David Gaither Author

The ideas behind The Broken Toymaker began with a short story.  I wrote about a toy maker who made unique toys and a man who arrived at the toy shop to find much more than simple toys.  From the concepts of that story, the ideas bounced around in my head, and the world of The Broken Toymaker was born.  

I thought it might be interesting to post a copy of that story here, just in case someone wanted to explore some of that history.

Here it is:

Twenty Five and One Half Henry Street

            Jack was breathing heavily as he turned onto Henry Street.  He was on a business trip to County Galway on the Western shores of Ireland.  The entirety of his week in the country had been spent in meetings about shipping.  How to improve the shipping process, how to make it less expensive, how to squeeze every last dime out of the process and make just a little bit more money for investors.

            But those were the days.  Jack endured them.  The nights, however, belonged to Jack and this place he had discovered.  Well, he discovered it like Columbus discovered the eastern edge of what would become the Americas.  There were plenty of people already living in Galway when Jack arrived, and in fact there had been people living in Galway far longer than there had been Europeans living in the Americas.  Be that as it may, this trip was a discovery for Jack.  He needed a new discovery.  However, he didn’t realize what exactly he needed to discover until he reached twenty-five and a half Henry Street, County Galway, on that particular evening.  This is the story of how he arrived at that peculiar door, and what he discovered behind it.

He had inquired of the concierge at his hotel just where he should go for a gift to take home to his grandson.  He was given directions to a small pub on Williams Street West and instructions to ask for Pat.  The concierge smiled with some knowing; gentle, but having insight that he should not have had.  Jack eyed him warily as he walked out into the evening.

            Jack had taken to going for walks in the city; in the evenings, after work was done, supper and pints were consumed, and colleagues went on to their own activities.  He took in the sounds, the people, and the smells.  Enveloped in a world much older than his, Jack began to feel rooted.  The pace and the people brought calm to his soul.  He was able to walk, and to let the troubles of his real world drown in the place unfolding around him.

            Tonight, however, Jack walked with a purpose.  He was looking for a gift.  He had a grandson, his only grandson, waiting for him to return from his business trip.  They were planning to go fishing.  Bass were biting this time of year at Bull Shoals and they were going to catch them all.  Jack pulled his jacket a bit closer around his neck as he crossed onto Williams Street West and began to look more closely at the building numbers.  He saw lots of other walkers, many in sweaters, and wished he had thought to bring some of his own. 

            Harry was the light of Jack’s life, and thoughts of Harry warmed Jack much better than a sweater.  Harry was one of the few lights Jack still felt, in fact.  So many others had been dimmed or snuffed by loss and pain, Jack was very glad to have Harry showing him there was still some light worth living for.  And Harry needed a souvenir.

            Please don’t get the wrong impression of Harry.  He did not demand a souvenir.  He didn’t even really ask for one, or much else save his grandfather’s time and attention.  It was Jack that decided Harry was in need of a souvenir.  And, on that night as he walked Williams Street West in search of a small pub, Jack meant to find just the right one.

            Little Harry had been through quite a lot for one so young.  His mother was killed when Harry was only three.  Just over a year later Harry’s dad, Ben, was nearly killed in the line of duty.  His recovery was slow and raising a child alone was too much for him to handle.  Harry moved in with Jack.

            Difficult as it was for Harry to be away from his dad; Jack loved having him in the home.  It had been a number of years since Mary passed and Jack was lonely.  Harry definitely livened up the place.  Their world was one of much tickling, book reading, bath time playing, bed time stories, and memories for Jack of when Ben was still an innocent child.

            As he watched Harry, Jack saw Ben.  Before Ben was broken by too many years digging through the bowels of the city he used to dance around the living room to Jack’s old records.  He was a terrible dancer, even then.  Jack remembered telling him that he was all butt.  Ben only stuck his butt out further and shook it like he was channeling Elvis.  Jack and Mary danced with Ben for hours.  Now Jack mostly watched little Harry as he jumped around the room.  It appeared to Jack that Harry came from the wave your arms as much as possible school of dance.  It was effective though, and Jack watched him as long as he would keep it up.

