The Toymaker

by Sergio Gomez

  Victor elbowed through the crowd flowing out of the classroom and sidled up next to Twist. He held his hand out, palm up, wiggling his fingers. “Pencil.”

  Twist handed it back with a grin. “I licked it, you know.”

  “Whatever. So, what are we doing, man? My mom’s off from work today. She already said she could drive me over to your place.”

  Victor had been friends with Twist ever since elementary school, but now that Twist was officially a teenager he didn’t have as much time to hang out with Victor because his dad had him doing more chores around the house. In response to this, Victor had gotten pushier about them hanging out. It was strange, and made Twist not want to hang out with him, ever. Still, Victor could be fun when he wasn’t being too much of a Poindexter, so they still hung out sometimes.

  “Me and my friend Jack are going to ride bikes when I got home.”

  “Who’s Jack?”

  “A kid from the city who just moved in across the street from us.”

  They went out into the hall, where the crowd from the classrooms had dispersed as all the kids had started to head for the exits.

  “Wow, a city boy, huh?” Victor said, like it was something special. “Is he like us?”

  “What do you mean? He’s our age, yeah.”

  “No. I mean, does he talk funny or walk funny, or something?”

  “He’s just like you and me, Victor. Talks normal. Walks normal.”

  “Cool. Can I come with you guys?”

  They stopped in the middle of an intersection in the hallway, since Victor’s locker was on the other side of the school. Twist saw the hope in his eyes, and there really wasn’t any reason to say no.

  “Yeah, sure, Vic. Be at my house at one, okay? If you’re late we’ll leave you behind. Got it?”

  Victor’s face lit up. “You got it! I’ll get there as fast as I can. Want me to bring muffins?”

  “Muffins? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Victor shrugged. “My dad makes good muffins. Banana nut, blueberry, cranberry—”

  “Victor, shut up.” Twist said. Then he reconsidered. “Yes, bring some muffins.”

  “Cool!” he put his fist out, and Twist obliged with an unenthused bump. “See you in a few.”

  “Yeah,” Twist said, “see ya.”

  Victor headed in the direction of his locker, whistling to himself.

  What a weird kid. Twist thought, heading the other way. But he wasn’t going to his locker. He had one important stop before that.

  Tommy Marino was hanging out in front of his locker, chatting it up to Betsy Kline and Paige Silverstein, trying to setup a time when he and the girls could get together to drink some beers. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Twist heading toward them.

  “Hey girls, if you don’t mind, I got some business I have to attend to.”

  The girls giggled, because they knew what he meant, and moved a few lockers down to continue their conversation without him.

  “Yo, Twist!” he called to him as he came down the hallway. “What’s going on, my man?”

  “Hey, Tommy,” Twist said, slapping Tommy a high five.

  Tommy Marino was almost sixteen years old but still in middle school because of an inability to pass the eighth grade. He didn’t seem to care, however, and neither did his parents. They’d just bought him a new leather jacket and a motorbike that he drove to school (the only student vehicle in the middle school parking lot) as early birthday presents, in fact.

  “What can I do for you, my man?” Tommy asked, putting his arm around Twist and guiding him closer to the locker.

  “Got any cigs?” Twist asked.

  “If you’ve got the mullah, my main man.” Tommy slipped his arm away from Twist and half turned to his locker, waiting for Twist to produce the money.

  “Five bucks,” Twist said, holding up a thin stack of one-dollar bills.

  Tommy took them and counted them. “Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. That gets you two.”

  “Shit,” Twist said, not realizing Tommy had jacked his prices up. The plan was to have a smoke while they rode their bikes to the lake, but now with Victor coming he didn’t have enough cash to buy one for all of them. He couldn’t exactly uninvite him at this point. That ship had sailed.

  But then again, Vic was probably too much of a punk to want one anyway.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down. You’re my main man, Twist, don’t forget that.” Tommy folded the bills and put them into his leather jacket, then he slipped his arm around Twist’s shoulders again. “How many you need?”

