We must make black-eyed peas tomorrow, Laura had been thinking, with turnip greens. That ensured a lucky New Year and, if you swept some money over your threshold, a prosperous one too. She loved those old southern traditions.
She looked both ways, checking for negroes, but turned a heel on the icy marble of the stairs and fell into the bushes below, breaking the long bones in both legs. Due to the holiday, nobody passed the library that whole evening. One couple canoodled past at around one a.m., but they were too caught up in each other to catch Laura’s feeble cries or her foot poking through the brambles. She lay numb in the snow, drifting in and out of consciousness, until 1951 dawned bright and sunny.
Eliza had taken advantage of her mother’s absence. She’d lost her virginity that same night. She’d swept Ron Partridge over her threshold, initiating her own beloved tradition. She was nursing a hangover, giddily reliving the event, but around eight-thirty she realized that her mother had not come down to breakfast, had not criticized her eye makeup, had not made oatmeal or black coffee or tsked over the coupon section of the Wytheville Enterprise. She checked her mother’s bedroom, found it empty, took the bus down to the library, climbed the high stairs, knocked hard on the library doors, and heard a groan below.
Laura lay under the William Penn barberry bushes – below the yellow-trimmed windows of the non-fiction section. She’d torn her skirt. Her white stockings ran Jezebel-red with blood. Sweat and melted snow had soaked her blouse, and her grey forehead blazed. Eliza doffed her coat, laid it across her mother’s body, and ran to find help. She flagged a ride by stepping into the middle of Jefferson Avenue and slamming her palm on the hood of the first car that passed. The housewife driver shrieked. So did her little girls. Those two porcelain children screamed all the way to the hospital, until Eliza wanted to break their little legs too.
The broken bones didn’t kill Laura Merrick. She lay in the hospital, wheezing, her legs mortared up in casts. She had few visitors after the first week. Her church group was glad to fret over a poor thing for a day or two, but they trickled away when Laura had the bad manners to linger. On Valentine’s Day, as her mother slept, Eliza drew big sloppy hearts on her casts. Laura harrumphed when she woke and insisted on keeping her legs hidden beneath blankets afterwards.
But in late March, something miraculous happened. Laura’s self-control dropped, her passions erupted. She ranted at nurses, spit at doctors, swore like a navy pilot dropping F-bombs on Hiroshima. She had dementia, the doctors said, brought on by the leg fractures, perhaps, by fats or proteins released into the blood. Or perhaps she had hit her head on the steps. Maybe the persistent fever had changed her from Doctor Jekyll to Mister Hyde.
Eliza decided that her mother had just stopped believing her own bullshit.
The spells continued over the next two weeks, and Eliza enjoyed her mother’s company for the first time. They swapped bawdy jokes, ogled the handsome interns, and chattered like best girlfriends late into the evening.
The exasperated hospital shipped Laura home, and mother and daughter became a happy family at last: carrying on, watching TV, eating pork ribs and cornbread on Laura’s bed, Eliza cross-legged with a paper plate and Laura holding court from a throne of pillows. They had long conversations, and Laura spoke her own mind in her own words about things that mattered too her.
It broke Eliza’s heart when the prim, condescending librarian returned. Laura hardly acknowledged anything that had passed between them. She sat in bed, reading the Bible, her legs propped in their heart-painted casts and smelling of dead skin.
The clichés returned next. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Nothing is certain, except death and taxes.
This last proved true. On April fifteenth, Laura Merrick marked her Bible with a tongue depressor, set it on her nightstand, leaned back against the headboard, and coughed blood down the front of her nightdress. Eliza found her that way, dead as the proverbial doornail, and, yes, the blood was thicker than water. Just as her mother had always said. Much thicker than water, in fact. Perhaps as thick as molasses in January.
So easy. She died quiet like a little titmouse. No, she didn’t even squeak. And she left such a mess. Not just on her nightdress, either.
