The Poison Tree (20 page)

Talking about what actually happened with some fluency restored a bit
of my self-confidence. I was explaining things as best as I could, finding words that conveyed something like the truth.

“Then what?” Dad asked.

“What do you mean, ‘Then what?' I just told you what happened.”

“What happened after you and this friend left the camp together. That's what I want to know. Meyer told me he offered the two of you a ride to the train station and you refused it! Started off on your own. On foot! That's what he told me, and I know it's true. So, how the hell did you get back to New York? The camp's in Cold Spring, goddammit—it must be fifty miles away! And how did the police happen to get involved? I already know everything, so don't try and lie your way out of it.”

“If you know everything, why do you need to ask me? And by the way, it's actually sixty miles away, not fifty.”

“Look, you little snot-nose, answer me back one more time like that and I don't care if Malcolm's here or not …”

“Look,” I said, “is there anything else you want from me? 'Cause if not, I have to get going.”

My father turned to his brother and said, “He wants to know if we're through with him? Ha!” Then he turned back to me and said smilingly, “Oh, we're just getting started. We still don't know how you got back and how the police got involved. You didn't know they contacted me after you were stopped in the middle of nowhere, did you?”

“Look, Dad,” I said, trying to remain calm, “I sincerely apologize if I caused you any concern. The reason we didn't accept the camp's offer to take us to the station was because of the way things happened—they didn't even ask his side of the story, so we didn't want their charity. Once we got to the station, we thought it would be fun to walk the rest of the way.”

“Fun? Look, I hope you know that that was an insane, abnormal thing to do, walking home all that way. You do realize that?”

“Yes, Dad, I do. And I'm sorry.”

“Good,” he said, “okay.” And he lit a cigarette. Lighting one of his Kents was always a signal things were calming down. Even at his worst, when he came after me with his belt and I had to lock myself in my parents' bathroom for an hour or more, the click of his lighter and the smell of a Kent meant the coast was clear. I felt a lot better now that he was smoking.

“Next, I want you to tell me about your relationship with this boy,” Dad added, almost as an afterthought. He took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“What's his name, for starters?” Malcolm joined in.

“His name's Adar.”

“What?” Dad was deaf in one ear from childhood complications of mumps and measles, but I didn't think his hearing was a factor right now.

“His name's Adar—it means ‘Noble One' in Hebrew.”

“Yeah, right. His full name,” Dad asked.

“Adar Bornstein.”

“And where does he come from?”

“Brooklyn.”

“What section of Brooklyn?” my father asked, still on the attack.

“What difference does that make?” I said, knowing the name of the town would not play well with either my father or my uncle. But how could I not tell them the truth? I backed down almost immediately. “I think it's called Canarsie.”

“Evidently from a fine family,” my father said, sarcasm dripping.

Malcolm wrinkled his nose and sniffed. It was a habit he'd always had, but now I understood what it meant; he was about to professionally diagnose my problem. “How old is the boy? I understand he's older than you. What does he do? Is he in college?”

“He's nineteen, I believe.”

“You believe? Or you know?” Dad interjected, leveling his cigarette at me.

“He's nineteen years old, sir!” I saluted in mock-military style. I thought it would make them smile. It didn't.

“Is he in college?”

“He's studying art at Hunter.”

“Now we're getting somewhere.”

I wondered where we were getting, and fretted about where all these questions were leading, but didn't ask.

“Now, your uncle wants to ask you something. Go ahead, Malcolm … ask him.”

“Well,” he sniffed, “the reason your father told me to come over this morning was to ask you—”

“What?” I felt a wave of heat like lava rise in my chest.

“If you and this nineteen-year-old boy, whom you were with for several nights alone and unsupervised, were … if you and he were … Did he touch you in any way?” Malcolm sniffed and glanced over at his elder brother for reassurance. Then he drained a last swallow of his Coke. He betrayed some nervousness as to just where this line of questioning was leading him. “So, what I'm asking you, y'understand, is this: did the two of you engage in activities which in any way might be construed as illegal?”

