The Toymaker

by Sergio Gomez

  Jack had never felt more like a city boy until now. He felt like he was being transported into another world when they entered the woods. A world that up until now he thought only existed in Bob Ross paintings and faraway lands.

  The foliage surrounding the path was so dense that it may as well have been the walls of a tunnel. The trees were tall, with thick barks. Their leaves had turned late-Autumn shades of orange and yellow, and brown.

  Underneath their feet, leaves of the same color, nutshells, pieces of dried fruit, and twigs crunched as they trekked down the path. Birds twittered in the treetops, and some flew over their heads, flying from one tree to another as they heard people marching toward them.

  “Wow,” Jack said, “this is incredible.”

  The tone he’d used made all of them turn to look at him like he’d just sprouted an extra head.

  “He’s from the city,” Twist explained to them.

  “Oh yeah,” Victor said. “you did mention that to me.”

  “Oh, shoot, really? Get out.” Tommy said, turning all the way around to face them and stopping. The rest of them halted in front of him.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, “I live in Philadelphia. I’m only visiting my dad over the Fall break.”

  “Damn. The City of Brotherly Love,” Tommy said, staring out into space. “That’s rad.”

  “I don’t see things like this very often,” Jack explained to them.

  “But you have cheesesteaks, so that’s awesome,” Tommy said.

  They all laughed—even Gina. Tommy winked at her in this moment of glory.

  Then he turned back around and kept them moving down the path. “Well, wait until you see Laker Myers, City Boy. You might never want to go back to Philadelphia.”

  Thinking of his mom and the ensuing fights that would happen between her and Dad because of him, Jack thought Tommy might be right.

  Victor sidled up next to Jack. “You ever meet Rocky Balboa?”

  Gina and Twist both snickered.

  “What?” Victor asked.

  “Rocky isn’t a real person, you bonehead,” Gina told him.

  “I know that, Gina! I just can’t think of the guy who played him—”

  “Sylvester Stallone,” Twist said.

  “Yeah, him,” Vic nodded, then back to Jack said, “You ever meet him?”

  “Why would he have met him?” Twist said. “Sylvester Stallone doesn’t live in Philadelphia just because he played Rocky.”

  “Uhh, whatever,” Victor said.

  Jack smiled, then shook his head. “Nope, Vic, I never met him.”

  “Oh. Well, what’s the best cheesesteak place?” Victor asked next, thinking that would be a good question since Tommy had brought up cheesesteaks.

  Jack shrugged. “Not sure. There’re lots of good spots.”

  Twist could tell Victor was about to bombard Jack with more questions, and Gina was perched and ready to make fun of him at any stupid question, so he took this opportunity to break away from the group. He ran up to Tommy’s side and put his arm around his shoulders.

  “Hey, Tommy, did you remember to bring the cigs?”

  Tommy patted the pocket of his leather jacket where he kept them. “’Course I did, my main man. I’m a man of my word.”

  “Alright, cool,” Twist said, then fell back to walk along with the others.

  Gina stopped near a bush and said, “Hey, City Boy!”

  “Huh? Jack said.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  “You ever see one of these?” she said as she hurtled something at him.

  The blur coming toward him was black and about the size of a thumb. Jack stepped back, and swatted at it with one hand.

  The blur hit the ground and skidded to a stop a few inches away from Jack’s foot. It was a big bug, its beady black eyes staring up at him, though it was dead. Its body was shriveled up and broken, only held together by some dried up guts. Its legs were splayed about as if someone or something had stomped on it, but not hard enough to squish the bug, just enough to make its legs stick out. One of its wings was poking out from behind it, and that too was broken like a piece of glass.

  Twist stepped next to Jack and said, “It’s just a cicada. No big deal.”

  Jack shook his head. “Nope.”

  It didn’t look much different than the roaches that infested the apartment his dad lived in after the divorce, actually. Nothing to be afraid of.

