The Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac

by Kris D'Agostino

  “As long as I can smoke in the room.”

  “There’s no smoking on the premises,” Veronica says.

  “Does the Muzak ever stop?”

  “It’s on a loop.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously,” I say.

  “I’m not,” she says.

  In the car I put my head against the steering wheel. I dig through the tapes on the floor. I listen to deep soul music from Mississippi towns like Vicksburg, Indianola, Coahoma. Places I’ve never been to but have a clear picture of in my head. Hot and sweaty, thick with history. Spanish moss growing on the trees. Hedgerows. People own their houses free and clear.

  My arm pulses with pain.

  << 29 >>

  When I get home, I half expect to see flashing lights outside the house. Officers waiting to take me in. There’s nothing like that.

  I find my family in the living room. My mother is sitting in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace, Emma curled in her lap. Elissa is lying on the floor, her head propped by a pillow, her hands resting atop her belly. My father is on the sofa with his reading glasses on, but he’s not reading anything.

  “Oh my God, Cal,” my mother says, “what happened to your face?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” I say.

  My mother puts the dog down and comes over for a motherly inspection of my wounds. I brush her off.

  “Stop, Mom,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  Instead she retrieves an ice pack from the fridge and hands it to me.

  “Join us for family time,” our father says.

  “Brigitte thinks it’s a good idea for us all to spend at least a half hour together each day,” our mother says.

  “You look really bad,” Elissa says.

  “Can we please just let it go?” I say.

  I lie down on the couch. I put the ice pack on my face. I use the tops of my father’s legs as a pillow. I am careful not to move my arm too much. He strokes my hair and I don’t tell him to stop. It doesn’t bother me. The day has been a dream, waking and dozing, waking and dozing. Chip comes thundering down the stairs from his bedroom.

  “I’m here,” he announces.

  “We’re glad to see you,” our father says.

  “Your face is all fucked up,” he tells me.

  “So is yours,” I say.

  “He won’t tell us what happened,” our mother says.

  “He obviously got beat up,” Chip says.

  “Just let me rest for a second,” I say.

  My brother paces around. He grabs a Duraflame from the wicker basket next to the mantel.

  “Should I make a fire?” he asks.

  “It’s not cold out,” our mother says.

  “A fire would be nice,” Elissa says.

  “A fire would be nice,” I say.

  “You look like shit,” Chip says.

  “You already pointed that out,” I say.

  “It needed to be said again,” he says.

  I close my eyes. I feel them wanting to stay shut. A nameless weight spreads out into my limbs. I close my eyes. I am confident that when I open them again, everyone will still be here, in this room, and we will be okay. We will be happy with who we are.

  OF COURSE HE COMES. The next day. Friday. Old Man Copeland. I see him through the glass of the front door, his large frame blocking out most of the sunlight. Before the doorbell even rings, I am heading up to my room, most likely to hide under my covers.

  I pause at the top of the stairs, out of sight. I duck my head to get a look at what is going on down there. I wait for whatever is coming.

  My mother lets him in and he stands in the foyer, his arms dangling at his sides. His face is flecked with sweat. Elissa and my father are in the family room. The TV is on at top volume.

  “Can I help you?” my mother begins.

  “You most certainly can,” Copeland says. “Does a Calvin Moretti live here?”

  “He most certainly does.”

  “Are you his mother?”

  “I most certainly am,” she says in that voice of hers, that appeasing, calm voice of hers. The one she uses on police officers when she gets pulled over for speeding. The one she uses to talk her way out of sticky situations.

  “He’s in a lot of trouble,” Copeland says.

  “What’d he do?”

  “What he did was physically assault my seventeen-year-old son on the porch of our house yesterday.”

  “Calvin,” my mother calls out. I take a few breaths and descend the stairs to join them. I can feel my face blushing as I go. My palms sweat.

  “This man . . .” My mother motions in his direction.

