The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  “Hello, Raymond, glad you could make it,” Oscar said with a voice which sounded anything but glad. Ray followed him in and took the long walk down the dimly lit hallway towards the living room. Ray looked back at the sad little dusty rooms he passed the first time he entered the house with his mother. Ray asked his mother if Oscar had a wife and kids. Apparently, he did. A wife and a little boy. Both passed away from some fever long before Ray was even born. That’s the one who must have decorated these rooms, Ray thought. She must have liked doilies and dancers. She must have been pretty.

  “Don’t mind the mess,” Oscar said nervously as they entered the living room. Nothing had changed from the last time Ray was there. The hundred or so clocks stared down at him as he took in the sights and smells of the space. Looking at the room was like looking through a stereoscope with two totally different photographs layered on top of each other. One, a gracious living room with a gold mirror over the fireplace, tasseled tie-backs on the curtains, a throw pillow embroidered with the word “love,” and fancy rugs on the floor. The other, a man’s shop with a tool for every job a person could think up and a screw, nail, washer, or bolt to match. Wood boards hovered over chairs creating flat surfaces in mid-air; each acted like a “dead end” sign for potential visitors. Ray fought the urge to shut one eye at a time, thinking the room would magically change from one version to the other. He also wondered if this is what his house would look like if his dad were alive and his mother had died.

  Ray suddenly remembered what he needed to say to the old man upon entering his house. His mother made him recite it five times over breakfast to make sure he got it right. Ray looked up at the ceiling and spat out in staccato his greeting.

  “Oh, umm, thank you, Mr. Taglieber, for letting me in into your home and helping you with your work. It is very kind of you to…”

  Oscar lowered head and raised his hand. “Please, call me Oscar, Raymond. You are working for free. When I start paying you, then you can call me Mr. Taglieber,” he said as he wobbled his round frame to a table made from a barn shutter to pick up some paper. Ray couldn’t imagine addressing a man by his first name, especially one as old as Oscar. Ray couldn’t tell his age. Oscar was whatever age old is. Fifty-five, one hundred, eighty-four? He couldn’t tell. He looked more like a grandfather than a dad. There would be no pitching a baseball game or running through woods with Oscar. His fastest speed appeared to be a wobble. His thick wavy hair and beard were both white as flour with no other traces of color or gray. Ray thought Olive and his mother were right. He would make a good department store Santa if the store didn’t mind that Santa didn’t smile or like kids.

  “So you are probably wondering why the toys,” Oscar said as he put on his reading glasses.

  “Mom said you are Santa.”

  Oscar let out an unhappy chuckle. “No, no, no. I’m not Santa.” He looked at Raymond over his spectacles. “Just to be clear. You don’t…you know…” he said as he circled the air with the paper, attempting to speak the remaining of the sentence with his hands. “…believe?”

  “In Santa?” Ray said, finishing Oscar’s thought. “No. I meant what I said to Tommy.”

  A look of relief came over Oscar’s face. “Good. Just wanted to make sure before I showed you this.” Oscar put the stack of papers he held in front of Raymond, each lined and filled with children’s handwriting. Some with pictures, some written in colored ink, but all started with the same two words: “Dear Santa.” Ray flipped through them with wide eyes, as if he were secretly reading a teacher’s grade ledger. Dolls, gloves, trains, ages, Bobby, Jacob, Sue, Matthew, Mary Jane, kittens, dogs, love, believe, were all words that jumped off the page and into Raymond’s memory. He looked up at Oscar in amazement.

  “Wow,” Ray said slowly. “How did you get these?”

  “I get them every year. Schools, hospitals, post offices send their letters to Santa to this company INR Industries. They then farm them out to some of us to fulfill certain orders. I take care of all the toys made of metal. You’d think since everyone is tossing their belt buckles in scrap metal drives kids wouldn’t be asking for trains and cars, but oh no. The requests keep coming in. And a zeppelin made out of wood? Well, you might as well put a dictionary under the Christmas tree.”

  Raymond cocked his head as Oscar spoke. “It’s like you work for Santa, sorta?” Raymond said.

  Oscar scratched his beard in thought. “Why yes, one could see it that way.”

