The Poison Tree

by Henry I. Schvey

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Vogel or his Judaism. He did what he was paid to do—tutor the boy. He doesn’t have to come. You, on the other hand, do. This discussion is over.”

  At the Grand Ballroom of the Sherry-Netherlands, a bunch of sad, old men in fire engine red tuxedos sat on folding chairs, playing popular tunes, including the Everly Brothers’ “All I Have To Do is Dream” and Chubby Checker’s “The Peppermint Twist”. They sat there, vacant and bald. I watched my cousin Scotty dance the twist with Goodie Schuman, my first love. I hadn’t seen Goodie since I had graduated elementary school, and she still had those bangs like little Rhoda Penmark, the girl in The Bad Seed, but at the back, her hair hung loose down her shoulders. At thirteen, she was a young woman now, whereas I was … bar mitzvahed. I could see tiny cups pointing their way through her chiffon dress. I wanted to go up to her and chase Scottie away. It was my bar mitzvah—Goodie ought to be dancing with me!

  I sat on a chair in the Men’s Lounge, thinking about Pinocchio and how he became a real boy at the end of the story. I was waiting for the miracle that would make me a real man. I heard a group of my friends looking for me outside: Ephraim, Pete, Georgie, and Richie. They seemed to be having fun, and came in to the lounge. Before long they all loosened their ties and tossed their jackets on the floor. Somebody rolled up one of the linen napkins and we all started playing catch. From there, the game metamorphosed into tackle football in the spacious lounge, while outside the music and dancing never stopped. The game only stopped when Grandma entered.

  “What are you boys doing?”

  “Playing football!”

  “This is a bar mitzvah, not a football game.”

  “Just five more minutes, Grandma … please.”

  “Your father better not find out.”

  An old man who wanted to use the Men’s Room walked in, saw the game, and turned around, muttering “Shande … shande” to himself. Then Grandma left, clicking her tongue. “Remember—your father.”

  The other kids left a few minutes later, and I was left alone in the bathroom. From inside one of the stalls, I heard someone enter the Men’s Room; he was panting and sighing softly, muttering something incomprehensible. I peaked through the crack in the door. It was an elderly man with a red face, a beak for a nose, and an upper lip that came to a sharp point. I wanted to say something but couldn’t. The old man slowly took off his spectacles, folded them, and shook his head. Then he unbuttoned his jacket and vest, and splashed his face with water. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time. I was transfixed, watching, unable to speak. There was something I wanted to say, but I had no idea what it was, so I kept silent. Then he wiped off his spectacles with his tie and replaced them, put on his jacket and vest, and licked his pointy lips. He walked out of the lounge, still shaking his head in disapproval.

  Why couldn’t I speak? I finally left the bathroom, but I couldn’t find him. I never saw Cantor Vogel again.

  On Saturday mornings, Bobby and I enjoyed watching television together. Sitting in front of the TV was one of the few things I actually did with him, since he hated baseball, football, and basketball, and there was a six-year age difference between us. Occasionally, in an attempt to provoke his interest, I made him stand beside a chalked-in batter’s box at PS 6 on 81st, holding a broom handle, while I fired tennis balls high and tight trying to teach him not to be afraid of the ball. Almost all these sessions ended with him running home to Mom, crying.

  Oddly enough, we liked the same TV programs: Rocky and His Friends, Dudley Do-Right, Sky King, Captain Midnight, and Winky Dink and Me. The latter was a short-lived program that featured a marvelous gimmick. The host, Jack Barry, told all the kids to send in fifty cents, and in return you received a kit containing a pale blue magic screen which stuck right on the TV set by static electricity. With special Winky Dink crayons you could trace the cartoon figures right onto the magic screen, help Wink and his dog Woofer escape danger, and even receive secret messages to decode. Bobby loved anything that had to do with magic, and I thought it was pretty cool, too. After a few weeks, however, Bobby misplaced the magic screen, and that was the end of that. Or so I thought.

