The Poison Tree (9 page)

The growing tension between my parents during my early childhood affected my personality as well. My relationship with my brother (never close because of the six year gap in our ages) became overtly hostile. My feelings of rage were exacerbated by the fact that my mother (aware that both her marriage and any shred of domestic stability was slipping away) insisted that my brother and I share everything as equals; in order to be “fair” to both her beautiful, gifted children, I was sent to bed at the same time as Bobby—although he had just turned five.

“You see that little hole in the wall up there above your bed?” I said to Bobby at 8:30 p.m. as we lay on our twin beds one summer evening after I turned eleven. I promised to tell him a story, but I hated being stuck in there. My parents were at some kind of PTA event (despite their building hostility, they still did things like that), and I wanted to be in the living room watching a movie with Margaret. I was so angry that I had to make him pay for my humiliation.

“Do you see it or not?” I said.

“No I don't.”

“If it was during the day, you would. You'd see a little thumbtack-sized hole up there in the wall right above your head.”

“Yeah … I guess.”

“Well, once upon a time, a whole family lived in there.” I said this matter-of-factly. I was torn between wanting to tell him a story that would get him to sleep so I could sneak out, and one that would terrify him so much that they would never make me go to bed at the same time with him again.

“Wait! What do you mean? Where?” He suddenly bolted upright in bed.

“Right inside that wall; right above your head,” I said. “A whole family was once imprisoned in there.” I heard my brother scoot his chubby, ungainly body so far away from the wall he almost slipped off the bed onto the floor.

“No they didn't!” Bobby whimpered, “You're just trying to—”

I raised my arm above him, threatening a blow. “I'll give you a real reason to cry!” Although he hadn't actually started crying, I couldn't wait to employ this phrase—one of my father's favorites. “I happen to know that there was a family that lived behind that wall. It's a well-known fact.” I hated every second I was trapped in there with him. Tormenting him was the only thing that made it bearable.

“It's impossible,” Bobby said, wiping his eye.

“What?” I said.

“Th—that a family—could.…”

“Why is it impossible?”

“People don't live trapped inside walls of houses.”

“Oh, don't they? You're how old?”

“Five.”

“And me? How old am I?”

“Ten.”

“WRONG! I'm eleven, you idiot! You don't even know how old your big brother is. I think I know a little bit more than you about what's possible, don't I?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“You do.”

“That's right; and I say a whole family did live trapped inside these walls. The father was called Jimmy Fuzzie, and the mother's name was Lizzie Fuzzie—”

“I don't believe it. How could they breathe in there?”

“Breathe?”

“There's no oxygen; how could they breathe inside a wall?”

“Difficult, but possible,” I said. “I learned about it from … Mr. Wizard. And someone else.”

“Who?” he demanded. Why couldn't the kid shut up, or die? He spoiled everything. I really wanted to scare him, but he was tormenting me instead.

“I just told you—Mr. Wizard. God, you're stupid.”

“You said there was somebody else, besides—”

“George. He told me. Our apartment was haunted, he said.” George, our doorman, would presumably be knowledgeable on such things as tiny people living inside the walls.

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to go on or not?” I said. “'Cause if you keep on interrupting, I won't tell you how it turned out.”

“Okay, go on,” he said.

“You know what?” I said. “It sounds like you're doing me a favor by
listening. Good night.” Now I hated him even more than I wanted to scare him.

“No, please go on.”

“That's better. All right, I will.”

“Well, like I said, the father was called Jimmy Fuzzie, the mother was Lizzy Fuzzie, and he had a really nasty habit.”

“Fuzzie's a made-up name! It can't be real.”

“You can believe it or not; it's up to you. Besides, it's no stupider than ‘Bobby'.”

“Yeah … well, what was it, the habit, I mean?”

“Oh, nothing much. But whenever there was someone who he didn't like, Jimmy Fuzzie would take his right hand and punch it through the wall … and … give them a gigantic nougie!” I grabbed him by the collar of his Flint-stone pajamas and rubbed the knuckle of my middle finger into his scalp.

“Hey, leggo!” he screamed. “That really hurts! I'm going to tell Marg—”

“All right, maybe that part's not true. I was just kidding around.” Then, out of the blue, I said, “Bobby, did you know the cops were here again last night?”

Late night police visits were becoming more frequent.

“Were they?”

“Yes, and this time they came because the neighbors complained.”

“Oh no.”

“One of the cops said, “That maniac's really going to kill her some day.” This time I wasn't trying to scare my brother. I heard the cop say it myself.