  “John Copeland,” he says.

  “This man, John Copeland,” she continues. She stops for a moment. Her hand moves to her chin and she thinks about something for a second. “I’m sorry, did you say your name is Copeland?” she asks.

  “John Copeland. My son is Bjorn. He’s out there in the car. The boy’s too darn afraid to come up here himself.”

  We all pause for a moment to glance back out the door, across the yard to the street, where Bjorn is indeed sitting in the passenger seat of a silver Escort.

  My mother is mulling something over in her head. When she speaks again, her voice has modulated from calm and even to pressure-cooker temper-tantrum mode.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, you know that, asshole?” she says, and even I am afraid of her tone.

  “I’m an asshole?” Copeland says, aghast. “I’ve got a lot of nerve? I’ve got a lot of nerve?” He says it the second time for effect, maybe, or maybe because he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I’m gonna call the cops. He’ll go to jail.”

  “Before anyone goes to jail,” my mother says as she moves to put herself between me and Old Man Copeland. She is close to him, almost right in his face. “Before you make any calls, I’d have a talk with your son about what he’s been up to.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Copeland says.

  “It means,” my mother says, screaming now, “little Bjorn’s had a good time recently and we’re stuck with the bills.” She pauses here for effect. “You come to my house and threaten to call the cops on my son. I have a husband, sitting on the couch in there”—she points to the TV room—“recovering from cancer. Maybe I’ll make a phone call or two myself. Maybe you’d like to be a grandfather? Buy the kid some clothes. Take it to the doctor. Pay for schoolbooks. Take it to the zoo. How does that sound?”

  I am smiling behind her, trying not to let Copeland see. He stands there with his arms dangling and I don’t think he has the slightest notion what to say. He is flabbergasted. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and opens his mouth, but succeeds only in emitting a strange gust of air, like a whistle.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave now,” my mother says. She is holding the front door open, signaling for him to exit. I can see her knuckles are white where she is gripping the knob.

  “Sorry,” Copeland manages.

  “Bye now,” my mother says. And just like that, Copeland is out the door and heading across the walk with his head hung and his mind most likely awhirl with questions. I see Bjorn sit up straight as his father plops down behind the steering wheel.

  “Asshole,” my mother calls out.

  The engine starts and they drive off. I’m shaking with adrenaline.

  I DON’T SMOKE a joint in the third-floor bathroom. I don’t look at Internet porn. I don’t think about houses or coming or going. I don’t think about the future. I don’t hand over my grad school application to Ceci. It just sits in the envelope, waiting. I can’t bring myself to do it. Not with all that’s happening.

  I go out to the deck and sit on the steps leading down to the backyard. My shoulder still throbs from the previous day’s run-in with the Copeland family.

  I sit, alternating my gaze between the birches and oaks and elms. My arm is in its sling.

  My mother c
omes outside. As she opens the back door, Emma bolts out, darting across the grass in frantic circles. My head spins just watching her. Emma stops for a moment to take a leak, continues running. My mother sits down next to me, cradling herself against the slight chill in the air.

  “I broke my arm once when I was in the eighth grade,” she says. “Volleyball.”

  “I didn’t know you played volleyball.”

  “I wasn’t very good. Only did it to make my father happy. All I remember is how much the cast itched.”

  “These bandages aren’t too comfortable,” I say, lifting my arm as much as the pain will allow. I adjust my shoulder inside the gauze. I wait till she looks at me. “What are we gonna do, Mom?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Wait for a letter from the FAA, I suppose. Take it from there.”

  “If he doesn’t get clearance,” I say, “it’s going to be bad.”

  “He’s made it through worse news,” she says.

  “I feel so bad for him,” I say. “He loves it so much.”

  “If they don’t let him fly, we’ll deal with it.”

  “You’ve said it yourself. We could always let the bank foreclose. It’ll take them a year or more to get us out of here. We have time.”

