The Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac

by Kris D'Agostino

  She’s sitting on her bed, wrapped in her green blanket. Her hair is in her face. Tear streaks down her cheeks. She looks at me like a child. She has her finger in the middle of the notebook. She closes it and wipes her nose.

  “What the fuck?” is all she says.

  I am standing awkwardly in the threshold. First I try leaning against the doorframe. This feels very weird. I try to thrust my good arm into the depths of my pant pocket. This is too casual. I don’t really know what to do.

  “You weren’t supposed to read that,” I say.

  “Even if I wasn’t,” she says.

  “It doesn’t mean anything. That’s not really how I feel.”

  “I don’t care what you write about me,” she says.

  “You don’t?” I ask.

  “All this stuff about Dad,” she says. “You know how fragile he is right now. How do you think he’d feel if he read some of the stuff in here? If he knew you went through his journal?”

  “You just read mine,” I say, incredulous.

  “It’s not the same. He’s sick. It’s a violation.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “You throw us all under the bus,” she says.

  “I don’t.”

  “You tell me one thing to my face. Everything’s gonna be fine. Don’t eat Twinkies. Don’t smoke weed. The baby. Think of the baby. But you don’t think I’m ready.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “If you thought I was making a mistake, why not tell me to my face?”

  “Because I’m not good at talking to people,” I say. “You know me.”

  “This,” she says, holding up the notebook, “is fucked up.”

  “It’s me working out the bullshit in my head. The things I’ve said to you, they’re what really count. Not what I write in there.”

  “This hasn’t been easy for me. Everyone’s so worried about Dad.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “How am I supposed to believe that now?”

  “Elissa. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m usually stoned when I write in there.”

  “Blame it on the weed,” she says. And then she turns her head toward the windows and I know what this means. She’s done talking.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “Fuck you,” she says.

  I stand for a while longer, then realize I can’t think of another thing to say.

  I go downstairs and pace around the living room. My father is in the basement working on the baby’s mobile. Without really thinking about it, I head down there and continue my pacing behind him at the workbench. He is in his pajamas.

  “Almost done here,” he says. He has a paintbrush in his hand and is streaking blue paint onto the tail of an F/A-18 Hornet. The finishing touches. I see for the first time that not only has he assembled the ten model airplanes, but he’s painted the detailing as well. And he’s done a surprisingly good job.

  “You did all these by hand?” I ask him.

  He steps aside and shows me his work.

  “Your old man has still got it,” he says.

  “Looks good.”

  He cleans the brush on a paper towel.

  “I used to pace when I got upset, too,” he says.

  “Elissa and I had a fight,”

  “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I say. “I just need to move around.”

  He nods his head and turns to search through the paint box for another brush.

  “Make it up to her,” he says over his shoulder. “She’s in a tough spot.”

  “I know,” I say. “I will.”

  But I never do. Elissa and I don’t talk about the notebook again. When I go back up to my room, I find she’s thrown it on my bed. I put it back under my pillow.

  She stays in her room the rest of the night with the door closed. She’s still in there the next morning when I leave for work.

  At the dinner table we don’t exchange more than a few meaningless cordialities. “I feel fine” and “Yes, the baby is still squirming nonstop” are all I can manage to get out of her.

  I GO BACK to work. I’ve been two weeks convalescing. Aside from having to answer a constant assault of annoying questions and a few embarrassing retellings of the ordeal, things fall quickly into the old routine.

  “Shot by your own father,” Georgie says on one of the first days I’m back. “That’s some deep shit.”

  “The deepest,” I tell him.

  It takes another two weeks for my face to look normal again.

  I go to a handful of physical therapy sessions at the YMCA. I drive myself. Twice a week. I lift meager weights with my right arm. I roll my sleeves up over my shoulder and touch the pink lump where a small, quarter-size scar has formed.

  My therapist is a tall black guy named Dwayne. His biceps ripple beneath his shirt.

  “Higher,” he tells me. I lift the dumbbell higher. “Good,” he says. “Excellent.”

  I pull elastic bands in varying degrees of resistance. I stretch. Dwayne stands beside me. Together we see each exercise through to completion. Afterward I sit in the steam room. I let sweat roll down my body. I am on the mend.

  Days. Weeks. Halloween. The John W. Manley School requires its staff to wear costumes. There is a party for the kids. I pretend I am a doctor. I wear scrubs and a stethoscope, a surgical mask.

  “Isn’t that theme a little played out around here?” Chip says.

  I regain most of my mobility. I begin to think of myself as the guy shot by his own father. The stuff of mythically humorous proportions. Suburban folklore.

  The cops never come for me. We don’t hear from the Copelands again. I have my mother to thank for that.

  Elissa stays pregnant and mad.

  I TAKE MY grandmother to pick up her new eyeglasses.

  “Bifocals,” she tells me as we drive. “That means two different lenses.”

  I park the car and help her onto the sidewalk. She stares at a bus stop billboard of Osama bin Laden. Above his turban, the words ENEMY OF FREEDOM are inscribed. A recruitment poster for the US Army. My grandmother stands before it, hovering and tottering on her squat legs. She squints.

