The Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac

by Kris D'Agostino

  The dog drops back a moment and stares at him, head cocked, deep in thought. Her tail wags. She darts forward, attacking his hand. He smiles. He sits down, crosses his legs, and scoops the dog up into his arms, cradling her like a baby. He scratches Emma’s belly, and her hind leg twitches with pleasure.

  “We can barely take care of ourselves,” I say. “And now we’ve got another living thing to look after.” I stand up and start off toward the kitchen.

  “Cal,” Elissa calls after me, “don’t be so angry.”

  “I’m not cleaning up any poop. I’m saying that right now so everyone is clear.”

  In the kitchen, I find my mother and grandmother, fixing dinner. The smell of peppers and onions is everywhere, as is, of course, the smell of garlic.

  “The idea is to spend less money,” I say, plunking myself down in a chair at the dinner table.

  “The dog makes everyone feel good,” my mother says. She wipes her hands on her apron.

  “It doesn’t make me feel good,” I say.

  “You’re in the minority there,” she says.

  “Little Emma needs us to take care of her,” my grandmother says.

  The all-too-common feeling of claustrophobia creeps in. How can I help if they refuse to use common sense?

  It’s like I’ve known only this house and these people all my life. Maybe I won’t ever know anything else. Maybe I’m not supposed to. The scariest thing: that somehow I’m meant to be here, at this kitchen table, forever, for all time, watching these two women make chicken cacciatore. I picture a future where my parents manage to hold on to the house and I help them do it. I could, in essence, be indenturing myself to a lifetime of postadolescence with no hope of anything more.

  I stand up quickly, grab my keys off the countertop, and am out the back door without answering anyone’s queries as to where I’m going or when I’ll be back. I am unconcerned that dinner is almost ready.

  The car smells like socks and recently smoked joints. I grab the nearest tape, Infest’s 1987 demo. I pop it in. I crank the volume. I back out of the driveway too quickly and don’t see Chip come running around the corner until I’m almost on top of him. I slam on the brakes and he makes a grand gesture, pretends I’ve hit him. He howls in fake agony. Bursts out laughing. I roll the window down, lower the music.

  “Very funny,” I say.

  “I know, I know,” he says, catching his breath.

  “Where are you coming from?” I ask. I wave a hand up and down, indicating his outfit: mesh shorts, wife beater, running shoes, headband.

  “Work,” he says. “I found a way to get an extra mile of cardio a day. I run to and from the train.” He pats his briefcase affectionately. “My suit,” he says.

  I roll the window back up without saying anything else and pull away, turning the stereo up even louder than before. My brother fades in the rearview mirror, watching me go, until he is nothing more than a blurry figure on the sidewalk. I turn a corner and he is gone.

  WE TAKE ADVANTAGE of a particularly nice day. We bring the children outside. To the playground: A bed of wood chips and safety-padded climbing apparatuses, rubberized benches surrounded by wooden fencing. A romper room for those not capable of romping without causing severe bodily harm to themselves and others.

  I take Arham by the hand and lead him into the bright morning sunlight. He laughs manically and runs in circles for a while, waving his hands at the sky, at the clouds. He opens and closes his tiny fists in an attempt to grab it all, pull it down. He falls. He picks himself up again. I pretend to be a monster. I chase him, making gurgling noises and lurching about like a zombie. I catch him and hoist him into the air as he shrieks with laughter.

  “Gotcha,” I say. He bubbles with joy and I spin him round and round and then send him on his way. He runs to the slide, wobbling with dizziness. He pauses, steadying himself, before he looks back and laughs some more.

  Little Hendrick Ramirez is tugging at my sleeve.

  “Be the monster for me,” he says.

  “Take off the fireman’s hat,” I say, “and I’ll be the monster.”

  He thinks about this.

  “I no take off my hat,” he says.

  “No dice,” I tell him. He pivots and runs off. He and Arham take turns scampering up the netting of the climber and hurling themselves down the slide headfirst.

