Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  “In addition, I give Jason Crane all my interest in the Legacy.”

  “The what?” Jason said.

  Hadewych leaned forward. Piebald held up a finger. He turned a page and continued.

  “I hope I have had the opportunity to explain this to you, Jason, before I go. I have delayed doing so to this point in order to assure that you grew up with a mind for thrift and an appreciation for the value of a dollar. The Legacy is a series of financial accounts left to me by your grandfather Arthur Pyncheon. As of the date affixed hereto, the Legacy is valued at approximately one hundred and twelve million dollars.”

  “What?” Jason blurted. “Repeat that?”

  The lawyer nodded, amused. He was the lottery commissioner personally presenting Jason with an oversized check.

  “The Legacy,” he repeated, “is valued at approximately one hundred and twelve million dollars.”

  “How is that possible?” Jason said.

  “Let the man finish,” said Hadewych.

  “This Legacy is over one hundred years old, and has been passed down through generations of the Pyncheon family. In all that time the principal has never been touched. Never. Not one dime is to be spent, my love. The interest alone will be enough to support you as lavishly or as frugally (I hope frugally) as you desire for the rest of your life. This Legacy is to be passed intact from eldest child to eldest child with no expenditure of the core funds. If you should die without children, it shall be delivered to the nearest Pyncheon relative. And, most importantly, the Legacy may be added to, but must never be diminished under any circumstances.”

  Hadewych’s right hand, Jason noticed, had meandered to his left palm and was busy scratching it.

  “Oh, my love,” read the lawyer, awkwardly, “my Jason, my little adventurer. I have always been so proud of you and of the man you are becoming. I hope that you will miss me, but keep marching forward. I hope I have set you on a glorious path.”

  Jason leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed and moved.

  Piebald turned another page.

  “Regarding the executorship. The executor of my will shall be my dear friend Mr. Hadewych Van Brunt. If he should be unable or unwilling to act as executor, I nominate Ms. Valerie Maule. The executor shall serve without bond and shall see that all transactions herein described are faithfully executed. In gratitude for his friendship, I leave him the sum of thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  Hadewych adopted an air of gratitude and bowed his head to Jason.

  “In gratitude for her friendship, I also leave to Valerie Maule thirty-five thousand dollars in the hope that it helps her to overcome her challenges.”

  Piebald looked up.

  “Where is Ms. Maule, today?” he said.

  “She claims to be sick,” said Hadewych, with a shrug.

  “No matter.”

  “Is that all?” said Jason, placing his palm down on the conference table.

  “One more paragraph,” said Piebald. “Guardianship. As of this writing, my grandson is not yet a legal adult. Should he be eighteen years old at the time of my death I hereby revoke my assignment of executorship and name Jason Crane sole executor without bond. However, if Jason has not achieved the age of eighteen years he shall require a guardian of his person and a guardian of the estate, to see that he is taken care of physically, and to oversee the management of his inheritance until he is of legal age. For both roles I declare and appoint Mr. Hadewych Van Brunt to be his caregiver.”

  “What?!” Jason screamed, bolting to his feet.

  “Sit down, son,” said the lawyer.

  “Jason,” Hadewych said. “Come now. Sit.”

  “You?” Jason said, pointing at Hadewych. “My guardian?”

  Hadewych tried to reach for Jason’s arm. Jason snatched it away.

  “How?” Jason said. “Why?”

  “I told you. After she moved here she didn’t know a soul in town except Valerie and I. And I never dreamed – ”

  “Don’t give me that again. You knew this all along.” Jason gripped the back of the chair. He turned to the lawyer. “Is there anything else?”

  “A little,” Piebald said. He wiped his brow and held the paper up to the light. “Hadewych, please take care of my boy just as you have your own. Jason deserves the finest possible care and love. Signed by my hand, the fourteenth of September: Eliza Pyncheon Fellowes Puck Beringer Dawes Ferrer Logan Merrick.”

  Piebald laid the paper on the desk and folded his hands. Jason looked at the white rectangle as if it were the guilty decision of a jury sentencing him to hang by the neck until dead.

