The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  “Raymond, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I promise you there is a heaven. It’s where everything you lost, you get back. Every baseball game, every Christmas morning, every Wednesday, everything. I promise you. You will get it all back.” John Charles then turned and looked at Ray. “Do you believe me?”

  Raymond looked up at him. Through his tears he could see both seriousness and sympathy come from John Charles’s eyes. Ray nodded his head. He did believe him. Not because he wanted to but rather something in his heart knew. As sure as snow was cold, John Charles was telling him the truth.

  “Yes, sir. I believe you.”

  Then John Charles gave him one of his broken hands and they shook on it.

  CHAPTER 22

  Oscar’s House – Southold, New York, 1944

  Ray walked into Oscar’s living room to the two working in full swing. Ray grabbed an apron as he watched Olive carefully line up the racecars she had painted on the mantel above Oscar’s fireplace. Oscar sat at his usual stool. His glasses dangled from a chain around his neck as he struggled to read a letter he held up at arm’s length.

  “Says here Tony wants a red car with his favorite number 139 on the side,” Oscar said as he dropped his hand to knee in disgust. “What kid’s favorite number is 139? A strange kid, I’d say.”

  “Maybe that’s his weight?” answered Olive.

  “He’s six,” said Oscar as he swiveled back to the bench. “So he’s a very large, strange kid.”

  Olive looked up at the ceiling in thought as she wrote in the air with her fingers. “One. Thirty-nine. Maybe that’s his birthday? January, 1939.”

  Oscar let out a huff. “That’s not a favorite number. That’s a radio station.”

  Olive smiled. “Don’t worry, Oscar. I’ll be happy to paint 139 on the side of a car.”

  “It’ll look silly.” He put back on his glasses and grabbed a set of tin snips. “Oh my guts, what do I care. You can paint my telephone exchange on it if you’d like.”

  John Charles walked over to Oscar, dropped off the new stack of letters in front of him and patted his shoulder.

  “Come on now! Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  Oscar turned to him and showed him his hands covered in small cuts. “I snipped it off eighty zeppelins ago.”

  John Charles just chuckled and gave Oscar another pat. He then looked over Oscar’s head and gave Ray a smile as he put one of his mangled fingers to the side of his nose and gave it a slight tap. Ray knew their conversation would not leave him so he pursed his lips together and nodded his thanks before John Charles quietly left the room.

  “My cousin from Detroit weighed 108 pounds when he was eight,” Olive said, as her voice floated through the air. “Lots of things are heavier than they seem.” Olive walked over to Oscar’s bench, took one of his mallets and made her way to a hanging scale Oscar attached to the side of a curio cabinet. “See, this weighs a hair more than four pounds. Doesn’t look like it, does it?”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t,” answered Oscar. “Feels like it weighs 80 pounds after an hour.”

  “And this,” Olive said as she grabbed a small block of nails. “It’s only a few inches but it weighs…” she paused as she dropped the block on the scale. “Well, guess, Ray?”

  Ray’s stomach still hurt after his talk with John Charles. He didn’t feel up to it but tried to join in the happy mood. “Three pounds?”

  “No!” she cried. “It’s seven pounds. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Certifiably,” answered Oscar.

  Olive then walked over to a chair and picked up the pillow with the word “love” embroidered on it. She struggled with its weight as she plopped it on the scale. After the needle stopped moving she called out, “And this! Oscar, guess how much this pillow weighs?”

  Oscar didn’t answer. His silence caused Ray to look down the bench at him, wondering if he heard Olive. Oscar had stopped working. His head hung low. His hammer and snips were still in his hands but he held them on the bench, the same way he would hold a knife and fork at a dinner table before devouring a steak.

  “Come on! Take a guess?”

  Oscar closed his eyes and let out a sigh. Slowly he answered. “Eight pounds. Four ounces.”

  Olive looked at the scale closely and yelled. “Hey! That’s right!”

  Ray kept his eyes on Oscar, who had yet to open his. Ray quietly asked from the end of the bench. “Are you alright?”