  Angela comes over to stand near me.

  “You’re great with him,” she says.

  “Think so?” I say.

  “Of course,” she says.

  I look out at the playground.

  “I love that little guy,” I say.

  After yard time, I sit in my small chair with my lap desk. Arham sits in his small chair. We run through some lessons. I show him letters on index cards. He calls them out.

  “A,” he says.

  “Good job,” I tell him. I hand him a small piece of Doritos from the box.

  I present another card.

  “K,” he says.

  “Excellent, my man,” I say.

  Another card.

  He tilts his head.

  “P,” he says.

  “Q,” I say. I let the information sink in.

  I put the card facedown on the lap desk. I show it to him again.

  He tilts his head.

  “Q,” he says.

  “Good job,” I say. I rub his head. I feed him more chips.

  I mark two checks and an X for the first three results on my clipboard.

  Before I know it, we’ve gone through five lessons. Letters, colors, actions, pattern recognition, and shapes. The morning session ends and Arham gets on his bus and is gone. I eat my lunch in silence at one of the picnic tables.

  Friday afternoons are reserved for staff meetings. This week’s gathering is dedicated to an instructive lecture provided by the New York State Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. “Infection Control in the Day-Care Setting.” We are promised a mandatory certificate of completion at the end. A piece of paper required by law for caregivers working with children under the age of five. The County of Westchester sends a tall, sallow-faced Polish immigrant named Dr. Francis Valcheck. “Call me Dr. Frank,” he tells us all. He peers at us from behind golden wire-rimmed glasses and speaks with a strong accent. We are seated in uncomfortable folding chairs, staring at a projector screen. I give myself ten minutes before my mind completely wanders off into the land of daydreams.

  Dr. Frank’s presentation begins.

  “I am here on my own time,” he tells us. “I take this class very seriously. I will not tolerate chitchat. I will not tolerate jokes or giggling or any of that silly stuff. I’m not being paid to be here. You are. This class and the certificate we give you are required of you by law and you must stay until the very end or else I will not give you credit for attendance.”

  There is a murmur in the back of the room.

  “What’s that?” Dr. Frank says. He holds a hand to his ear and leans forward, pantomiming as though he is listening for the disrupter. “Are you saying you know more about this stuff than I do?”

  Georgie snickers. Dr. Frank points his finger at Georgie.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No, sir,” Georgie says, suddenly straight faced, if not a little embarrassed to be singled out.

  “Please, tell me,” Dr. Frank continues. “Maybe you are a registered nurse? Hmm? Maybe you are the smartest? Ya? Maybe you want to come up here and lead the class. Do the show? I’ll sit down. Take a nap.”

  “I ain’t no nurse,” Georgie says.

  Dr. Frank stands up tall. He turns his attention back to the entire room.

  “Very distracting to have people talking. Giggling,” he says. “No more. Please, people. Let’s pay attention. There is nothing funny about what I’m going to teach you today.”

  The good doctor goes on to show us a PowerPoint presentation on how to properly identify certain infectious diseases. The accompanying slides are very disturbing. I’m p
articularly weirded out by the photos of adult tetanus, which show a naked man whose muscles have locked—back arched, teeth clenched, rigid from head to toe, like a curved metal rod.

  “Total prolonged contraction of skeletal muscle fibers, ya?” Dr. Frank says. He doesn’t wait for a response. He presses on. He shows us measles, mumps, diphtheria, pertussis, rubella. He shows us the correct ratio of bleach to water required to make a suitable solution for cleaning tabletops and diaper-changing areas and toys. We watch a video detailing the correct way to wash hands. “Count to thirty in your head,” a young woman narrates. “Remember to wash hands after any of the following: After arrival at the center. Before eating or handling food. After toileting or assisting children with toileting, and after diaper changing. After contact with any body secretions (nasal or oral secretions, stool, blood, urine, vomit, or skin lesions). After handling an ill child. Use a vigorous friction.”