  Ran looked down at one of the letters and ran his hand over the name. The corners of his lips tighten. “My dad told me he worked for Santa once.”

  “Absolutely he did!” Oscar said as he flung his arms in the air. “Hal Kozak’s no liar. Helped me out many, many a time. Any part made of wood I gave to Hal,” Oscar said as he made his way back to the workbench and donned the crazy goggles. “Little kids all over Suffolk County would have toy boats that looked like bars of soap if wasn’t for your father.”

  Ray smiled inside. It was nice hearing someone talk about his dad this way, to hear someone speak about his father and not lower their voice or droop their face. Everyone seemed too nervous to speak about his dad in front of him except his mother, Olive and, on the rare occasion that he spoke, Paley. Every mention of his dad began with, “I remember” and ended with “God rest his soul.”

  Oscar pushed the crazy goggles up to his forehead, which made his white hair stand up like lightning bolts on top of his scalp. “First things first.” Oscar creaked down onto a stool and slapped his knees. “My stool,” he said as he pointed in the direction of the stool that hid under his wide bottom. Then he pointed over to the other end of the long table. “Your stool.”

  Ray saw a small, clean, wooden stool fifteen feet away from Oscar. Both of them faced the bay window. Ray sat at the stool, looked out over the front yard and immediately saw Olive and Tommy slowly walk down the road. They certainly saw Ray before Ray saw them. Olive lifted her hand no higher than her waist to signal a subtle hello, her half-smile meant to not draw attention to the greeting. Tommy, however, raised his hand over his head and waved it back and forth as if he were washing a window. He could hear Tommy yell his greeting through the bay’s pane. Ray smirked the other half of Olive’s smile back at the two and held his hand up like he was showing them the number “five.” The whole neighborhood could see them in the window. Ray felt himself blush.

  “This is the best spot for light in the afternoon. Now, have a look-see at the tools in front of you. Recognize them?”

  Ray’s attention broke away from Olive and Tommy as he looked at the lineup of small instruments in front of him. Ray peered down and tried to focus on the tools. He recognized nothing. These objects seemed to be from another world. They almost didn’t look like tools at all. More like silver and brass gadgets and utensils used to fix a flying saucer. He picked up something that looked more like a needle from a doctor’s office than a tool. He gulped. “No, sir. Never saw a tool like this in my entire life?”

  “Your entire life, you say?” Oscar said. “Good. Don’t touch them.” Oscar rolled his stool over to Ray and took the needle-like tool out of his hand. “This is used for making pocket watches. If you said you knew what this was, I’d think you were weird or fibbing. Neither trait will help you in life.” He put the tool right back in its place. “Don’t touch these guys. If you have the urge to know, I’ll tell you. I will put the tools you will need here.” He pointed to an empty spot to the right of the mysterious instruments. “This space is your domain. Your tools will go here and I won’t touch them. Good?”

  “Good,” answered Ray, relieved. For a moment, he thought his mother oversold Ray’s ability.

  “Now to the letters. You see these red circles?” Oscar grabbed one from the top of the stack. His chubby sausage finger pointed in the center of a red circle. “This is what we have to make.” On this particular letter, Stanley, age 4, wanted a pupp
y, a football, and an airplane. Someone had circled the word “airplane” with a big red marker. “We only have to do what’s circled in red. Nothing more. We’re not in the business of making dolls or puppies.” Oscar scratched his sideburns in thought. “Well, we can’t really make a puppy. We’d have to just find one at a junkyard or steal one from the pound, I guess. But no, we’ll do none of that.”

  “But what about the other things on their list?” Ray asked, pointing to the lonely uncircled items on the letter. “What happens to those?”

  “Well, that’s why God invented parents,” Oscar said. “Or they’ll just have to understand that you can’t get everything you want in this life.” Oscar leaned back and with one push, propelled himself back to his original place at the end of the bench. “But they’ll get the airplane. And if they are not a spoiled ninny that will be enough.”

  Ray looked at Oscar in amazement. If ever there was a Santa Claus then this guy was, without a doubt, not him.

