Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  “I think I know what happened.”

  “You do?” Jason frowned. Did Joey know about his abilities?

  Joey took a bite of jerky. “Zef tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”

  Jason’s jaw dropped.

  “Yeah, he did. How did you know?”

  “What did you do?” Joey said.

  Jason looked towards the river. He couldn’t see the lighthouse from this far away.

  “I – made a face and dodged him and he got pissed and punched me.”

  Joey sighed.

  “Yep. Yep. Yep,” said Joey, lifting his Coke and shaking his head. “That’s our Joseph.”

  “Who?”

  “Zef. It’s short for Joseph.”

  “Really?”

  “Dutch thing,” said Joey. “Go on.”

  “He punched me hard. On the face, right here. The bruise is gone now but he said he’d kill me if I told anybody and he hates my guts. But – you knew already, right? So I still haven’t told anyone.”

  “Nobody knows about him,” Joey said, “except me.”

  “Promise,” said Jason. “Don’t say I talked. He threatened to open my veins.”

  “He’s all twisted up about it. And he’s got a temper,” said Joey, shrugging.

  “You think? Yeah. He’s got a temper like the sun’s got a fever. He’s apeshit crazy. Have you even seen him in school this week?”

  Joey shook his head.

  “He’s probably off axe-murdering orphans and widows,” Jason spat. “I keep expecting him to jump out at me with a folding chair over his head.” Jason’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You think all gay guys are like that?”

  “I tried to warn you,” said Joey.

  “When?”

  “That night. Remember? I said you had a chance with Kate but I couldn’t tell you why?”

  Jason shook his head, protesting.

  “I have no chance with Kate,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to tell her. If she doesn’t know she’s not going to hear it from me.”

  “Or from him. She’s a senator’s daughter. Hadewych would kill Zef if he lost that connection. Zef is under orders to turn on the charm and marry well.”

  “Yeah, he’s a charmer, all right.” Jason let loose with a string of curses. He rubbed his jaw. “So, what? He tried the same shit with you?”

  Joey rose to his feet.

  “We better get to class,” he said.

  “What? What did I say?”

  Joey stared at his soda. He walked a few steps, turned and came back. He sat, one step higher than before, and spoke to the back of Jason’s head.

  “Yeah, he tried that… shit… with me. Last Easter, Praise was playing at this diner over in White Plains and Zef showed up for our last set. Lousy gig. We made like twenty dollars each. Anyway, Zef was by himself and he looked miserable. I said like, ‘Hi, what a coincidence’ and he said he’d come to hear the band, that he’d seen our flyer and, well… okay fine he kissed me in the car.”

  “Wow,” said Jason, “how did you handle it? I freaked out. What did you do?”

  Jason turned around. Joey looked sheepish.

  “Uh… I enjoyed it?”

  “You did?”

  “A lot.”

  “Oh,” said Jason. “So… you’re…”

  “Yeah. Um… and that was what I was about to tell you. But you went first.”

  They sat in silence.

  “It was my first kiss,” Joey continued, “and last. We just sat and talked a long time. It was a Saturday night and on Monday… he didn’t punch me out, but he avoided me. Okay. He hid. Then he said nothing all spring while Martinez and the others called me ‘fag’ in the hall. That hurt. Look, I don’t hide it or anything, okay? I’m pretty out there and… see, my parents know… my friends know… the whole school knows and… so… Zef just can’t be seen with me, you know?” Joey chuckled, but there wasn’t any humor in the sound. “But I don’t blame him. I blame his dad and… everything. The world. But the silent treatment, man, it’s worse than getting punched, I think. He hasn’t said two words to me since. It would have been better if he’d just punched me. So anyway that’s my story. And I’m sorry too.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  “Because if you and I hadn’t been hanging around together at the dance, Zef wouldn’t have figured you were… kissable...”

  “Oh.”

  “Are we cool? You’re not my new basher now or anything, right?”

  Joey waited for Jason’s reply.