  “His medical could come through,” she says. “It’s not out of the question.”

  “He’s in no fit state to fly,” I say.

  “Maybe so,” she says.

  Emma runs in circles on the lawn.

  “I’ve been saving up money for a little while,” I say.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she says. “I know how hard it is for you to be stuck here.”

  “I want to give it to you and Dad,” I say. “For the house. For whatever you need.”

  She touches my shoulder.

  “I appreciate it,” she says, “but I’ve been thinking. It isn’t right for me to expect you and Chip to bail us out.”

  “Moving out isn’t at the top of my list anymore,” I say. “Elissa needs a place to bring that baby home to.”

  “She’ll have a place,” my mother says. “Whether it’s here or somewhere new.”

  “She needs it,” I say.

  “Listen, Cal,” my mother says. “I’m not going to lie. It’s been nice having you around. All of you.”

  “We drive each other crazy.”

  “We laugh a lot, too,” she points out. “He likes having you guys around. Sometimes I think it may be the only thing that keeps him going.”

  “We can’t all live here together forever,” I say. “Chip and Elissa, too. At some point it’s gonna be just the two of you. He has to figure out what he’s living for. Or else there’s no point.”

  “I used to think if I could just keep us all together, everything would work itself out,” she says. “I’m learning that isn’t the answer. It’s just . . . you don’t know what it’s like to be alone with him. Really alone. He whines and cries. Tells me he’s dying from the moment he wakes up till the moment he goes to bed. It is endless.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know it’s a lot on your plate.”

  “No. I’m the one who should be sorry. It was wrong of me to make you feel like you needed to be here. All of you. He’s my husband.”

  “He’s my father,” I say. “I want to be here. Plus, I feel guilty. About this.” I raise my bandages. “This is the last thing he needs right now.”

  “It’s all right,” she says. “In a way, it might not be such a bad thing. I think it was a wake-up call for him. He’s been in his own little world for so long.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Really I am.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she says. “I want you to know that you don’t have to stay. Start your life.”

  “I want to help,” I say. “I really do. With the house. With all of it.”

  “Do me a favor, then,” she says.

  “Anything,” I say.

  Emma catches sight of a squirrel crawling up one of the tree trunks. She launches into a barking frenzy.

  AND SO OVER the weekend I accompany my mother and Chip and Pam Kittredge on a morning-long outing to view houses. The parade seems endless. Most of the houses in what Chip has deemed our price range are depressing. One after another. We are shown a dozen listings. We look at single-family houses, multifamily houses, condos, adequately sized apartments. We look at Tudors, brick, stucco, plastic siding. We inspect basements and garages. Survey lawns and yards. Decks and porches. We see enclosed sitting rooms. We talk about attic space and storage. One bathroom. One and a half bathrooms. Two bedrooms. Three bedrooms. This one has a large living room, which really makes up for the fact that the kitchen is so tiny . . . The neighborhood here is just marvelous . . . Very up and coming . . . Lots of young couples fleeing the city . . . They say the elementary school down the block is one of the best in the county, you know, for when . . . That fireplace works . . . Here, let me open the flue . . . And of course they’ll be fixing that . . . I’ll have to check . . .

  Chip is all questions. He wants to know about heating and utility expenses. Property tax and closing costs. He wants to know about square footage and fees. Hidden costs.

  “How much lower than asking can we come in?” he ponders.

  Pam rides in the SUV with us, directing us from house to house, describing the neighborhoods as if we haven’t been driving up and down Route 9 along the Hudson River valley all our lives. Hastings-on-Hudson, Ardsley, Irvington, Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown. We tour all of western Westchester County. My mother’s face betrays nothing about what she’s thinking. There is an eagerness in me that is hard to contain. I want to find a place. Just one that feels right, that feels like it could work. So I can know that they’re safe. That even if they lose the house, they have something to fall back on, a plan of some kind.

