The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  Ray zigzagged through the cars until he heard a far-off cry. He knew that cry. He heard it many times before over skinned knees and hurt feelings. He looked over at the Mott house and through the parlor window and saw Paley. Paley rocked back and forth fiercely, crying and smacking his ear. Mrs. Mott struggled to hold him close to her but his force was too much. He kept beating his head and wailing, not wanting his mother’s comfort as he tried to rock and beat the pain out of his body.

  Ray ran up to the front steps to his house. The stairs were lined with filthy men, covered in oil stains and overalls fresh from the garage. All were smoking and looking down. Bobby looked at Ray, then turned away. Some said nothing as Ray walked past them. Some said his name softly into their chests as he walked by. It wasn’t until he saw Mick when he heard anyone speak above a whisper.

  “Raymond,” Mick said in a low, steady voice. He placed a firm grip on Ray’s shoulder. Mick’s arm seemed to stretch for a mile from down his shoulder to Ray’s. “Your mother is upstairs. She needs to speak to you.”

  Ray did not like Mick’s tone. Mick never called him Raymond before. He always called him Big Ray. Raymond sounded grown-up, as if he was now the man of the house. Ray nodded as he looked at Mick’s face. He wanted his expression to give something up. To tell him something before he saw his mother. But Mick’s large face looked more like a vault. Whatever was inside stood behind a foot of steel.

  Ray ran up the steps to see his mother’s sisters, his Aunt Carol and Aunt Annette, at the top of the stairwell. They clutched handkerchiefs in front of their mouths. He could not tell if they were coughing or crying as their eyes were squeezed shut. He had never seen his aunts cry before. His heart began to hurt more.

  “Mom?” Ray called out as he turned the corner to his parents’ bedroom. Once he got in her doorway, he stopped. His eyes found his mother sitting on the bed with her back to the door. Her purple coat was still on as her arms stretched outwards like tent ropes on the bed. In her one hand was a fistful of sheet. In the other was a crumpled piece of paper. His Aunt Beth and grandfather stood next to Father Freeman, who all looked up at Raymond in unison. Ray’s mother whirled around.

  “Raymond,” she said. Her face looked as if she dunked it in a baptismal font. Everything, except for her ears and hair, was soaking wet. Her expression was a cross between anger and confusion, as if she were suddenly being dragged off a beach and thrown into the cold waters of the bay.

  “Raymond,” she said again. This time her voice choked. She didn’t need to say whatever it was she needed to tell him. He knew. His heart knew. His head knew. More than anything, his feet knew. He felt himself walk backwards out of the doorway and into his room at the other end of the hall. He did not turn around. He wanted to make sure no one followed him inside. As soon as he got past the safety of his threshold he closed the door and locked it. His Buster Browns continued their march backward until the bed stepped in and stopped his stride. He sat down on his patchwork quilt as a force drew his eyes up towards the yellow number eight racecar idling on his bureau. He asked God if he could make him small. As small as a racer that would fit in that tiny toy car so he could drive away from this house.

  A soft knock came from the door’s edge.

  “Raymond,” his mother’s voice said firmly. “Raymond, I need to come in there.”

  Ray said nothing but shook his head “no.” He wished and willed for her to go away. Not forever but just for now. He could live on his own until his dad came back. All he needed was for God to make him into a miniature man so he could drive away in his racecar. Away from his scary house with all the sad people in it. Once they left, maybe he would think about coming back for his mother.

  She continued to call for Ray but he did not get up. After a minute, he felt her presence leave the other side of the door. For a moment he thought God would answer his prayers. That he would shrink or even disappear. But then the sound of a large man creaking up the stairs filled the air. After the creaking stopped, more mumbling came from the hall. First from a man and then from his Aunt Annette, who he had seen in the hallway. He did not hear everything she said. The only word that seemed to get through the hum of her lips, through his door and into his ears was the word “killed.”

  Ray opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His scream seemed to make no sound. He placed his hands over his ears like Paley as the tears exploded out of his eyes. Ray’s prayer would not be answered. He did not disappear.

