The Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac

by Kris D'Agostino

  Later, in the middle of the night, I wander back to the kitchen, hungry. As I fix a turkey sandwich, I get sidetracked looking at all the pill bottles in the cabinet. I study their names. Strange, alien-sounding things: Revlimid, Decadron, Biaxin, Colace, Senokot. I research their side effects on the Internet. I squirrel away small stashes of the more interesting ones for myself, doling them out when I feel adventurous, lonely, angry, happy. Doling them out pretty much whenever I feel like it.

  THEY RUN TESTS that seem to have no purpose at all. Write down numbers. Consult charts. Check graphs against other graphs. Watch as he blows into various tubes. Nod their heads. Scratch their chins. Tell us his immune system has recovered sufficiently. Tell us the stem cells have taken just fine, and as far as they can tell, the myeloma is moving into hiding. Tell us that if the cancer continues its retreat, with a little luck he can return to work by the end of the summer.

  He comes home. They do not give him back his gun.

  He still looks sick, his face and body sunken and withered, his hair just beginning to show the faintest traces of reemergence. Still, he’s on the other side of the fence, they say, over all the big humps. Everything is steady, for the moment.

  I send off a loan payment. I take a second blank check and make it out to the Yonkers Water Company in the amount of $312.67. I sign it. I figure if I use the hundred dollars I would normally spend on the purchasing of weed and various other methods of escapism, plus a little from what would be my monthly savings allotment, I can cover this one bill. I can do that much. I write everything in the book. Same routine. I shuttle what I think I can spare into my savings account. Cross out the old, pencil in the new: 712.88. 888.13.

  In the living room, I find my mother hanging decorations for the Fourth of July. Red, white, and blue things. Freedom-related trinkets.

  “Jesus Christ, it isn’t even June,” I say to her.

  “I’ve got a spare moment now,” she says. “I’m hanging the decorations now.”

  “You’re the boss,” I say. She is staring at me. I take the check and the bill from my pocket and hold it out for her.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “I found a bill,” I say. “One I think maybe you missed.”

  “I’m bound to miss a few,” she says.

  “I want to pay it for you.”

  “It’s not necessary, Calvin,” she says.

  I step forward with the check still in my hand.

  “Just let me,” I say. “I’ll feel good about it.”

  She seems to be thinking it over. She takes the papers from me.

  “Why are you snooping around in the bills?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought if I had a better idea about how much we spend a month, I could think of some way to chip in.”

  She accepts this explanation. She looks over what I have given her.

  “This is too much, Calvin,” she says. “Really.”

  She keeps folding and unfolding the bill. I’m not really sure she knows what to say.

  “Just take it, okay?” I tell her.

  “How did I forget to pay the water?” she says.

  “It happens.”

  She looks at me now.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I go to my bedroom.

  When I lay my head down for sleep, I’m filled with a deep sense of contentment. One that stays with me all the following day.

  WALLY THINKS HE should get a job.

  “My father keeps telling me it’s a good idea,” he says.

  “You did graduate from college,” I tell him. “Most often it’s the next step.”

  “I know that. I’m aware of that. I just don’t see anything I want to do.”

  “You majored in history,” I say. “There’s always teaching.”

  “You need a master’s to teach,” he says.

  “It helps,” I say.

  “We just need to get out of this beat town,” Wally says.

  “And go where?”

  “Wherever we want.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’ve embarked on a mission.”

  “To save the house,” he says. “Save the family.”

  “To grow up,” I say.

  “Never happen.”

  “Maybe not for you.”

  “Why do you refuse to accept this?” he says.

  “You’ll see,” I say.

  “You’ll fail.”

  “But I’ll try.”

  “The difference is debatable.”

  “I can’t leave,” I say. “I need to be around.”

  “Just for a little while,” Wally says.

  “I don’t have money for a little while.”

  “We’ll live off the land.”

  “You mean mooch?” I ask.

  “Yes, mooch,” Wally says. “Let’s take a trip.”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  We drive through the streets of Tarrytown, passing a joint back and forth. We listen to music. The sky is clear. I turn off North Broadway, drive past the library and down the long slope of Palmer Avenue. I pull into the parking lot of Kingsland Point. A few streetlamps cast orange pools of light. A group of teenagers talk loudly and laugh nearby, clustered around a picnic table. There is no one else in sight. I park and let the car idle. We roll down the windows. I turn off the radio and we finish the joint, throw the roach onto the ground.

  “Sometimes I think my brother’s right,” I tell Wally. “He doesn’t analyze things the way I do. He just does. He got it in his head that he wants to help my parents keep their house and he’s doing it.”

  “Your brother’s never been right about anything in his life,” Wally says.

  “He’s right about this.”

  “I should get a job in a record store,” he says.

  “Art is the only truth there is,” I point out. I like to pretend I know what a statement like this means. Art as truth. It’s only half a joke.

  The kids at the picnic table start smashing bottles. The sound echoes out over the river.

  “Everything you need to know about human existence can be learned from movies,” Wally says.