“Illegal? What! What are you talking about?”

“He's asking if he's queer!” Dad exploded. “In case you need a fucking road map, he wants to know if he's a fucking faggot! Or if you are!” Unable to control himself, Dad jumped up from his chair, moustache twitching.

“Thank you for that nuanced clarification, Norman,” Malcolm said. “Look—if you want to deal with this issue in your own way, why did you ask me to come and talk to the boy?”

“You're here as a physician only, Malcolm. Remember that,” Dad snarled. “I only want to get your medical opinion as to what is going on here underneath all his lies.”

“What lies—why are you asking me this?” I blurted, outraged and horrified. “What business—how dare you? How dare both of you!”

“How dare I?
How dare I?
I'm your father, that's how dare I, you pervert!”

“I'm perverted? How about you? How about you and Mom? How about that whip I found in your closet after you left? A red whip from Mexico, wasn't it?”

“Come over here, you little bastard!”

“Have a nice day at work—I'm leaving,” I shouted. “I'm not saying another word about it. To answer you would defile what Adar and I have together.”

“That's exactly what we want to know—what you two have together,” Malcolm said.

The next thing I knew, my father had grabbed me and spun me around. He slapped me hard across the face, and I felt myself being pushed to the ground. I caught sight of his mauve handkerchief fluttering down as I lay there with him crouched over me.

“You're the pervert! You're the pervert—not me,” I said, shoving him off me and scrambling to my feet. I tore out of his apartment and down the hallway to the bank of elevators without looking back. I watched the
buttons light up as the elevator began its lazy climb from floor to floor. The elevator moved so slowly, it actually seemed to mock my fright. I wondered if my father would suddenly come charging out of the apartment to pursue me with his belt. I had flung open the door when I left, and it was still ajar.
Come on. Come on. Come on
. I considered taking the stairs and running down to the street, but decided not to. You're not that much of a coward, I said to myself. Think of Adar. What would Adar do? The EXIT sign beckoned, but I forced myself to stand there by the elevators. Meanwhile, I kept pressing the “Down” button as hard and as often as I could. I would not walk down the ten flights; that would be weak. It would mean I did not even deserve to be free. If I ran now, I would always be my father's slave. And if he came after me, so what? But where was that damn elevator! Finally, the doors opened, and a few moments later I was back out on 56th Street and walking toward the East River.

But though I tried to revel in my hard-bought triumph with my father, as I walked away, I kept looking over my shoulder to see if he was following. I couldn't help myself.

As I limped in the direction of the East River, for a reason I understood all too well, I kept thinking of a giant framed poster of
King Kong
in my father's bedroom—a parody of the classic 1933 movie poster with a snarling King Kong astride the Empire State Building, swatting at airplanes with one paw, and holding the helpless Fay Wray in the other. In this version—given him no doubt by grateful employees after some multimillion-dollar deal—King Kong's growling visage had been replaced by my father's mustachioed likeness.

Following the confrontation with my father, I was in a kind of panic. I needed to do something, go somewhere. But I had no desire to tell Adar what happened, at least not yet. My sense of humiliation was too great. But I couldn't be alone either. As I rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor in the presence of the eternally grumpy elevator operator, I wondered why I hadn't phoned Grandma to say I was coming. My visits were frequently unannounced, yet she was always at home, miraculously waiting for my arrival,
day or night. I believed that. At some level, I needed to talk to her about my father, and perhaps even about Adar. There was no one else I could talk to.

As soon as she opened the door, she dragged me in by the arm back to her bedroom, whispering, “You can do it!” repeatedly.

“Do what? What are you talking about?” I said, although I knew very well what she meant. She was obsessive about bringing my parents back together. Any thought of sharing my confrontation fled, and I instantly regretted my decision to come over.