  No one makes a peep the entire time. After the slide show, Dr. Frank embarks on a rather lengthy tangent about his childhood in wartime Poland. Several relatives of his weren’t able to smuggle themselves to the United States, wound up in concentration camps. “I was very lucky,” he tells us all. He raises a finger in warning and waves it around the room. “Very lucky,” he says.

  An hour later, we are all filing out of the room, certificates in hand, heading to our cars and the weekend. It is the end of one of those days where work doesn’t seem so meaningless. A day when infectious diseases can be tamed and controlled. A day when Arham’s vacant smile is full of hidden genius and untapped potential. A day when there is hope in even the most lunatic of possibilities.

  THE PHONE IS ringing for a while before I remember I’m the only one in the house. I’d successfully persuaded my father to accompany my mother to the movies. I send them to a romantic comedy about a sports reporter who falls in love with the pro tennis player she’s assigned to interview. I know they’ll both hate it, but it’s the first public appearance, aside from hospital/pharmacy/video store trips, that the old man’s made in a long time. I even get him to wear a sweat suit and no bathrobe, which takes my promising to DVR the episodes of Law & Order he’ll be missing. Chip is out in the city with his friends. Elissa, too, has been carted away by a group of obnoxiously chatty girls to “hang out.”

  It’s eleven o’clock, somewhere in that area. I’d fallen asleep with a copy of Fangoria draped over my chest. The ceiling fan is whirring and whirring with the sound of the telephone.

  “Hello,” I say after rolling off my bed and sliding on my stomach across the hardwood floor.

  “Cal.” It’s Elissa.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Over at Grace Reynolds’s. A party. He’s here.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Him.”

  Apparently I’m not assessing the situation as quickly as my sister thinks I should be. Then it clicks.

  “Oh, okay,” I say. I rub my face, trying to motivate myself into a state of readiness. A mind-set of relaxed helpfulness. “Don’t panic. I’m on my way. Just stay where you are.”

  “I’m in the bathroom, on my cell phone,” she says. “I don’t have a ride and my friends want to stay.”

  “It’s cool,” I say. “I’m on my way. I’m leaving right now. Listen to the sound of my keys.”

  I hang up and walk to the hatchback. Crickets seem to be the only thing I can hear, sawing away to one another. The air is clear and dark.

  I drive at a fairly good clip, across town to Kelbourne Avenue, over to Munroe and then finally onto Hunter Avenue. I can see the line of cars parked outside the place. Empty cups and random packs of howling, lurching teens pollute the vicinity. Parents out of town: the crucial ingredient to all successful high school parties.

  I park. Walk around back and push through clusters of googly-eyed preps and jocks and a strange contingent of tight-panted, jean-jacket-wearing punks before I’m able to locate the back door and then the kitchen and finally the stairs, which take me up to a dimly lit hallway. Dance music is pumping downstairs. Up here, the floorboards are vibrating with dull bass throbs. I feel the masses of young bodies below, swaying, spinning, gyrating.

  I find the bathroom, but Elissa isn’t there. I open a bedroom door to a view of two kids making out. His hands on her tits.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Pervert,” she says before I can close the door.

  Lucky bastard, I tell myself. I turn to head back down the steps and see Elissa by the window at the end of the hall, in shadows.

  “You got here quick,” she says.

  “You said it was urgent.”

  “It is.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Not at all. I’m having trouble breathing. They keep staring at me.”

  “We’ll go.”

  “Him and his friends. I feel like they want to hurt me.”

  “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

  “I feel all weird. My heart is pounding. It’s gonna kill the baby.” She puts her hand on her belly. Leaves it there.

  “The baby is fine.”

  “Everything’s all fucked up,” she says. She slumps forward a little, in her shoulders. I move to hug her but pull back before I do.

  “It’ll be fine. We’ll just leave.”

  “What’d I do? I’m just one more problem in a series of unsolvable problems.”

  “Listen. I understand. I completely agree. It’s a shitty situation. But what you’re saying, it doesn’t have anything to do with the baby. The baby will be fine.”