  “I was thinking four.”

  “You hooked on them or something?”

  Twist shook his head. Truth was, this was only the second cigarette he’d ever smoked since the beginning of summer when he bought his first one off Tommy. “I’m hanging out with friends and thought I could share.”

  Tommy grinned. “Is Homeschool one of them?”

  “Homeschool” was the nickname Tommy gave to one of Twist’s neighbors, a fourteen-year-old blond girl named Gina that lived at the end of his street. It was an apt nickname, considering she was homeschooled, but since she didn’t go to their school, that meant Tommy’s only chance at seeing her was when he was in Twist’s neighborhood.

  “Yeah, but two others are coming with us.” he told him. “A city kid that just kind of moved into my neighborhood and Victor Tanner.”

  Tommy didn’t seem interested in the other names. “Where you hanging out?”

  “We’re riding bikes down to Lake Myers.”

  “What time?”

  “Right after school.”

  Tommy looked at Betsy and Paige. They both were lost in their own conversation. Laughing and gossiping it up. Even still, he leaned in closer to Twist and whispered, “Can I come?”

  Twist’s eyes grew big. “Um, yeah, Tommy. Sure.”

  It was odd that Tommy Marino was asking if he could hang out with him. Tommy Marino, who could hang out with anyone in the whole school. He really must’ve had the hots for Gina.

  “Alright, alright,” Tommy grabbed the five bills from his leather jacket and slapped them against Twist’s shoulder, “tell you what, Twist, these two are on the house.”

  “Really?”

  Tommy laughed. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Wow, thanks Tommy,” Twist said. “I need four, though.”

  “Don’t get greedy, Slick.” Tommy said. “I’ll bring my own carton and take care of the others. But bring yours cuz I don’t want to deplete my supply, you feel me?”

  “Yeah,” Twist said. He knew what Tommy was doing. He wanted to take out his pack of cigarettes to show off in front of Gina.

  Tommy spun around, punched in the combination to open the lock hanging from his locker, and took out a carton of Marlboro cigarettes. He kept it inside his leather jacket until he looked down the hall to make sure no teacher or custodian was roaming around, then took the carton out and shook two cigarettes from the box and handed them to Twist.

  “Don’t go smoking them all at once now,” Tommy said.

  “I won’t.”

  Twist shoved them into his pockets, feeling one of them bend out of shape. He felt silly for being so careless with them, but this wasn’t a regular thing he handled.

  “Don’t worry, they’re tough, you can still smoke ’em even if they’re bent to shit.” Tommy said, reading the expression on his face.

  Somehow it was more embarrassing that Tommy had noticed his mess up. Twist nodded, then without another word started down the hall toward his locker.

  “In front of your house, right?” Tommy called after him.

  Twist turned and called back, “Yeah.”

  Tommy gave him a thumbs-up.

  Chapter 8

  It felt like in the eight hours he had been asleep, (or was it seven? Or six? Maybe less? He couldn’t remember what time he’d fallen asleep) there had been a paradigm shift. Not just in his life, but in the whole world.

  The sunlig
ht creeping in through the gaps in the blinds of his bedroom was brighter. The birds outside chirped happier, flew through the air with more vigor.

  Even his house, which he hadn’t thoroughly cleaned in about a week, smelled better this morning. Like the Pine Sol had been waiting until this moment to seep out between the cracks of the floor to lend a pleasant aroma to the house.

  His son was finished.

  Raymond shot up out of bed, quicker and with less attention to his aching back than he had shown in years, and put on his slippers. He shuffled into the bathroom—first thing was first, brush your teeth when you wake up, like Mother always told him.

  So, he did. It was the longest brush of his life, but he made sure to get the back molars and both rows for at least two minutes.

  Then it was time.

  The moment of truth, as they said on those television drama shows.

  “Raymond Gibson, toymaker and father.” He almost sang that to himself as he went from the bathroom to his workshop.