“Just talk to her; all she needs is to clean up the house, put proper meals on the table. It's not too late.”

“It is, Grandma. It is too late. Don't you see …”

“Shah! I won't hear that! Did you know that there's never been a divorce in this family? No, I didn't think you did; and there won't be one now. Your father happens to be a fine man, a man of integrity, ask anyone on Wall Street. His reputation for honesty in business is perfect. Remember the squirrel?”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Then you know that man would never harm anybody. It's just that she can't keep house, can't cook for him like he needs. Also, who knows what she's like in bed—but that you didn't hear from me. Believe me, no normal man would stand for it, not just your father. You have to bring them back together.”

“But Grandma, they're not happy; it's best if they get a divorce.”

“Bite your tongue, Henry! Bite your tongue! Never say such things. Never! It's never better,” she said. When Grandma got going, the resulting fountain of words was impressive. “Look at Grandpa and me. He's a man with a terrible temper just like your father. You think it's easy for me? You see how he does all the time, ‘Bitch …bitch' under his breath. You think it don't hurt? He stays in his own room not saying a word until I want to scream—just scream! He sleeps in his own bed, locks the door to his room, gives me twenty dollars a week to buy tchotchkes when he could afford twenty times that. Do I complain? No, I don't complain. Why not? I love him; I would die without him. So help me, I would. So I get him his tomato juice and his sturgeon and Ritz Crackers the instant he comes home from the office—the very instant! And I fix him dinner every night like he likes, make his bed in the other room while I sleep in here. And what's been the result? A happy
home all these years.” She finally paused to breathe, and I jumped into the breach.

“But what if two people can't stand each other and make themselves miserable all the time? Screaming and fighting. You still think it's better to stay together?”

“Of course it is! Miserable? Just tell me who in this world is not miserable? I'm miserable, he's miserable. Look at yourself, you're miserable too—I can see it from the way you're biting your fingernails right now—stop that, will you—it's a disgusting habit! Everybody's miserable—you just don't see it! You think marriage is such a picnic? But I told you, two people can survive if they work at it. And you can make it happen. Like I said, it's up to you to bring them back together.”

It was useless. “All right, Grandma. I'll try.”

“Don't try—just do it!”

Grandpa walked in on us at that moment, lips quivering.

“Vat—vat filth you talking to the boy? More nonsense?”

“No, Harry, I was just saying if his parents are apart, it's his duty—”

“Duty? Bitch! Did you know that you are a stupid bitch?” He said the words with his teeth locked together so tight I wondered how it was possible he could even emit a sound. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and unfolded a creased pocket handkerchief, still muttering under his breath, but loud enough for us to hear. “Oh, yes, she's been put here on this earth to give advice … all kinds of advice. She comes from people who know! People of importance! Yes, by all means listen to her, we should all of us listen to vat dat woman says. Bitch!”

Although this exchange was not in the least uncommon, it made me sick to hear it right after she had described what she had sacrificed.

“All right, Harry, that's enough now. All I said was that it was his responsibility to do—”

“Ahhh, she said, she said,” Grandpa said, mimicking her in a falsetto with a Russian lilt. “Vell, dat's another matter. ‘She said.' Dat I didn't know.”

Grandma turned and exited the room. “I'll be back with your tomato juice and sturgeon, Harry.”

“Tomato juice and sturgeon! Now dat's important, dat she knows about,
about dat, she's expert, a maven.” He took me by the arm, and, looking me in the eye, completely changed his tone from savage to earnest. “Don't ever listen to her. She means well, but it's not your place to solve the problems between them. You hear me? I'm very, very serious now.” His old eyes were serious, looking intently into my own.

“Yes, Grandpa. But—” He dropped my arm, wiped his glasses, walked into his bathroom, and closed the door. It was a signal he had no more to say, and that I must now leave.

As I walked back down the hall, Grandma pounced. “What did he say? Did he say anything? Or was it only ‘Bitch, Bitch, Bitch?'”