The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  “And I think that’s when I stepped on them,” she said, fumbling with her glasses. The side piece, now bent and snapped, completely broke free from the rest of the glasses. “They were brand new. You think maybe Oscar can fix them?”

  John Charles smiled and took the two pieces from Olive. His fingers looked more broken than the frames. He could only grasp the pieces with what was left of his index fingers and thumbs. He looked at both parts with his head cocked to the side.

  “I know it may not look like it, but believe it or not, I’ve been known to fix a pair or two of glasses in my time.”

  “Really?” said Olive. Her eyes swollen and red looked even bigger and greener without the spectacles on. “Did you ever wear glasses?”

  “Oh no, but I knew lots of people who did. For some reason, I could always help them see better.” John Charles reached in his pocket and pulled out a linen handkerchief. He blew into the cloth and gave it to Olive. “Here. Dry your eyes and let me see if I can’t fix these.”

  Olive took the handkerchief, tucked her chin down and put it to her face. “If you say you can fix them then I believe you.”

  Then John Charles directed another smile to Olive which she couldn’t see. He took the pads of his fingers and ran them around the broken section of frame. Then he folded the ends back and forth inside. Ray pushed his head closer. They weren’t just fixed. The glasses looked like they had never been broken in the first place.

  “There you go,” he said as he held them up to Olive. She reached out for them and rubbed the lenses with the handkerchief. After clicking the sides back and forth she put them gingerly around her ears. She began to blink slowly. With every blink, her smile grew wider.

  “Wow! You really did fix these!”

  “I told you I could. And you believed in me and that helped.”

  Olive stood up from the table, walked over to John Charles and gave him a hug like the one she gave Oscar.

  “Thank you so much. You saved my hide.”

  “And you saved mine by painting all those planes. If it weren’t for you, we would only be able to give them to boys and girls whose names begin with the letter “G.”

  Then Oscar’s voice barreled into the kitchen from the living room. “I got ears, you know. I heard that.”

  Olive and John Charles both put their hands over their mouths and chuckled. Then all the clocks began to ring out, letting them know it was two o’clock and that it was safe, at least for the next ten seconds, to laugh out loud.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Backyards of Jacob’s Lane – Southold, New York, 1944

  Ray, Olive, Oscar, and John Charles worked through the blustery afternoon and into the early evening. With Christmas less than two weeks away, the letters began to pour in. INR Industries did not give cutoff times for the letters and collected them all the way up until Christmas Eve. Oscar insisted on making extras in all the toys as to accommodate the last-minute minions. He said kids who believed in Santa had their lists done by Thanksgiving. The ones who pulled one out in the ninth inning were usually older and hedging their bets.

  “Amazing,” Ray’s mother said as she scrubbed a cast iron pot. Ray stood next to her and looked out the window into the darkness of the backyard as he dried the rest of the freshly rinsed dinner dishes. “How do you think he’ll get it out of the cellar?”

  “I’ll help him. It’ll be impossible for him to do it alone.”

  “I’d like to watch that when you do. It’ll certainly be something to see,” she said as she dunked the pot into a bucket of water. “But be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt moving Santa’s sleigh. Maybe you should get some reindeer to help you.”

  Ray rolled his eyes as his mother laughed at her little joke. “There,” she said as she pointed with her chin to the pile of vegetable scraps in a bowl on the counter. “Take those out into the woods. I can’t make broth out of them. Maybe an animal would like them instead.”

  Ray complied. He put down the dish, grabbed his coat and headed out into the backyard. He threw the scraps as high and as far as he could into the woods. After they left his hand he heard nothing until the scraps landed with a slight crunch on the leaves. He couldn’t see them in the dark but knew that the longer the pause, the farther they went. Ray stood at the edge of the woods and looked into the shadows, hoping to see a light peek its way past a tree. He narrowed and strained his eyes in all directions but all he saw were the lights on the Christmas trees flickering through the windows on Ships Drive.