  “Books and film. Music. These are the things we obsess over so we don’t have to deal with real life,” I say.

  “These are the things,” Wally says.

  “He’ll be home from the hospital soon,” I say.

  The water glints in the moonlight.

  A cop car drifts up to the picnic table, materializing from the shadows at the other end of the parking lot. The kids bolt, fleeing into the darkness.

  The spotlight follows them for a moment, but the cops don’t bother to give chase. The light turns in our direction.

  “Park closes at dusk,” a voice booms. “Time to go.”

  I nod my head and wave. I put the hatchback in reverse and we are gone.

  “UN. FUCKING. BELIEVABLE.” My mother is screaming so loud she is drowning out Jeopardy! So loud my father stirs from his sleep at the other end of the couch and waves a hand at her.

  “She told you?” I ask.

  “No. She told him,” my mother says. “She tells him everything. She always did. He told me. And apparently you already knew.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Family meeting,” she says.

  “No. No. Mom, not tonight.”

  “Now,” my mother says.

  “Do we have to?” my father asks, rolling over onto stomach, hiding his face in protest.

  She doesn’t answer. She just walks out.

  We gather in the kitchen. Chip, in sweatpants, checks out his reflection in the windowpanes. Our father fiddles with the ends of his bathrobe. Elissa is looking sheepish at the head of the table. I sit with my notebook, hoping to show them all some of the expenses I’ve deemed unnecessary, possible cutbacks in Moretti family spending. Our mother is holding a plate of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. No homemade enticements this time.

  “Go ahead and tell them,” s
he says, practically throwing the plate onto the table.

  “They already know,” Elissa says.

  “Know what?” Chip asks.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “That’s a good one,” Chip says.

  “She’s serious,” I tell him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He chokes a little on the cookie he’s cramming into his mouth.

  “She,” our mother says, “is not kidding.”

  “It’s true,” Elissa says.

  “Are you getting the hook?” Chip asks.

  “Come on now, Chip,” our father says.

  “It’s a legitimate question,” our mother says. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to keep it,” Elissa says. She stands up. “I fucked up. I’m taking responsibility.”

  “You sound like a right-wing Christian,” I tell her.

  “No, I don’t,” she says.

  “Now might not be the best time to be all grown up,” Chip says.

  “It’s the right thing,” our father says.

  “Am I the only one here with a clear head?” our mother says, throwing up her hands. “This is insanity.”

  “I think Mom’s a little freaked out at the idea of being a grandma,” I say.

  “Yes. It’s freaking me out,” she says. “It’s not just that. It’s the house. Everything.” And she is crying, or rather, the red in her eyes is clearly visible. That place just before tears.

  “We’ll figure something out, Mom,” Elissa says.

  “I’ve lived here for fourteen years,” she says.

  “Mom, I know you don’t want to sell this house,” Chip says. “I don’t want to lose it either.”

  “It might be out of our hands,” I say.

  “It’s easy for you to say that,” she says. “You act like this isn’t your home anymore anyway.”

  “That isn’t true,” I say. “I’m gonna help. I’ve decided to help.”

  Our mother cries. Not a big show, just wet eyes.

  “It’ll be okay,” Elissa says. She takes our mother’s hand in hers.

  “How will it be okay?” Chip asks.

  “Dad’s stress test is coming up. His numbers look good. Don’t they?” I say. “There’s a chance he’ll be flying again.”

  “When? A year from now?” Chip says.

  “I remember not too long ago you telling me I needed to be a little more supportive,” I point out.

  “He never leaves the house,” Chip goes on. “He wears a bathrobe all day.”

  “It’s comfortable,” our father says.

  “He wants to stay sick,” my brother says.

  “I’m sure,” I say, “if they asked him to fly again, he’d get dressed.”

  “Perhaps,” the old man says.

  “We’re so fucked,” Chip says. “All the money I’ve sacrificed. Down the drain.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” our mother says.

  “How should I talk?” Chip asks. “I’m the only one really doing anything tangible to help around here.”

  “Just because you’re in a position to financially pitch in,” I say, “doesn’t mean you’re the only one helping.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asks. “What are you doing?”

  “For starters, I’m trying to find a better job. Something that pays more.”

  “Honey, you don’t have to,” my mother says.

  “It makes sense, though,” I say. “If I was making more, I could support myself better. I could find a place of my own without any help from you or Dad. Every penny you have could go to the house.”

  “It’s always about you,” Chip says. “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” I say. “Look.” I pull my notebook out of my pocket. I flip it open to the “Family Finances” section. “I’ve been looking over all the bills. And we spend a lot of money on stuff we don’t need.”

  “Like what?” my mother asks.

  “I don’t know, lots of stuff,” I say. “Canceling the country club got me thinking. But there’s other things we could do without. Cut the maid loose, for starters. Maybe get rid of one of the cars.”

  “I barely have time to get your father to all his appointments,” my mother is saying. “You want me to clean the whole house by myself on top of that?”

  “We could all clean,” I say.

  “Maybe everyone just needs to fess up and admit the house is a done deal,” Chip says. “The sooner we start figuring out where we’re all going next, the better off we’ll be.”