  But his father did.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Last Day of School Before Christmas –

  Southold, New York, 1944

  Kids scattered and weaved around Ray as he plodded out of the classroom. The excitement and buzz for Christmas hummed through the halls as the kids ran towards the exits, eager to get their Christmas vacation started. The halls grew more colorful and Ray grew taller as he walked out of the middle school and towards the hallways of the elementary school. Ray hoped the Christmas mailbox would still be there, along with some stray letters added by last-minute doubting Thomases. The kids, Oscar said, were “hedging their bets.” Ray thought if he got to the mailbox after the final bell, he could take those letters before the janitor got them. Even if Oscar couldn’t make those toys, they were better off in Oscar’s and John Charles’s hands than in the fire of a burn barrel.

  But he was too late. Ray turned the corner and saw the big red mailbox still propped up in the center of the hallway. When he reached it, he saw a piece of paper covering the slot. It read, “Sent to the North Pole.” Ray’s hands held the edges of the box as he eyes reread the note. Right, he thought. Sent to the North Pole. By smoke signals. The air left his lungs as he dropped his arms. Another lie.

  Ray turned to leave when he saw Tommy Goldsmith standing obediently in front of his teacher. Tommy looked up at her as if in pain as she methodically weaved a scarf around his head and neck.

  “Make sure you cover up. It’s getting colder by the minute out there,” she instructed as she flopped and folded the scarf around his face. “But remember, even if it storms, Santa can get through it. He always does.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Tommy answered in a sad, sing-song tone. She turned him around and patted him on the back in the direction of the exit and into the tide of rushing children.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Ray said as he walked up to him. “Excited for Christmas? Just a few days away!”

  “Hey ya, Ray,” Tommy said, dejected. “Yeah, I guess I feel excited. But now I just feel hot,” he said as he pulled on the scarf choking his neck. “Are you coming home with me? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Nope, I’m here to see if there are any letters for Santa.”

  Tommy stopped and turned to Ray. He lifted the scarf wrapped around his eyes to get a better look at Ray. Then he looked both ways, leaned in and whispered, “You don’t believe in him.”

  Ray too looked around for stray kids and leaned in towards Tommy.

  “Actually, I do.”

  Tommy’s eyes got bigger. Then his eyebrows curled. “Since when?”

  “Since…well since…” Ray didn’t know how to answer. Since he started to believe he was working for him? Since he saw the sled in Oscar’s basement? Since he saw the bucks hanging around Oscar’s backyard like sophomores at a soda fountain? Since he saw the light in the woods? Ray looked down at Tommy and his chubby cheeks spilling out beneath the edges of his red woolen wrap. He wouldn’t lie. Not like every adult seemed to do this time of year. “Since I saw him.”

  Tommy shrugged off Ray’s declaration and began to walk away. “Me, too. But it’s Mr. Terry with a fake beard. Dad told me it was Santa but I know it’s Mr. Terry. His eyes are red like Mr. Terry’s and he smells like ham.”

  Ray followed Tommy and put his hand on his insulated shoulder to stop him. “Wait, no. That’s the butcher your dad hired for the store. That’s just for show. There is a rea
l one.”

  Tommy stopped and turned. “Where?”

  “Here! In Southold!”

  “Can we go see him?”

  Ray thought about it. Tommy knew Oscar Taglieber. If he took Tommy to Oscar’s and told him that he was Santa Claus then both Tommy and Oscar would think Ray lost his marbles. And Oscar would just say he wasn’t Santa anyway, even to Tommy. Ray’s eyes dropped to the floor.

  “No, we can’t,” he said, looking at the scuff marks on the floor. “He’s busy.”

  Tommy patted Ray on the elbow. Their gloomy expressions seemed out of place amongst all the Christmas tree cutouts and paper snowflakes lining the hallway.

  “It’s okay, Ray. You were right. Babies believe in Santa. I’m a big boy now.”