  As Ray turned back towards his house, he noticed a bright white light shine in the backyard of a house a few doors down. It was Oscar’s floodlights. Ray walked through the neighbors’ backyards towards Oscar’s, thinking he might just be pulling the sleigh up out of the cellar and could possibly use a hand. As Ray walked around the side of the house, he felt his feet slow to a stop.

  In Oscar’s backyard stood the bucks. All of them.

  Ray ran to the side of house and peered around its edge. His eyes scoured the yard, counting every buck and every antler tip. Three were far larger than the rest and stood still and solid in place. Each seemed as large as a horse with eight to ten points on their racks. Four shorter bucks milled about, eating what they could find and shaking their antlers and ears periodically, like a batter tapping the mud off his shoes with the tip of his bat before he sets up to swing. Ray kept searching. As quiet as he tried to be, he felt his lips move.

  “Where are you, buddy? Come on. Come out,” he whispered to himself as he searched. Then, as if on command, one of the large bucks broke from their position and walked forward, allowing the buck with the white markings to come into view. Ray smiled, hoping the buck could see him and maybe come to him. But instead the deer twitched his ear and followed the larger buck. Then the sound of a storm door slamming rang out. Ray flattened his back against the house until he heard Oscar’s voice.

  “There you go. There you go,” said Oscar in a kind tone. “You deserve another helping. You had a rough day.”

  Ray’s eyebrows drew together as he turned back to look at Oscar’s backyard. There Oscar stood, a cluster of carrots in his one hand, with his other gently rubbing the bandage on the large buck’s neck. None of the other bucks changed their behavior. None moved. None jumped. None were startled or tried to dart away. It was as if one of their own sidled up to them. The rest happily let the large buck munch down on the carrots, content with their lot in the yard. The sight, so unreal, made Ray gasp aloud.

  All the deer jerked their heads up in unison, as if they were just a collection of marionettes being pulled by the same string. He slapped his hand over his mouth and his back towards the house. The tone of Oscar’s voice changed.

  “Hup, hup,” Ray heard Oscar say firmly and quickly. The sound of hooves and limbs taking off and hitting the floor of the woods rang out. Ray knew if he turned around to look they would be all gone.

  “Hello?” Oscar called out. “Anyone there?”

  Ray squeezed his back into to the clapboard siding. Nothing came out of his mouth. Not a word, not a breath. His whole body blended into a shadow on the side of the house. The storm door slammed shut and the light went out, darkening the backyard and giving Ray the opening to exhale. Everything, he thought, is nuts.

  Ray inched towards the front of the house. The light that came out of Oscar’s bay window faded to a soft glow. Curiosity got the best of Ray as he peeked over the edge of the window. There, in the middle of the room, stood Oscar in baggy pants and a long john shirt. He picked up the small pillow embroidered with the word “love” off the green velvet scrolling armed lounge chair and sat down. The small lamp on the side table provided just enough light to give the room a warm, firelight glow. Oscar put the pillow on his lap and placed his glasses on the side table on top of a book and next to a steaming mug. He let out a long breath and rested his head on the side against t
he chair. With eyes closed he gave the pillow a hug and said a few words Ray could not make out.

  Now Ray knew why the bed in the back room was never used. This living room was his bedroom. His world. Oscar’s face looked content as his stomach steadily rose and fell with each breath. Ray didn’t worry about getting caught as he turned and headed for his house. Oscar seemed so peaceful sitting with his pillow. So very peaceful. And so very sad.

  CHAPTER 19

  Southold Elementary School – Southold, New York, 1944

  The light tap of a horn from the Mott’s beat-up old Ford Tudor cut into the morning quiet as Ray raced around the downstairs gathering his books for school. As he struggled with the buckle that cinched his science and history textbooks together, his mother stuck a lunch bag and a small stack of letters under his nose.

  “I’m looking after Paley today for Marcia. Will you drop these off at the post office on your way home from school?” she asked.