The little pension stopped. The bank foreclosed. Eliza wandered from relative to relative and couch to couch and bed to bed, just to keep a roof overhead. She’d found herself hungry, abandoned, poor, and ignorant about responsibility or money. Unprepared for life – because life is not a cliché. It’s messy and it’s complicated and it’s scary. If she’d relied on Laura’s clichés she might have ended up a statistic. Thank heavens that Andrew Pyncheon had loved her and rescued her, and crooned into her ear with that deep voice of his.
The white puddle of milk had spread. Eliza didn’t know why she’d thought of her mother tonight. The room smelled sour, like her mother’s sick. Maybe that was it. Eliza kicked off her slippers. Jason would have to clean up her mess. That’s what the young always did. Clean up the messes the old leave behind. She dropped a few towels on the spill, tamped it with her foot.
But I won’t leave him a mess like she did me. Not when I go. He’s going to be ready.
She tossed a package of popcorn into the microwave, pushed a few buttons, and padded into her bathroom. She checked her face, brushed her thin hair as best she could, and grabbed a bottle of fingernail polish. Fire-Engine Red. No. Jungle Red.
Ow! Oh!
The bedroom swayed.
What the hell?
The chest pain intensified.
Oh, no you don’t. No you don’t.
She fished for her pills. For the prescriptions Jason didn’t know about.
I’m not going without a fight.
She squeezed the nail-polish bottle in her left hand.
Not me. Not easy. No, ma’am. Not like her.
Jungle red. The polish was jungle red.
Not without one hell of a goddamned fight.
14 THE LIGHTHOUSE
“I am not going up if Valerie’s there,” said Zef, scowling.
“Come on,” said Jason. “It’s late.”
“She’s a witch. I hate her. I hate her voice, I hate her face. Just drive, man.”
“No.”
Zef stood and leaned his torso out the open passenger window.
“I hate you!” he cried to the dark house. He dropped back into his seat.
“No, you don’t, Zef.”
“Yes I do,” he whispered. “I hate both of them.”
They had double-parked on Washington Street, by Patriots Park, looking up at the yellow clapboards of Valerie’s building. Zef was drunk. He’d been drinking bottles of warm beer from the cooler, and something stronger from a flask in his duffel bag. Jason wanted to get home. Eliza might be waiting up. Why hadn’t he just accepted Joey’s offer of a lift, instead of consenting to be Zef’s designated driver? It had been a stupid decision.
He’d wanted to stay around Kate, to drive her home. But that just meant he’d had to play chauffeur while she made out with Zef in the back seat – and again on the front porch of her house. He felt invisible. She hadn’t even waved goodbye to him when she went inside.
Zef peeled a pack of Marlboro Reds. He’d been irritated that Hadewych’s fake driver’s license couldn’t score them some colder beer. While it bumped Jason’s age up to eighteen, the drinking age was still twenty-one. Zef had settled for cajoling three packs of cigarettes. Jason reluctantly bought them at a corner deli. The old man behind the counter hadn’t batted an eye. Jason was so tall.
Why hadn’t Jason refused?
Ordinarily he would have the spine to say no and walk away. But the Van Brunts were smooth talkers, charmers. They made you feel like your objections were unreasonable and unfair. They both had that salesman’s gift for getting you to drop your guard, relax, and give them what they wanted.
He started the engine.
“I’m going, Zef. Show me where I can park your car, then I’m walking home.”
Zef stared out the window. “Don’t make me go up there.”
The motor idled. The car heater pumped warm air at their feet. The hazard lights clicked, like a metronome conducting the silence. A car honked, circled around them, the driver flipping the bird at Jason as he passed.
“Zef? Are you okay?”
“Just drive. Please.”
“Are you crying?”
“Hell, no,” Zef said. “I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.” But he sniffed like he had a cold coming on.
Jason turned off the hazard lights, put the car in gear.
This is the last time. I swear.
“Where am I going?”
“Just go. Turn left on Beekman,” said Zef. He wiped his face with his sleeve when he thought Jason wasn’t looking. They’d driven about three blocks when he blurted, “Your parents are dead, right?”