  “I will never be your…”

  “Ward,” said Hadewych.

  “Never.” Jason shook his head.

  “You don’t have much say in this, young man,” said Piebald.

  “You talked her into this,” Jason said to Hadewych.

  Hadewych rolled his eyes for the lawyer. “Do you see what I have to deal with?”

  Jason walked to the window. He saw Zef’s face reflected in the glass, not his own – Zef on the night of the lighthouse, screaming “I hate him. You don’t know what he’s like.”

  Jason buried his face in his hands. Did they actually expect him to submit to this? Did they think for a second that he’d allow Hadewych to take control of –

  “Her money,” Jason said, and his voice had the implacability of a man stating absolute truth. “You killed her for her money.”

  “How dare you,” Hadewych said, standing. “I adored your grandmother.”

  “Oh, you bastard,” Jason hissed. He knocked his chair over, clearing the space between them. He could grab that chair, he thought, grab it and raise it – as Zef had raised the folding chair that night – yes, he could grab it, bring it down legs first and open Hadewych’s veins.

  “Mister Crane,” said the lawyer. “Collect yourself or I will call the police.”

  “Call them.” Jason said. “He’s a murderer. I don’t know how, but he is.”

  “A murderer. Really,” said Hadewych. “What possible evidence would you have for that?”

  Jason had no evidence, he had to admit. Just a deep, gnawing gut certainty that Eliza’s death was connected to this will. He knew that Hadewych had desired this vast Legacy as soon as he’d heard of it – he would think nothing of using Jason and his grandmother in order to seize it. Had the entire Project been designed to bring them to this day? Had he and Eliza been manipulated from day one?

  “Jason,” said Hadewych. “I’m on your side.”

  Jason batted away Hadewych’s offered hand.

  “These are serious charges, Mister Crane,” said Piebald, “and let me tell you this. We have these little things called slander laws in this country.”

  Hadewych righted Jason’s chair. Jason did not sit. Hadewych did, though, legs crossed and arms folded.

  “I’ve known Hadewych here for twenty years,” said the lawyer. “He’s one of the finest men I know.”

  “Right,” spat Jason. “He’s a saint.”

  “You could do a lot worse for a guardian. Look at his son. Zef’s one of the brightest boys in town. He’s good-looking and athletic – ”

  “He’s a mascot,” Jason said.

  “He is going places. He was raised right. He’s well-adjusted – valedictorian – dating that pretty Kate Usher.”

  He’s a closeted homosexual who’s drinking himself to death for fear of disappointing his father, Jason thought, but he could never have said that aloud, for Zef’s sake.

  “Your point?” Jason said.

  Piebald sighed.

  “It was Ms. Merrick’s appointment to make, and she made it. You two are going to have to work it out. At least for the next year.”

  “The next year?” Jason said.

  “You won’t need a guardian when you’re an adult. So just suck it up for now. You’ll be eighteen soon enough.”

  Hope leapt in Jason’s chest. He reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet.r />
  “I am so relieved, sir – ” Jason said. He threw the fake ID on the table. “ – because I am eighteen.”

  He knew he couldn’t hope to get away with it, but he had to try something. He waited for the response. Hadewych shook his head, a chess grandmaster amused by the move of a four-year-old. He opened a briefcase. He laid a state-certified copy of Jason’s birth certificate on top of the ID.

  Piebald looked at the document. “I see what you mean,” the lawyer said with a sympathetic headshake.

  Hadewych sighed and threw up his hands.

  “The boy is such a liar!”

  29 RED SNEAKS AND WILDFLOWERS

  The hinges of Eliza’s bedroom door cried when Jason entered: a lonely kittenish whimper. He tried the switch and discovered that the overhead bulb had burned out.

  He would have to change it. He would have to find a ladder or fetch a chair from the kitchen. He would have to climb up, wobble precariously, and loosen the fixture. Yes, he could see the dead bulb in his mind: the frosted glass would be smoked from the inside, the filament would be broken and trembling. He let the imaginary thing fall and crash against an imaginary floor. He would never have to change that bulb. Never again.