  A feeling that someone else was in the house with him crept through him. Before, he might’ve thought it was a robber in here, one of those rednecks from the sticks around town, but not this time. Raymond knew exactly why he had that feeling this time.

  He opened the door. His son sat on the edge of the desk where he’d left him last night, just like the good boy he was. Behind him sunlight beamed through the window like a spotlight—illuminating and accentuating the beauty of his creation.

  “My son. My son. I like the ring of that,” Raymond said, stepping next to the dummy. “Hope the night wasn’t too scary.”

  “Not at all, Father. All of your other creations kept me company.”

  The dummy’s head moved to look at him.

  Raymond almost jumped backward, then realized his hand was in the dummy’s back. Of course it was, that’s how he made him talk.

  Stop being a cuckoo brain, Raymond.

  “Ah, you were indeed in good company with Mayor Humphrey, Santa Claus and his reindeer, the little drummer boy,” Raymond looked around his workshop, listing off the things he saw one at a time.

  “All made by your hand, Father?”

  “All made by my hand, just like you were.”

  The dummy nodded.

  “You need a name, my son.” Raymond laughed. “As much as I like how ‘my son’ sounds, you need a name. Any ideas for one that suits you?”

  The dummy’s eyes stared back at him with a blank expression.

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t name yourself. No one names themselves. That’s the burden of a parent,” Raymond said, taking his hand out of the puppet and easing into his workshop chair. “I’ve never been very good at naming things, I’m afraid.”

  He stared at the puppet for a few minutes, waiting for the same force that had guided him into building it to help name him.

  Blond hair, black eyes, lips curled into a smile, red and yellow striped shirt… No, nothing.

  Raymond started looking around the workshop for any sort of inspiration. Just tools, nuts, bolts, pieces of wood, machinery, and of course his creations surrounded him—but nothing was jumping out.

  On his work desk sat his drill and a pile of drill bits. Amongst the drill bits was a small bottle of oil. There was lettering on it, but it was obscured by black streaks. Raymond wet his thumb with the tip of his tongue and wiped the oil away.

  At the top was the name of the company, written in blue letters inside of a blue circle: LUCAS, OIL PRODUCTS INC. Underneath that was a description of it being HEAVY DUTY and a guarantee of satisfaction.

  Raymond had never considered what brand motor oil he bought, never even noticed the name on the bottle until now. He always just bought whatever Harry’s had on sale. There was no possible way for him to have known when he was buying this particular bottle that it was fate guiding his hand.

  His son’s name had been here this whole time. Probably for years, staring him in the face, since he didn’t use the oil much and couldn’t remember the last time he bought any. It only proved to him, even more so, that the dummy had a soul of its own, and that its spirit had somehow resided in this room this whole time.

  “Lucas,” Raymond said, jumping out of his chair. “That’s your name, Son. Lucas.”

  “I like the sound of that, Father.” Lucas said back to him.

  Raymond nodded, and picked him up. He swung him around, the way he’d seen grandfathers on Aleve commercials on television do to their grandkids.

  Except, this wasn’t his grandkid. This was his son.

  “Lucas! My son Lucas!”

  He laughed.

  And so did Lucas.

  Chapter 9

  “Mom said you’re not ’upposed to go anywhere,” Anya shouted out to her sister, sticking just half her body out of the house. The screen door was held open by one of her tiny feet.

  “Shut up, Anya!” Gina called back to her. “Go back inside.”

  Anya took a bite out of the Fudgsicle that was melting onto her hand, then switched it over to her other hand and wiped her sticky fingers down the front of her shirt, adding more stains to Minnie and Mickey’s faces.

  “No,” Anya insisted in her toughest nine-year-old voice. “You’re ’upposed to be watching me until Mom gets home.”

  “Get your butt in the house and watch TV until I get back or I’ll chicken-wing you until Thanksgiving.”

  “You won’t.”