            Before Ben took on the weight of putting on that uniform for his constantly rotating shifts he was the little king of jokes.  He always had one, usually made up and making no sense whatsoever, but still funny.  Ben told his jokes to whoever would listen.  And he usually laughed the hardest.  As Ben got older, Jack recalled as he trod the ancient streets, his sense of humor stayed with him.  His jokes only improved slightly, but Ben still found them funny.  Jack always laughed right along with him.  The years of police work slowly stole that innocent joy from Ben.  He laughed less every year.

            When Ben met Sara he began to smile more.  She was so sweet and her presence began to soften Ben.  By the time they announced their engagement Ben was even laughing and telling jokes again.  They had a rougher edge to them, stories of hookers and robberies instead of talking fish, but Ben laughed at them, and Jack enjoyed his son’s smile. 

            Harry came along and Ben was the happiest Jack had ever seen him.  He could not have been happier if he was six years old and shaking his butt to “Bad Moon Rising.”  That, of course, would not last.

            After much searching along Williams Street West, a street unfamiliar to Jack, he managed to find the pub he was searching for.  He even managed to find Pat, who was a short and stocky man.  He had a long, grey beard and eyes hidden behind great, bushy eyebrows.  The grey on Pat’s head still sported flecks of the fiery red it had once been.  Pat invited him to sit and have a pint.  Jack did, feeling the welcoming Pat intended, though having the impression that Pat may not be someone to tangle with.  Jack noticed the long scar that ran the length of Pat’s forearm and the rough hands that filled Jack’s glass.  Pat’s eyes, however, betrayed a kindness beneath the rough.  Jack thanked Pat for the glass set before him.

As he drank the first of his beer Jack turned to look around the small pub he had found.  It was a simple place, a few pictures on the wall, and lots of worn wooden furniture.  Jack felt at home as he was met by smiles from the other patrons.  He noticed a few pictures hanging on the walls.  He looked back over the bar, where he sat, and saw quite a few metal advertisements for beers and whiskeys.  There was no neon, which brought a smile to his face.  The sign above the door, reading “Pat’s Pub” appeared to Jack to fit both the pub, and its owner.

            Pat came by to ask him how he was doing.  Jack realized he had already drained his first glass and smiled at Pat.  The warmth of a good pint had Jack shrugging off the cold of the evening and he told Pat of his search for a proper souvenir for his grandson.

            “I bet ah know just the place,” replied Pat in that Irish accent that Jack enjoyed.  To Jack, even discussion of the weather sounded of poetry when he was in Ireland. 

            “Can ye tell me a bit about the lad?”  Pat asked as he poured Jack another pint.  Jack obliged, describing Harry’s personality.  Eventually his story fell into a description of what Harry had been through, with the loss of his mother and the separation from his dad.

            Sara died suddenly.  With Mary, Jack had some time.  Mary developed cancer.  It was aggressive, but Jack had a few months to say good bye and spend time with her.  Sara was killed by a drunk driver.  It was November and very cold.  It had even snowed a bit earlier in the day.  Ben was working and spent the second half of his shift in the emergency room after responding to a traffic accident to find Sara was the victim.  She died in the hospital while Ben waited; covered in her blood.  He never spoke of that night.

            He was different but he was strong for Harry.  Harry went to bed with his grandpa lying next to him and woke to a world where his mother was never coming back.  Ben took two months off from work and stayed with Harry every moment.  Jack recalled the incredible strength he saw in Ben during that time.  He wondered at how Ben could hold himself together for Harry after so much had been taken from them.  But, he did it.

            Ben eventually went back to work. Harry was doing better and there were bills to pay.  He handled the single dad thing pretty well, in Jack’s opinion.  The house was a little messy but Harry had lots of attention.  Jack could see every day how much Ben loved little Harry.  Harry just danced and told jokes, bad ones, like his dad used to tell.

