The shock on Zef’s face evaporated, replaced by sadness. The moonlight drained his color and he looked like a corpse. He turned away, leaned against the railing, tightened the hood around his ears. He swept his face with one sleeve.
Jason felt like an idiot.
God, he’s probably imagining I’m going to run off and out him to his father.
“It’s fine,” said Jason. “I won’t say anything. We’re cool.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Zef, flatly, without looking at him.
“Zef, it’s okay. It’s okay if you’re gay.”
Zef whirled, his face harsh, his eyes fierce.
“What did you call me?” he said.
“It wasn’t an insult,” Jason stammered.
Zef pushed Jason, hard, knocking him back against the guardrail and almost over it.
“What did you call me? Huh?”
He gave Jason a condescending little slap.
“Zef, come on.”
“Come on? Come on? You came on to me, punk.”
Another little slap.
“You know I didn’t,” said Jason.
Zef regarded him calmly, then swung his fist and connected with the left side of Jason’s face.
Jason twisted. Needles of pain shot up through his fillings and into his eye socket. He stumbled, caught himself. He tried to run, but Zef blocked the path. Jason scrambled around the other side of the lighthouse. Zef pursued him, doubled back, grabbed Jason’s sleeve just as he reached the gangplank. Jason swung at Zef, connected with his left fist, but lost his footing and fell, barely catching himself before his face could slam into the metal mesh of the pathway. His right hand took the worst of it. The metal bit his palm and drew blood. He balled it into a fist, wincing. A hand grabbed him by the collar. He flipped over and kicked Zef in the knee, then crabbed backward down the catwalk to the small landing.
Waves hit the rocks below, launching a spray of drops. They were salty. They stung his eyes and the cut on his hand. Zef grabbed his leg, pulling him back up toward the lighthouse. The mesh scraped Jason’s back. He wriggled loose, pulled himself into a crouch, lost his footing again on the wet landing, and fell hard on the concrete.
He raised himself. He had to get back to land, back over the bridge. He had to cross the bridge. Cross the bridge.
For once you cross the bridge his power ends.
But Zef stood over him now. He had the folding chair raised above his head, holding it by the backrest to bring it down legs-first and spike Jason through the face.
“Repeat that. To anybody. Anybody,” he said, his voice inhuman and cold, “and I will open your veins.”
“Go to hell, cuz,” Jason said, fury welling up inside him.
“Do you hear me?”
“Yes. Fine.” Jason said. “Nothing happened!”
Zef gripped the chair and Jason felt certain that he would now bring it down, scramble his brains, smash his vocal cords, and guarantee his silence forever. But Zef’s face quieted and became still. He transformed into a boy of seventeen again, full of fear and guilt and embarrassment, full of shame and loneliness. His arms sagged, wilted. The chair came down. Then, with a new explosion of violence, Zef hurled it over the railing and into the river.
Jason looked out at the Hudson. His breathing slowed. A longboat drifted by, low in the water, indifferent to all this, going where it would, guided by computer and satellite and elaborate GPS controls, ignoring the useless, obsolete little lighthouse on its spur of rock, ignoring the boys frozen there, wordless in the wind.
Zef watched it too. He fumbled for his cigarettes.
Jason stood, his arms held away from his sides, his palms down, trying to find his balance even though the landing was motionless. He felt that he should say something, or that Zef should, but they had nothing to say.
Zef had broken his last cigarette in the fight. He twisted the filter off, wet the end, spit tobacco, and raised his lighter to the tip. The lighter sparked, but would not light. The wind caught Jason like a kite when he turned. It pushed him over the bridge and back to dry land.
Once there, he looked back one last time.
Zef had retreated to the lighthouse. He was a sentinel, silhouetted against a navy blue sky. He stood at military attention, immaculately straight, on the windward side farthest from shore, alone above the dark water. He had no friend now to help him shelter from the wind.
His cigarette lighter was a tiny torch, sparking endlessly, futilely, over and over, signaling to the world: do not dare approach.
