The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  “Where is he? Is he dead?”

  “No. Not yet. He’s in the woods across the street. Where the hunters were sitting. Just beyond the racetrack.”

  Oscar shrugged the blanket off his shoulders as he ran back into the house, leaving Ray and Olive on the front stoop. The two just looked at each other as they wrapped their arms around themselves for warmth in the cold morning air.

  “What’s he going to do?” Olive said as she blew warmth into her mittens.

  “I don’t know. But if anyone can help him it’s…” Ray’s voice faded as he saw a police car pull up Oscar’s front yard and stop. Officer Boland, who stood about six and a half feet tall, slowly unfurled out of the car and walked up to the two.

  “Late night. Early morning. When do you kids ever sleep?” he said, chuckling to himself as he sauntered across the yard towards the two. He seemed to stop short once he noticed the looks of concern plastered on the kids’ faces. “Hey, what’s wrong with you kids?”

  “Nothing, Officer. We’re just swell,” Ray said. He tried to keep his voice from shaking but could not control his knees. “We just needed to tell our neighbor about something we saw last night.” As soon as the sentence came out, Ray regretted saying anything about last night.

  “While you were out?”

  “Yes. I mean no,” Ray stammered.

  Officer Boland folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Ah, the comet. And what did you see out there last night?”

  Ray’s mouth opened but only vowels and awkward sounds tumbled out. Then Oscar stepped out of the front door dressed in a heavy coat and hat. In one hand he held a metal pail and in the other, a shotgun. Then nothing came out of Ray’s mouth.

  Olive’s tiny cold hands gripped Oscar’s sleeve through her mittens. Her eyes pleaded behind her broken glasses. “Please, Oscar. Please don’t hurt him. He’s ok. I know he is.”

  Oscar looked over Olive’s head at Officer Boland and nodded. “There’s a wounded deer out in the woods,” he said softly. Officer Boland covered his mouth and nodded, now understanding the concern. Oscar bent over and set the pail down. Ray looked inside to see it was filled with rags and a large knife. Even though he was freezing, a sweat began to form on Ray’s neck. How could he have judged Oscar so wrong?

  Oscar put his hands on Olive’s shoulders and made her face him. His voice was stern but gentle. “Olive, honey, I need you to listen to me. If that deer made it through the night in fine enough shape, I will help him. If he isn’t, then, well, I have to put him out of his pain.”

  “No, Oscar. Please…”

  Oscar shook his head but did not change his tone. “It isn’t right to let an animal suffer out there like that.”

  “But he has friends. We saw them. They will help him.”

  Officer Boland stepped up and put his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. For a moment, Ray thought that maybe he could talk some sense into Oscar.

  “Oscar, let me take care of it. We can’t have a maim deer wandering around here.”

  “No, no. Thank you, Aiden, but I will handle this,” Oscar insisted.

  “But my brothers hunt these woods. I could do it and they could…”

  “No,” Oscar said firmly. “I will take care of it.” He bent over to Olive and his reassuring tone came back. “Please, go home and come back with Raymond around lunch time. I’ll tell you all about your deer then.”

  Olive sniffled as she stared at Oscar. “Ray promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”

  Oscar looked over at Ray, let out a sigh and shook his head. Ray couldn’t tell if Oscar was mad or just tired. “Whatever suffering that poor animal is in, I will take care of it.” And with that he patted her hat sweetly, picked up his pail and gun and waddled off into the woods.

  Ray’s and Olive’s heads hung low as they began to walk home. Officer Boland nervously waved to the kids and called out. “You kids have a good day now!”

  After the hum of the police car left the street Ray turned to Olive. “I know he won’t hurt that buck. I just know it.”

  “I believe you,” Olive said as she sniffled. “I believe you, Ray.”

  Ray’s mother already had a place set for Olive at the breakfast table when the two plodded into the kitchen, both sad and tired, neither with the enthusiasm and urgency which they left with only minutes earlier.

  “Everything alright with you two?” she asked as she scooped the pancakes out of the pan and onto a plate.