            A year later Ben responded to a domestic disturbance call.  What he found was the largest home-based Meth lab in the city’s history and the residents of that debacle very high, very angry, and throwing flares at each other. 

            Ben took one look at the scene when he entered the home and turned to push his partner back through the front door.  The explosion leveled the house, killed the two idiots inside, and nearly made Harry an orphan.  The sound of it was heard from downtown to the far south side.  The houses next door caught fire and the former Meth lab burned the entire night.  A car that was parked in the garage melted.

            Ben was in the hospital for several weeks.  He was violently ill from all of the chemicals that were in the air and his left leg was blown off just below his knee.  He didn’t want to see anyone.  Not even Harry.

            Pat listened throughout Jack’s story, stopping on occasion to fill a glass or greet another customer.  In the end, he thanked Jack for sharing his story and expressed his condolences for the difficulties that befell Jack’s family.  Jack thanked him and again was warmed by the poetry of Pat’s voice and the sincerity of the local kindness.

            Pat suggested a small toy shop, one not known by many, that was located at twenty-five and a half Henry Street.  It was a short walk from the pub and, Pat assured him, he would be quite likely to find just the right gift for Harry.

            A few minutes later Jack was again walking the streets of Galway, in search of twenty-five and a half Henry Street.  Jack spotted O’Beirn’s Pharmacy, just as Pat said he would, and he knew he was getting close.  Still he pushed on to number twenty-five and one-half.  It was an odd number it seemed, to Jack at least.  He watched for the Classic Hair Design Studio that should be coming up on the north side of the street.

            Jack saw it, looking like something out of the eighties, and he crossed the street.  He knew he was getting close.  Just after passing the hair studio, all pastels and block letters, Jack saw what he was looking for.  He found the blue door that led to twenty five and a half Henry Street.  There was even a sign tacked to the door that said just that.  But that was all it said.

            The door was just a door.  Yes, it was bright blue, but unremarkable otherwise.  Jack examined the silver handle and the mail slot that was also silver; both mounted directly in the middle of the door.  As Jack examined the door he decided it looked very old.  It wasn’t the old of overly used and run down, but the old of having been in that place for quite some time.  The handle at first appeared to be quite ordinary.  However, on closer examination Jack realized it was anything but ordinary.  He discovered raised markings and engraved ornamentation.  The mail slot and even the hinges included similar details.  Jack marveled that even a simple doorway was anything but in this old world.

            He was just leaning in for a closer look when the blue door opened.  Jack nearly shouted as he had been looking around the door rather closely and he now found himself face to face with a middle aged woman.  She jumped a bit as well.

            “Sorry,” he began.  “I didn’t mean to startle.  It was just that I was sent to . . .”

Jack realized the he had no real explanation for why he was staring at the blue door and why he was standing so close to the woman who now watched him with a curious expression.  He noticed the package under her arm.  It was tightly wrapped.  Not the tight of a pair of new pants after Thanksgiving.  This package appeared to have been carefully, perhaps expertly, wrapped.  Jack thought, for a moment, that he was not standing face to face with a confused occupant.  Perhaps he was looking at a customer.

            “I uh, was looking for a um, souvenir, for my grandson.”  Jack stumbled over the words and only started to feel better when the lady looked less confused.  She smiled and wiped the remnants of a tear from her eye.

            “Oh, you’re in the perfect place.  This place is just wonderful,” she replied.  As she spoke she dragged the word wonderful into far more syllables that it had in most parts of the English speaking world.  Jack recognized her drawl and figured out quickly that she was not a local either.  The lady went on for a few minutes about how wonderful the store was, how amazing the toy was that she had found, and just how incredible it all was.  Jack barely made it past her and stumbled into the shop as the door shut behind him. 

The quiet of a short staircase welcomed him.  It was followed by an opening that Jack had to duck through to avoid hitting his head.  Stepping through the doorway, Jack found himself in a most peculiar place.  It was hardly what he expected, in the very least. 