  Oscar still didn’t move or answer. He sat there in silence with his eyes closed as Ray got up, took off his apron and whispered to Olive that it was time for them to leave.

  CHAPTER 23

  Estelle Kozak’s Bedroom – Southold, New York, 1944

  A soft light shone from under the door of his mother’s bedroom. He knocked quietly as he was supposed to be in bed over an hour ago.

  “Come in,” she answered as she ran a comb through her hair. Ray’s mother turned around from the vanity as she continued her nightly ritual of combing out the lint that kicked up from the sewing machines. “You should be asleep, Mister.”

  “I was wondering about something,” asked Ray as he sat on the edge of his parents’ bed. “Do you know much about the other men from Dad’s squad? You know, the ones who died?”

  His mother looked around in thought. “Well, I know a little bit. I’ve heard from a few of their wives.” She put her hairbrush down. “What would you like to know?”

  Ray picked at a hangnail on his finger. “I don’t know. Just things. Like, you know, where they lived. What they did before they were in the army.”

  His mother looked at him and narrowed her eyes in thought. “I think I might have something. One woman, Kathy Donner, sent me an article from her local paper,” she said as she got up and made her way to a bookshelf. She took down a shoebox, which held a stack of letters. “I think I put it in this box,” she said as she thumbed through the cluster of opened envelopes.

  Ray walked over to his mother and looked over her shoulder as she searched. All addressed to her. All written in different handwriting. She picked up several only to file them back until she reached the one from a Kathy Donner. Sandwiched between the pages popped out a clipping from a newspaper. She handed it to Ray, who became immediately rapt.

  “Something like this?” she asked. “I think all of the men are mentioned in there.”

  Ray held up the delicate cutout like Olive would a paper doll. The title of the article was “Hometown Son Dies a Hero.” Ray’s eyes skimmed the piece and immediately noticed his father’s name jump out. “Henry Lee Kozak, 32. Southold, New York. Mechanic. Beloved husband to Estelle Agnes Kozak and father to Raymond James Kozak.” Pickett, Lonergan, Rancer, Asher were all mentioned. Ray looked up at his mother.

  “Can I bring this to school to show Olive?”

  “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said as his attention focused on the paper.

  “Good night and God bless you,” his mother said as he walked out of the room, fixated and fascinated by the paper in his hand. “And right to bed.”

  But he couldn’t sleep. Ray pulled the blankets over his head and turned on the flashlight to read the article. His fingers traced the words as he read.

  “…Donner quick with his squad ran to the aid of children trapped in a building weakened from sustained aerial bombardments…” Ray read quickly through the tale of bravery but skipped Jack Donner’s family facts until he reached the list of the other soldiers. When he got to Stephen Carrig and read his description, his head shot up so high it knocked the blanket off.

  The clipping read: “Sergeant Stephen Carrig, 25. Providence, Rhode Island. Dance instructor for Cipri’s Swing and Ballroom Studio. Beloved son to Audrey and Geoffrey Carrig.”

  “Dancer,” Ray said dumbstruck to the thin air. Christopher Colu
mbus, he thought. Olive was right.

  CHAPTER 24

  Grigonis House – Pittstown, New Jersey, Last year

  Ava laid the yellow newspaper clipping carefully on top a small stack of letters next to the old shoebox. The clipping, held together at the crease with a clear piece of tape, had grown stained and faded by constant handling and time. Pop-pop often rummaged through the old odds and ends that rattled below the paper at the bottom of an old Florsheim box in hopes of finding a missing part for a racecar or an old memento from his days as a boy. Sometimes, one of the papers would catch his eye and he would take out it out for a moment, smile, then put it back. Other times he would take the page, let out a long sad breath and shake off a frown. Ava noticed the older and darker the pages looked, the sadder his expression.

  “Is this it, Mister?” asked Ava as she held up a small brass fitting she plucked from the box.

  “Nope, that’s close but not it,” said the man, scrapping the rust off the corroded axle of the racer. He looked back down to his work when he noticed the clipping. “Excuse me, may I see that?”

