The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  “Mom,” Ray whispered. “I should get Mom.”

  Then came the sound. Twigs breaking, leaves crunching, and thumps hitting the ground. The noise came from a herd of deer as they bounded through the brush. Ray struggled to see through the darkness. They were not just deer. They were bucks. Big bucks. All running through the woods towards the light. The light suddenly moved faster, away from the deer that were charging at it. The bucks, however, were too fast. As soon as the mass of animals reached the light, it disappeared. Ray thought whoever was holding that flashlight must have been run over in the stampede. Ray kept his eyes on the place where the light last shown. Nothing was there. He scoured the backyard. As far as the moonlight would let him see was nothing.

  Ray stayed awake until the sky began to turn into the purple of daybreak. He told himself he would look in the morning. In the daylight he would examine the woods and see if there were footprints in the snow. If there was a trampled enemy soldier or a broken flashlight. There had to be something. White lights don’t just appear in the woods. And if they do, they are put there by someone. He knew the only someones who should be in that woods. All of them were asleep. Or gone.

  The next day, however, only provided more questions than answers. Ray walked into the backyard staring at the ground. The prints the animals made in the snow were beginning to melt into the yard. His mother opened the door and yelled from inside.

  “Did you lose something?” she asked. Ray looked around and stuttered.

  “Yeah…yes.” Ray needed to think faster. He didn’t want to tell his mother what happened. He didn’t want to scare her. Not until he knew there was something to be scared of. “Thought I dropped a tool Oscar gave me. Some weird metal thing he uses for the clocks.”

  He saw his mother put on her coat and walk towards him. Ray could feel his face turn hot.

  “What was it? Let me help you.”

  “Nah,” Ray said, trying desperately not to seem so concerned. “It was a small whoziwhatsit tool. I thought I took it home and now I can’t find it.”

  “It will go faster if we both look,” she offered. She carefully placed her dainty, high-heeled feet over the piles of leaves in the snow. Her concentration focused on finding a small tool that couldn’t be found even if Ray did drop it in the leaves.

  While his mother was on a wild goose chase, Ray looked around the snow for signs of a person. He tried not to disturb anything in fear of covering up footprints or tracks. But the more he looked, the more he saw only hoofprints the deer made in the snow. No marks on trees, no carvings, no cigarette butts, nothing.

  “Found it!” cried his mother. Ray’s head shot up to see his mother’s cheerful face. She held up a small metal object in the air. Ray ran over to her as she proudly held out the random piece of metal. “At least, I think I found it.”

  In her hands was a five-inch piece of metal that looked like a drumstick bone made of brass. Ray’s gut turned. Something about that light and this object were connected. Only Ray had no idea what this odd object could be used for. But he knew who would.

  “Oscar is going to be so happy you found this,” Ray said as he took the object from his mother and tucked it safely into his coat pocket. “He wouldn’t know what to do without it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Oscar’s House – Southold, New York, 1944

  “It’s a bit,” Oscar said as he examined the piece of metal under the light of an ornate wrought iron-curled standing lamp. Oscar’s oily black fingerprints dotted the lace and fringe shade as Olive, Ray, and Oscar huddled under its glow.

  “A bit of what?” Ray asked.

  “It’s a bit of a bit.” Oscar ran his thumbs over the bumps in the brass, as if the tough old fingers could smooth out wrinkles in metal. “That’s what it looks like. Off a bridle. Or,” he paused in thought as he stretched his back to stand up straight. “Or it could be a nogginthumper.”

  “A noggin whater?” asked Olive, pushing up her glasses.

  “A nogginthumper. That’s what I call something when I don’t know what it is.” Oscar illustrated this by crossing his arms and tapping the metal to his forehead. “I thump my noggin until it comes to me. But this here thingy is a bit. It’s a small bit. My guess, it belongs to one of Doctor DiNapoli’s miniature ponies.”

  “I love them!” Olive cried. “He sometimes lets Paley and me pet them when he’s out on a ride.”

