The Poison Tree (21 page)

“He told me not to interfere, and said—” Then, I looked down at the floor, and saw she was wearing white Keds without laces. For some reason, those white Keds sneakers, which I associated with little children playing, made me want to cry. In 1920, she had decided against law school to marry Grandpa. She had no regrets about her choice, but those Keds told me how much she had given up to be this man's faithful servant, and how ugly his temper could be—and was. “He said you meant well,” I added unconvincingly.

“Well, that's something. Come here and sit down. I'll bring him his sturgeon and tomato juice and make you your steak and baked potato. Here, have some of these triangles of Gruyere cheese and some sardines and olives with fresh rye, I just got it this afternoon at the market.”

“Grandma,” I said, “I already ate. I think I'd better get going. I have homework to do.”

“Sit down a moment! One moment. Have a snack at least. My God, you're so thin. Your mother doesn't know how to feed you. She never has. Now remember, I'm always here. Always. No matter what time of day or night, you come and I'll be here for you. And if I'm out, I'm just out marketing. I'll be right back. Just wait in the lobby with the doorman until I come.” Then slyly, she added, “You think I don't know how much time you've spent on your homework? Not much—am I right?” I actually smiled that she knew me so well. “Now you sit down here and eat. I have something for you—one of those books you like, and a Hershey bar with almonds.”

She brushed aside clippings from the
New York Times
and
Wall Street Journal
that cluttered the dining room table. This was her “office,” the place
where she cut out news about stocks and bonds, how the Democrats were ruining the country. Later, at the height of Watergate, she showed her undying support for Richard Nixon by writing in blue crayon on her shopping bag: “They're hounding him out of office!” When I asked Grandpa about her political sympathies, he just shrugged: “Nixon? Nah, I wouldn't vote for him for dog catcher!”

Grandma made me sit in one of the stiff, high-backed chairs. She brought Grandpa his sturgeon, and returned to the kitchen. In the sink, she ran cold water to defrost the kosher steak. For some reason, I was unable to tell her that I had just decided to become a vegetarian; I wanted to put off that conversation with her, forever if possible. Besides, one more steak wouldn't hurt. Adar would never know.

Back in the kitchen, she put a large Idaho potato in the small, covered black pan to bake. She must have had that pan since she and Grandpa were married and moved into the Eldorado. While the potato was baking, she put the steak in the broiler. The hinges of her oven made a comforting squeak, different from other squeaks. She put in two slices of white toast; her old toaster, too, sounded different than other toasters, and the bread always came out a particular shade of really dark brown, just like I liked. When it popped out, she put a large pat of sweet cream butter on each slice and let the butter soak in. She sprinkled the steak with rough kosher salt while it was broiling. By the time it was done, the meat was tough, but delicious. You had to chew and chew until your jaws hurt; and when you cut the meat, the juice would turn the baked potato red. I ate some Gruyere cheese and giant black olives while she knocked on Grandpa's door with his tray, like it was room service. She closed the door, and I turned on the television and adjusted the rabbit ears. Petula Clark was singing “Downtown,” but their yelling drowned out her voice.

When Grandma returned, I told her that I had decided to work part-time for Uncle Leon at MacLaren's. Adar had convinced me that I needed to gain my independence and get a job. If I could arrange it with Lee, Adar would have a job there as well. I chose not to tell her that, however.

“I'll tell you one thing, you work for Leon, you'll go meshuggah in two weeks—no, make that two seconds, about that I can promise!”

She sat facing me, pretending she was absorbed in cutting out newspaper clippings from the
Wall Street Journal
with blunt scissors that might
have belonged to a five-year-old child, along with those white Keds. “Why, that Leon, his mind's completely gone! Ever since they dragged him out of Harvard Law to cut pants, there hasn't been a clear thought in his head.” She sat watching me eat, and stirred a tall glass of milky brown coffee with a long teaspoon. “Poor Leon, it's no wonder that shiksa ran away from him on his wedding night, wearing only a mink coat.”

“Grandma, please. I hate it when you talk like that. Besides—”

“Eat, Henry. You want some cottage cheese? I got some today, fresh. Sealtest. Fortunately, I already did my marketing before you came. You ever think of calling to see am I home first? I might have been marketing on Columbus Avenue and no one's home and then what? God knows your mother don't provide. But that's another story… .”