  “Well,” Gina said, getting next to Jack, “ever see one?”

  “Kinda looks like a giant cricket, but no. Never seen one before now,” Jack said.

  Gina hit him on the arm lightly and smiled at him. “Get that look off your face, City Boy. I was just messin’.”

  “Try to be funny if you’re going to mess with someone,” Twist said to her.

  Jack laughed, and Vic, who’d stopped only a few seconds ago to see what would go down, also laughed.

  The only one not laughing was Gina. She rolled her eyes, walking passed them. “You boys get your feelings hurt so easily.”

  Twist and Jack looked at one another, and grinned.

  “No one got their feelings hurt Gina, you’re just not funny.” Oliver called after her.

  Gina spun around and gave him the finger. “How’s that for funny?”

  They all laughed again, including Gina.

  Tommy had been too far ahead of the group to hear them, and turned around when he heard the ruckus. “You guys comin’ or what?”

  In response, the rest of the gang picked up the pace.

  Chapter 13

  Back when she was thirteen, Maria’s family had moved back to Mexico for about two years. Those had been fond years for her, filled with good times exploring the barrios, beaches, pyramids, and nightclubs. It was some of the best times of her life because it gave her a new perspective on cultures when she and her family returned to the US.

  There was one thing that stood out from that experience, though, which wasn’t such a fond memory. There’d been an old woman who lived at the end of the road of the neighborhood named Doña Perla.

  Her house, like many of the poor people’s houses where her family was from, was a shanty structure made of brick and sheets of wood haphazardly thrown together to make walls. As far as anyone knew, there weren’t even rooms in the house, it was just a big rectangle where the old woman slept in one corner, cooked in another (where the smoke came out from the roof), and went to the bathroom in the backwoods.

  Word was that she was a long-time widow with her only company being a black cat. A cat that wasn’t even entirely hers because it could be seen walking about the neighborhood at all hours of the day. It only came to her house when it was feeding time, or when it was raining, or when it felt like it late at night.

  She had long gray hair that looked as rough as a wire sponge, and she was always wearing the same long-sleeved purple shirt with a gray skirt. People didn’t see her very often during the day, mainly she only came out to water the wispy garden around her hut.

  Maria could still remember when she and her friends would walk by there at nights, when they were going to the local candy lady’s house to buy bags of chicharron and Carlos V bars, their conversations would turn into whispers. Their laughter, if any, would die off. They’d almost be tiptoeing as they walked by Doña Perla’s, regarding the odd structure with wary eyes—even if they weren’t letting it ruin their fun entirely.

  There was something that came from that house. Maybe it was all in her heads from the rumors spread about the lady throughout the village, but Doña Perla fit the textbook definition of a witch. She’d been terrified that getting too close to the place would curse her, or maybe just staring at it for too long would do the trick.

  Either way, it was a feeling reminiscent of her early teen years in Mexico that Maria felt as she watched Mr. Gibson walking up their driveway carrying a ventriloquist doll under his arm.

  “Miss Rodriguez,” he waved to her. “Good evening. May I come
in?”

  “Yeah, of course, Mr. Gibson.” She regarded the doll in his arms, but didn’t want to be rude.

  The old man opened the gate and went through it.

  “Is Mr. Roberts home?” he asked, climbing the porch steps.

  Maria started to put away the windchimes she was going to hang back into the box. “Yes, he’s here. Can I help you with something, Mr. Gibson?”

  Raymond noticed her eyes dart to the doll when she asked that, and he figured he should address it. “No, no. just wanted to show off my latest creation. I’m a toymaker, as you may know.”

  “Mm-hmm, yes. Scott told me he saw some in your window. That’s very neat.”

  The old man stopped a few feet away from her. He had a slight slouch to his posture, but he was still tall. His hands looked strong, probably from wielding a hammer and tightening screws and nuts all his life.

  Raymond smiled, a proud smile, as he hauled Lucas up. He sat him on the railing of the porch and said, “All of my creations pale in comparison to this one, though.”