  “It’s a picture of God,” she says, waving a hand at the billboard.

  “I don’t know about that, Grandma,” I say.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she says, moving on toward the optometrist’s office.

  On the way out, with her new bifocals firmly seated across her nose, she inspects the poster again. She looks at me.

  “Who is that man?” she asks.

  At home, my mother is waiting in the kitchen for me. The look on her face is one I have seen before. It hasn’t changed since high school. It is the look that lets me know I fucked up.

  “You realize your sister is going to give birth any day?”

  “I realize this,” I say.

  “So your idea of helping out, of making sure she’s healthy and ready for this huge thing to happen, is to upset her?”

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “She didn’t say anything,” my mother says. “She’s been sulking around. You don’t think I notice?”

  “How should I know?” I say.

  “Whatever you did,” my mother says, “undo it.”

  “She won’t talk to me.”

  “It’s not good for her to be upset. Not in the state she’s in. It’s not good for the baby.”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “If this is how you plan to help, don’t bother.”

  “I fucked up,” I say.

  “This is not what I need right now,” she says.

  She gets up from the table. She sets a pot of water to boil on the stove and digs a box of spaghetti out of a cabinet.

  Elissa is in the doorway, out of nowhere, leaning against the wall. She has a strange look on her face.

  “Have you been listening?” I say.

  “Mom,” she says. “I don’t feel so good.” Her face i
s sweaty.

  “Oh my God,” my mother says, dropping the spaghetti onto the floor. “Is it time?”

  “I don’t know,” Elissa says.

  And my mother is running to her and holding her.

  “Call an ambulance,” she says to me.

  I pick up the phone and dial. I tell the dispatcher who I am. I give our address. I’m assured help is on the way.

  My mother and I walk Elissa to the living room and lay her down on the couch. I get her a glass of water. She is pale. She is damp all over and seems very close to losing consciousness.

  “Where’s your father?” my mother asks, panicky.

  I run into the TV room. He is on the couch.

  “It’s Elissa,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. He sits up as quickly as he can and then hoists himself to his feet. I can see the strain on his face.

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  We sit with her until the ambulance arrives. We follow in the SUV.

  “I’ll drive,” I say.

  She is taken to St. John’s Riverside Hospital, in Yonkers. She is put into intensive care. They call Dr. Fine at his home, and within the hour, he is with us. “Hypertension” is the word being thrown around. They tell us she has to stay in the hospital for the duration of the pregnancy. Her blood pressure. Two weeks, they say, and she’ll be home with the baby. Dr. Fine wants to monitor her closely.

  “She needs rest,” he tells us. “She has to be calm. Relaxed. This could be serious, but I think we’ve got a handle on it now.”

  We sit with her for the remainder of visiting hours. My father strokes her hair. She is awake but exhausted and falls in and out of sleep while we are there. When the time comes, my mother refuses to leave. Absolutely refuses, almost throws a fit.

  “We have to leave her, Kathy,” Dad says. “You can’t stay all night.”

  “I can,” she says. “I will.”

  “We’ll take good care of her,” Dr. Fine assures her.

  “Kathy,” my father says. He takes her hand. “We have to go. I’ll come back first thing tomorrow.”

  “You promise?” Elissa asks from her bed.

  “What else do I have to do?” he says to her.

  In the car, heading back home up Route 9, my mother drives and complains.

  “I hate the idea of her being in some Westchester hospital,” she says.

  “We know your disdain for all doctors outside the borough of Manhattan,” my father says.

  “They’re quacks,” she says.

  “Well, Dr. Fine is a New York doctor,” I remind her. “He drove up from the city to see her.”

  “That’s the only reason I left her there,” my mother says.

  IT MAKES PERFECT sense to me. The blood pressure scare with my sister is the wake-up call my father needed more than anything. More than shooting me in the shoulder. I can see the ordeal gives him strength. I notice the change in little ways at first.

  Almost immediately, he stops wearing the bathrobe. He digs out his L.L. Bean relaxed-fit jeans. His flannel shirts. His argyle socks and boat shoes. He combs his hair and spends every moment of every day with her. There are some, like Chip, who say it’s about time. My mother doesn’t really offer an opinion one way or another. I think maybe she’s scared of jinxing the whole thing. He drives himself down to the hospital in the mornings. He reads to Elissa. He keeps her up to date with worthy news from the home front. She is scared. She confides in him. The future is a mystery for both of them, and it’s only logical that with her now in the hospital, the bond between them strengthens. Our mother puts in as much visiting time as she can between bill paying and housekeeping. I try to help her out by continuing to clean the house and by fixing my own dinners. Chip makes appearances at the hospital most nights after he gets home from work. Elissa’s room fills with stuffed animals and balloons and “get well” cards. There is an outpouring of support from almost everyone we know.

  The Saturday after Elissa goes to the hospital, my mother comes to me while I’m watching Jeopardy! in the TV room.

  “I think he’s ready,” she says.

  “For what?” I ask.

  She walks to the TV and takes the piece of paper with the letter S down.