  Doctor DiNapoli owned two miniature horses, Bev and Early. Almost every night in the summer you could see him being pulled like a Roman general in his red chariot by the two tan, tiny, trotting ponies. Ray’s mind didn’t go to the doctor’s horses but rather to Oscar’s basement and those small bridles. Maybe Oscar was working on bridles for Bev and Early. That could be the only explanation for their small size. But why he wasn’t claiming it made Ray curious. And nervous. Oscar raised an eyebrow and shoved the piece of metal into the side pocket of his overalls. “I’ll see him this week. Got a check-up on Wednesday. I’ll ask if this belongs to him.”

  “Wait,” Ray jumped. His arm reached out for a moment but he pulled it back. “Can I keep it?”

  Oscar kept his eyebrow high up on his forehead. “What do you need this for?”

  Ray shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s neat.”

  “Neat?”

  “Yeah,” said Ray timidly.

  Oscar pulled the bit out of his pocket and held it up to Ray. “You know, the doctor might really need it. And besides, what are you going to do with it?”

  Ray could feel himself begin to stammer. Ray knew what he was going to do with it. He was going to find an excuse to go back in the basement and check it against those tiny bridles hanging over his workbench. Ray could never tell a lie well. His cheeks would redden and words would tumble around his mouth like blocks. He could feel both happening in his head until Olive jumped in to help him.

  “If he needed it then it wouldn’t be in Ray’s backyard,” Olive said matter-of-factly. “And anyways, finders keepers.”

  Oscar raised his other eyebrow at Olive. “Finders keepers?”

  “Yes! Losers weepers,” Ray said before grabbing the bit away from Oscar. He looked over at Olive and they both nodded in agreement. The brass bit, still warm from Oscar’s grasp, went right into Ray’s pocket, where he gave it a slight pat to confirm its rightful place. Oscar crossed his arms and began to open his mouth in rebuttal until he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Hello, Oscar! May I come in?” a friendly voice called out.

  Oscar stood with his arms crossed and let out a breath of exhaustion. He turned his head and yelled out. “Would it matter much to you if I said no?”

  “Of course not!” said the cheery voice as it made its way towards the living room. “I wouldn’t come in if I didn’t see you all through the window,” said the tall and slender man as he strolled into the living room. His tan suit didn’t seem thick enough for the frigid weather, which explained why his arms were glued to his side and his hands buried deep into his pockets. The only thing keeping him the slightest bit warm seemed to be the leather satchel tucked under his arm and his thin short beard. “Well, hello there. I see you have company.”

  Oscar turned and shuffled back to his stool in a mild huff. Ray couldn’t tell if the grumpiness that suddenly took over Oscar was due to losing the bit or the smiling man in his living room.

  “Meet Olive and Raymond,” he said with his back towards the man. He then stopped, turned around and pointed to Olive. “This one’s Olive,” he barked. Then he pointed to Ray. “And that one’s Raymond. They are helping me this year.”

  Ray and Olive smiled nervously at the man. Oscar’s grouchiness, however, seemed to have no effect on his cheerful demeanor. He nodded at the two.

  “A sincere pleasure to meet you both. My name is John Charles.”

  “Do you have two first
names or is your last name Charles?” Olive asked with her head cocked to the side.

  “Two first names. You can call me John Charles,” he answered as he put down his worn briefcase and loosened its straps. “And might I say, it is wonderful to see you both helping out Mr. Taglieber. I’m sure you both…”

  Oscar hollered again. “I’m not paying them. They call me Oscar.”

  “I’m sure you both are a huge help to Oscar,” he continued. “Maybe someday you will work for us at INR Industries,” he said as he pulled out a stack of papers from his satchel. As soon as Ray saw the lines and block writing he knew what they were. Ray felt himself walking towards the papers, as if they belonged to him.