  The two walked out of the school and towards the Goldsmith’s gleaming Pierce Arrow parked in the lot. Ray still could not get in the car with Tommy so he stood back and watched Mrs. Goldsmith fawn over Tommy as soon as the door opened. She tried in vain to keep up the Christmas excitement, telling him that they shoveled part of the roof to make sure Santa’s sleigh would land safely and that she would make pinwheel cookies because the mothers around the store said that’s what Santa liked. But Tommy’s flat expression didn’t budge. Tommy did not believe in Santa anymore. Not because he grew out of it, or an older sibling squawked, but because of him. Ray knew it and the glares that Mrs. Goldsmith shot at Ray through the window told Ray that she knew it too. She was trying her hardest to keep up the game. But the magic was all but gone out of Tommy’s eyes. Mrs. Goldsmith didn’t have to make Ray feel bad about it. Ray felt horrible enough as it was.

  By the time he got to Oscar’s door, Ray was fighting back tears. He felt rotten. Like a bad kid. He never pictured himself as a bad kid but he couldn’t shake Tommy’s expression. He did that. Ray finally knew why his mother got so smoked when he told Tommy there was no Santa. She knew that this is what happened when the jig was up. She knew that only adults should undo the lies they tell. Even if they were pretty and covered in tinsel.

  “What’s with the sour puss?” Oscar yelled as he walked through the workshop. “You can’t make toys looking like that.”

  “Sorry,” Ray uttered as he took off his coat. He walked over to the closet and reached for a hanger. “Hard test at school.”

  “The last day before Christmas vacation? Don’t they let you just eat cookies and run around like hooligans on the last day?”

  Ray put his coat on a hanger and hung it up. As he lowered his arm he noticed a garment bag puffed up and hanging in the back of the closet. He hadn’t seen it there before. He pulled it closer on the rod and pulled the zipper down slowly. After just a couple of inches a big tuft of white fur popped out of the top. Ray’s eyes widened as he turned back in Oscar’s direction. Oscar sat on the bench with his back to Ray, his voice still calling out.

  “I can’t even get my doctor on the phone the Friday before Christmas. How could a teacher expect a kid to sit in their seat! Tests, my guts,” Oscar called out.

  Ray turned back to the closet. He continued to lower the zipper until he reached halfway down the bag. After another look in Oscar’s direction he gently pulled the bag open and noticed that inside was a thick, red coat. The fabric felt like his grandmother’s velvet winter curtains and its white collar like a bunny’s tail. He didn’t need to go any further. He knew it was a suit. And exactly what kind of suit it was. Ray quickly zipped up the bag, pushed it back into the closet and shut the door. No need to ask Oscar, he thought. He would just lie about this, too.

  “Well, I know what will make you happy, Raymond,” Oscar said as Ray took his seat. “Last batch of letters, my good man,” he said as he patted a stack of paper on the workbench. “I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!”

  Ray reached over and took the small stack. As soon as he looked down at the first letter he could tell these were different. They did not read any differently than the letters he had seen before. The toys they were to make were the same. Racers, zeppelins, cars, planes were still circled in red or written in John Charles’s handwriting across the center. They felt different. Something with the paper. The color wasn’t stark white as he had seen in others. These were all written from the same stock, like they were cut from the same piece of parchment. Ray ran a page between his fingers and felt a slight grit. He put the page down and looked at the ash-like residue cling to his fingertips.

  “Yeah, something happened to that stack,” Oscar said flatly.

  Ray picked up the same page and drew it to his face. As soon as the page came closer to his nose he knew what happened to this batch. It smelled like smoke.

  “John Charles must have stashed those away by a woodstove,” Oscar continued but Ray wasn’t listening. He looked at the top of the page. He knew the handwriting. It was from Thomas Goldsmith. Age 6. Grade 1.

  “This is from the elementary school,” Ray said in a fog of thought.

  Oscar leaned over and took the letter from Ray. He grabbed a set of reading glasses from the bench and held it in front of his goggles. “Hey, it’s Tommy’s letter! Wonderful news. Look, the kid wants another train. A train. My guts.”

  Ray stood up in a haze. His eyes glazed over as he looked at Oscar. “I saw them burn.”

  “Burn? What burn?”

  “The letters. These letters. I saw them in the fire.”

  Oscar flipped Tommy’s letter over and examined the back. “Well, they look a bit dingy but I don’t think they burned…”

  “They did!” shouted Ray. “They did burn! I saw them!”