  Ray grabbed his lunch and letters and grunted a quick, “Yes, Mom,” as he bolted for the door. As he reached for the handle he looked down at the top letter and saw the address. This envelope was going to Arkansas. The Kozaks had no family in Arkansas. Ray stopped and looked up at his mother. She stood in the middle of the room, still in her flannel nightgown in front of the unlit Christmas tree. He knew who lived in Arkansas.

  “Just wanted them to know they were in our prayers this Christmas. We weren’t the only ones who lost someone that day,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Ray looked back down at the address. Mrs. Samuel Pickett. Searcy, Arkansas. He knew who she was, although he never met her. Samuel Pickett fought in the 9th infantry division and died on September 22 in a building in Saarlautern, Germany, with his father. He knew all the names of the men who were in that building. Now his mother knew all the wives or mothers. Ray didn’t realize that he hadn’t moved as the horn honked again. Then he felt his mother’s hand run along the top of his head, followed by a kiss.

  “You have a good day, son,” she said. The scent of her cold cream surrounded him and felt even more soothing than the scent of the Douglas fir.

  Ray grunted another, “Yes, Mom,” as he tucked the letters under his arm and headed out the door. Olive scooted over as he squeezed himself into the backseat. Two of Olive’s sisters sat side by side examining themselves in their open compacts as they painted in their eyebrows and lips. Mrs. Mott drove with the window open, letting some of Olive’s grandmother’s Lucky Strike smoke filter out of the car, only to have a blustering cold wind pull it back into the backseat. After a few seconds of the sisters’ complaining Mrs. Mott agreed to roll up the window. While the car swirled in the sounds of the women’s light-hearted chatter and smoke, Ray sat with his books and lunch on his lap and thumbed through each letter. He looked at their names. Pickett, Asher, Lonergan, Carrig. He looked at the states: Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Virgina, Arkansas. He knew his mother waited until all the other Christmas cards were sent before she started this batch. He knew his mother took more time and care with these cards than any cards written to their cousins or aunts. To his mother, these women meant something. Something delicate and important. To Ray, they were all just unlucky.

  “What are those?” Olive said softly as she looked down at the letters. Her little frame pressed so tightly between her sister and Ray that she could not move or look away.

  “I’ve got to mail these for my mom. They’re Christmas cards,” Ray spat as he tucked them into the small opening of his buckle and his history textbook. “I hope I don’t forget.”

  But he knew he wouldn’t forget. All day long, the letters pulsed with life wherever he placed them, making him feel as if he were trying to hide a kitten in his desk rather than a small stack of mail. If he had a free moment after rushing through a test or the two minutes before the recess bell rang, Ray would gently pull out the pile and sift through the cards. It wasn’t until lunchtime when he had a chance to escape into an empty stairwell and examine the letters more closely. He held each card up to the light at various angles to see if he could look through the envelope and read the words his mother tucked between the folds of a manger scene.

  “Are you going to read one?” he heard a small voice echo on the top of the stairwell. Ray looked up and watched Olive walk down with a half-eaten apple. She sat next to him and took another bite.

  “No,” Ray said angrily. “They’re just stupid Christmas cards.”

  “Then why are you looking at them like that?”

  “No reason.”

  “Who are they to?”

  Ray swallowed the air that sat in his mouth. “Mom wrote them. They are to the families of the men who died with Dad.”

  Olive’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Can I see them?”

  Ray gave the stack to Olive. He peered over her shoulder and commented on every name as she gently picked up each card.

  “That’s to Stephen Carrig’s mom. And that family is Allen Lonergan’s. I hear he knew how to stitch up holes in shirts as well as people. And that’s one’s going to Samuel Pickett’s family. The army told us that everyone called him Captain Lightening but Mom probably figured it wouldn’t get there if she addressed it to Mrs. Captain Lightening.”

  Olive stopped suddenly at one letter. She studied the name and then put it to the side.

  “That’s Jack Donner’s mom,” Ray said. “Dad mentioned him in a letter once. I think they were pals.”

