The Toymaker Page 6

  She went upstairs and right into the spare room, where she knew Scott would be. He’d changed into an old Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts quicker than she thought possible, and he was curling free weights.

  “Scott,” she said, stopping at the doorway, “what’s gotten into you?”

  He dropped the weights, harder than he’d intended. “She’s making my son do things without my approval, that’s what.”

  Maria took in a deep breath. “I understand that, but that’s no reason to take it out on Jack.”

  Scott started pacing back and forth. She hated when he did that, but she wasn’t going to let up.

  “You scared him and made him feel like he did something wrong.”

  That, at least, seemed to take some of the wind out of him. He sat down on the workout bench and ran his hand over his buzzcut. He sighed. “I know, I know. I fucked up.”

  “It’s alright,” Maria walked into the room and sat down next to him, throwing her arms over his shoulders, “just go downstairs and apologize to him. Tell him what you were feeling.”

  Scott nodded. “You’re right, I will. And tomorrow I’ll call Jenna’s house and leave a voicemail. I mean, she’s leaving tonight, but she’ll have an earful waiting for her when she gets back.”

  “How about you call her sister’s place and ask how her mother is doing first?”

  She loved him, but the fact that she loved him was the reason she knew he could be a hot head.

  “Yeah,” He sighed. “I guess now’s not the time to be a total dick.”

  Maria laughed in relief of seeing him cooling down. She stepped close to him and rubbed his arm. “But don’t do anything until tomorrow, okay? Until you sleep on it?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m going back into the kitchen to fix up lunch for tomorrow,” she said, getting up to lead the way. “You should come down now, too.”

  “Yeah, alright.” Scott got up.

  Together they went back downstairs.

  Chapter 16

  The scent of fresh sawdust mixed with the oil from the demo machines filled his nostrils as he went up and down the aisles, grabbing the supplies to build the dummy. It was a wonderful smell that was second in Raymond’s book only to actual tools hanging from the metal racks. Perhaps not a scent he’d want in a candle to aromatize his house with, but a pleasant smell, nonetheless.

  The only other time he could remember being this excited at a store was when he was a small boy and his parents took him to the candy store.

  The feeling of the hardware store beat out even that, really. Because this was the place where all of his creations started. The candy store was just a place filled with chocolates and taffies that would eventually hurt his teeth and upset his stomach.

  In here, though, it was like his next trusty sidekicks were all waiting for him: The shiny saws, the colorful screwdrivers, the boxes of nails and screws, the buckets of paint, all of them potential additions to his workshop. Without them, he wouldn’t be able to build his beloved toys.

  Half a pound of sweets didn’t have anything on that.

  For the moment, the comfort the tools provided was enough to numb the pain of Ernesto’s death. Enough that he found himself grinning as he pushed the shopping cart up to the register.

  Harry greeted him with a warm smile. “Hello there, Mr. Gibson, long time no see.”

  “Yeah, it has been a while, huh?” Raymond said, while he unloaded the cart and put his supplies on the counter.

  Harry watched him put the saw, the multiple boxes of screws, the quarts of paint, the sandpaper strips, and the metal rods on the counter with the expression of someone who was impressed.

  “Seems you’re making up for it.”

  “Starting on a new project,” Raymond said, putting the last bucket in front of Harry. He rubbed his palms together.

  “Is that so? What is it this time?”

  “You know that comedian Buddy Killian?” Raymond asked.

  “Sure do.”

  “I’m making a puppet like the kind he uses.”

  “Oooh, sweet mother of pearl.” Harry almost whistled the words. “That sounds like quite the task.”

  “It is,” Raymond said, nodding, and gazing at the supplies still on the counter, “which is why I need all new tools for it. Make sure it all goes right, you know?”

  “Well, you can trust I’m selling you only the best, Mr. Gibson.”

  “Of course,” Raymond said.

  Harry finished scanning all of the items and read the total to him. Raymond handed him three twenties and took his change, stuffing it haphazardly into a pocket. With the transaction done, Raymond grabbed his bags, and his smile grew.

