He placed a hand over his chest, directly beside his name tag, which was stitched with the name Roy in blue cursive.

  A white woman—in a white veil—was walking through the woods. He set the whetstone down, crouching behind the overturned lawn mower, the apparition slowly moving among the graves, searching for its final resting place, moving only as a ghost could, in a languorous, drifting motion, rising and falling, rising and falling with the wind through the loblolly pine. And then, just as it was making its way toward him, his hand searching for a screwdriver or folding knife—anything with which to defend himself—it disappeared. The old man pushed the glasses flush again his face, seeing it was not the ghost of a woman but the ghost of a horse, some Confederate charger searching for its long-dead rider, as many of those gray soldiers of old had loved their horses more than their wives or children, stealing rations for them, blankets for them, sleeping right beside them at the edges of the battlefield. In some of these cemeteries were colonels and generals buried right alongside their famous steeds, and there were two or three plots only a half-mile off where a handful of racehorses had been buried. The groundskeeper was no longer startled by the white horse tromping there, as it was only one of a dozen ghosts he had seen over the course of his years working th
at particular job; and so, resuming his work, he eyed the blade, taking the whetstone in his hand again, and set it against the dulled edge.

  * * *

  Inside the motel room, the grandfather glanced around at the rumpled twin beds and blotchy carpet like it was a crime scene. He took a seat on one of the beds, pulled the telephone into his lap, and hit Redial on the glossy receiver. Soon someone on the other end answered, announcing that it was the bus depot in a twangy drawl. The grandfather smiled and asked for a street address. They immediately headed back to the pickup as it was now past two o’clock and there was no telling how much time they had lost already.

  * * *

  The girl ran. The first thing she came upon was a long concrete embankment leading up to an overpass. She followed the sound of traffic until she made it to a thoroughfare where she thought it would be safer to try to walk like a normal person. She decided the most important thing was to keep moving; anywhere, as long as she was moving. She could think about the rest later. Because that asshole would be after her, and when he did find her, he was going to seriously fuck her world up. Just keep moving. She peered both ways down the drag, saw a strip mall, a Bob Evans restaurant, some sort of factory where they made frozen chicken, and a wax museum. What she needed was a telephone right now. And somewhere she could hide out for a while so she could have a chance to think. All right. She decided on the wax museum, limping there, her soles sore from running in stupid fucking heels.