  CHAPTER 10

  Goose Creek Bridge – Southold, New York, 1944

  “A hundred? Really?” Olive questioned as they walked over the bridge towards their homes. Olive and Ray resumed walking home from school together even though Mrs. Goldsmith offered to drive Olive home with Tommy. Apparently, the apology did not get Ray back into Mrs. Goldsmith’s good graces or her Pierce Arrow. Ray wasn’t at all sure why Olive turned down Mrs. Goldsmith’s offer. It wasn’t even winter yet but there was already snow on the ground. The Farmer’s Almanac predicted December 1944 to be one of the harshest ever on the North Fork. A ride home in the Goldsmith’s warm, comfortable car would be preferable to trudging through the snow with grumpy Ray. But it made him smile nonetheless when he saw her waiting for him by the tennis courts after school.

  Ray lifted his chin in conviction. “A hundred. Really,” he answered. Ray had only worked with Oscar for three days but he felt like he could tell Olive three years’ worth of stories. Between the clocks blasting off every hour to the crazy tools laying around the workshop to the crazy things kids ask for in their letters to Santa, Oscar’s place had turned into a treasure trove of neighborhood fables. “Not one alike. But I swear to Christopher Columbus they all stop chiming at the exact same time.”

  “Why so many?” Olive asked. “Why a hundred?”

  “I don’t know. They must be for sale. Or maybe it reminds him to do things.” Ray chuckled as he thought aloud. “Maybe he’s says, ‘It’s one o’clock! Time to chase the kids off the street.’ ”

  “Or, ‘It’s time to smile!’” Olive added.

  “It’s two o’clock! Time to pick my nose!” Ray demonstrated this by putting a gloved finger up his nostril. Olive dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  “Time to laugh at jokes,” she said.

  “Or scratch my rear end!” Ray turned around and scrunched up his face at Olive as he scratched the back pockets of his pants. She stopped walking as she put her mittens up to her mouth to cover her laughter. Ray enjoyed goofing off in front of his captive audience. He threw his arms in the air and swatted down. “It’s time to let one rip…”

  Suddenly, Olive’s eyes turned from slits to large balls of terror. Her laughter stopped but her hands stayed close to her face. She whispered from behind her mittens.

  “Ray. Behind you.”

  Ray heard the low growl before he even turned his head around. Twenty feet up the road crouched Fluffles, the Kelly’s dog. A mix of a German shepherd, a wolf and a demon, there wasn’t one kid on Jacob’s Lane who wasn’t bit, or chased until they fainted, by that dog. Fluffles used to run free to terrorize the neighborhood until the Goldsmiths moved onto the block. Then Fluffles spent his afternoons chained to a post in the Kelly’s backyard, left to barking and chasing weaker animals that came in his circle. But from the silver links that dangled from its neck, Fluffles wanted to hunt bigger game.

  “Don’t…run…yet…” Ray said as he stood in front of Olive. He put his hands out to try and calm the beast. “Easy, Fluffles. We don’t want to…”

  A stream of loud barking erupted from its dripping jowls. Fluffles didn’t seem to care what Ray wanted. Baring its teeth, Fluffles slowly moved towards Ray and Olive. A hum of fear came from Olive as she peeked under Ray’s armpit at the dog. Steam crept out of the dog’s mouth as it snarled at the two. Ray stared at the dog but spoke to Olive.

  “When I say go, run up that old hunting stand we just passed, ok?” He could feel Olive nodding in agreement behind him. As its paws inched closer, Ray whispered, “Go!”

  Olive’s presence vanished behind him as he heard her run towards the woods. Fluffles lurched to the left in an attempt to chase Olive until Ray’s math textbook hit him in the face. The dog shook it off and bolted after Ray, who had turned to run to the deer stand. Ray’s feet flew with fear over the books Olive dropped in the snow. The barking had stopped but the chilling sound of Fluffles’ panting and the broken chain smacking the pavement grew louder behind Ray. He would never outrun that dog, Ray thought. Even if he got to the hunting stand the dog would certainly take a bite out of his leg. Just as his feet left the pavement towards the woods he heard another set of feet smacking the pavement. Only it wasn’t a person or another dog. It sounded like a small horse. Then, for a split second, all sound stopped. It was as if someone turned off the radio in the middle of the show and then put it back on during another program. The running, the panting, the chain rattling stopped and was replaced by a loud, high-pitched yelp. Ray looked over his shoulder and saw Fluffles sprawled out on his side, then scramble to his feet. The dog sneezed in disgust and rocked its head side to side. Ray stopped and turned to see what car might have hit the dog when his mouth dropped open.