  Jason was escaping.

  He faced the corner as he turned the bedside lamp on. He was glad that he did. Even the sight of Eliza’s robe hanging behind the door was painful to see. He turned and faced the room, struggling to stay detached and calm. It tore at him to see the indentation in the mattress, the hint of makeup on the pillowcase, the plastic wrapper from a packet of saltine crackers on the bedside table – held down by a few crumbs left inside.

  Her room.

  He couldn’t sit on the bed. He didn’t have the heart to replace her indentation with his own. He pulled the little tasseled stool from beneath her makeup table and sat on that instead.

  The stool had once been the bench of the old pump organ – the battered old instrument that had been his favorite thing in Eliza’s house. It stood about four feet high and bristled with spindles and carvings and shelves that were meant to hold knick-knacks or plaster saints. Eliza always left her reading glasses there. On its top, a stained glass sailboat drifted past. The two pedals at bottom were embroidered with a girl carrying a parasol (on the left) and a leering young man (on the right). Jason would stomp their faces with his sneakers and work the pedals like those of his tricycle. He didn’t have much leverage at that age, so he would hold the stool on either side – just as he was doing now – with no hands free to actually play. But the keys stuck and would stay pressed while he pedaled. Dissonant clumps of notes rose and fell as he pumped air through the organ with his feet. He worked his legs and giggled and filled the house with mad music. A row of organ stops had protruded above the keyboard, but the only label he still remembered was “Vox Humana.”

  What had happened to the organ? When had it stopped breathing? He wanted to play it now – play some song for Eliza, some song that she had loved. “All the Things You Are,” maybe, or Irving Berlin’s “Always.” But the organ was long gone – hauled away after some yard sale. The buyers had put it onto the back of a truck. He’d bid the sailboat Godspeed and it had drifted down the block.

  The tasseled stool remained behind, though. The buyers had forgotten it and never came back. Eliza saved it and this mirrored tray, too. She’d almost shrieked when she saw the tray tagged with a price of five dollars. She had it from her grandmother and it wasn’t for sale. Here it still sat on her makeup table, bearing regimented rows of red fingernail polish – marshaled in order from virginal pink to dissolute scarlet.

  Everything in this room evoked associations and memories. How could he leave any of it behind? But he would have to. He’d have to stay for Eliza’s funeral, of course, but afterward he’d take the MasterCard, climb into the RV, and escape. He hated the thought of leaving Kate and Joey but he would not live under the thumb of Hadewych Van Brunt. Not now, not ever. Even if Hadewych hadn’t killed Eliza. Jason doubted that now. He couldn’t conceive of anyone being that evil, not even Hadewych.

  The RV would be an okay place to live. He couldn’t plan the future beyond that. Would he drive to Colorado and live in some national park campground? Charley would enjoy that. He might get a job in some rural town under an alias and support himself until he turned eighteen. Who knew? He couldn’t predict what lay ahead – any more than he could predict the future after his parents’ death when he’d thrown a box of Cheez-Its in a pillowcase and run away from home. Was he repeating that? Was he running away from home again? If so, he would get farther than the playground up the hill this time. He’d run as far as he could.

  This time Eliza was not going to find him and rescue him. Eliza would never wrap him in her winter coat and take him back home. Never again.

  “We all die, baby,” she’d said to him – that morning by the seesaws. “In all the long, long, history of the world, there’s not been one of us who didn’t.”

  “I’ll die,” he had responded, and she had squeezed him tight.

  “Yes. And I’ll die. A lot sooner. It’s just there. It just is.”

  It just is…

  He looked around the room.

  “But we’re here now,” sixteen-year-old Jason whispered, “and it has to be enough.”

  He wiped his face and went to work.

  He couldn’t leave Eliza’s treasures behind. He couldn’t leave them for Hadewych. He grabbed packing boxes – boxes that had come down from Augusta only a month before. He opened one marked “JASON’S ROOM.”