  “Where will we go?” Elissa asks.

  “Somewhere smaller,” Chip says. “Somewhere we can afford to live. Right now, that isn’t here.”

  “Come on, Mom, stop crying,” I say. “Please.”

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  The whole thing has taken a heavy toll on her and I can see something I’ve been missing this whole time. She doesn’t want to move. She, more than any of us, is attached to this house, to all its weird noises and creaks. The cat-pee smell. The teal garage. All of it.

  “Let’s stop now,” our father says. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You’re upsetting your mother.”

  But by then, there is really nothing left to say anyway.

  IT’S LATER AND I find my brother in his bedroom watching the Mets.

  “Now you like baseball?” I say.

  “I got money on the game,” he says.

  “You’ve taken up gambling?” I ask.

  “Looks that way,” he says. He waves his hand like he wants me to go away.

  “Take a ride with me,” I say. He looks at me and says nothing. “For Elissa,” I add.

  In the car, my brother and I indulge in the only common musical bond we have, N.W.A. We listen to “8 Ball.” We listen to “Straight Outta Compton.” Maybe we share other more important things, but contemplating what they might be seems too daunting a task at the moment.

  Stars in the sky tonight. The moon lights up the houses dotting the hills on either side of the river and there are hardly any cars on the Tappan Zee Bridge.

  Most of the shops in the mall have already closed. We walk past handfuls of dimly lit storefronts with clerks hunched over cash registers, trying to balance out the day’s sales. We ride the escalator to the top floor. Barnes & Noble is a burning testament to man’s desire to do his shopping in large, pulsing chain stores.

  It takes a while for Chip and me to find the parenting and family section. Neither of us will stoop to ask any of the numerous employees we walk past for assistance. Eventually we find ourselves in front of a wall lined with books on pregnancy, baby names, postnatal and postpartum care, fertility, motherhood. I scan the titles, trying to guess which one would be best. They all seem pretty apropos. I’m Pregnant! A Week-by-Week Guide from Conception to Birth. Great Expectations: Your All-in-One Resource for Pregnancy and Childbirth. Oh, Baby, the Places You’ll Go!

  “How ’bout this one?” Chip says. He grabs one at random and hands it to me. The Mocha Manual to a Fabulous Pregnancy.

  “This is for black women, I think,” I say, giving it back to him.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he says, reexamining the cover before returning it to the shelf. I catch the eye of a middle-aged woman whose name tag reads “Doris.”

  “Excuse me, Doris,” I say. She smiles what I imagine is a smile right out of the employee handbook and comes to stand between my brother and me.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” Doris asks.

  “Do you sell any pregnancy books for teenagers?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” Doris says. Her smile wavers only slightly.

  “Our sister’s pregnant,” Chip says.

  “I think most of these are probably written for women of all ages,” Doris says.

  “All right then,” I say. I grab the one that Barnes & Noble has the most copies of: What to Expect When You’re Expecting. “This will do,” I say.

  “Excellent choice,” Doris says.

>   “Let’s roll,” Chip says.

  Back home, we present the book to Elissa.

  “I hate to burst your bubble,” she says, “but Mom and I already got a bunch of these. But thank you, seriously, it makes me really happy that you did this for me.”

  My brother and I don’t say anything. It’s about other things, maybe. Doing something together, for someone else, someone other than ourselves. Something I’m trying to do more of.

  << 17 >>

  My mother gets a dog. A Yorkshire terrier.

  “It will be good for your father,” she says. “Bring some happiness to this house. I think. I hope.”

  The dog arrives and is almost immediately the most annoying thing I’ve had to deal with in a long time. My sister names her Emma.

  Her ears stick straight up like antennas and her eyes follow anything that moves. Her favorite activity seems to be trying to lick people’s noses. She is adorable and her adorableness is intolerable. She is full of boundless energy, a bundle of hyperactive rambunctiousness that has no limit. I fight a constant urge to kick her across the room.

  My grandmother sings to the dog. Makes faces at it. Talks to it like you talk to a baby.

  In the living room I lie on the floor, on my back, staring at the light fixtures. Emma prances around my head like a prizefighter, bobbing and weaving, licking my cheeks, my chin, trying to fit my nose into her tiny mouth. Occasionally I swat at her and she bounces out of reach, then scampers forward, nipping away.

  “She’s definitely irritating enough to be part of this family,” I say.

  “You’re so grumpy,” Elissa says.

  Our father pads in from the TV room, holding his bathrobe tight around his waist, dragging a blanket behind him. He is like a child roused from a nap.

  “Can you shut up?” he asks. “I’m sleeping.”

  “Dad, you can’t just lie around the house,” I say. “You should be out doing stuff. The doctors say it’s good for the remission.”

  “Doctors don’t know anything,” he says. He grimaces. He runs his free hand through the tiny amount of hair that has returned to his head. “I’m dying.” He squats down on his haunches and tickles the floor with his fingers, making a sucking noise between his teeth. “Here, Emma. Here, sweet girl,” he says.