  “A ventriloquist doll,” Maria said, trying to act impressed. She could tell Mr. Gibson had put a lot of work into this. “You’re a man of many talents, huh?”

  “Oh no, Miss Rodriguez. I’m no ventriloquist.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “It’s just—” He turned to look at her, snapping himself out of whatever trance he seemed to have been putting himself into. “Have you ever heard of Buddy Killian?”

  “Yes, the comedian?” Maria said.

  “Exactly. I watched him perform, and it was like the dummies had a life of their own.”

  “I see,” Maria said again. Instinctively she stepped away from him and toward the front door. “Mr. Gibson, would you like me to go and get Scott for you?”

  “I could come inside,” he said, turning back to her with a grin. “Maybe put on a ventriloquist show for you two. Like I said, I’m not a ventriloquist, but I wouldn’t mind taking a crack at it.”

  “Um.” Maria moved another step closer to the door. “Let me see what Scott has to say about it.”

  Raymond put his hand inside of Lucas and made him say, “Okie-dokie, but don’t keep us waiting too long, pretty lady.”

  With more haste than was probably courteous, she headed inside and climbed the stairs two at a time.

  “Scott! Scott!” she called. Her voice was more panicked than she intended it to be, but something about how Mr. Gibson was acting had her alarmed.

  She marched down the hallway and found him painting with a roller in the spare room. He had the radio tuned to some rock station. It wasn’t loud, but it’d been enough for him not to hear her until she was standing next to him, calling his name.

  “Whoa, hey babe,” he said, putting the roller down on the pan. “What’s up?”

  “Mr. Gibson is downstairs with one of his toys.”

  He bunched his eyebrows at the way she said that. There was obviously something wrong. Her usually caramel complexion had a pallid look to it, and there was gooseflesh raised on her arm.

  “Okay,” Scott said. “Let me wash some of this off and put on a new shirt, and I’ll come downstairs.”

  “Can I stay up here with you?”

  “Are you serious? Maria, what’s going on? Did he do something to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Say something?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  “Then why are you acting funny?”

  She bit her bottom lip and shrugged. “You have to promise not to laugh at me.”

  “Go ahead, hit me with your best.” He said, relaxing a little.

  “He has a weird doll with him.”

  Scott couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Maria smacked him on the shoulder. “Come on Scott, I’m serious. It’s—”

  “Creepy.” Scott teased. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Maria, just go and keep our guest company while I get some of this paint off, okay?” he said.

  “Fine. But if he gets too weird, I’m running back up here until you go down with me.”

  Scott laughed again, then leaned in and pecked her on the lips. “If Mr. Gibson’s doll bites you, I’ll let you get you a kitten to make up for it.”

  Maria’s eyes lit up. “Do you mean that?”

  Scott nodded. “I think the chances of both are exactly zero per cent.”

  “It’s a ventriloquist dummy, so we’ll see about that.”

  “Great,” Scott said, “so the chances just went up to one per cent. Just go down. You’ll be fine.”

  Maria laughed, and put her arms around his neck, not caring if she got any paint on herself. She kissed him on the lips, longer than a peck, then leaned away. He always knew how to make her feel better. It was part of the reason she loved him.

  “He wants to put on a ventriloquist show for us,” Maria said.

  “Oh Lord Almighty, now I’m hoping the dummy bites him.”

  “Don’t keep us waiting too long, okay?” she said, slipping her arms off him.

  “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  Mr. Gibson had his nose almost pressed against the screen door when Maria returned downstairs. His big, happy grin was still screwed onto his face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Gibson, I should’ve let you in before. Excuse my manners,” Maria said, opening the door to let him in.

  The old man came into the house, with the dummy tucked underneath his arm. “Ah, no worries young lady. No worries at all.”

  “Wait. Your dad lives in 1418 Dudley Street?” Tommy asked.

