The Light in the Woods

by Jean Marie Pierson

  Ray crunched over the snowy ground on the path behind his house. Buried under a small coating of frost was a fort made of two fallen trees and a dozen large broken oak branches. As Ray began to walk towards the wooden mound he heard another crunch in the snow. His sad red face turned around and saw the only sight that could bring a smile to it.

  There, six feet behind him in the center of the path, was his buck.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Fort – Southold, New York, 1944

  The buck twitched his ears as he faced Ray on the path. His glassy eyes examined Ray, wondering why water poured from this little boy’s face. Ray held his breath as he studied the buck as well. He had not been this close to the animal before, except for when he was leaping over him in the dark. The buck turned its head to the side, displaying its antlers, but then gracefully turned back to face Ray. The buck made no sudden movement. Nothing jerked or flinched. The animal did not seem afraid or timid or agitated. So Ray took a step closer.

  No movement. Its snout gently puffed out white streams of steam into the iced air. Ray took another step forward with his eyes fixed on the buck’s antlers. If the buck felt threatened, he could stab him with the rack on his head. But each small step Ray took towards the animal did not change its temperament. The buck seemed to be waiting.

  “Hey, buddy,” Ray said quietly as he held up his hand. “Can I touch you?”

  The deer answered by taking a few steps forward. Its long legs gently picked up and settled its posture in the snow. With only an arms-length separating the two, Ray reached out and touched the side of the deer’s snout. He stroked the short-haired hide, following the grain of the brown and ash-colored coat. The buck just kept looking at Ray. It blinked slowly as it lowered its head, making it easier for Ray to touch him.

  “That’s a good boy,” Ray said, his eyes fixed on the white markings on its face. Ray didn’t want to touch it in case it was an injury.

  “What happened to you? Did someone hurt you?” Ray said as he gently petted the area around its nose. The buck remained calm as Ray ran his hands up to the bridge of its snout to the soft wide space between its eyes. His hands traveled over the brilliant white star scratched in the deer’s face and up along the faded white streak that traveled from the star to a space behind its ears. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

  Everything about the buck became seared into Ray’s memory. Its antlers, its eyes, the color changes in its hair, and especially its markings seemed to push every awful memory, recent and past, out of Ray’s mind for the briefest of moments. The quiet and cold framed the two in their own world. The wild animal in front of him and the wild animal in his chest. Nothing seemed wrong, for the moment. Somehow this deer made it all better. Ray smiled as he let the air out of his lungs.

  “My dad had a white patch of hair, just like you,” Ray said as he placed his other hand on the deer’s cheek. “Yes, sir. Just like you.” The deer playfully rocked its rack from side to side as Ray laughed. Ray felt himself smile as he pulled his hands off the buck’s face. “Easy, boy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  Ray reached towards the deer again until a gunshot sliced through the air, causing the buck to jump up and away from Ray’s hands. Ray fell to the ground in fear as he watched his deer tear off through the woods. Ray cried out for the invisible hunter to stop until he saw where the bullet had come from.

  “What are you doing?” Ray screamed as he ran towards his backyard. His mother looked confused as she ran towards him, coatless, holding his father’s rifle.

  “Are you alright, Raymond? Are you hurt?” she cried as she ran her hands over his face.

  “Are you nuts?” Ray’s anger boiled back up again. He could see a hunter shooting at him, but his own mother? “Why are you shooting at me?”

  “Did it hurt you?” she asked again, her voice shaking as she struggled to keep hold of the rifle while examining Ray for cuts and bruises. “I fired in the air. I wanted to scare him off.”

  “You did! He ran away. Are you happy?”

  But she wasn’t listening to Ray. She kept searching him for marks. “Raymond, did it hurt you?”

  “No! I’m fine! Except you scared my friend away.”