  I didn’t think twice about my father’s absence when we woke up one particular weekend morning and took our normal places in front of the TV Since it was Saturday, it was normal for Sy to pick him up in his Eldorado around 8:00 a.m. He usually returned around 2:00 p.m., so his appearance just before Winky Dink came on was a surprise.

  He walked in quietly, with his brother Malcolm at his heels, nervously smoking. The two of them walked straight back to my parents’ bedroom without saying a word. The strange thing was that, as they walked past, I had my brother in a headlock, and even though I held my other hand over his mouth, there were audible whimpering sounds. Minutes before, I realized that Bobby had used his crayons on the set without the magic screen—and I knew there would be hell to pay if Dad discovered crayon marks on the TV.

  But Dad and Uncle Malcolm didn’t even seem to notice as they walked past us. They quietly entered my parents’ bedroom and shut the door softly. Right after that, we heard voices rise and fall behind the bedroom door. Then they receded. I released Bobby and told him to take another look for the magic screen while I listened outside their bedroom door. After a few minutes, the sounds died entirely and I couldn’t hear anything. Then I locked myself in their bathroom, listening. Their bathroom was my favorite place of refuge in the whole house, and I prided myself on my dexterity at locking the door while evading my father’s pursuit. But this time, it was not a place to hide; it was a place from which I could spy on what was happening. The bedroom was silent for a long time, probably half an hour. When the door finally opened, only Uncle Malcolm emerged, dragging out the two largest suitcases I had ever seen: a matching set in ivory leather, the exact color of the tusks of the wooly mammoth in the Museum of Natural History. I noticed that each suitcase bore my parents’ initials engraved in gold, along with a little brass lock. Malcolm set the two suitcases down by the door and hurried back into the bedroom. Then he and my father re-emerged carrying armloads of suits and shirts. Dad realized I was hiding inside the bathroom, but in a perfectly calm voice, asked me to come out.

  “I’m leaving, Henry,” he said as I stepped outside. “I can’t take this anymore.” His words were gentle, completely devoid of anger. He seemed more defeated than angry; then he picked up one of the ivory suitcases, tucked an armful of suits under his other arm, and quietly disappeared. Before he left, he gave me his cheek to kiss. I remember the scent of his aftershave. Then it became horribly quiet in the house for the first time ever. I didn’t understand exactly what had happened, but the pit of my stomach told me all I needed to know. Life would never be the same.

  Surprisingly, my mother’s first reaction to my father’s departure was also calm. But her silence was like the green and purple sky just before a tornado hits. Quiet filled our apartment with an ominous calm.

  “Gone,” she said simply.

  “Yes.” I didn’t know what more to say.

  “None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for you.”

  My throat was tight. “Me?”

  My mind sifted through the things I had done that might have caused my father to leave us. I thought about all the lies I had told, the mess in my bedroom, my grades at school, my nails and untied shoes—even how I tried to sneak out of the house without wearing rubbers in the rain.

  “Yes. He’s left you.”

  Although I was silent, she continued as though I had contradicted her. “It’s just what I said. He didn’t leave me—he left you. Oh, God! I should have been the one—don’t you remember? Tell me you remember! You do remember, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I scooped you up and took you with me to Gramsie’s. You were two years old. It was right after he hit me, and I had that slipped disk and the miscarriage. We stayed there for a week. We should never h
ave come back.” Her voice remained calm and reflective. “While I was there, I asked Gramps what I should do, and he said, ‘If a man is a brute, if he hurts the things he loves, it will never change. You dassent go back.’”

  “We should have stayed there, Mom!” I burst out angrily, trying to take her side, fearful of what might happen next. “Gramps was right!” I thought how Gramps must have looked when he said that, and wondered if he was wearing suspenders, and if he was smoking one of those long cigars he had brought all the way back from Cuba. Then I looked back at her. But her eyes were gone now.

  “Your father came up to their apartment and started banging on the door. I could see him outside through the little peephole. He begged on his knees for me to return to him! Said he would die if I didn’t come back with his son.”

  The image of my father on his knees didn’t ring true, but my mother insisted on its veracity. More important, he was asking for me.