15 THE FOURTH FALL
Jason’s feet were killing him by the time he reached Gory Brook Road. He sighed, leaned into the wind, and kept going. It had been the longest night of his life, but soon he would crash into bed and fall into tomorrow.
Fall. Ugh. He’d fallen on his ass three times tonight. Three. At the dance, off the stage, he’d fallen on cymbals and pumpkins and made a fool of himself in front of the whole school. With Kate, on the dance floor, she’d knocked him off his feet; that had been the second time. And then, at the lighthouse, Zef had thrown him down the gangplank.
Jason nursed the side of his right hand where it had been cut on the metal mesh. It still stung, but it had stopped bleeding. His knee hurt too. Why did Eliza have to buy a house at the top of such a long hill? Okay, yeah, all of Sleepy Hollow sat on a hillside, on one near-ninety-degree slope from the Hudson to the high school, but she could have bought a place down by the river. He was wearing dress shoes again, too.
He’d walked from the lighthouse, through the concrete wasteland and back to the parking lot. He’d thrown Zef’s keys into the front seat of the cruiser and trudged back over the railroad bridge, up the endless uphill stretch from Beekman Avenue to Broadway. He’d rested and now felt ready to try for the summit.
His jaw hurt. He swore never to be someone’s punching bag again. If anybody else tried to knock him down he’d defend himself. And what had he been doing hanging out with Zef in the first place? The guy was insane.
No. He’s not. He’s just messed up.
That was an understatement. Why did he keep feeling sorry for Zef? To hell with him. If Zef liked guys, that was his business and not Jason’s problem. He knew he couldn’t understand it any more than he understood what it was like to be deaf or Polynesian. No, for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine how anyone who had feasted all night on the banquet that was Kate Usher could find him, Jason, an acceptable dessert course.
And what about the vision, and this power? Was it real? What did it mean? How did it work? Oh, let it go for now. He’d look it up on the Internet later. He would have to start wearing gloves again too, like he did after Owen…
He reached his own driveway. The big sycamore looked like a raised club.
Three times. Right on my ass. Thank God I’m home.
He fumbled for the house key, found the one with the triangle on it, and opened the door.
One feeble light flickered in the den. Charley barked but quieted when she saw him, or smelled him. She turned a little circle and whined.
Jason stopped in the archway. Eliza lay on the sofa.
“Hello, m’dear,” said Jason.
She didn’t look up.
She lay flat on her back. The afghan had slipped off her. Her housecoat hid one hand. The other lay on her chest almost at her chin, the fingers curled inward.
“Eliza?” he whispered.
Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.
Charley whined again, licked Eliza’s fingers, and nosed the bowl of popcorn overturned on the floor.
She’s dead, thought Jason. His whole body turned cold. Oh my God, she’s dead. She’s had a… heart attack or a stroke. Oh my God.
He stood frozen in the archway. Inside, he was screaming at himself to move, to check her pulse, to call an ambulance, to act. But he couldn’t make himself cross the threshold of the room. To enter would be to step into a world where this horrible thing would be real.
&
nbsp; “Eliza?” he called, louder.
The television flickered. On the screen reared the Headless Horseman, pumpkin held high, paused in still frame.
She died watching the Disney cartoon…
He stumbled to her side and took her hand in his. Now what would he do? Eliza was the only person left to him in the world. He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb and tears began to well up. Her hand was still warm.
Not yet, he told the universe. Not yet. I’m not ready. I need her so much. I –
“No, Honey. You’ll mess my polish,” said Eliza. She pulled her hand away. Her eyes opened. “How was the dance?” she said.
Jason stood and looked away. If he couldn’t control his face he could at least control his voice.
“Great,” he said. “It was a great time.”
“Did you dance? I hope you danced.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you drink?”
“Of course not.”
“Jason…”
“Okay. Half a beer.”