  Ava called out to her mother for permission as her mother sat with John Charles at the kitchen table, looking through an old photo album. She broke her concentration with the photograph she was explaining to John Charles and Berta to answer her.

  “Why, yes. Just be careful, Ava. That is very old.”

  Ava treated the clipping as if she were handling the wing of an injured bird, passing it gently to the man on the tops of both her palms. He examined the clipping with the same intense interest as Ava had seen doctors examine her grandfather’s medical charts. Like those doctors, he also shook his head in the same sad way.

  “Wow,” he uttered. His eyes dug into the words as his fingers gently grazed the old newsprint.

  “Those were the men who died in the war with Grandpa Kozak,” Ava’s mother said with her chin hung over her shoulder and her glasses halfway down the bridge of her nose.

  “Yes,” the man said again. He did not look up from the paper. “I never realized how young they all were.”

  “They were just boys, really. Except for Grandpa Kozak. He was really the old man of the bunch at 32.”

  The corner of the man’s mouth shot up in a silent chuckle. “Yes, Ma’am, I imagine he was.”

  Ava studied his face as he read. He mouthed some of the sentences as he went through. Some of the words would even cause him to show a hint of a smile. Once he finished, he turned the page clockwise and noticed the child’s handwriting in the empty margin. He held the clipping closer to his eyes and saw the word written over Allen Lonergan’s name. Ava leaned closer to the man to look at the paper.

  “What does that say?” Ava asked as she put her tiny finger on the word written in pencil.

  “That says ‘Vixen’,” he answered.

  “Why?”

  “Well, let’s see…” The man held the paper closer to Ava for her to examine as he read aloud. “Allen Lonergan, 19. Medic. Wilton, Connecticut. Beloved husband to Louise Lonergan and son to Victor and Marianne Lonergan.” He pointed to the word “Victor” and then at the word “son.”

  “I guess that makes him Vic’s son.”

  Ava took the paper and nodded in agreement as that seemed like a reasonable answer. Ava’s mother let out a laugh.

  “I like that one,” she said as she returned to thumbing through old pages of the album. “I just figured that was a nickname.”

  “I like that. Vic’s. Son. Like the reindeer,” Ava said as she began to place the paper down on the stack. Suddenly, the man’s hand reached out to stop her. Ava looked at him to see his eyes fixed on the small sheet of mustard-colored paper that she was about to cover. Without asking, he carefully pulled the paper off the stack and drew it towards him. Ava got up and sat by his side as he looked at the old note.

  “Now that’s a piece of history right there. A very sad piece,” Ava’s mother said as she took the glasses off her nose. “We have to make sure that gets into a scrapbook.”

  The man tucked his lips under his teeth as his eyes grew large. He then put his hand up to his mouth as if he were trying to rub the frown into his face. The small square, marked with crooked type, was filled with lines and bumps from being crumpled and smoothed. Two words sat large on the top of the page like a marquee. After a moment, he handed the paper back to Ava.

  “What is it?” Ava asked the man. This time he would not look at her.

  “It’s called a telegram,” he uttered as he picked up the racecar. He wiped his temple with his wrist before continuing to scrape the rust off the toy. “The worst kind.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The Worst Day – Southold, New York, 1944

  By the end of September, the summer had already passed its fading torch over to autumn. The low clouds stamped and scattered the sky while the air, which once smelled like freshly mowed lawns, now smelled like a hint of firewood that the cool air carried over from the chimney tops. The men at Mick’s garage yelled at each other over the noises in the shop. A song from Bing Crosby tried in vain to compete with the banging that came from thrown tools and revving of engines. The men whirled and whizzed around the hive like every other Wednesday afternoon, thinking of nothing other than whitewall tires, oil filters, baseball games, and swinging on a star.

  Except one. Mick stood as motionless as the unlit cigarette stapled to his lips in the center of the commotion. His eyes fixed on the teenage boy pushing his bike in the front of the garage while staring down at a letter. The official hard cap on his head tilted to the side as he looked up at the street sign and scratched in his head in confusion.