  Harry waved to him as he started off toward the door. “You have fun building that dummy, Mr. Gibson, just don’t go killing yourself doing it, you hear? The store needs loyal customers like you to stay afloat.”

  “Oh, no need to worry about that,” Raymond laughed.

  Harry laughed, too.

  But the two were laughing for different reasons.

  Raymond said goodbye and exited the store. The bell jangled as the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 17

  Jack had stayed put just as Maria had asked him to. His elbows were up on the table, his cheeks pressed between his balled fists, and he stared through the bowl of fruit that decorated the table.

  Even though she had led the way down the stairs, now Maria hung back in the living room to give Scott and his son some privacy.

  Scott went into the kitchen and sat back down where he’d been at dinner. “Hey, bud.”

  Jack turned to him. “Are you still mad at me?”

  Scott shook his head, reached out and touched his son’s shoulder. “No, Jack. I wasn’t ever mad at you.”

  “You seemed mad.”

  “I was—still am, to tell you the truth—but not at you.”

  “At Mom?”

  Scott nodded. “Yeah, I don’t like that she’s making you do things you might not want to without asking me. Whether she likes it or not, raising you is a team effort.”

  “You guys definitely don’t like that,” Jack said.

  “Maybe not,” Scott moved his hand from his son’s shoulder to his hair and ruffled it. “But we both love you so much that we’ll learn to like it.”

  Jack grinned, and then pulled his head away from his dad’s hand. “You mean that?”

  “Of course, I do. And I’m going to try my best to do my part.” Scott said.

  Jack nodded. “So we’re cool now, right?”

  “Always were,” Scott said, then got up. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  As they crossed the street, Scott leaned over to Jack and in a low voice said, “Okay, I haven’t met Twist’s parents yet, so we’re both going to have to be on our best behavior.”

  “I’m always on my best behavior,” Jack told him.

  “Yeah, I hope so, kiddo.”

  “Maybe you should’ve worn something nicer, Dad.” Jack said.

  Scott looked down at his raggedy Nirvana t-shirt and gym shorts. “Oh, well. A little too late for that now.”

  They both laughed until they got to the Harpers’ porch. Scott rang the bell, while his other hand positioned the tray of cookies, so it’d be one of the first things the person who opened the door would see.

  The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door as someone got closer to it. The creaking stopped when an eye appeared in the peephole, staring at them for a few seconds before the door was opened.

  A big, tall man stood in front of them. He wore coveralls splashed with indiscernible stains and had a head of gray hair—another old timer of the neighborhood, though he appeared to be younger than Mr. Gibson by fifteen or twenty years.

  Scott extended his hand out. “Good evening, neighbor. I’m Scott Roberts, I just moved in across the street from you.”

  The pleasantries didn’t seem to affect the man’s face,
which was frozen into a scowl. His receding hairline and ruddy complexion didn’t help make him appear friendly. Not one bit.

  The man reached out and shook Scott’s hand. It felt like he was shaking hands with a catcher’s mitt. “Evening, son. I’m Bob Harper.”

  Someone behind him, with a small voice said, “Bob, who’s at the door? Is it the Girl Scout’s already? They get here earlier and earlier—”

  Mrs. Harper stopped when she saw it wasn’t the Girl Scouts, and closed her pocketbook. “Oh, excuse me dearies, who may you be?”

  Bob moved out of the way so that he and his wife were sharing the doorframe now.

  “They’re the new neighbors, Wilma,” he told her.

  “Oh, my! How lovely!” She extended her hand out to Scott. “I’m Wilma Harper, this is my husband, Robert Harper—”

  “He knows, Wilma.”

  “Oh fooey, leave me alone Bob. How was I supposed to know that?” Wilma laughed, then turned her attention back to Scott.

  Scott couldn’t help but grin at the banter and antics from the two. Small town folk surely were different from Philadelphians. Even if Mr. Harper looked like he was perpetually chewing on thumbtacks.