“You smell like cigarette smoke.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“Yep yep yep,” she said, retrieving the afghan and tossing it over her legs. “Someone had a time.”
“You shouldn’t sleep on the sofa,” he said. “Let me get you to bed.”
“No, I’m snug as a bug. I couldn’t get up and limp in there if John Gavin himself were waiting for me.”
“Who?”
“Actor. Never mind. I’m comfy, baby. I spilled my corn, though, dang it.”
“I got it,” he said, sweeping the kernels back into the bowl with his palm. The salt stung his cut hand. He stood. Eliza took his arm, her grip tight.
“Don’t forget these years,” she said. “Dances, music, beer and girls and staggering home late. Good thing you had cousin Zef to drive you. Make sure you know that the good times are happening when they happen. It’s easy to miss them.”
She patted his arm, turned and thumbed the remote control, banishing the Horseman from the den. She pulled the afghan to her chin and settled in. Jason kissed her forehead. Relief flooded through him again, relief to have her here, giving advice, looking out for him, filling up his life and helping to give it shape.
As he carried the popcorn bowl to the kitchen, he realized that he should put ice on his eye or else tomorrow morning Eliza would be asking him how he got a shiner. Oh, he would remember the good times, sure he would. As soon as they started.
He reached the kitchen and both feet shot out from under him. He fell, hard, on his tailbone. Popcorn showered him like a salty blizzard. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, unbelieving.
“Ow,” he said, to no one in particular.
“Oh, Honey. Did you fall?”
“I’m all right,” he said, trying to ignore the rotten odor of whatever soaked his back.
“I spilled some milk in there. You let it go bad, boy-o. Wipe it up, will you? It smells awful.” Her voice became small and apologetic. “Sorry to leave a mess. I couldn’t help it.”
He sat up, turned over, and the stench rose to embrace him.
“It’s okay,” he called to her. “I don’t mind. Love you.”
“Likewise!”
That’s four, he thought, and grabbed the paper towels.
16 RAINBOWS AND UNICORNS
On the morning of Monday, October twenty-first, James Osorio received the following e-mail:
From: [email protected]
Re: Crane/VanBrunt Exhumation
To: James Osorio, Director, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
The New York Department of State, Division of Cemeteries has approved the request to perform an exhumation on the remains of ABSOLOM CRANE, described as lot 44 of SLEEPY HOLLOW CEMETERY / Van BRUNT tomb. Applicants JASON CRANE and HADEWYCH Van BRUNT may arrange for the performance of the exhumation at any time, as per the statute referenced below. Please confirm receipt, and return the written copy of this approval with the signatures of each of the applicants.
Thank you,
Sally Howston
Assistant Director
New York Department of State, Division of Cemeteries
§ 1510. Cemetery duties
(e) Removals. A body interred in a lot in a cemetery owned or operated by a corporation incorporated by or under a general or special law may be removed therefrom, with the consent of the corporation, and the written consent of the owners of the lot, and of the surviving wife, husband, children, if of full age, parents or surviving descendants of the deceased. Notice of application for such permission must be given, at least eight days prior thereto, personally, or, at least sixteen days prior thereto, by mail, to the corporation or to the persons not consenting, and to every other person or corporation on whom service of notice may be required by the court.
James Osorio smiled, forwarded the e-mail to [email protected], and made Hadewych Van Brunt a very happy man. Hadewych called Valerie, who called Eliza, who told Jason to keep Thursday afternoon free for rifling the crypt of his great-great-great-grandfather. Jason nodded, shook his head in general disbelief, and pushed his bicycle out the door.
Jason rode to school on the aqueduct trail. It was flat and easy, since Gory Brook and the high school were on the same basic elevation. That was great, but it also meant that Jason wouldn’t be getting a car any time soon.
Maybe this winter. When it gets too cold to bike…
He decided he liked this new commute. The town drifted by below, blue and grey and drowsy. Despite everything, the place had grown on him.