  His mother turned around in a daze and walked into the house. Ray had never seen her shaken. He followed her inside, wishing that the gun was made of wood, like Oscar’s. He didn’t even know where his father kept the rifle or that his mother even knew how to shoot it. Once she reached the center of the living room she stopped. Her knees buckled as her hand covered her face. The gun held her up until Ray took it away from her. He placed it safely in a corner then put his arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I’m fine,” Ray said, his voice now soft with concern.

  Then his mother flung her arms around him and sobbed. She gripped the back of Ray’s head and held him so tight he could feel the breaths heaving out of her chest.

  “I was so scared,” she cried.

  Ray held her tight and patted her back. “Not as scared as I was,” Ray said.

  She pulled away and held Ray’s face in her hands. She did not look sad. She looked terrified. After blinking away frightened tears she smiled. They both let out a chuckle.

  “I thought that animal was going to hurt you,” she said through a sniffle. “I saw those antlers from the window and your legs and I thought…I thought that wild thing…”

  Ray’s mother pulled him back to her and said nothing, as if the mere outcome of her assumption was too painful to say out loud. Neither would let go. Even when Mrs. Mott knocked feverishly at the door.

  “Everything alright in there?” she yelled.

  But his mother didn’t budge. She just kept Ray close in her arms and he let her. All the anger he felt stopped as he let another feeling take its place. He didn’t know what it was but it seemed like pride. His mother thought he was in danger and came charging in like an army. She knew how to be a dad.

  Ray’s mother could not see his smile as she cried the remaining fear out of her small frame. Ray smiled because he felt safe. There were two soldiers in the family.

  CHAPTER 28

  Oscar Taglieber’s Basement – Southold, New York, 1944

  The walk to Oscar’s house seemed painfully short. Ray dragged his legs as he made his way to Oscar’s front door, much the same way he did when his mother trucked him there the first time. Ray liked it better when he would run into the house with Olive, grab an apron and a root beer and get to work. How John Charles made Oscar’s grumpy funny. How the smell of machines and stew filled the air. How hammers rested on doilies, couches were workbenches, and kids built racecars. How the chaos of all these people lived in one room yet somehow it all moved perfectly, like one of the many clocks that watched them from the walls. He didn’t realize how much he’d grown to like it. How much he looked forward to seeing Oscar and listening to him teach and grumble. He didn’t want to be kicked out of that world but figured his kick might have done just that.

  Ray did what he normally did. Knocked twice and walked in. He slowly crept his way past the untouched parlor into the lights of the living room. As he leaned in the doorway, he looked around and found that world already gone. Oscar’s workbench once littered with scrap metal and tools was wiped cleaned. All the tools, nails, nuts, and screws had been put away. Olive’s paint station returned to its original state as a dining room chair. The clothesline that the letters hung from was no longer strung up between the lamp and the curtain rod. All the airplanes, racers, and zeppelins evacuated the fireplace mantel, making it look like an abandoned runway. Ray’s eyes searched in vain for the love pillow. It too was gone. The happy Christmas chaos of Oscar’s house seemed to vanish overnight. It no looker looked like Santa’s workshop, but a widower’s living room.

  Oscar stood in the corner of the room with his back to Ray. He held a piece of paper in
his hand and appeared to be counting items in a large cardboard box. Ray cleared his throat to let Oscar know he was in the room but that did not cause him to turn around. Instead, Oscar stuck his arm out to silence Ray as he continued to count. Ray watched him finish, write down something on the paper, then fold the corners of the box shut. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the box in thought. Ray could hardly breathe as he waited for Oscar’s well-deserved wrath.

  But it did not come. Oscar looked out the bay window at something Ray could not see. After what seemed like an hour, he spoke.

  “When I was a boy, a long time ago, I walked into my neighbor’s shed after he had just killed a buck. I can still see him hanging from the rafter. What a beautiful creature. He seemed as big as an elephant to me at the time. And he had the most majestic set of antlers,” Oscar said as he stretched his fingers out over his head. “Well, as a boy, I was upset. I had never seen anything that large dead so I ran home, sat on my bunk and cried.” Oscar turned and looked at Ray. “I was a pretty wimpy kid in those days.”