  Okay. I help her. We walk through the house taking down all the S’s. We take them down off every light switch and mirror and picture frame. We take them down wherever we find them. We go to the SUV and take the S off the rearview mirror. We take them all down.

  “It kills me to say it,” my mother says, “but her going to the hospital is exactly what he needed.”

  “He’s shaping up,” I say. “Let’s hope it sticks.”

  << 31>>

  The wood panels on the door have warped and splintered over the years. The whole thing groans and creaks as Chip turns the handle and lifts. Teal paint chips fall to the blacktop. No one says anything. We just stand and take in the vast accumulation of survival equipment our father has amassed over the past eight months. It is almost an hour before we get the bulk of it out into the driveway.

  My brother is dressed in matching green sweatpants and sweatshirt, headband, wristbands. His hair is neatly gelled to pointy perfection. His tips have been recently frosted.

  “You look great,” I tell him.

  “Always,” he says. He and I lift the drum of gasoline onto a dolly and wheel it to the SUV. We fold the seats down and hoist it into the back. Our mother sits in a lawn chair beside the garage, digging through a manila folder full of receipts.

  “Jesus Christ, Jim,” she says. “This is why we’re broke.”

  “Technically this stuff is all useful,” our father says. He is carefully laying his rifle collection on a painter’s tarp. He picks one up. “You sling back the bolt like this,” he says, showing us how to check and clear the chamber of any rounds. Chip and I nod. We take the rifles one at a time. Expensive lever-actions from the turn of the century, ornate-handled shotguns, nonfunctioning World War II carbines, bolt-action Winchesters, Spencers, Lee-Enfields, Lloyds. The scope-fitted Krag-Jørgensen. An old Swiss K31. As we clean them, he tells us the history behind each gun.

  “That one I got from my father, just before he died. Actually, a good number of these were his. Some from Italy. A few even saw action.”

  “You don’t have to get rid of them,” Chip says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “I want to,” our father says. He strokes his mustache in thought. He smiles, then frowns.

  “Your father needs to think positively about the future,” our mother says, receipts in hand. “Brigitte says dwelling in the past isn’t healthy. Your father needs to move on with his life. To a new place.”

  My brother and I polish the guns, putting them back on the tarp as we go, moving down the line, rifle after rifle, until they are all clean.

  We tackle the bowels of the garage.

  “Give me a hand with these,” Chip calls out. I venture in and together we carry out thirty-pound army-supply rice sacks. We stack them on top of each other in the car, next to the gasoline. Chip adjusts his headband in the side-view mirror. Our father oversees the work, directing us here and there. We load two hundred cans of beans.

  With the food rations done, we sort the merchandise from the sporting goods store. Most of it is still in boxes, unopened, dusty. We wipe down packages of geodesic shelters and lanterns, flashlights, first aid kits, sleeping rolls, bug repellent, compasses, water jugs, collapsible pots and frying pans, thermoses, natural hemp soaps, a propane oven, metal utensils, tongs, waterproof strike-anywhere matches, can openers, mixing bowls, measuring cups, aluminum foil, trash bags and clothing pins, Tupperware containers.

  “So what’s the plan?” I say.

  Our mother stands, tucking the folder of receipts under her arm. She surveys the scene.

  “Beans and rice to the soup kitchen in Mount Vernon,” she says, pointing. “Gasoline to the Exxon station. Camping shit back to the store.”

  “You have th
e receipts for all this?” I ask.

  “What do you think?” she says.

  “They’ll take it back,” Chip says. “They have to, we never used it.”

  “We don’t need this stuff anymore,” our father says.

  “We never did,” our mother says.

  “I hope you’re right,” our father says.

  “What about the guns?” Chip asks.

  “eBay,” our father says. “

  “Let’s go,” our mother says, slamming the car doors shut.

  THE SEESAW GOES up and it goes down. It always has.

  A letter comes in the mail with this return address:

  US Department of Transportation

  Federal Aviation Administration

  PO Box 26080

  Oklahoma City, OK 73125

  I give the envelope to my mother and she brings it into the kitchen and gives it to my father.

  It’s from the FAA’s Aeromedical Certification Division. His case has been reevaluated based on recent medical results they’ve received. The papers we sent. The letter we wrote. His medical clearance has been denied.

  “Dad. I’m sorry.” It’s one of those times when I have no idea what to say. No way to be of comfort. And when he cries, I cry, too, and it’s so appropriate there’s almost a beauty to it.

  The four of us around the kitchen table.

  The letter lies like a stone.

  “I didn’t see this coming,” Chip says.

  “I’ll never fly again,” my father says. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans. His face is all furrowed lines.

  “You don’t know that,” I say, but it’s such a lie I don’t even convince myself.

  My mother doesn’t speak. I can see tears gathering in her eyes.

  “You were wrong,” my father tells me. “I knew. You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t lie to you, Dad.”

  “I just want to hit fast-forward,” he says.

  “Fast-forward through what?” Chip asks.

  “All of it,” he says. “I’m done.”

  “What are we gonna do?” my mother says, finally speaking.

  “We looked at houses,” I say. “We know what’s out there. We know we have options.”