He liked being back at school, too – going to class, meeting new kids, wasting time in the library (where he did most of his actual learning) and, especially, having a schedule to give structure to his day. After all the changes lately he craved normality again. He chained his bike in the parking lot, shouldered his red backpack, and climbed the steep stone steps in front, joining the river of kids that flowed uphill from the town.
Once inside, he avoided touching anything. He dreaded a repeat of the incident at the dance. The first time he opened his new locker he wrapped his sleeve around his fingers. He entered his first class by pushing the door open with his shoulder. He met new people, but tried not to shake hands.
Not many hands were extended in welcome, though. The entire student body had witnessed his humiliation. The girls needed their hands free to giggle behind as he passed. The boys needed theirs for flicking paper footballs at his head or knocking his books to the ground – and afterwards for making elaborate gestures of apology as they backed away. Only Eddie Martinez didn’t need his hands. He just crashed into Jason, sent him sprawling, and walked on like a human snowplow.
Jason had dealt with bullies before. It had been the same story in Augusta. He couldn’t understand why the best students and the nicest people always take punishment from the worst. Maybe he’d find an answer someday. He’d keep looking for one, but he wasn’t going to cry over it in the meantime. He heard Eliza’s voice: fact of life, boy-o, be tough.
Jason spent his brightest hour of the day in Mr. Smolenski’s History class. The morning sun cleared the hills and blazed through the southward windows – right behind Kate Usher, who sat three desks away. Jason couldn’t help but stare at her. It bothered him that they’d never made amends after the dance. She’d never given him a chance to undo whatever he’d done.
She ignored him, eyes cast down at her paper or looking straight ahead.
The bearded teacher paced behind his desk, enthusing over Arthurian legends one minute, bewailing the tragic end of the Knights Templar the next. This was the type of history Jason loved, but he couldn’t concentrate on any of it. Why hadn’t Kate smiled once, at least, or said hello? Why wouldn’t she even look at him? He cleared his throat several times, hoping to catch her ear. No luck. The girl to his right tossed him a cough drop. He wagged his pencil between his fingers, trying to catch Kate’s eye. She put her chin in her right hand and raised two fingers to her t
emple, blotting him out.
“Did you have a question?” said the teacher, smiling.
Jason brought his hand down. He’d caught the teacher’s attention, not Kate’s. His jaw worked as he thought. He wasn’t sure of the subject today.
“Uh, bathroom?” he muttered. Then frowned at himself. Kate stared at him now, with a mixture of amusement and pity.
So stupid.
Mr. Smolenski sighed, nodded, and returned to his lecture.
Jason stood in the hall, thumped his head against a random locker for five minutes, and went back to class.
After lunch, Joey showed Jason the best place to hang out if you wanted to avoid the Sleepy Hollow Boys. Outside by the dumpsters, a long steel-mesh stairwell zigzagged up the side of the school – open to the sky but hemmed in by high brick walls. Sitting at the top, you were invisible to anyone below. The only problem was the smell, not just from the dumpsters but wafting up from the grate beneath your feet. Kids dropped their trash through the mesh into the space beneath, which was idiotically designed so that no janitor could get inside to clean without unscrewing and ripping up the mesh. As a result, the stairwell had become a grain silo of refuse – soda cans, potato chip bags, half-eaten sandwiches, broken glass, a pair of soiled underwear – it all piled up like a landfill down there.
“You don’t want to be up here in summer,” said Joey, “but this time of the year the breeze takes care of it.”
“What if somebody drops a cigarette?” said Jason.
“Not good. That happened last summer. See the black streaks?”
They sat in the shade at the top and shared a bag of beef jerky.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” said Jason.
“Okay. I sort of do too.”
“You want to go first?”
“Uh… no,” said Joey.
“’Cause what I’ve got to tell you is weird. On Saturday night…”
Joey held up a hand.
“Let me guess,” he said.
“I don’t think you can, man.” Jason stared at his hands. “It’s freaking me out.”
Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride Page 13