  This is what went through Jason’s head, though it only took a second. First, he wondered whether Joey was going to make a pass at him like Zef did. He took notice of the fact that they were alone on a secluded stairwell. He wondered if Joey had been flirting with him the night of the dance, and whether he’d just been too oblivious to see the signs. He wondered why he had become gay catnip this semester. He realized that if he and Joey sat here talking together the other kids might think – what? That they were a couple? What would Kate think? No. No. He didn’t need any more problems. He thought he was now expected to call Joey “fag,” punch him and run. But… what kind of person does that? Who’s that much of a jerk? He wasn’t. He wasn’t so terrified of being unpopular that he would punch somebody in the teeth to keep his reputation. That’s Zef’s reaction. To hell with all that. People could think what they liked. A friend is a friend. What problem? Joey was the most generally decent person he’d met in this town. He was smart and talented as hell, at singing anyway. Jason liked him. It was the damn twenty-first century and his generation was going to be the first to see past all this crap.

  He turned to Joey again, his face sympathetic and grave.

  “I knew all along,” he said.

  “You did?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Why? Does it… show?”

  “It shows. Yeah. You’ve got like this rainbow and unicorn glow about you.”

  “Rainbow.”

  “Yeah. And unicorns. It’s pretty obvious. I’d butch it up some.”

  “Okay, sure. I can do that. How’s this?” Joey adopted a deep menacing voice. “I have been waiting for you, Obi-Wan…”

  “Better. Have some more jerky.”

  “Yeah. That there’s man food.”

  Joey took a big swaggering bite. Too big. He started choking, then laughing, then choking some more. Jason slapped him across the back.

  “Come on, soldier. Cough them unicorns out.”

  “Stop,” gasped Joey. “You’re making it – worse.” But the damage had been done. They were both laughing and choking now. It really hurts to snort salty jerky juice up your nose.

  “Just tell me one thing,” Jason said, standing and wiping his eyes.

  “What?” said Joey, recovering, dropping the bag of jerky into the trash below. “What do you want to know, Sarge?”

  “Just – is anybody at this damn school straight?”

  “All of them, far as I know. It’s just me and Zef. Me anyway.”

  “So out of the whole school the first two guys I meet… What are the odds?”

  “I guess you’re just lucky.”

  Jason thought about that one as they made their way down the stairs. Lucky? Yeah, that must have been it. He threw a friendly arm around Joey’s neck and they talked about video games all the way back to class.

  #

  Joey’s favorite game was called Death and Carnage. He was good at it, but Jason caught on fast. They spent Wednesday afternoon at Joey’s house slaying a pack of werewolves controlled by the Witch-King of Terracore. Pat Osorio brought them snacks. Joey’s mom was thirty-fiveish and she loved to dance. You could tell from the way she did things. She closed cabinet doors with a hip bump, stacked plates in rhythm, and drummed with forks. She ironed shirts like a hoofer auditioning for a Broadway show, every wrinkled shirt choreographed especially for her.

  Jason had already met Joey’s dad, of course. James Osorio from Sleepy Hollow Cemetery gave a little
start of surprise and a nod of greeting when he came home to find Jason munching chips in his living room. He sank into a recliner, weary from a long day of fractional real estate.

  Later that evening, after the last werewolf had been slain, Mr. Osorio laid his paper down, puzzled by something.

  “Jason’s in your class?”

  “Yeah,” said Joey.

  The man turned to Jason.

  “Aren’t you too old?”

  Jason remembered the fake ID. Hell. He’d told this man he was eighteen.

  “I was held back,” he blurted.

  “You were?” said Joey.

  “Yeah. I’m… uh… stupid. Hey, let’s watch that zombie movie?”

  “Now?” said Joey.

  “Yeah, come on.”

  On the way to Joey’s room, Jason turned and looked back. Mr. Osorio had thankfully returned to his paper.

  “What was that about?” said Joey.

  “Shh. One second,” said Jason.

  They stood in the hall, listening.

  “So,” said Joey’s mom, “what do you think?”