  “I locked myself in my parents’ bedroom with you, and despite Gramps’ warning, I felt sorry for him and told Gramsie to let him in.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “Gramsie met him at the door and told him she wouldn’t let him in. He stormed passed her into the kitchen, took a carving knife from the break-front, and held it to her right breast.

  “They’re coming back,” he told her. “And if you try to stop me, I’ll slice your breast off.”

  And do you know what Gramsie said to his face?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead—cut it off! As God is my witness, that’s what she said … ‘cut it off.’ And then he threw the knife on the ground and started crying like a little child.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, but he’s not your ‘dad’ anymore. And just at that moment … when I was wavering, you said—‘I WANT MINE OWN HOME! I WANT MINE OWN HOME!’”

  She wailed, terrifying me with her awful parody of my two-year-old self.

  “Mom, I was only—”

  “‘I WANT MINE OWN HOME!’ you screamed and kicked and made me put you down. So I listened … so, this … this is your fault. This is what you’ve done! The monster has won. I should have left. I should have been the one to leave! And now Papa is dead, and … and—” Her voice cracked and faded away. She turned and with a bowed head walked into her bedroom like a condemned prisoner.

  5.

  Several months after my father left, we were evicted from our apartment. He’d refused to pay alimony until ordered by a judge to do so. We were to move into a smaller apartment around the corner from Lee and Gramsie, off Central Park West. And then, Margaret and Blackie, too, were suddenly gone. My mother told me she took Blackie to a family in Scarsdale where he would be happy. Of course I knew she was lying. But I figured Blackie would be much better off, whatever happened. A few days before he was “sent to Scarsdale,” the ‘whatever’ nearly happened. He broke free of his leash while I was walking him. He shot back and forth across the street, narrowly avoiding the speeding cars. Standing there, I felt absolutely certain that Blackie had decided to kill himself, and had every right to do so. Being smashed by a Checker Cab would be awful for an instant, but was it worse than being tethered to the kitchen door, sleeping in his bed of urine? I respected his decision to self-euthanize.

  As for Margaret, she would at last be free of the stench of the “Maid’s Room.” I missed watching her curl up like a little girl when we watched Dracula, and of course, I missed showing her how strong I was. But that was just selfishness; Margaret, like Blackie, would be better off now.

  My mother arranged for me to remain at Ephraim’s during the time of our move, so I was spared some of what actually happened. Once, however, when I was walking up Madison with Ephraim and a group of my friends, I saw a pile of our furniture stacked out on the street in front of our old building. I turned my head away and pretended not to see it, but Pete, Richie, and Ephraim decided to go look through it—there might be stuff we could nab. They had no idea that it was ours, of course. I just kept walking past Bolton’s up Madison toward 87th, pretending not to hear; praying they would follow my lead and not see something identifiable among the debris.

  Six months after we moved, our new apartment, like the old one, was still a mess. Mom refused to get rid of anything she’d brought with her from our old apartment, even though the new one was much smaller. Why should she? That would only make the bastard feel like he won. So, boxes were stacked on top of boxes until they literally touched the ceiling. The term “hoarder” was unknown at that time, but that is what my mother became. No matter how trivial, she saved it: empty Bumble Bee tuna cans, Campbell’s Soup and Minute Maid tins. All were saved and placed on top of the Steinway piano. She didn’t stop there. She began collecting pats of butter, sugar packets, and napkins from restaurants, and stashing them in her purse. When her purse got full, she dumped the contents on top of the piano and started over.