  “I’m Scott Roberts,” he said, shaking Wilma’s hand, “and this is my son Jack.”

  Jack shook both of their hands and said good evening to them. Scott was proud of him for remembering his manners.

  Mrs. Harper reached out and pinched his cheek. “And how old are you, young fellow?”

  “Thirteen,” he said, only barely grimacing.

  “Oh my, thirteen and already such a handsome boy. I bet you have lots of girlfriends, huh?” she winked, to let him know he didn’t need to answer that.

  “We just wanted to come by and give you guys this tray of cookies,” Scott said, holding them up higher.

  Mrs. Harper took them, like a hawk snatching up a field mouse. She peeled some of the saran wrap back to get a better look at the goodies. “Oh my, Robert, look at this. Chocolate chip, strawberry short-bread, sugar cookies, mmm.”

  Bob pointed a thumb at her. “She’s a sucker for sweets. She’ll have that tray finished by the time morning comes if I don’t watch her.”

  Except for Wilma, they all laughed.

  “But seriously, thank you,” Wilma said, “I’m going to go put the tray over in the kitchen and I’ll be right back. Don’t you two go running off, okay?”

  “We’ll be here, Mrs. Harper, don’t you worry about that,” Scott said.

  She disappeared into the house, which was only partially lit by a floor lamp and the glow of a small television in the middle of the living room.

  “We’re not keeping you from heading to bed, are we?” Scott asked.

  Bob shook his head. “No, sir. We still got about an hour before our old bones start screaming for us to retire to bed.”

  Scott nodded. “Ah, okay, just making sure. Hey, where’s your son?”

  “My son?” Bob responded. His face flashed into a grimace like a splinter just went into one of his thumbs.

  “Yeah, I actually met him earlier today. While he was on stroll to walk off his fever.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” Bob said. “He did mention that to us. Said he ran into you by Mr. Gibson’s window.”

  “Yep.” Scott said, then added, “He’s a nice kid. Introduced himself to me properly and everything even though he was sick as a dog.”

  “He’s a strange one, alright.”

  “Mr. Gibson?”

  “Yeah. Who’d you think I was talking about, my son?” Bob said this with a smile that wasn’t all friendly.

  “Oh? Yes, you can say that again,” Scott said, trying to laugh the awkward moment away.

  “Wouldn’t be Dudley Street without that quirky gentleman, though.”

  “I guess I’ll learn about that,” Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Speaking of your son, where is Oliver? I’d like to say hi to him and introduce him to Jack. Maybe our boys could be pals.”

  Mrs. Harper returned just as Scott finished the suggestion.

  “Oliver’s in his room at the moment, and he won’t be coming down. Perhaps tomorrow your boy can meet him.” Bob said sternly.

  Scott remembered the story Twist had told him earlier. “I see. He’s feeling better, I hope?”

  Big Bob nodded. “Yep. He powered right through whatever bug he had. Learned that from me. He’s just not coming out tonight.”

  “Oh,” he was confused, but Bob Harper was a big guy. The kind of guy who looked like he could break bricks by slamming them together. Best to not get on his bad side. Besides, who was he to judge how others raised their children? —he only had partial custody of his child.

  “I understand,” Scott continued when he saw Bob wasn’t going to clarify anything on his own. “Maybe some other time.”

  “The boys will get along just fine, though,” Mrs. Harper said, breaking the tension. “I’m sure of that.”

  “Me too,” Scott said. “Alright, we better head back. We’ll stop by tomorrow—for dinner, perhaps?”

  Mrs. Harper nodded. “Sounds lovely.”

  “My fiancée will come, too. She’s eager to meet all the neighbors.”

  “We’ll be looking forward to it,” Bob said. “Good night, neighbors.”

  “Good night,” Scott said.

  “Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Harper,” Jack said.