“Right.”
“Ever wonder if you were lucky?”
“No,” said Jason, immediately.
“Your grandmother seems cool. That’s all I meant. How long ago?”
“Ten years. End of this month.”
“Yeah. My mom’s gone twelve years. He tells people she’s dead but she walked out on him. I know. She’s in Philly. I don’t blame her. He deserved it. I hate him.”
“Come on, he’s your dad.”
“My dad?” Zef’s voice burned, bitterly, and collapsed into ashes again. “He’s no dad.”
Zef made a fist and thumped the dashboard.
Jason wasn’t going to defend Hadewych. He turned left on Beekman, and they rode in silence down the hill. Everything had closed. The tattoo parlor, the pizzeria, the gourmet coffee shop, all shut tight behind steel shutters. A playground stood empty. The swings dipped back and forth, blown by the wind. The cruiser rattled over railway tracks and, just as Jason felt they were going to hit the end of the road and tumble into the Hudson, Zef raised a hand and pointed.
“Here, here,” he said.
He directed Jason to pull through a large chain link gate and into… what is this?
Jason saw nothing but immense concrete slabs in all directions, like a silo for nuclear missiles, blasted-out empty foundations as far as he could see, at least a dozen blocks of desolation. They lurched over random potholes and broken asphalt, past trucks, soda cans, plastic bags caught in the chain links. Stubs of girders protruded from the slabs, like a clear-cut forest of steel stumps. The car rolled through a hole in a second fence, into a parking lot beside the river.
“What is this place?”
“This,” said Zef, handing Jason a bottle, “is the pit of Hell, my friend. This is where the General Motors plant was, you know? That, over there,” he gestured, “was the factory floor. That was the admin building. That’s where the lunch wagon pulled up.” He was pointing at empty space, at black slabs bristling with the unshaven stubble of bolts and stubs.
“Where’d it go?”
“China. They knocked it all over and carted it away. Why do you think we do all this Headless Horseman stuff? Renamed the town? This place was dying, man. We’d have gone broke without the tourists. My dad couldn’t find squat after he was canned. He didn’t try, though, and Mom bailed. Forget the Old Dutch Church. This is the biggest graveyard in New York.”
Zef threw an empty beer bottle. It arced over the chain fence and exploded like a light bulb across the concrete.
“Here lies North Tarrytown. Long live Sleepy Hollow,” said Zef.
“It’s hard to picture your dad as a… a factory worker. He’s so…”
“Slick?”
“Exactly.”
Zef grunted. “My dad’s a ‘keeping up appearances’ kind of guy. He’ll buy clothes even when there’s no milk or toilet paper – “I have to look good for interviews, young man” – but he doesn’t go to any damn interviews. Not one.”
“So what does he do for money?”
Zef chuckled. He blew smoke out the window. “Valerie,” he said.
Jason didn’t know how to respond to that.
Zef noticed Jason’s beer was still capped.
“You going to drink that?” he said. He took it before Jason could answer. “Let me show you something.”
He left the car and started walking, raising his hood and tightening it against the wind. Jason followed, rubbing his hands together.
“Where are we going?” he said.
“You’ll see.”
Zef slipped under a chain and squeezed through a link gate. Jason followed behind.
They found a thread of sidewalk between a graffiti-covered construction fence and the foaming rocks below. The wind beat at them, bent by the strong fence, hurrying them along their way until the sidewalk jackknifed towards the water and became a tiny metal bridge.
About fifty feet from shore stood a short tower like the castle on a chessboard, white with a red base and black windows, dark and abandoned. A little island of rock protruded from the water alongside it. The bridge leapt over the water to this lump of rock and the concrete slab of a landing. From there, a narrow catwalk led up to the tower itself.
“What is it?” said Jason.
“My lighthouse,” said Zef, crossing the bridge.
“Yours?” said Jason.
“We used to fish here. On his lunch breaks.”