  Ray let out a little smile as Oscar continued. “My father came in and told me a story. He said that when every living creature is born, no matter if it’s a person, a porcupine, a bug, or a bird, Jesus sits down with them and tells them the greatest struggles they will ever face in their life. Lays it all out there for them. The thing is, they must agree to it before they can be born. If they think it’s too hard or too painful, well then they can say ‘no thanks,’ hang around in heaven and fly around from cloud to cloud playing their little harp thingy,” Oscar said as he plucked the air. “My father said that before every deer agrees to be born Jesus tells them the same thing. That out of all the animals around, they are destined to be the greatest gift to his people. He will tell the stag or doe that their body will be used for meat. Their skin for warmth. Their head for sport. That their voice will never be loud enough to cry out. Their antlers were not made to defend themselves against their greatest hunters. No expression on their face will warrant sympathy. And none of their deaths will be mourned.”

  “Sounds like a raw deal to me,” Ray interjected.

  “Yeap. Sure does.” Oscar turned around and faced Ray. His eyes looked tired. “But, because they were so good to his beloved humans, they would go to a separate heaven. The heaven for those who gave their lives for another. Whether it’s animal or human. They would not have to wait by the pearly gates. They would not have to answer St. Peter’s questions. They would just…show up. And he’d be there to greet them when they did.”

  “Did that make you feel any better?” Ray asked. “You know, when you were a kid?”

  “Of course not! I still cried like a ninny. It’s a horrible thing to tell a child after they see a dead animal. But you know something, Raymond, I believe it. Crazy enough, the older I get, the more I think that’s true. That we know the path of our lives before we let out our first wail. We know every pain and heartache before it ever happens. And we agreed to it.”

  “Why?” asked Ray.

  “Because we know the love we get in return will be worth it. It will be worth it to be a mechanic in a tiny town. Or a clockmaker. Or a mother. Or a girl who wears thick glasses.”

  “Or a dad,” Ray said, looking down at his hands. “Or a kid whose dad dies.”

  Oscar smiled a tired smile. “Or Santa Claus.”

  Ray looked back up at Oscar. What he said made sense. It sounded right. Even though his dad was gone, he wouldn’t trade him for any dad living. Not Mr. Goldsmith or Mick or even Oscar. If Jesus told him to pick a dad, he’d pick Henry Lee Kozak every time, hands down. Ten years with him would be better than a hundred without. Oscar was right. Santa was right.

  “Oscar, are we done?” Ray asked quietly. Oscar looked around the room filled with clean surfaces and boxed up toys. His gaze settled back on Ray as he let out a breath.

  “Well, that depends on you,” he said. “I told you I would need some help with the sled. You feel up to helping me paint?”

  A smile stretched across Ray’s face as he stood up straight.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Ugh, don’t call me that,” Oscar growled as he hobbled past Ray towards the cellar door. He patted his shoulder as he walked past. “Grab a smock and let’s get to it.”

  Ray followed Oscar down into the cellar stairs. The sled was now pulled out of the small room and sat in the center of the cellar. Its blades pointed towards the wood slabs that rested on the stairs leading up and out of the exterior cellar doors. Ray stood beside the sled and admired it from end to end. The sled looked nothing like the gnarled mass of a few weeks ago. The shiny silver runners looked sleek against the freshly sanded wooden frame. Ray ran his hand over the curve of the carriage. The wood curled and arched like a wave frozen before it broke on a shore. The black leather tufted seat inside looked just as nice as any interior Ray had ever seen in a Cadillac. Oscar opened a can of fire engine red paint and handed Ray a paintbrush.

  “I do what I can reach. You can do underneath. I’m not that small…or thin,” he said as he placed the can on the floor. “Don’t let paint get on anything that isn’t wood, a drop cloth, or you,” he said as he laced up his smock. Ray grabbed the brush and hustled underneath the carriage. He dipped the brush in the paint, wiped the end and stopped. He could only see Oscar’s wide legs from under the belly of the carriage.