  “Keep…moving…” Mick uttered over the cigarette as he stared at the lad, as if his words would keep the young man from turning down Youngs Avenue. The mere sight of the Western Union messenger turned Mick’s blood cold. He knew what direction he did not want the boy riding in. Turning down Youngs Avenue put him in the direction of Jacobs Lane and the Kozak’s house. Mick abandoned Christian prayer as he began to sell pieces of his soul to any voodoo god that would make the boy pick up his bicycle and ride back down Main Street.

  It would not work. The boy looked up at the street sign on the corner, then back at his letter. He then leaned his bike up against the pole and walked into the shop. Mick could not get his feet to move as he watched the boy open the door. He did not hear the bell over the shop’s door clang or the men gab or the metal banging. He only saw Betty filing her nails at the front desk. Her file methodically and quickly hummed back and forth as it coasted over her fingertips. The boy leaned over the desk to Betty, who quickly looked down at what the boy pointed to. Her file began to slow. The rhythm stopped. She put down her file and her eyes, as large as headlamps, found Mick’s.

  Mick did not know how he got to the desk. He looked down at the letter and at the address of the house where he and his wife played marathon games of pinochle.

  “I don’t know where this road is,” the boy said as he pointed to the words “North Bayview,” a name of an old dirt road the town renamed to Jacob’s Lane years before.

  Mick looked at the clock on the far side of the wall, then at Betty. Her red-lipped wry smile turned downward and began to quiver.

  “Get Raymond,” Mick said. “Bring him home to his mother.” His voice seemed to come from the back of his throat. “I’ll take you there, son,” Mick said as he walked aimlessly to his nearby truck. He almost ran over the boy’s bike as he headed out of the parking garage and down Youngs Avenue, towards the direction of Jacob’s Lane.

  The last bell rang and the kids scurried down the hall in a race to leave the building. Raymond began to run too until he noticed a young woman silhouetted by the sunlight coming in through the front doors of the school. As he got closer, he noticed the blond curls and red fingernails of Betty. She was talking to his principal. Ray was curious and h
appy to see her at school. She had no children but she always had gum for Ray when he came into the garage. As he approached he saw her face. She smiled a nervous smile as she reached out to give a Ray a hug.

  “Betty here is going to take you home,” said Ray’s principal. “Is that ok by you?”

  “That’s swell,” said Ray as he looked up at Betty’s face. Her lips smiled but her eyes did not. They looked terrified. As soon as the words came out, he wished he could take them back.

  The interior of the Lincoln Zephyr filled with Chesterfield smoke before they even left the parking lot. As she drove, Betty tapped the steering wheel nervously with the two red talons that held the cigarette.

  “You have a good day at school, Big Ray?” she said. Her voice shook as much as her fingers.

  “Yes,” Ray said as he stared at her.

  “Mr. Polywoda still teach art? You know, he can’t smell nothing,” she said, her happy voice trembled when she spoke and smoked, making Raymond more and more uneasy. She took a long drag of her Chesterfield and kept on rambling. “We used to smoke cigarettes in the dark room. Guy never noticed. We think he stopped smoking and liked the smell. I mean, how can you not notice something like that?”

  Ray looked out the window at the bay. He’d never been in a car with Betty before. He wondered if this is what she was normally like or if something had happened to her. It had been a year since he spent any length of time with her. Maybe something had changed. It wasn’t until they reached the Mott house that he realized the reason for her concern.

  Cars. Everywhere. Packards, Fords, Lincolns, every car he’d seen at Mick’s shop seemed to be parked on the side of the road. It looked like Christmas day at his Aunt Carol’s house as the cars lined the street and took up every available patch of grass on their front lawn. For a moment, he wondered if the Motts were having a party. When he saw his driveway filled with cars and the Mott’s empty, his chest began to hurt. He didn’t wait for Betty to stop the car before he jumped out.