  “Raymond,” Oscar’s voice lowered. “If they were on fire they wouldn’t be sitting right in front of us.”

  “They did burn! They did!” cried Ray. “I watched them. The janitor took them from the box and put them in a burn barrel. I saw it. So did John Charles.”

  “Calm down, Raymond,” Oscar said softly. “Maybe those were other letters you saw in a fire.”

  Ray grabbed the stack and feverishly thumbed through the pages.

  “Where is it? Where is it?” he uttered to himself and his fingers flew through the cream-colored pages. His fingertips grew darker and darker with ash as he searched.

  “Raymond, what on earth has gotten into you?”

  Then he stopped. He found what he was looking for. It was a simple letter buried in the stack. He knew the handwriting and he knew it only had one item on it. He knew because it was his own.

  “Here! I threw this in the fire,” Ray said, nearly in tears.

  Oscar stood up and took the letter from him. As he read it, his weight plopped him back on the seat. The item Ray wrote was crossed out in red and the word “clock” written over it. He then rubbed his forehead in exhaustion.

  “This is what you asked for? I never thought of you as a budding astronomer,” Oscar said quietly.

  “This was burned up,” Ray said pointing to the letter. “I saw it.”

  Oscar shook his head. “You…you must have thought you saw it…”

  “You think I’m making this up?”

  “No. I just think there is a logical explanation for this.”

  “Is it the same explanation for the suit in your closet? For the sled in the basement?” Ray shouted, his face turning redder with anger by the moment.

  “Yes, Raymond. I thought I explained all that.”

  Ray stomped around the room, unfazed by Oscar’s calm tone. “There’s an explanation for the deer who listen to you? For the one who listens to me? For that light in the woods?”

  “I…I…I’m sure there is a reason for all of it.”

  “Alright then, Oscar. Explain this?” Ray walked towards Oscar’s easy chair and grabbed the pillow embroidered with the word “love” and held it out to him, like a steak in front of a hungry dog. Oscar’s face melted into that of a timid boy.

  “P
lease, Raymond. Put that down.”

  Ray struggled to hold his arm up as the pillow was heavier than it appeared. It felt more like a bag of sand than something you would use to rest under your head.

  “Santa isn’t real, but this? This is?”

  “It is special to me,” Oscar begged. “Please just put it down.”

  “It’s not real, Oscar. I know what you want this to be but it’s not him. It’s just a pillow.”

  “Please, Raymond. Put it down,” Oscar’s tone turned firm, as if giving an order.

  And for a brief moment, Ray’s anger flashed. He wanted Oscar to know how it felt to be told that what he saw, what was in front of his eyes was not real. He didn’t see or care that he dropped the pillow or that his foot flew up to kick it. He wasn’t kicking anyone. His angry feet didn’t mean to kick Oscar or his dreams, but rather every lie told to him. As soon as his foot connected with the pillow he wished he had held onto it tighter. He wished the white knit embroidered sack did not leave his hands. He wished he lovingly gave it back to the kind man who let him and Olive in his house every day after school and gave them jobs and root beer. But those wishes faded once he saw his foot rip through the pillow, scattering the stuffing and beads across the room.

  Ray just stared at the destruction in horror as little beige nubs rolled and bounced on every surface. Oscar dropped to his knees, reached his arms out like a fishing net and tried to pull the million rolling pearls towards him. He didn’t yell or cry. Instead he made pained noises that sounded like he was battling an aching back. But Ray knew it was not his back that was hurting. Ray didn’t want to be near that much pain. Pain that he caused. Again. He just walked backwards, stunned.

  “I’m…I didn’t mean to…” Ray mumbled before running down the hall and out of Oscar’s front door.

  The cold only burned his cheeks. Tears stung once they dropped out of his eyes and hit the frosty air. The rest of his body radiated heat from sadness and shame. He figured he couldn’t go inside. His mother might skin him alive for being mean to Oscar. He wanted to go back and help Oscar but he was afraid. But there was a place he could hide. A place where he could cry without anyone to comfort him or ask questions. The woods.