  They went down the porch steps as the door was closed behind them. As they crossed the street, Scott leaned in closer to Jack again and said, “The people around here sure are different than what we’re used to, huh, Jack?”

  “Oh yeah, big time,” Jack nodded.

  “People aren’t that friendly in Philly.”

  “Especially not if you’re wearing a Cowboys’ jersey.”

  Their laughs echoed in the quietness of Dudley Street.

  Chapter 18

  He’d lost track of time while he was working. His eyes felt like someone had poured sand into them, and he couldn’t stop feeling phantom twitches in his muscles from sawing at the wood for hours.

  Sweat trickled down Raymond’s forehead, and he wiped at it with the back of his forearm, leaving a muddy streak of sawdust.

  He glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall of the workshop. 2:30am.

  Darn! How time flies when you’re having fun.

  Raymond put the saw down on the desk, and stepped back to admire his handywork. The body was all but complete.

  Behind him, the sanding machine that’d been responsible for all of the human-like curves on the torso came to a hissing stop.

  The shoulder-to-arm ratio, the thighs-to-hips ratio, the shins-to-feet-ratio, it all came out perfectly. All in one single shot he’d managed to pull off something he’d never attempted before.

  Sure, he’d made plenty of toys depicting humans before, but never did the proper proportions and measurements matter more than now, when he was creating something that was going to be alive.

  The main thing missing from the body was the head, but he planned on giving that an entire day’s worth of attention to get the details right. No way was he going to give his son a crooked nose or slanted lips or mismatched eyes.

  His son. Even in his head, the phrase had a chime like bells to it.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Raymond admired his work for a few more seconds. Every once in a while, a creator was allowed to be impressed with themselves—only a few times, though, so the self-praise had to be used sparingly and when it counted, or else you just felt like your own biggest fan. This was one of the times that he was cashing in.

  It was a darn magnificent piece of work.

  Raymond smiled, then walked over to the torso and touched it on the shoulder. The wood was still warm from where it’d been sanded smooth.

  Or perhaps warm because it was coming alive already, and there was some sort of otherworldly life already coursing through it.

  Raymond giggled. “Good night, my s
oon-to-be-son.”

  He walked out of the workshop, shutting the light off, and leaving the torso of the dummy to sit on a little wooden chair in the darkness amongst his other toys.

  Chapter 19

  “You’re coming straight home from school today. You understand?” Bob Harper said to Oliver.

  Oliver kept his eyes down at the eggs that were now cold. “Yes, Dad.”

  “The new neighbors are coming over and they want you to meet their boy. Understand?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Good. Now eat up.”

  He didn’t want to eat eggs this morning. In fact, he didn’t want to eat eggs any morning. He hated breakfast, and he hated that Big Bob made him eat even though he was going to throw them up on the way to school.

  He hated that he was going to school, too, but after heating a thermometer under his bedside lamp and faking a fever yesterday…yeah. He figured that he’d pressed his luck enough.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  He stabbed the fork through a chunk of scrambled egg, and with great effort, as if he were moving the world on the end of that utensil, he moved the fork into his mouth.

  “Come on boy, you’re going to have to eat faster than that if you’re going to catch the bus,” Bob hollered.

  Oliver nodded, and sped up the process of eating his eggs.

  Bob puffed air out. “Don’t be a smartass, now.”

  “I’m not trying to be, Dad—”

  “What did I tell you about talking back to me?”

  Oliver opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and closed it.

  “Your momma didn’t go through the trouble of seasoning and cooking them eggs so you wouldn’t savor them.”

  “I understand,” Oliver said, and continued to eat his eggs, now deliberate with the speed, careful not to go too fast but not go too slow. To savor them.

  He almost rolled his eyes as the word passed through his mind, but he stopped himself. Last time he rolled his eyes, he’d earned himself a good whoopin’.

  Bob finished his own eggs, then got up from the chair to dump his plate into the sink. He walked behind Wilma’s chair and planted a kiss on the part in her hair. “Thanks for the lovely breakfast, honey.”