“You're right, Grandma; that's another story.”

“You mean I should shut up, right? Okay, so I'll shut up. But if she made a proper home with regular meals for him, things might have been different.”

“Sounds good,” I said, dipping rye bread in sardine oil and swallowing the soggy crust.

“What?”

“You shutting up,” I said. “You know I don't want to talk about bringing them back together, and that's where you're heading. Again.”

“Okay, so we won't,” she said firmly. “What makes you think you want to work for Leon? Does he still wear that awful rug?”

“It's called a toupee or a hairpiece, not a rug. A rug is something you put on the floor. And you know why he wears the toupee. He had Scarlet Fever. That's how he lost all his hair, like Andrew, the tall boy in that picture you have.”

“Scarlet fever
mein tuchus
!” she exploded. “Is that what they told you, the Lerners? You know that's not true. His wits turned to chopped liver the day that little tramp ran off on their wedding night. Some wedding night. She ran out of the Waldorf Astoria screaming and—okay, I see I'm making you mad—I'll shut up. But God only knows what the putz did to her. You know he wears a size thirteen shoe—what does that tell you about their marriage, Henry?”

“I don't know—what does it tell me?” I said drily, sopping up more sardine oil and studiously avoiding looking at her. “Obviously, it tells you a great deal.”

“Nothing. All right, nothing.”

“That's right, Grandma, nothing.”

“Nothing … all right.” She paused only for a moment. “Why has the boy lived alone with his mother ever since? Tell me that! Is that nothing? And why hasn't he ever dated another girl? Explain that to me, Mister Sherlock Holmes. We have a real good expression for momma's boy in Yiddish—you wanna know what it is? It's called a
faygele
—”

I jumped up. “Grandma, I hate it when you're like this. You know what I think? I think you're jealous because of all the attention he gives his mother, while my father treats you like his maid, coming over to drop his laundry off and doing you a favor by picking up a roast chicken once a week, or maybe—if you're lucky—he takes some kreplach off your hands. He treats you like dirt, Grandma—”

All the color drained out of her face, and there was a long moment of silence.

“I won't hear another word—I'm leaving!” And with that, she did. Grandma ran out of the dining room and shut herself inside the cedar closet in her bedroom.

Sighing, I pushed my chair back from the table and followed her to the closet. I leaned my head against the door and spoke to her. “All right, Grandma, please come back out. You know, between you and my mother, I always end up talking to people barricaded inside rooms or closets.” I thought the comparison with my mother might shame her into coming out.

“No,” she responded angrily, “I won't ever come out.” Then after a pause, she said tearfully from within the closet, “He's not a bad man, really he isn't. If she had his dinner on the table when he came home, and maybe his J&B and soda, if he has his tennis things and his shirts ironed, the boy is gentle as a lamb. All he needs, all any man needs, is a clean house and a good meal. That's the secret to a good marriage. Instead, he comes home every day to a double helping of
mishegoss
. I feel sorry for the boy, I really do.”

I felt sorry for him, too, in a way, and couldn't help thinking about my mother's pantyhose and girdles draped over the shower curtain, the cockroaches scurrying around the kitchen when you flipped on the lights. I thought of my father's starched shirts and folded handkerchiefs. But there was another memory that flashed before me, from the time before my
brother Bobby was born. I'd been scared of something in the night, and my parents let me sleep in their bed. Then out of the blue, Mom was screaming at the top of her lungs as she hurled a saucepan of ice cold water on Dad and me. I remembered the feeling of waking to her screams and the shock of that freezing water soaking through my pajamas and onto my bare legs, still warm from sleep. Moments later, I was curled up on the only dry corner of their mattress, watching him throw her onto the floor, and drag her by her blonde hair. Mom screamed and was reaching toward me, clutching the air like she was drowning. I was too frightened to reach out and grab her hand; I only remember clutching the “UNLAWFUL: DO NOT REMOVE!” tag on the mattress, not wanting to be tossed overboard onto the floor myself. A few days later she went to the hospital with a slipped disk. And a miscarriage.

For several seconds, on either side of her closet door, Grandma and I were silent while we each reflected on our respective memories and marshaled arguments to help explain the nightmare of a marriage that once must have seemed ideal—the union of two wealthy, prominent families. How could any of this have happened?