  “The heck I won’t,” Gina said, hitting the kickstand on her bike free with the heel of her sneaker and got off the bike to let her know she meant business.

  “How are you going to go the lake if you’re chicken-wingin’ me?”

  “I’ll do it when I come back, you bed-pisser.”

  Being called a bed-pisser changed everything. She hadn’t done that in three years, it wasn’t fair for Gina to still hang that over her head. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll tell Mom you left me in the house by myself.”

  “Okay, okay.” Gina knew she was going to have to give her sister something or she would never get out of here. “How about this. If you go inside right now and don’t tell Mom on me, I’ll take you to the arcade this weekend.”

  Anya lit up with a smile, exposing the missing teeth in her mouth. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “You pinky promise?”

  “I’m not going up the porch to pinky promise, but yes, Anya. I promise.”

  “Alright…” Anya squinted at her, but started retreating into the house. “You better not be lying, Gina.”

  “I’m not. Now go inside.”

  Finally, Anya did as she was told.

  Shaking her head, Gina turned back to Victor, who’d been watching the squabbling with great amusement.

  “You and Oliver are lucky you don’t have a dumb little sister,” Gina said, puffing air out of her nose.

  Victor chuckled his agreement. “You really taking her to the arcades?”

  It was a well-known fact around Dutch County that anyone under the age of twelve wasn’t cool enough to be there. And being seen with someone under twelve was a death sentence to your reputation.

  Gina shook her head. “I don’t know. Probably not, she’ll likely forget I even said that by the time we come back.”

  “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

  “Who cares?” Gina said, sitting down on the lawn to tighten up her kneepads.

  Victor shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

  “What time did you guys get out of school?” she asked him.

  “Noon.”

  “And Twist said to meet him at one?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  She looked down at her black Power Rangers watch. It was only 12:45. “Why’d you get here so early?”

  Victor smirked. “I told my mom to drive me to your neighborhood after we got home. I only went home to get my bike, then we came over here.”

  “Jeez, loser,”
Gina said, laughing. Victor laughed too, but she saw there was genuine pain in his eyes, so she punched him in the arm. “Just kidding, you’re cool in my eyes.”

  Some of that was the truth, though. Victor was an oddball, alright, but Twist liked him, so Gina liked him, too.

  “Hey,” she said, to lighten the mood. “Race you around the block and then to Twist’s house?”

  “Fine,” Victor said, settling into his bike seat. He didn’t like playing games or doing anything against her because he didn’t like to admit to himself that he lost to a girl, and he always lost to her.

  Gina tied her hair into a bun and put her helmet on. Then walked over and punched Victor on the arm again before hopping onto her bike. “I’ll go easy, don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, right.” She always said that, and he always lost anyway.

  Twist was surprised (though, knowing Vic, he shouldn’t have been) to see Victor pedaling behind Gina down his street.

  Even from here he could hear his huffing and puffing and see his red face.

  “Come on Vic, put some pep into it!” Twist called out, laughing.

  Gina looked over her shoulder, and saw Victor was pedaling faster now that Twist was here.

  No friggin’ way. Gina thought, seeing Victor gaining on her.

  She pedaled faster, tearing down the final stretch of the street, leaving Victor behind in her dust.

  “Winner, winner!” Gina called out, laughing.

  She hit the brakes as she drew near Twist and stuck her hand out to receive a high five.

  Twist slapped it.

  The tires on Gina’s bike screeched as she made a U-turn to see where Victor was. He was just crossing the house next to Twist’s. His pedaling had slowed since he knew the race was over already.

  “Come on, slowpoke.” Twist hollered.

  Victor pulled up to the curb in front of Gina. Between panted breaths he said, “No fair, I have asthma.”

  “Asthma, shmazma,” Gina said, “You got burned.”

  “I’ll win next time.”

  “Oh, is that right? Wanna race to the lake?”

  Victor ignored the challenge, and changed the subject. “Where’s your friend, Twist?”