  Ray and Olive flopped into their seats and stared at their forks. Ray’s mother set the plates down in front of them and tried to change the subject.

  “Ok then. I’ll say grace,” Ray’s mother said as she sat down and folded her hands. She bowed down but looked back and forth between Olive and Ray as she spoke. “Dear Lord, thank You for the food we are about to eat. Bless this house and all who dwell in it. We ask for your love, protection, and guidance for ourselves and for our country, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  Ray and Olive muttered an “Amen.” They hadn’t even unclasped their hands before they heard the shot go off.

  Oscar’s beard was covered in gravy when he answered the door.

  “Just in time! I have plenty of stew!”

  Olive’s eyes, already red from crying all morning, let out another flood of tears. “Why did you do it?”

  “Stew? I don’t know. It felt like a stew kind of day,” Oscar said happily. Music bounced from the old radio around the house as the three made their way towards the kitchen. The warm soft smell of meat and potatoes filled the house. John Charles sat at the kitchen table with a red pen, making circles and notes on a stack of letters. He smiled at the two until he noticed Olive’s tears and Ray’s frown. Oscar plopped down at his seat, flapped out a napkin and tucked it into his collar.

  “I mean kill that deer,” Olive said.

  “What deer? I didn’t kill a deer,” Oscar said incredulously as he turned to John Charles and asked, “You kill a deer?” John Charles kept circling but shook his head, no.

  “Come on, Oscar,” Ray said. Lack of sleep was starting to make him angry. Olive was sad but she didn’t need to be fibbed to like a child. “We know you did. You don’t have to lie.”

  “You saying I’m lying?” Oscar huffed as he grabbed the massive spoon and massive fork that sat on either side of a massive bowl. He jabbed at a hunk of meat in the stew and began to chew. He stared at his food as he spoke. “You saying I’m a liar? Olive, get me my gun.”

  Olive’s wet eyes grew wide. She looked at Raymond and then at Oscar.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. My gun. It’s sitting over there in the corner.”

  “You’re not going to shoot Ray, are you?”

  “Of course I’m not going to shoot Ray. Now, go over and get that gun,” he said as he shoved another hunk of meat into his mouth.

  Olive slowly walked over to the shotgun that rested in the corner of the dining room. Ray could see it from the kitchen. The long dark barrel leaned against a china cabinet like a mechanic leaning on a cigarette machine. Ray watched Olive as she stepped slowly around the weapon, trying to find a safe place to touch it. She reached out tentatively and put her hand around the double barrel. Ray reached out as well, as if he were guiding her hands for safety. But then she stopped. She cocked her head to the side as she felt the gun. Her hands felt all around the stock and handle. She pulled the barrel down and lifted her chin to look in it. Ray yelled out.

  “Olive! Don’t!”

  “Let her be,” said Oscar as he continued his lunch. He was not fazed by anything. Ray looked at him as if he had three heads before he ran to Olive. Olive smiled wide as she slid her fingers along the tip of the barrel. Ray yanked it away from her.

  “It’s fine, Ray. Really,” she assured.

  Ray looked at the gun closely and then
ran his fingers over the stock and barrel. Everything looked the same. Other than different shades of paint, the gun seemed to be made entirely out of wood.

  Ray ran back into the kitchen. “But we heard it. We heard the boom.”

  Oscar pointed with his fork at the pail that sat on the other side of the kitchen. Ray ran over to the pail and lifted it up. He held it up to his face. He could see Oscar through a hole blasted through the bottom.

  “It’s amazing how loud a big firecracker sounds in one of those things.”

  Olive marched up to Oscar as he ate. “Did you find him? Is he alright?”

  Oscar took his napkin and dabbed the stew sauce off his beard. “Olive, I told you I would help him. And he was there, just as Raymond said. But he only had a flesh wound. Nothing more. I took the arrow out, slapped on a bandage and he went on his happy little way. But I couldn’t have Officer Boland think that. If he knew there was a wounded buck out there, his brothers would be on the lookout. Can’t have that. Not this close before Christmas.”

  Olive leaned in and gave him a big hug. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I thought you shot him.”