“I know he has a temper,” she admitted from within the dark closet. “He always did, even as a little boy. Inherited it from his father maybe. You think I don't know what's what? You think I don't see how he spoils his mouth when he snarls that way? I see it, of course—” She broke off suddenly. “But there is never, ever any excuse for being disrespectful to your father, Henry. Maybe he saw some things at home … things he shouldn't have.”

“What things, Grandma? Please tell me so I'll know what—”

“I will not speak ill of your grandfather—not for anything in the world, not even for you.” Her voice trailed off and the closet finally opened.

“O.K., now let's get to work and see how we can bring them back together.” She meant every word. She brought out a battered coin purse and handed me five dollars.

“Don't look at me like that; it's not a bribe. I want you to try to do your best to bring them back together. Try.”

“Grandma, I have to go.”

“I asked you to try—”

“Grandma, I can't—”

“Please. For me.”

“Okay. I'll try.”

“That's all I ask.”

“I know.”

“You are a good boy. My favorite.”

I laughed a little. “I know, Grandma, but there's only me and Bobby.”

“Watch out for him—that boy doesn't bathe, and he always goes for the gold,” she said mischievously. “You listen to me. Anything you want, anything, take it. You want my heart, my lungs—you want my liver?”

“Grandma, I appreciate the offer, but I've had enough red meat right now. Besides, I'm thinking about becoming a vegetarian, and your liver wouldn't be …”

“Freshpot!” she said. “Wiseguy!” and pushed a forelock from my eyes. “You know what I mean. I'll always be here for you.”

“I know, Grandma.”

“Unless, of course, I should have a stroke … the blood vessels in my brain could burst at any second … in that case I won't be here.”

I walked out to the foyer to wait for the elevator, utterly exhausted, her voice still following me. “Wait! I forgot. I forgot to give you this fresh Jewish rye and the rest of the sturgeon. Also, I have a can of Campbell's tomato juice like you like. Just wait here a few seconds.…”

I was in the elevator now, and old Stanley pretended he hadn't heard her yelling for him to stop. He shut the brass grate with a clang, and we plunged back down to the lobby. My stomach churned as floor after floor whizzed by. As I fell, I marked the floors with the names of various organs she would give to me: my heart, my lungs, my liver.…

Despite Grandma's warning, in the beginning we really enjoyed working for Uncle Leon at MacLaren's. We—Adar and me—chalked trousers, learned how to cut bolts of cloth, and take inventory of hundreds of Nehru suits and multi-colored Madras jackets left over from the previous season. We were both vegetarians now. At the Horn & Hardart around the corner, we ordered tiny dishes of spinach, green beans, cottage cheese, and rice by popping coins into the slots of the automat like when I was a little boy with Uncle Lee. It was fun. We would continue to work at MacLaren's for the rest of the summer, and in the evenings dedicate ourselves to reading, discussing literature and philosophy, and the Law of the Spirit.

We started working for Uncle Lee less than a month after Surprise Lake Camp. When my mother proposed that we work at MacLaren's, I was dismissive, but Adar thought it seemed like a good idea. He had lost time and money after the fiasco at Surprise Lake, and needed to work immediately if he was going to save enough money for art school in the fall. Working for Uncle Lee meant we didn't have to waste time hunting through classifieds; we could start anytime we liked. Uncle Lee met with Adar and hired him on the spot. Working together meant we could continue to see one another every day for the rest of the summer.

Then things started to go badly. We were having lunch, and I wanted to continue our discussion of Nietzsche's
Thus Spake Zarathustra
, a book which magically seemed to anticipate everything we were thinking about: the Superman who didn't need to observe society's rules. But after exactly thirty minutes, Adar stood up. He didn't need a watch to know what time it was; I was always late and didn't care. More importantly, there was an
implied reproach in the abrupt way he raised his body from his chair while I was speaking. His manner seemed to say, “You can afford not to care about punching in on time—I can't!” And he was right. I had completely lost track of time. To me, if we were late, we were late. After all, we were working for Uncle Leon. But for him, this was work. He was not working for extra spending money; he was working for his college tuition. For me, our “job” was simply an older version of chalking pants with Uncle Lee as a child.