  “What’s INR Industries?” asked Olive.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. Ever wonder where all those letters to Santa go?” he said as he proudly held up a stack of papers. “Children write to Santa but they get sent to us. International Network Resourcing Industries,” John Charles said as he lifted up the top corner of the stack and let the letters flap down like a fan. Olive’s eyes grew wide as she too walked over to see the huge pile. John Charles handed a portion to Ray and a portion to Olive. Each page had the same thick red markings as the letters strung up over Oscar’s workbench. Some gifts were circled. Some were crossed out. Some even had notes in the margins.

  “Wow,” uttered Ray. “Does every letter to Santa go to you?”

  “As many letters as possible. We start getting letters in June, if you can believe it.”

  Olive’s jaw dropped. “Wow. It’s Christmas even in the summer. You must really love Christmas.”

  “I do. Especially since Christmas is my birthday.”

  Ray and Olive looked at each other and made a face.

  “What’s wrong with being born on Christmas?”

  Olive and Ray answered in unison as they thumbed through the letters. “You get stiffed.”

  Ray looked down at the letter in front of him. It was from a girl named Franny. She wrote that she had been mostly good this past year but found it hard as she spent most of her time chasing around her little sister. She asked for three things: a tea set, a new dress for her doll, and a canteen. The word “canteen” was the only one circled. Ray crinkled his nose. What girl would want a canteen over a tea set? Ray pointed to the letter in confusion.

  “How do you pick which present to give?”

  John Charles shrugged. “We just know.”

  “Oh,” said Ray, still confused. John Charles did not seem to want to go into any more explanation than that. Ray handed the stack back to John Charles but froze in shock when John Charles reached for them. How could he have not noticed this before? Ray’s eyes widened as he stared at John Charles’s mangled hands. The ring finger and middle finger on both hands looked like it had been sawed in half. The right hand held no pinkie and the left, only a half a thumb. What was left of the remaining fingers curled inward at such a hard angle that would make buttoning a shirt impossible. Ray took a step back and forced his eyes to look at the ground. He felt embarrassed for staring. He was signaling to Olive in his head, wondering if she noticed the man’s hands as well. The telepathic flashlight must have worked because as soon as the man reached for Olive’s stack of letters she let out a yelp.

  “Your hands! What happened to your hands?” she said behind her own as blue paint from her fingers smeared on her cheeks.

  “Happened a long time ago,” he said as he walked over to Oscar. “I’m sorry if they frightened you.”

  Olive dropped her hands away from her mouth as a defiant air came over her, as if she were angry at herself for being scared. “They don’t bother me. Do they bother you, Ray?”

  It took all of Ray’s concentration to shake his head “no” when his mind screamed “yes.” It wasn’t that the hands were deformed, they just looked so pained. He knew his face gave away his feelings. He looked at John Charles and swallowed hard. He couldn’t act tough like Olive in front of him. Something about the man just wouldn’t let him. “It…it just looks like whatever happened to you hurt a lot.”

  John Charles handed the stack of papers to Oscar. For the first time, Oscar looked up at the man with sympathetic eyes. The two exchanged a look that made Ray feel as if he brought up a painful memory, only he couldn’t tell for which one.

  “It did hurt a lot. But they don’t hurt anymore,” John Charles said softly as he looked down at the letters. There was no trace of anger or fear in his voice, as if whatever nightmare that caused his hands to break apart ended before he could even have a memory of it. John Charles looked at his hands and then at Ray. “They get cold, though. Gloves don’t really work.”

  “What about mittens?” asked Olive.

  John Charles rubbed his short beard with his wrist in thought. “I never considered mittens.”

  Ray let out a laugh. He knew the man was too polite to answer Olive. “Come on, now,” Ray said as he walked over to his stool. “A man wearing mittens would look silly.”

  “No he wouldn’t. He’d look warm,” answered Olive as she returned to her paints. “And cute. Especially if they had kittens on them.”

  Ray looked back at Olive in horror. “Kitten mittens? On a grown-up?”

  “With a pink nose and black whiskers.”

  The thought of it popped into Ray’s head. A short laugh burst from his mouth. Then another. Then another. Then he couldn’t stop. The idea of a man running around town hall wearing mittens with white fluffy cats on it tickled Ray’s funny bone so hard that he doubled over the workbench. He composed himself for a moment until he noticed Oscar’s body turned away from John Charles. Even though he couldn’t see his face, his shoulders bounced up and down from laughter. John Charles just nodded at Olive as he tucked his lips, trying not to laugh.