  Most of the houses need work. A few are in good condition. Only one really strikes me as a possible place I can see my parents downsizing to and being happy. A small, quaint three-bedroom, two bath Victorian on the border of Yonkers and Hastings. Attached garage and a small back porch, where I picture my father sitting on spring days, daydreaming about airplanes or whatever it is he daydreams about. Best of all, there is enough room for everyone. Elissa and the baby. If Chip insists on living at home for the rest of his life, there’s a room for him. For me, there is couch space when I come to visit.

  When it’s all done and Pam has driven off in her little car, the three of us sit down to lunch at a pizza place in Tarrytown.

  “That was fun,” I say.

  “I don’t like that woman,” Chip says, dumping way too much red pepper onto his slice.

  “She’s fine,” I say.

  “They’re all out to get you,” he says.

  “Realtors?” my mother asks.

  “Women,” Chip says.

  “The Victorian in Hastings was by far the best,” I say.

  “I liked that one, too,” my mother says. She hasn’t touched her pizza.

  “We’ll see,” Chip says. “We have to crunch the numbers.”

  “Nothing is certain,” my mother says. “We don’t have to move. Not yet.”

  “Be realistic, Mom,” Chip says.

  “I am being realistic,” she says. “Your father doesn’t want to sell. I don’t want to sell. We haven’t missed a payment. Yet. We haven’t defaulted. If he gets his job back, it could change things. Don’t be so eager for us to move.”

  “I’m the one who made the last mortgage payment, so you don’t have to remind me,” Chip says. “And by the way, at this point, we’re paying interest only. Not a good sign.”

  “If we stay and the bank forecloses,” our mother says, “it will take a year or more for them to get us out.”

  “Or,” Chip says, “we sell before they foreclose, take what little we can scrape together after paying off, and start fresh somewhere else. Somewhere we can afford.”

  “By then, he could be working again,” our mother points out. “If not, Medicare ta
kes over. Disability. A lot could happen.”

  “Yeah,” Chip says. “A lot of other stuff could happen, too. Stuff we haven’t even thought of.”

  “He hasn’t worked in nearly a year, Mom,” I say. “If he doesn’t get that medical, you know what’s going to happen.”

  She starts to cry.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. Let’s stop now. We’ll play it by ear. When he hears from the FAA, we’ll look everything over. See where we’re at. We need to keep all the doors open, right?”

  “I suppose,” Chip says.

  Our mother excuses herself to use the bathroom. As soon as she is out of earshot, Chip starts in.

  “She’s losing her mind,” he says. “You see that, right?”

  “She’s got a lot going on,” I say.

  “They’re clinging to this house,” he says. “They’re petrified of change. We need to step in and do something.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Persuade them to sell,” he says. “Talk them into downsizing.”

  “Chip,” I say, “they love that house. It means a lot to them.”

  “They can’t afford it,” he says.

  “I agree with you,” I say. “But it isn’t right to just give up.”

  By this point, our mother returns and we fall silent.

  She sits staring at her pizza, as if waiting for answers to appear in the pooling oil.

  << 30 >>

  I watch a movie. The Prowler. 1981. Directed by Joseph Zito. A plot summary might read something like this: masked killer who likes to wear World War II army fatigues brutally slaughters a group of college kids too busy getting it on at the annual spring dance to really notice. I go to my bedroom to retrieve my notebook from its spot under my pillow but am surprised to find it isn’t there. I remember leaving it up in the third-floor bathroom.

  From the hallway, I hear Elissa crying. I am very familiar with the sound. I hate when my sister cries. Even worse when it’s my fault.

  I thought I was the only one in the house who actually made use of those facilities on the third floor. Apparently I was wrong. She read the whole thing. Every thought I’ve penned about her or Chip or our parents. Every jerk-off fantasy. All the movies. The stuff about her not being ready for a baby. The stuff about the house and our family finances. All the strange things running through my head, spewed out in black or blue ink on the pages of that tiny book.