  First he added her jewelry box. Costume pieces, mostly, but also her many wedding rings, a heart-shaped diamond necklace on a white gold chain, and a string of black pearls she’d received as an anniversary present – from which husband, Jason didn’t know. This had been a long double necklace but Eliza had broken it so many times – losing so many pearls under furniture or down subway grates – that the thing was just a choker.

  He found her personal papers in the closet – a landfill of bills, tax statements, deeds, titles, account balances and old checkbooks. He had no idea what to take and what to leave – it was all so… adult. And he had no time to go through any of it, so he just dropped the whole stack on top of the jewelry box and moved on.

  Jason lifted the boxes and stacked them in the kitchen.

  He filled a box marked “SEWING” with shoeboxes and envelopes of family photographs. He glanced at these. Yes, the men on his father’s side wore gloves. He shook his head. He couldn’t stop to puzzle out the implications. Why had no one told him anything?

  He wore no gloves himself but saw no visions as he packed. Maybe he was too shut down inside, too guarded, too business-like. Maybe his ability had burned out at the Hollow. He didn’t know. He didn’t allow himself to linger on any objects, just in case.

  He filled a box marked “DISHES” with Eliza’s scrapbook and her pilot’s license and a wire-mesh chicken that she’d bought on vacation in Naples.

  He filled a box marked “KITCHEN” with her slippers and home movies (on VHS tapes), an Easter basket and a rabbit-fur coat. The coat looked too tiny for such an epic woman. He stuffed it in a box.

  How could he leave any of it? How could he take a fraction with him? He pulled things from closets, from the dresser, from under the bed. The volume overwhelmed him; he dropped to the floor and lay there staring at a Chinese fan and a box of Bing Crosby LPs.

  I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be alone.

  He noticed that one wood panel had a handle protruding from it. He rose to his knees and drew the panel aside. A safe. When did Eliza install a safe? Did it come with the house or had she bought it? It looked new. Had workmen been to Gory Brook to bolt the thing down? On some afternoon when Jason was at school or at Joey’s house?

  And… and here was the most important question… What was the combination?

  Anything Eliza had to put in a safe would be too important to leave behind. But how would he get
it out? He considered grabbing the tire iron from under the carpet of the RV. But he knew that wouldn’t work. This was a strong safe. Could he call a locksmith? He doubted he’d be able to get one out here before the funeral.

  Beyond the window a flash of lightning broke the sky above the Hudson. Thunder hit the house like an avalanche.

  And he knew. Of course he knew…

  He turned the dial.

  10-1-19-15-14

  The safe clicked. The numbers of the combination were letters in the alphabet. They spelled his name.

  He turned the handle.

  A row of pictures in gilt frames stood on the shelf inside the safe. Pictures of him. Most had been taken digitally but she’d had prints made and framed. Here he was at birth, in the arms of his father (yes, Daddy wore gloves); here Jason was coming home from the hospital; here taking his first step – fists clutching his mother’s two thumbs. Here was his awkward, long-legged childhood: summertime pictures (taken at Camp Wallahoo) that made him look like a praying mantis in swimming trunks; studio pictures of him looking pimply and pensive. Here he stood with Eliza in a field. He stared at this picture for a long time. He was so little in this one, a real squirt. Eliza wore a loose floral print. He wore a buckskin jacket with fringed sleeves. They wore matching shoes – four red sneakers in the grass. The squirt carried an armful of wildflowers he’d picked for her. She wore a daisy in her hair.

  Jason’s cries came like the notes of the old organ, wheezing and hollow and dissonant, louder and softer as he pushed the air through the bellows, dwindling only many minutes later as he exhausted himself. He looked away and wiped his face again. The back porch light illuminated the raindrops on the bedroom window. The drops looked like falling black pearls.

  He set the photo aside and drew out the last picture – a horrible middle-school graduation photo. His hair stuck out and he wore a plum purple robe.

  At the back of the safe sat two bars of gold.

  He lifted one. He didn’t expect it to be so heavy, like something Eddie Martinez might curl in the gym. The words “Pamp Suisse – One Kilo Fine Gold 99%” had been punched into the surface.