As Jack stepped into the room he took a moment to look around.  The room was actually much larger than he expected.  The light from the various lamps produced warmth and Jack dropped some of the tension in his shoulders.  On one end a fire crackled in a large fire place.  Set near the fire was a table. Jack crossed the room for a closer look.  Hanging on the wall was a variety of tools.  Some looked very old.  Most Jack could not identify.  He slowly ran his hand across the surface of the table.  He felt the grooves and notches of work done there over the course of a very long time. 

Suddenly, Jack felt he was invading someone else’s space.  He turned towards the rest of the room, expecting the gaze of a disapproving shopkeeper.  He found that he was alone in the room.  The fire popped.  Jack recognized the warmth he felt from that fire and he ran his hand across the table once more as he moved to cross the room.  Across the room he saw shelves.

            The shelves held toys.  Jack approached.  He saw toys of varied shapes, sizes, styles and colors.  He saw pirate ships and steam locomotives.  He saw soldiers with rifles, muskets, and broad swords.  Jack looked through the shelves and saw tiny houses and a rocking horse that was almost big enough for him to ride.  What he did not find were any video games or “I Heart Ireland” t-shirts. 

            He walked between the shelves.  As he spent more time in the basement shop Jack began to explore those shelves more closely.  He moved the doll houses to find airplanes.  Jack saw toys of wood and metal, but no plastic.  Nothing had the appearance of a factory.  Jack could find no “made in” stamps on anything.  He straightened a row of soldiers, each with its own uniform and tiny face.  He began to look more closely.  Jack noticed there was something not quite right about the toys in this place. 

            Yes, they were toys that he was not used to.  Back in St. Louis he could go to the toy store and find the latest in electronic games.  He could find the hottest toys on the market for Harry to play with.  It was becoming quite apparent that this was a collection of toys that were of a different sort.  Jack really wasn’t sure what to make of it.

            He picked up a soldier whose left arm was in a sling.  The pilot of an airplane looked afraid.  The driver of the ambulance sat in the seat with his face buried in his hands.  Others were just off, not broken or missing pieces in the traditional sense, but not quite right.  Some were wearing very strange color combinations.  Others were not painted except for one small piece.  Still others had paint that was cracked and worn, but only in certain parts.  Otherwise they appeared to have been recently made.  Jack saw an entire row of soldiers who appeared to be leaning against each other, many in tears or missing some piece right out of the middle.

            Jack looked back at the table.  The tools hanging and even the table itself gave the impression of a master craftsman.  Some of the toys appeared to Jack to be masterpieces.  They were so intricate in their detailing.  The train, when pulled along the shelf, had all of the moving parts one would expect from a working locomotive.  The details and the skill that must have gone into the making of these toys were impressive, as Jack surmised.  But many appeared to be broken, and stranger still they did not appear to have been broken, but created broken.

            Jack shook his head.  Deciding that this toy maker must be a relative of the concierge or Pat and likely a bit insane, Jack started to make his way through  the shelves to the steps that would take him back up to Henry Street.  He would have to find another souvenir for Harry. 

            He was near the end of the row when he stopped cold.  What he saw on the shelf changed his opinion about this unique place.

            And cold is what he felt.  As his eyes fell upon the toy a chill ran up his back and the hair stood out on the back of his neck.  Jack stood with his mouth open.

            “Aye, that is a favorite of mine as well,” came a soft voice from a nearby doorway. 

            Jack turned as if underwater.  His arm felt thick as he pointed back towards the toy.  His confused face met the gaze of a small man in a grey shirt, a leather apron, and a scruffy beard.  The man smiled.  That smile struck Jack and he felt warmth return.  He turned to look again at the toy he had found.  It took him several moments to speak.  What he said was more a stumble of sounds than a coherent expression of what he was feeling.

            In that moment he understood.  He considered the other toys, all broken in some way, and the toy that lay before him, and he understood why he was in that room.  He looked back at that toy on that shelf and all of his brokenness was exposed.  He felt suddenly naked and turned to see the warm eyes of the toymaker. 