  “Yeah,” Jack replied.

  They were sitting around the lakeshore, on a series of boulders that nature had situated into a perfect seating arrangement for the kids of Dutch County to hang out in. It was too cold to swim, but it wasn’t too cold to admire the beauty and serenity that surrounded them.

  Lake Myer’s surface was crystal clear, and you could see all the way to the bottom. See every piece of algae bobbing with the movements of the water, see every sharp rock that might cut your foot, see all of the fish darting around and pecking between pebbles for food, see the crawfish in the shallow parts sprinting in and out of their hiding places. The sounds in the path leading to the lake were the same out here, only more expansive and amplified, making the birds’ chirps prettier, the rodents’ scurries more frantic, the leaves rustling in the wind louder.

  “But you don’t live there, right?” Tommy asked.

  Jack shook his head. “I live in Philly with my mom.”

  “Good,” Tommy said, then looked away as if the subject didn’t interest him anymore, but there was still more to be asked later. It was a trick he used often—particularly when talking to girls—to get his audience more interested in what he was saying.

  “Why?” Victor asked.

  Tommy heard the eager interest in his voice, and mustered all the self-control he had to keep from grinning. He gave them his best “poker face” as his dad called it, and answered Victor’s question. “Cuz, I’ve heard things about 1418.”

  Gina groaned.

  “It’s OK, Homeschool,” Tommy said, looking across to where she sat. “If you get scared, you can come sit next to me.”

  “I’d rather drown in the lake,” she spat back.

  “Wait,” Twist said, “is this a spooky story?”

  “The spookiest.”

  Victor shook his head. “No way, don’t even tell it then. I don’t like scary stories.”

  “Don’t be a baby Vic,” Twist said, then reached into his shorts and pulled out two cigarettes. “I got something to calm us down.”

  “Since when do you smoke?” Victor asked.

  Twist blushed, and shrugged. “Since now, I guess.”

  “You ever smoke before?” Tommy asked Jack.

  “No,” Jack said. “My dad smokes, though. Not when I’m around, though. Just sometimes.”

&nbs
p; “You only brought two?” Gina asked.

  “I figured we could share.” Twist said, not meeting her eyes.

  “You don’t share cigs, dummy,” Gina laughed.

  “Of course, you would know,” Victor interjected, grinning.

  They all knew that Gina’s mother smoked about three packs a day.

  Before she could react, Tommy pulled out the box of Marlboro’s from his leather jacket. “Don’t worry guys, I brought a whole pack.”

  They all looked at the pack of cigarette like it was alive, like if at any minute it could jump out of Tommy’s hands and nip one of them on the ass. With even more amazement, they watched him open the box and shake out some cigarettes. He did it with the easy grace of someone who has done something many times; he looked cool and adult doing it.

  “For you,” he said to Victor, who was sitting to his left.

  Victor looked at it for a second, then snatched it from him before anyone could make fun of him for hesitating. He cupped both hands together and held it in them like he was holding onto a newborn puppy.

  “Jack,” Tommy said, reaching across to hand him one.

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t smoke. Thanks, though.”

  “Neither do we,” Victor said, glancing up from the cigarette and then looking back down at it to make sure it hadn’t disappeared.

  “Then why are we smoking?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know,” Victor said. “Why are we, Oliver?”

  “To welcome Jack to Dutch County,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Slick?”

  Twist shook his head. “I just thought it’d be a fun thing to do while we’re down by the river.”

  “Come on, just take this one. You don’t have to smoke ever again after this,” Tommy said, winking at Jack.

  Jack took it from him with two fingers and held it the way he’d seen his dad do dozens of times. The funny thing was, his dad was a smoker who was constantly in the midst of “quitting” but if he were to catch Jack smoking, he would kill him.

  Twist handed one of his cigarettes to Gina.

  She shrugged. “I don’t smoke anymore, but what the heck.”

  “So, you got a lighter, Twist?” Victor asked.