  “Hey, Oscar,” he called out.

  “Don’t tell me you got paint on the runner already?”

  “No,” he said as he sucked in a breath. Ray wanted to say that he didn’t mean to yell at him or kick a hole in his pillow. He didn’t mean to accuse Oscar of lying to him or make him feel bad. Or make him admit he was Santa when he wasn’t ready. He wanted to say that he was sorry. As sorry as he was for yelling at Tommy Goldsmith. As sorry he was for making Olive sad. Maybe even more so. But all Ray could squeak out were three simple, quiet words.

  “I’ll miss this.”

  He heard the shush of strokes from Oscar’s paintbrush stop. Ray waited to hear if he would say anything. Finally, his old voice spoke three words in return.

  “Me too, son.”

  After an hour of painting, Ray left Oscar’s floating on air. He didn’t know if the feeling came from the fumes of the paint from his basement or being forgiven for the worst thing he’d ever done. Or maybe it was because Christmas was only two days away. There would be nothing under the tree he would care about but his heart still seemed hopeful. Hopeful that something good would come. He walked into the door and saw his mother and Olive at the kitchen table. His mother wore her hair like she did at the shop, piled on top of her head in a tight knot. Thimbles topped on her fingertips as she pulled a needle and thread through a black glove. Olive sat next to her, her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her knuckles.

  “What are you doing?” Ray asked as he hovered over his mother.

  “Making a birthday gift for John Charles,” said Olive proudly. “Those were my dad’s.”

  “What? But he can’t wear gloves.”

  “He’ll wear these,” Olive said as his mother cut off one of the fingers. “And we won’t add the kittens.”

  Ray held up one of the finished gloves. Half of the fingers were sewn together while one finger looked drastically shorter than the other four. It looked crazy. As crazy as John Charles’s hands.

  “It will be his most favorite birthday gift ever,” Olive said.

  Ray’s mother looked up at Ray with her eyebrow raised. Ray’s face lit up. She was right. It would be his most favorite gift ever. Then a thought popped into Ray’s head.

  “Hey, Mom, when you’re done, could you help me with something?”

  CHAPTER 29

  Christmas Eve – Southold, New York, 1944

  Downtown Southold was abuzz from more than just Christmas spirit. After every greeting and well wishes for a Merr
y Christmas came talk of the storm expected to hit during the night on Christmas Eve. People’s fears of midnight mass being canceled due to the storm caused a small panic in town. There was a rush on scallops and turkeys as people found themselves doubling up on their groceries in case they couldn’t make it to their relative’s home Christmas Eve night or Christmas morning.

  Ray accompanied his mother as they rushed around Main Street, dropping off peanut brittle to the women who worked at the dress shop and a large tin of cookies at Mick’s garage. After they got through the hour-long line for bread at Bohack’s Grocery they finally ventured to Oscar’s house to drop off his Christmas present.

  Ray helped his mother take the gift from the backseat as they both carried it to his front door. For the first time, the lights were off and the curtains in the bay window were drawn. No one was home at Oscar’s.

  “He didn’t say he was going anywhere for Christmas,” Ray said as he held his face up to the glass door. He tried to search through a small window but only saw the dark, lonely parlor.

  “He’s probably on line at Bohack’s,” she said as they gently placed the red and silver wrapped package under the small awning. “You think we should leave it here with the storm coming?”

  “Nope, he’ll be back. He’s got things to do tonight,” Ray said. “I’m sure of it.”

  That evening, Ray and his mother went to church, then across town to their Aunt Carol’s and Uncle Bill’s farm on Young’s Avenue. Their Polish Christmas Eve dinner of twelve different types of fish, breaking the opłatek, the blessed Christmas wafer, and exchanging gifts was cut short by the howl coming through the cracks of the doors. The snow and stray leaves that didn’t have a chance to hit the ground cluttered the air as the wind whipped anything up that it could carry. Before the weather got bad, his mother and Ray jumped into their Ford and made it safely home.