Waves splashed beneath Jason’s feet, spraying droplets through the steel mesh. Zef stopped on the landing, waiting for him to catch up.
Someone had left a metal folding chair by the railing; an angler, probably. Jason leaned over the rail, looking down. Water churned against the jumble of boulders below. Zef finished his beer and tossed the empty bottle over the rail and into the river.
He climbed the gangplank to the lighthouse itself, waving for Jason to follow.
A covered walkway encircled the base of the tower. The one door looked rusted shut.
“Are we allowed up here?” said Jason.
“No,” said Zef. “Isn’t it great?”
A wave struck the base of the lighthouse, sending a wall of mist straight up the side of the building. Zef whooped and threw his arms out.
“Yeah, great,” said Jason, wiping his face.
“This is about as far away from everything as you can get. I HATE SLEEPY HOLLOW!” Zef screamed the words, but they were buffeted away by the wind.
“Let’s go back,” said Jason.
“No,” said Zef.
He grabbed Jason by the sleeve and pulled him to the landward side of the tower. The wind still whipped around them, but it was less strong, less cold.
“You’ve got to go home,” said Jason.
“No. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what he’s like. You’ll find out. Listen. You know I’m straight A’s? Yeah? I am. Top of the class. Is that enough for him? No. I’ve got to be school mascot, too, student government, intern. I don’t have any life left. I hate him!”
“He’s your dad. He’s supposed to push you.”
“Not like this.” Zef grabbed fistfuls of Jason’s jacket. They huddled together, now, just to be audible. “I’m going to crack. I will. I can’t be everything he wants.”
Zef broke away. He paced around the tower, talking to himself. He tried to light a cigarette, but his lighter kept sparking in the wind. Jason felt sorry for him. He just looked so damn helpless all of a sudden. He pulled Zef back around to the landward side again. He blocked the wind with his body so Zef could light up. With three hands cupped around it, the lighter caught. Zef inhaled, blew smoke, and nodded with eyes shut, immensely grateful for the tiny assistance.
“I’ve got nothing,” he said. Jason had to lean in to hear. “I don’t own my life. I’ve got my own dreams. Things I want to say and be and do and I can’t.” His voice broke.
Jason felt sorry for the guy. He was also freezing and wanted to go home. But he stood and listened.
“I have
so much inside. I am a vast person.” Zef was crying now, smoking constantly. “How did I end up with such a small life?”
“What about Kate?” Jason said. “How can you say you don’t have anything?”
Zef fell silent, his brows knit together, staring at the river.
Jason looked away too. He was embarrassed. He wanted to give Zef his privacy. The Hudson slipped by, inexorably, fresh water on its way to rendezvous with the salty ocean. When he turned back, Zef was staring at him.
“I know what you’re going through,” said Jason.
“No. You don’t.”
Zef sounded desolate and miserable, and Jason forgot that this boy was his rival for Kate; he forgot that not two hours ago Zef had humiliated him in front of the entire school. He let all that go. The kid was in real pain. He needed a friend.
He put his arm across Zef’s shoulder. Zef said something but Jason couldn’t make it out.
“It’s okay, man. It’s okay,” Jason said.
Zef looked up, two trails of tears bright down his cheeks. He slowly exhaled cigarette smoke. He looked like a guy summoning all his courage.
Alarm bells began ringing in Jason’s head, but he didn’t know why.
Zef glanced down at Jason’s lips. And then moved in, eyes closing.
Oh, crap.
Jason pulled away, floundering backwards. His elbow hit the railing, sending a jolt of pain down the bone. Zef looked up, frozen, shocked, hurt, embarrassed. He looked scared too. He had revealed the wrong thing to the wrong person and his world had crashed in.
Oh, God. He’s mortified.
Jason felt bad, too. He had pulled away too violently. He hadn’t dodged the unwelcome kiss with anything like grace. He had made a horrified face and wrenched away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, then repeated it louder to cut through the wind. “I’m sorry. It’s not that… you’re great, Zef. But I’m not… you know.”
Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride Page 12