  There, between Fluffles and himself, stood a buck. Its head hung low and back legs hunched, as if it were going to charge at the dog like a bull. Fluffles let out a queasy growl until the buck slapped its front hooves on the pavement. Its rack pointed at the dog like six branches whittled into wooden blades. And with that the mutt let out a small bark in defeat and trotted up Ships Drive, away from the victor. The buck raised it head high in pride but kept its attention in the direction of the dog. Ray stood in shock and stared at the back of the buck’s head, focusing on the sharp antlers that it must have used to toss the dog. The buck only stood a foot taller than Ray but its antlers gave the animal an impressive height. If the buck wanted to gore Ray to death with those bony daggers, it would be easy. Ray couldn’t move, speak or breathe. All he could do was pray he wasn’t next on the receiving end of those horns. It wasn’t until the dog was safely out of sight when the stag’s head whipped around in Ray’s direction. Then Ray let out another gasp.

  It wasn’t a buck. It was his buck. The buck with a star on its face.

  “Olive!” Ray cried. He needed someone to see this. To know that this buck existed. That it wasn’t in his head. Fear left his body and the overwhelming urge to show Olive took its place. But as soon as his cry hit the air the buck turned its body around and bounded into the woods, its white tail high in the air in victory as it leapt over fallen trees and brush.

  Ray ran after it and yelled out the only words that seemed appropriate. “Thank you!”

  “Who are you thanking?” Olive said as she raced over to the books strewn across the snow. “And what happened to Fluffles? Did you hurt him?” Olive asked as she wiped the dirt off the cover of her history book.

  “Did you see that? Did you see the buck with the star on its head?” Ray asked, pointing into the woods. His eyes fixed onto a nonexistent point in the distance.

  “No,” Olive said as she picked up Ray’s math book. Her balance wobbled as she continued to jog with an armful of books. “But we better get to Oscar’s quick. Before Fluffles comes back. If Mrs. Goldsmith and a chain can’t stop that dog, nothing will.”

  Ray ran behind Olive, confused and amazed by what he just witnessed. “Olive, are
you sure you didn’t see that deer?”

  “I didn’t but I believe you,” Olive said as she turned the corner onto Oscar’s driveway. She ran up to the door, dropped all the books on the ground and banged on the door until Oscar appeared behind it. He looked even crazier than usual. Wearing a welder’s cap and high water waders, Oscar looked as if he spent the day soldering lobster pots in the bay.

  “What? Where? When?” Oscar said as he opened the door. He looked down and saw Olive. “Who?”

  “I’m Olive Mott,” she said to the ground as she feverishly picked up the scattered schoolbooks. “May I please come in?”

  “Umm…uhhhh?” Oscar didn’t seem to know what to make of the request. He didn’t have much time as Fluffles’ distant bark made Ray and Olive jump up in fright and run past him into the house. Ray led Olive into the living room, leaving Oscar to lumber along behind. “What in the Sam Hill is going on here?”

  Olive turned to Oscar and said just one word, empathically. “Fluffles.”

  “Oh.” Oscar raised his hand in the air. “Say no more. If that mangy mongrel broke off his run the outside is not safe for man nor beast,” he said as he waddled past the two to take his place on his stool. “You can stay here until it’s time for Ray to go home.”

  Olive stood in the center of the room and stared up at all the clocks. “Wow, Mister. Those are a lot of clocks,” Olive said, dumbstruck.

  “Well, I guess those…are,” Oscar sputtered as he put on his work apron.

  “Why so many? Are they for sale?” she asked.

  Oscar pushed the welder’s mask down on his face. The answer came out in an echo from behind the shield. “No. They are not for sale.”

  “Why not?”

  Oscar appeared uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Ray put on his apron and tried not to look at Oscar. It made him uncomfortable that Oscar felt so squeamish about the question but like Olive, he wanted to know the same thing. Oscar uttered some noises under the metal veil in a search for the right answer but gave up in frustration. He pushed the mask back up in defeat.