  “About what?” said his dad.

  “Think Joey’s got a boyfriend?”

  Joey’s dad shrugged and turned a page.

  “It’s about time,” he sighed.

  Joey put both hands over Jason’s ears.

  “I hate them so much,” he mouthed silently, dragging Jason away.

  Joey’s room was a jumble of laundry, plates and extension cords – cords to his computer, to his laptop, to his keyboard, to the UV light that shone over the habitat of his ornate wood turtle. Booger the Turtle sat fat and happy on a warm rock; his head came up as they entered, but with no earthworm or strawberry forthcoming he made a little sound of disgust and went back to working on his tan.

  “You got held back?” Joey said.

  “No. No. It’s just this thing that’s happening tomorrow. After school. I’ve got to do this thing at the cemetery and your dad thinks I’m eighteen. It was a… white lie. No biggie, okay?”

  “What thing?”

  “I got roped into it.”

  “Wait,” said Joey, “the Van Brunt exhumation?”

  “You know?”

  “I’m supposed to be there to help. I was mad I had to work. That’s you?”

  Jason dropped onto the bench by the keyboard and stabbed at a few keys, but the power was off.

  “That’s why we were at the cemetery that day. Hadewych and I are… working together to open that tomb.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Okay. Long story.” Jason turned. “This summer my grandmother left for one of her genealogy trips…” He told Joey about Eliza and the house, about the body in the millpond, about the Project. Joey sat at the computer, listening. Booger became offended at not being the center of attention and dug a hole to sulk. Jason was reciting Brom’s letter to his son Dylan (as best he could remember) when Joey interrupted.

  “What’s the Horseman’s Treasure?” he said.

  “We don’t know.”

  “You’re doing all this and you don’t know what you’ll find?”

  It was a good point.

  “It happened pretty fast,” Jason conceded. “It could be anything.”

  “Something good?”

  “A real treasure? Some priceless artifact?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know,” Jason said. “I don’t how good it’ll be.” He shrugged. “I’m just praying that it’s not something bad.”

  17 EXHUMATION DAY

  Exhumation day arrived, whipping in from the north.

  Thursday morning was overcast, punctuated by distant thunder. Weathercocks spun in disagreement. Weathermen placed their bets. Horseman’s Hollow might be canceled. Maybe not. Halloween might be washed out. Maybe not. No one could predict the outcome but all agreed that the odds favored the storm clouds. Time would tell.

  In the afternoon, low-pressure and high-pressure systems bumped gloves and began the Battle for Tarrytown. The neighborhood trees applauded raucously, twisting side to side as their sympathies shifted. The winds circled, came to blows, and a rain of fat droplets battered the face of the millpond.

  But at five o’clock the bell of the Old Dutch Church brought the Hollow to an obedient hush. The opposing forces of Autumn and Winter stopped struggling. They retreated to their respective corners, still combative but out of breath, and the sun broke through with authority – as if Summer had decided to referee.

  Hadewych stood at the threshold of the Van Brunt tomb, leaning on a crowbar. A long shadow spilled away from his feet and into the tomb. It threw itself across the sarcophagi, embracing them.

  How many times had he stood like this, rattling this gate, wondering when it would open for him? He’d tried to gain entrance so many times. Ever since he’d realized what was inside, ever since he’d become heir to the Van Brunt papers. He had inherited them from his mother – so regal, so hard – so defiantly Dutch. So proud to have married into such an ancient family.

  “You are a Van Brunt,” she would say. “You sailed here before any of the rest. Don’t forget that. You were here first.”

  He’d been six when he’d first asked her about the Treasure. He and his mother had been making supper from limp carrots and canned beef gifted to them by the Christian Care Pantry. They’d always prepared their food in the ladies’ bathroom of the shelter, using the lid of a toilet for their chopping block to ensure that none of the other bums saw or smelled the food. Thieves love to target a vulnerable woman and child. Hadewych had been dreaming about the Horseman’s Treasure again, a tale his grandmother had spun for him when he couldn’t sleep for hunger. The old woman had died in June of that year, of a series of strokes that stole her away little by little. Her legs, then her hands, then her eyesight and all the rest.