  Worse, my mother, whom I had never even seen sip so much as a glass of wine, began drinking. I watched her carry home gallon jugs of Gallo wine in paper bags. When our eyes met, we both pretended she was carrying in groceries. Once she moved past me into the kitchen, she peered to see if I was still watching before taking a sharp right into her bedroom. She also placed three enormous Yale locks on the front door, and a fourth padlock on the door to her bedroom. When she left the house—which wasn’t often—she turned up the radio full blast so the assembled thieves who were presumably waiting outside would be fooled and think somebody besides a defenseless, abandoned woman with two little boys was home. When she returned, she locked herself in her room and kept the radio blaring on maximum volume. She also began to walk differently. Instead of the stylish open-toed shoes she once favored, she began wearing orthopedic sandals, and walked with a slow, ambling shuffle. Once, when she took off the sandals, I noticed enormous bunions the size of golf balls on the sides of both her feet. Her feet had become deformed from wearing high heels for decades. But only now did her walk change; for years, she had somehow disguised her pain for appearance’s sake.

  After about six months in our new apartment, I came up with a brilliant idea. Since my mother was drifting away, it was now my responsibility to act. I encouraged her to get her hair done professionally. Since she stopped having it bleached at the hairdressers to save money, she colored her hair at home, and it went from blonde to platinum blonde to pink; it was now the color and texture of cotton candy. After I deliberately embarrassed her about this to get her out of the house, she reluctantly agreed to visit the salon. But this was all a ploy. While she was at the hairdresser, I decided I would clean up the apartment myself. That would cheer her up, snap her out of her doldrums, and we would become happy again. Even if we had never really been happy in the first place.

  My plan was perfect. I woke up early on the following Saturday morning (I was fourteen now, too old to go with Uncle Lee to Nedicks), and as soon as Mom left the house, I dragged Bobby away from his cartoons, told him to get dressed, and marched him over to Gramsie’s. I bought a giant bottle of Mr. Clean and set to work. I decided to begin by getting rid of everything I could. I threw waste can after waste can full of rubbish down the incinerator chute at the end of the hallway. I cleared the Steinway so you could actually see the mahogany again. Of course, my mother’s room was padlocked, but even so, I felt I was really accomplishing something. After each trip to the incinerator, I felt better.

  Then I grew tired. After a couple of hours, I began to realize that the project was far more ambitious than I had imagined. I never even opened the Mr. Clean—I looked around amid the heaps of stuff and admitted to myself that, except for the piano, nothing looked different. There was just as much crap as before. I even noticed garbage I hadn’t seen previously, since it was buried under all the stuff I had thrown away. Christmas wrapping paper, Scotch tape, staplers in their plastic shields, baseball cards, phone books, the Daily News, Polaroid snapshots, and Welch’s Grape Jelly jars with Jughead on the bottom
. There was no possible way I could even make a dent in the mess before she returned. Three days wouldn’t have been enough.

  As I looked at our dining room, with its mix of Tiffany, antiques, and trash, idealism gave way to frustration, and then anger, as the real magnitude of the problem revealed itself before my eyes. As a child, my mother had read me the story of Philemon and Baucis, the Greek myth in which Zeus and Hermes come disguised as beggars, and ask to stay the night with the poor, elderly couple. Despite their poverty, the couple offer what little they have to the two disguised gods, and miraculously, their humble meal of bread and milk is never exhausted. Our house resembled the story of Philemon and Baucis, except in reverse. The more I threw out, the more it grew. All the garbage magically replenished itself! Despite my attempts to throw stuff down the chute, when I returned, there it was—just as much. No, there was more than before! The cleaning, begun as an act of love and concern, now filled me with anger and resentment.

  Still, I thought Mom would be pleased at my gargantuan effort. Around noon, I heard her key in the lock, and raced into my room and pretended to be asleep. With my door carefully left open a crack, I saw her enter the apartment out of the corner of one eye. One by one, the series of locks that barricaded us from a hostile world clicked open. As she slithered inside and quickly locked herself in again, I listened for cries of joy. Instead, a terrifying wail like that of a mortally wounded doe reverberated through the apartment. I threw myself out of bed and ran into the living room. There she was, kneeling, her coiffed head bowed, her pale arms clinging to the massively carved leg of the dining room table. I was horrified. As she brushed the back of her left hand against her forehead, she seemed to resemble some ancient marble statue entitled Sorrow.

  When she saw me standing in the door, her sorrow turned to hysterical anger. “Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” she quoted from King Lear.