  “I wouldn’t shoot a perfectly good living animal,” he said before looking away in thought. “Well, Fluffles maybe.”

  John Charles looked up from his papers and shot Oscar a disapproving frown. “Oscar…”

  “Alright, alright, I wouldn’t shoot Fluffles,” said Oscar as the grump came back in his voice. “Would like to but I wouldn’t.” Oscar got up from his seat and pulled the napkin from his chin and slapped it on the table. “Ok now! There is work to be done. Olive, just sit a minute and collect yourself. Tears and paint don’t mix. Try some stew if you’re hungry. Raymond, let’s get going. Stew for you later.”

  Ray followed Oscar out of the kitchen and to the workbench, where he saw a new set of letters strung up between two lamps, like a line of laundered napkins drying on a clothesline on a summer day. He grabbed his apron and tied it around himself as he read the round red circles on each page. These particular letters came from little boys hailing from Akron, Wilmington, Altoona, and Mason, all of whom wanted racecars. For some, it was the first on their list. Some, last or second to last. But all wanted, and would get, the same thing.

  “Thank your lucky stars it isn’t trains. I can’t stand when they ask for trains,” Oscar said as he slid on a pair of elbow-high leather gloves. “They might as well ask for three planes or six boats. Any train worth being under a tree has three cars. Three!” He tried holding up three fingers through the stiff gloves but gave up in a huff. “No one asks for just a caboose or just a tender. Not a one. They ask for the whole thing. And with a track! Can’t forget about that fun little time sucker. I want to say to them, ‘Why don’t you make it easy on Santa and ask for a pony.’ ” Oscar flopped onto his seat and wiped his brow. Just the thought made him exhausted.

  Ray thought about trains. He remembered the one that carried his father away from him, alive and yelling and waving his cap in the air. He remembered that he used to love the far-off sounds of the whistle and the clanging of bells heralding its arrival. Then he remembered waiting in the car at the station with his mother for the train that carried his dad back in the large box. Trains took people away and brought them back broken. If he were to ever write a letter to Santa, a train wouldn’t be on it. And if he had to make tracks for a little boy, they would be in a circle so that the pretend passengers would always get off at the same place and in the same way as when they stepped on board. There would only be one destination. They would leave but always come back home.

  “Hey, will you go back to the basement and grab me a tool that looks like this?” Oscar said, snapping Ray’s attention back to the workbench. He looked up at the instrument in Oscar’s hand. It looked like a standard hammer.

  “A hammer?”

  “Yes, but one that looks like this. With this thingy,” he said pointing to the pointy ends. “And a that.”

  “Sure thing,” Ray said as he made is way down to the basement. Ray reached in his pocket and felt the small brass bit tumble between his fingertips. If ever there was a time to check his theory, he figured, now would be it.

  Ray hustled down the dark stairs and reached for the pull string that illuminated the basement. Everything looked exactly as it did the last time he stepped foot down there. First he searched around the workbench for the tool Oscar needed. Three of the exact same hammers in different sizes hung up on the wall next to the other picks, clamps, and wrenches. Ray took a mental note of their location and walked towards the small bridles. He held the bit in his one hand as he examined each harness intently. His eyes darted back and forth from the piece of metal in his hand to the others that sat attached to the small straps. When he got to the last one, he saw the identical piece of metal hanging loose off the leather strap. Ray pulled the bridle off the hook and looked at the other side. On that leather strap where a hunk of metal should be was only a loose, chewed strap of broken leather. He put the bit up next to the torn edge and held it up to its twin brother. The wearing, the bumps, and the break fit perfectly. It was a match.

  He looked past the bridle in thought. But not many thoughts passed through his head. Why would Oscar lie about this? Ray hung the bridle back on the hook under the words “two light” and stared at the sheet that draped over the not-so-secret room. He walked over to it, pushed it aside and let the light flood into the room. A tarp now covered the old car. As he looked towards the ground he noticed a face staring back at him. After a jump of fright, he realized it was his face. Upon closer inspection, the old railings that held the machine were no longer there. Below the tarp something glimmered in the light. Ray gently picked up the corner of the fabric and pulled it back. Where once sat rusted old metal scraps were two wide, long, shiny, silver blades running flat along the ground and curling up towards his chest. They looked like gigantic man-made metal elephant tusks. Between the two impressive blades sat a large old wooden box. Ray took two steps back and tried to take it in. Once his eyes could focus, he felt his hand let go of the tarp. That could not be what it looked like. Southold never got that much snow.