  Mother didn’t believe in the Treasure.

  “That old tale? We just tell it to make ourselves more interesting. Brom left millions when he passed on. The Van Tassel Estate, the quarry, Gory Brook, his aqueduct interest, even a signed contract with Archbishop John Hughes of New York to supply all the stone for St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Dylan lost our fortune. That’s the hard truth. He ran off and let the contracts lapse, not Brom. His young wife squandered the money. It was Dylan that ruined himself in the Civil War. But they say old Brom denied him some magical Treasure and that’s why we’re broke? That’s just stupid. Dylan was a bitter dying man and he’d say anything at that point.”

  “But what if?” young Hadewych had said.

  She had slapped him. Not hard, just enough to get his attention. “There’s no magic to make it 1850 for us, son. You have to work twice as hard as everybody else, understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She’d tucked her sweaty brown hair behind her ears. “What happens to shirkers?”

  “They don’t eat.”

  “And lazybones?”

  “They sleep outside.”

  She’d held the kitchen knife towards his nose: not to threaten, just for emphasis. It worked. “Don’t cut corners, and don’t look for shortcuts, son. We’ll get there. With work and nothing else.”

  He’d nodded, and they’d returned to peeling the scrawny carrots.

  He’d been an obedient boy, adhering to all his mother’s rules. He was never a lazybones, and he’d never slept outside. He said “please” and “thank you.” He never claimed charity as his due.

  “Never scream for government freebies,” Mama said. “No one’s entitled.”

  No one’s entitled…

  He was alone on the streets at fourteen. A cab struck his mother as she crossed Second Avenue. The cabbie’s fault, but no one wrote down the license plate. When she didn’t come home, Hadewych went searching. She’d been buried as a “Jane Doe” before he could find her body at any of the city morgues. That would have outraged her. Not the accident, but the loss of her family name.

  He had nowhere to go. He had never known h
is father and he didn’t care to. He had his mother’s cherished papers, though–old documents passed down reverently through five Van Brunt generations though no one could read them anymore. He considered selling them to a collector or scholar. Surely someone would buy papers written by a famous literary figure like Brom Bones. But Hadewych had been taught that he must “look to family” and preserve it. “Look to family” was the Van Brunt motto, emblazoned on his mind by a thousand casual repetitions. If he sold the papers he might as well change his name to Smith and be done with it.

  He kept the documents safe in his otherwise empty pockets. When the other young homeless at Covenant House were asleep, he’d take them out and trace his fingers across the strange letters that looked like curling brown hair. These papers were all he had from her. They represented the only family he would ever know.

  That summer he spent many nights just walking, hoping to find some kindness. He didn’t find any, but the hustlers and dealers found him. They tried to catch his eye, making little “nick” sounds from the shadows, as if calling a horse.

  Hook you up, man? Hook you up?

  He stayed away from drugs, as his mother would expect, and he never stole. He relied on the churches and the public library. He perfected his diction by watching old movies. Everyone respected him when they heard him on the phone, but they treated him like dirt in person. He longed to have nice clothes.

  He felt vulnerable living in Manhattan. He didn’t want to turn out like the other boys he’d seen, selling all they possessed for cigarettes and coffee and a few dollars passed through a window. That disgusted him. It gave him a lifelong revulsion toward a certain class of men. So, finally, as fall approached, he decided to leave New York. He knew where he belonged.

  He took a bus to Tarrytown.

  He found fewer places to stay, though, and nobody willing to hire a minor. So he broke his mother’s rules for the first time. He took his first shortcuts and became both liar and forger. He lied about his age to become a General Motors janitor. When he forged his ID, he half-expected his mother to swoop down from heaven and cut his nose off with a kitchen knife. But he had to work, didn’t he? Those innocent shortcuts meant food in his stomach.