  “I can see your point, Olive. Mittens could be a possibility. Maybe without the cats.”

  Olive did not see the humor. “Ok then. No kittens,” she turned around and faced her paints. “Do you like puppies?”

  Then Ray and Oscar burst out in unison so loud that Ray thought they’d blow the glass out of the bay window. Ray wiped tears from his eyes as Oscar pressed down on his stomach as if to push the laughter in. John Charles shook his head and smiled.

  “Don’t you listen to them, Olive. Puppy mittens would be lovely.” He then playfully knocked Oscar on the shoulder. “Hear that, Santa? Puppy mittens. Put that on my list.”

  The mitten debate lasted until Olive and Ray saw Paley in the front yard. As they turned up the Mott’s driveway, Ray stopped Olive.

  “Did you see anything weird in the woods last night?”

  “Weird? Like what?”

  Ray’s voice lowered to a hush. He didn’t want to get Paley nervous or upset. He gave a quick glance over to Paley, who stood staring up in the sky and tapping his cereal box. Ray turned his back towards Paley. “Like a light. A bright white light.”

  “No. I didn’t see a light. Are you sure it wasn’t a car?”

  “I’m sure. Someone was in the woods.”

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  “No, I don’t want to scare her,” Ray said.

  Olive’s eyes got even bigger behind her glasses. “Do you think it’s…” she cupped her hands and whispered in Ray’s ear. “The Nazis?”

  Ray shrugged. “I don’t know. But be by your window. If you see anything, get the flashlight and beam it my way. I’ll do the same.”

  Olive pursed her lips and nodded hard in agreement. She looked worried as she walked over to Paley. Ray felt bad. He didn’t want to worry her but there was too much at stake. They needed to be more like Paley. Like soldiers. They needed to look long and hard at what other people only give a fleeting glance.

  Ray turned the flashlight on and off, making sure it worked before putting it under his bed. As he lifted the sheets he heard a voice from his do
orway.

  “Do you want to read a book?” Ray’s mother asked, clutching a large red hardcover book to her chest. Her voice sounded light and hopeful. “Thought it might be nice to read a Christmas story.”

  “I don’t need you to read me a book, Mom. I can read fine on my own.”

  “Well then how about you read it to me. It’s your favorite.” She held out a copy of the book his dad read to him every Christmas Eve before he fell asleep by the fireplace. The Night Before Christmas. The story about a dad who believed in magic after a visit from St. Nicholas.

  “But it’s not Christmas Eve?”

  “I know. I just thought it would be nice.”

  Ray shook his head before he could even get the words out. “No. We can’t. We just have to wait.” Some things were sacred. This was one of them.

  “Alright. Not until Christmas Eve then,” she said softly as she laid the book down the dresser between two of Ray’s model cars. Her eyes lingered on over the little racers as her fingers glided over the tiny detailed hoods. Everything he made, everything he touched, everything that came from him was good.

  Ray’s mother turned and walked slowly towards the door. Sadness seemed to fall like a shadow in her wake. Ray reached over to the stack of books by his bed. He called out before she made it out of the room.

  “Mom? How about Donkey Daniel?” he said, holding up the book. “We can take turns reading.”

  She turned and smiled. Whatever sadness clung to her seemed to lift as she headed back towards Ray. She sat next to him on the bed as he laid back and read the story of the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem. As Raymond read he could smell his mother’s day. The chicken she made for dinner. The starch she used at the shop. The talcum powder she put on her arms to keep her skin dry. It felt safe and strong. Like she carried her family and town everywhere she traveled. She rested her cheek on the top of Ray’s head. Ray read to the end of the page and paused for his mother to take her turn. She said nothing. When he felt a drop of water hit his ear he kept reading and didn’t stop until the book ended. He figured a mom sometimes needs a bedtime story too.