  The next letter caused her face to scrunch up. She turned to Ray puzzled. “Who is this one?”

  Ray looked at the address. Mrs. Paul Rancer. Falls Church, Virginia. “She’s the wife of another man in Dad’s squad.”

  Olive looked at Ray, her eyebrows curled down in thought. She took the letters and placed them on the stairs.

  “Hey? What are you doing?”

  Olive ignored Ray as she laid out the seven letters side by side on one of the steps. She knelt on stairs with her hands on her knees and studied the addresses as if it were a treasure map.

  “Seriously, Olive. Stop it,” Ray said as he reached to pick up a card. She pulled his hand away and pointed.

  “Look. Isn’t that neat?”

  Ray looked down at the letters but saw only the names and addresses. Whatever she saw appeared only to Olive. Olive pointed to the first card. “Look at the last name.”

  Ray picked up the card and read. “To Mrs. Kathy Donner.”

  “Ok,” she said. “Now look.” Olive took three fingers and covered the middle letters of the next name. “What does that say?”

  “It should say Quentin Terence Pudd if you’re hand wasn’t there.”

  “No. Read it fast.”

  “Q. Pudd.”

  Olive now was smiling at Ray. Noticing that he still hadn’t caught on, she did the same with the next letter. She covered over the letters and asked Ray again.

  “Donald Asher. Well, D. Asher.”

  “Now do you get it?”

  Ray felt his head cock to the side. A laugh shot out of his mouth. “Olive, be serious.”

  “I am. Donner. Cupid. Dasher. Paul Rancer,” she picked up the letter and covered the letters of the first name. “Look! Prancer!”

  The smile left from Ray’s face. “That’s crazy. Come on, Olive.”

  “It’s right there. You don’t think that’s neat?”

  “Well…well what about the other names?” Ray said, aggravated. “There’s an Allen Lonergan. A Stephen Carrig. And Samuel Pickett. There’s no reindeer named Carrig or Pickett.”

  Olive looked down at the letters with her chin in her hand. “I bet we’d find it. Maybe if we knew something about them.”

  “That’s crazy!” Ray shouted, his voice echoed and bounced up the stairwell. “You’re crazy.”

  “It’s not that crazy.” Olive said as she flipped over the letter
in her hand. She put her index finger under Mrs. Henry Lee Kozak’s name on the return address then displayed it to Ray. “Your dad’s name is Hal. Hal Lee. He’s Comet.”

  Ray stared at Olive, angry and wanting to cry. He scooped the letters off the stairs like a scattered deck of cards. “Don’t go to Oscar’s today. I’ll paint the planes if I have to. I want to be alone.”

  Ray fought the choke coming up his throat as he ran up the stairs, away from Olive. The cry that he held back seemed to have traveled down the stairs and into Olive’s throat. He could hear her voice shake as she called out to him. “Please! I’m sorry, Ray. Really, I am.”

  Ray said nothing as he bolted through the doors and down the hall back to the safety of the fifth grade classroom. He ran with the cards clutched against his chest, as if he pushed them in hard enough they would absorb into his heart.

  No music played at Oscar’s that afternoon. The only sound heard between Oscar and Ray on the workbench was the whomping of metal sheets and the second hands ticking away from the clocks on the wall. Ray did as he was told. He let the letters slip from his hands down the chute of the mailbox in front of the post office. He was angry at Olive, but did not know why. His father’s death wasn’t a joke. He knew Olive didn’t see it as that. But something about the reindeer names made it seem silly. Nothing about his dad’s death was neat.

  “You two have a fight,” Oscar said as he continued cutting a sheet of tin.

  “No. She said something stupid.”

  “Did she say your breath smells like a dirty diaper?”

  “No,” Ray pouted.

  “That you have the laugh of a wounded billy goat?”

  “No.”

  “That your belly is as big as a tub full of jelly?” Oscar looked up. “That’s never a nice thing to hear.”