  “You don’t know that,” she says.

  “We’ll all be okay. You’ll see.”

  “I’m so confused.”

  “You don’t have to figure anything out right now,” I say. “You’re the one who’s always telling me not to think so much. Now is a time for that. Now is a time for no thinking. To listen to your own words.”

  “I feel all weird.”

  “It’ll pass.”

  “It’s probably the weed.”

  “You’re high?” I say. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

  “I know,” she says. “Don’t yell at me, okay? It was, like, one joint. Like, half a joint. I just. . . I don’t know. I fucked up.”

  “You definitely fucked up,” I say. I grab her by the shoulder and start shuttling her toward the stairs. “You’re smarter than this.”

  “I hate him,” she says.

  “You should.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “All right. Let’s go.” I take her by the elbow and together we go back downstairs and through the living room. The music is in full force here. A kid in a ridiculous red striped tracksuit is pumping his fists in the air behind turntables in the corner. He drops out the low end for a few seconds on the mixer, then cranks it back up. The crowd cheers wildly and flails about.

  I stop along the wall and survey the room. Elissa is looking meek, glassy eyes focused on the floor. I can see now she is pale, sweaty.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “Please, Cal,” she says over the noise. “Let’s just go.” I stare at her. She points to a group of kids hovering near the keg in its ice-filled plastic bucket. They are crowded into a narrow passage near the front door. I drag her toward them. I spot him without her help. I don’t even know his name, but I know which one he is. He’s the one who can’t look at us. The one whose head is aimed at the ground more intensely than Elissa’s.

  “Hey,” I say, pushing him against the wall.

  “What’s your problem, dude?” he says. His hair is dirty blond. There are freckles around his nose. Hollow eyes.

  “My problem is you’re a fucking asshole,” I say.

  A couple of his friends seem to have gathered around and are eyeballing me with hungry stares. They would like n
othing more than a fight. It would make their evening memorable. Separate it from all the other nights.

  “Cal,” Elissa is saying, tugging at my sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  “Dick,” I say as I turn and follow my sister out the front door. I’m flush with adrenaline. I spend the entire ride home fantasizing about better last words I could have said to him. Thinking, I should have punched him.

  IT TAKES ME a while to calm down. I pace around in the kitchen. My father is asleep on the couch in the TV room, home from the movies. I kept my promise. Law & Order is replaying itself at top volume, drowning out his snores.

  I eat a turkey sandwich. I drink orange juice straight from the container. As I’m closing the refrigerator door, I see Elissa standing near the back stairs. She is dressed in a white T-shirt, running shorts. Her hair pulled up in a ponytail, her stomach swelling underneath it all.

  “I’m sorry about that stuff I said,” she says. “I don’t know what I was talking about.”

  “No worries,” I tell her. “It’s understandable. We’ve all got a lot going on. You especially.”

  “I want this baby.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s okay to have doubts. It’s a big thing.”

  “It’s good for me,” she says. “I’m happy about it.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  She laughs a little and turns to head upstairs.

  “Good night,” she says.

  “Good night,” I say.

  She isn’t ready for a child. I’m always amazed at how much more mature Elissa seems than either Chip or I. But a kid? She needs to live her life more. She needs to have the chance to fuck things up in the normal way. Like the rest of us. Having a kid at seventeen is too much of a fuckup too soon. She’ll miss out on the chance to build up other more instructive life regrets. She may have made the wrong choice in keeping the baby.

  It could be that the ability to make any difference—with Elissa, with him, the house—is beyond anything I have to offer. It could be it’s only my presence anyone requires. The simple action of being here. To see things through, no matter the outcome. Is that the right thing to do? I keep asking myself the same questions and I keep coming up with the same vague answers. Stick it out and see what happens. The choice entails scary possibilities. And none of them seem to include my ending up happy. I don’t want anything bad to happen to my family. I don’t want to lose my father. I don’t want Elissa to struggle in her life, just as much as I don’t want to dash my chances of being happy.