Wake the Hollow

Chapter Four

"However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air...grow imaginative...dream dreams, and see apparitions."

*****

Cutting through downtown, I have to admit I'd forgotten how the Hudson Valley is its own brand of gorgeous. Treetops dance underneath clear blue skies, and the breeze coming off the river smells of sweet autumn leaves. If I hurry, I'll have time to visit both the house and Betty Anne all before the sun goes down.

See me...

I look behind me for the source of the voice. 

Nobody there. As usual. It's worse when I haven't slept. "I need one decent night," I mutter to no one.

Crossing Beekman Avenue into Sleepy Hollow city limits, the street signs change from green to blue and feature the ghostly galloping horseman who rides each night in search of his head. On the corner of Broadway and College, I pause to stare at a dark bronze statue of the legendary Hessian trooper. When I was little, he gave me the creeps. I felt like he could see me, even though he had no head. Standing here facing him again, a memory filters into my mind, an exchange between my parents once, while I hid in the pantry—

"Maria, let it go. It doesn't exist. How are we supposed to ever have a life if you don't get over this?"

"I don't want to get over this, Jay. I have a life, and it's here."

"It should be wherever I am, your husband. You're killing me, I hope you know that."

Even at eleven, I could empathize. I absorbed my father's anguish as though it were my own. Yes, my mother loved the Hollow, its history, culture, everything...but how? How could she love it more than us? 

Less than a year later, my father left. He moved to Miami to take advantage of the international market, just as a lot of people in town started investing in his medical diagnostic equipment business. The move ended my parents' marriage. Most wives would've jumped at the chance to live the good life in a beautiful tropical city by the sea, but no...not Maria Burgos. My mother had to be different.

The statue could jump off its pedestal right now from how hard I'm staring at it. I almost hear the horse neigh in ethereal protest. Across the street, church-goers gather under tents behind the chapel. Kids run amok. Then, I see someone that stops my gaze. Standing apart is a man wearing a white buttoned-down shirt, jeans, and a brown coat. Older than me by maybe four or five years. Tall and exceedingly lank, Irving would've said.

Eyes solidly fixed on me.

Do I know him? Is this another childhood friend I barely recognize? Maybe my ruffle skirt is too showy for this small town. I have to remember I'm not on South Beach anymore. I march on, taking the occasional glance back. He's still staring, only now, he smiles. Despite a towering build that should probably intimidate the hell out of me, he just seems friendly.

I barely smile back and hurry off.

At the split in the road near my old neighborhood, the chatter and smells of barbecue melt away. Here, the trees rustle, and the valley whispers breezily all around. I almost hear the voices of Dutch settlers choosing this hallowed ground as their hideaway from their homeland's troubles. 

I keep my head down, just in case any of my old neighbors outside think they're seeing my mother's ghost. I do look exactly like her in the face and with hazel eyes, only younger and blonde.