  His feet kept moving backwards, past the sheet and under the hanging light. He didn’t stop until he felt his back hit a large belly.

  Ray jumped about a foot in the air as he spun around. There stood Oscar with one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around a hammer.

  “You done looking?”

  Ray felt the moisture drain out of his mouth and into his hands. He saw the hammer and then the eyebrow raised on Oscar’s face.

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I wasn’t snooping. I mean…I guess I was…”

  “Oh please, that’s not snooping,” he said as he dropped his hands and walked over to the sheet. He grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around a hook. “I keep the sheet up because I’m sanding it. Don’t want my tools getting filled with sawdust,” Oscar said as he flung the tarp completely off the massive sleigh. He stood proudly next to the beast, padding one of its large blades. “What do you think?”

  Ray’s mouth remained opened. He couldn’t figure out what was more amazing: not being in trouble for snooping or this huge storybook sleigh sitting in the middle of an old dirt fruit cellar.

  “What’s it for?” Ray uttered.

  “Baking cookies,” Oscar said seriously. “Shushing through the snow in the North Pole! Or Jacob’s Lane on a snowy day. Take your pick.”

  Ray shook his head. Still nothing seemed to make sense. “Is it…yours?”

  “No. It’s Santa’s,” Oscar said matter-of-factly. “Made for one little boy who stopped believing in Santa.” Oscar looked over the carriage with pride. Ray couldn’t even look at the sleigh. Words escaped him as he felt himself tap his chest. Was this for him? Then Oscar continued. “For little Thomas.”

  Ray’s fog lifted. “What? Tommy Goldsmith?”

  “Yes, Tommy
Goldsmith. Don’t say anything to him. His mother wants to keep it a surprise.”

  “Wait, you’re giving him your sleigh?”

  Oscar finally stopped looking at the sleigh and looked up at Ray. “Did you use a noggin thumper too hard? Like I said, it’s Santa’s. Well, that’s what the note will say. His mother asked me to make it for him since a certain someone…” he paused for a moment and pointed at Ray. “Someone seemed to convince him that Santa wasn’t real. Figured if he saw this on his lawn on Christmas morning it might change his mind.”

  Air finally escaped Ray’s lungs. The sleigh was a commissioned piece for the Goldsmiths. He shook his head as if he were trying to shake off a bad memory or sleep.

  “You alright there, Raymond?” Oscar asked. “You look funny.”

  Ray rubbed his eyes. “Tired, I guess.”

  “Nothing a fizzy drink won’t fix. How about going upstairs and grabbing a root beer? That’ll set you right.”

  Bewildered, Ray kept rubbing his eyes as he headed upstairs towards the kitchen. Nothing seemed to make sense. Was it the lack of sleep? Ray counted the things he knew. He knew what he saw with the light in the woods. He knew Olive saw it too. He knew there was a deer in the woods with a star on its forehead. He knew that a buck saved him from Fluffles and from winding up at the bottom of a ravine. He knew the other bucks saved him and Olive from those dogs. He knew that only a short time ago, that sleigh looked like the remnants of a rusty beaten-up potato combine yanked out of an old barn. Now it looked like something that slid off a snow-capped mountain of a child’s storybook. He knew that bit belonged to that bridle. Now wasn’t the time to question Oscar. He would save it for later. Oscar was nice enough to not yell at him for looking around the basement. The last thing he wanted to do was get on his bad side and call him out on a fib. If it were even a fib at all.

  Ray’s thoughts swam in his tired, confused head as he rested against the wall and took a glug of root beer. Olive didn’t acknowledge him as she wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve. John Charles was no longer sifting through the pages. His twisted fingers laid on top of the stack as he listened to Olive.