The toymaker simply nodded to the toy.  Jack moved to removed it from the shelf.  It was heavier than he anticipated.  Or, perhaps it was his arm that felt heavier.  He wondered, “How could this toy know so much?”

“How?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

            Jack finally spoke as they moved to the counter against the back wall, in the center of the room.  Jack cradled the toy in his arms.  “I’d like this one,” he managed to say.

            The toymaker smiled.  Jack saw white teeth emerge from behind that scruffy beard and form a gentle smile.  As he returned to himself and placed the toy on the counter Jack saw a scar that ran the length of the toymaker’s face, beginning along the side of his forehead and bending crookedly to end just below his ear.  The pink of it was visible through the grey of his beard. 

            “This is quite a place you have here,” Jack began again when he found his voice.

            “I appreciate your kindness,” replied the toymaker.  Jack couldn’t help but to smile.  He hadn’t thought he meant to be kind.  He was simply impressed with the wonder of his surroundings.

            Jack watched the scarred hands of the toymaker as he tightly wrapped the toy for Jack’s upcoming journey.  It was not the tight of a suit that had last been worn in healthier days.  But Jack saw the hands of the toymaker wrap the toy as if they knew what they were doing. 

He had questions.  He wanted to know how a toy could say so much.  He wanted to know how the toymaker could do all of this.  How could he possibly know what Jack had been through?  How could he know the pain that Jack’s family carried around?  And how could he know it before Jack even arrived?

“How is this possible?” he managed.

The toymaker met his gaze.  The left side of his beard moved on top of his crooked smile.  Jack felt the kind warmth in his eyes.  The toymaker shrugged.

“Whatever do you mean?” the toymaker replied.

“How could you know so much about me, about my family?  Did the bartender . . .?”  Jack’s voice trailed off at the ridiculous nature of his question.

“What do ah know?  I just make toys.”  Again, that scruffy smile met Jack’s gaze and the poetic voice of the land met his ears.

“This is about so much more than toys.”

“Aye, sometimes it is about more than toys.  Others; tis just about toys, and that is enough to get us into the next day.”

Jack was more puzzled by that statement than he was about how a small wooden toy could expose the deepest broken parts of his soul.

The toymaker finished wrapping the toy and they agreed upon a price.  Jack thanked the toymaker and took another look at the table by the fire before heading back to the stairs that lead to Henry Street.  They toymaker followed him to the doorway.  Jack would soon find himself outside of twenty-five and a half Henry Street, bewildered, and at peace; wondering how the two could co-exist.  He turned again to thank the toymaker.

“Enjoy your fishing trip,” was the response he received. 

Two days later Jack sat in his bass boat holding his rod and reel and feeling more content than he had in years.  At the other end of the boat was Ben, his son.  Between them sat Harry.  Harry was smiling and watching the water like a hawk.  A tiny red and yellow bobber floated just ten feet from the side of the boat.  Harry focused on nothing else.

Ben turned to see Jack watching him.  Jack saw that smile emerge, the one he had been missing for so long.  The lines of anger that had grown across Ben’s forehead melted into the wrinkles of smile in the corners of his eyes.  Jack smiled back, a knowing passed between them.

That moment lasted for a few moments in fact, only to be interrupted by an explosion of Harry.  He was on his way to catching his first fish and his family was there to help him.  The laughter and shouts could be heard across the lake.  It is possible they could have been heard at the lake house, if anyone had been there.

Instead the lake house held a toy.  On the counter overlooking the kitchen stood a wooden police officer.  His uniform was weathered, his left leg was missing, and he had a hole right through the middle of him.  In that hole rested an expertly carved and intricately detailed bear cub.  That cub was tucked in and cozy in that hole and filled it completely.  Behind them both stood a rather large bear.  The bear was scruffy and had a few scars of his own but he was big, and still strong.  The bear’s arms were wrapped tightly around the police officer and it looked upon the cub with incredible gentleness.  It was warm in the kitchen, but a breeze carried through, filled with laughter, that tempered the heat.