“Who did he mean?”

“Who do you think?”

It had taken a while, but I had finally succeeded in terrifying my brother—with the truth.

“Mommy—Mommy—Mommy!” Bobby was screaming and crying now.

Margaret opened the bedroom door. She must have been smoking a cigarette, because her specter hovered in the doorway like a ghost. “What in Jesus's name is the trouble now, boys?”

“Margaret, please don't let him kill her!” he said.

“Ah, the bairn's havin' a bad dream! I'll just fetch him a glass of warm milk.”

“I don't want milk. I want my mommy!” screamed Bobby.

“No, everything's all right, Margaret,” I said, digging my thumbs into his wrists. “Isn't it Bobby?” When he didn't answer right away, I exerted more pressure, “Well, isn't it?” He whimpered miserably, and Margaret grudgingly shut the door.

“Don't worry,” I whispered to him, “he probably won't actually do it. And it won't do either of us any good to cry about it,” I added. “You sound like a little baby. Besides she isn't here; they're both out tonight at a meeting, so everything's okay. At least for tonight.”

Bobby didn't reply.

I didn't want to hurt him any longer. I felt sorry for him. And I despised myself for the gratuitous cruelty I had shown. “I'm here with you. You're safe now.”

“No, I'm not. You're not a grownup. You're just eleven.” He flung those words with utter contempt across the dark room. And it hurt.

“Listen, let's forget all about the Fuzzies. I'm sorry I told you any of it. It wasn't true, you know, none of it. I was just teasing.”

“I know.”

“But you're still afraid?”

“Yes. But not of your stupid story. I'm afraid of what the policeman said.”

“I was just exaggerating. Nothing's going to happen. Just go to sleep now.”

“No, I want my mommeeeee …
Mommeeeee
.” The words bubbled softly and plaintively through his lips.

“Go to sleep now, Bobby. I'm sorry I scared you.”

Bobby refused to shut up. “
Mommeeeee … Mommeeee
.”

Maybe I was more my father's son than I imagined.

I had tears in my own eyes now. I buried my head beneath my pillow to keep from hearing his sobs.

What if I grow up and become just like him, just like my father? I thought.

I climbed out of bed and reached up to the spot in the wall where I had just told Bobby the Fuzzie family dwelt. I put my finger on the spot. There was chipped paint and a small hole there, just as I had said. What if there really was a family trapped in there? I wondered. What if I made up this crazy story and it was all true?

The oversized, seven-foot tennis racket leaning against the wall in my father's apartment wasn't just a gag gift. It said something essential about who he was. Tennis was not a game for him; it was his passion. Aside from his work, it was what he lived for. I longed to be part of it, to be asked to come along and play with him on his weekends. Unfortunately, I was rarely included. I wanted to learn to play myself, of course, but more importantly, I wanted to experience the pleasure of being with him, watching him out there on the courts. Even well into his sixties, with a substantial belly, there was something inspiring about the athletic way he raced about the court. His movements and shots were different from the way other older men played. My father played with a kind of swagger which wasn't like an old guy; he was Errol Flynn brandishing a tennis racket instead of a sword. Unlike his middle-aged partners, who hit the ball boringly back and forth over the net, content to keep a rally going and not make unforced errors, Dad played every point like it was his last. He went for daring winners down the alleys, or clever drop shots that left his slower friends either panting helplessly or impotently riveted to the spot. Unlike the other men who wanted to keep points alive, my father invariably tried to conclude each rally with a spectacular shot. Like he wanted to kill it. Sometimes he failed; but more often, he would zing one down the line, or unexpectedly smash a forehand at one of his opponents standing defenselessly at the net.

Between spring and fall, he played doubles with friends at Leonard Rosen's gorgeous home in Scarsdale, where Len had built his own clay court. Len was a cheerful, red-faced, bald man, a diametric contrast to my father's saturnine energy. Len always seemed happy.

My mother's explanation for this was simple and succinct. “Why shouldn't he be happy—the man inherited a fortune!”

Len was married to a woman named Lucinda who was beautiful and had the blackest, thickest hair I ever saw, and was always nice to everyone. Len always kissed his wife, and I couldn't help notice their open affection with one another, so different from my parents. I couldn't imagine Len taking a strap to his son or daughter, and it was inconceivable that he would strike or humiliate his wife the way my father did.

On the extremely rare occasions when I was invited to go with my father up to Scarsdale, he asked his friend, Sy, to bring his son Alex along, too. We drove up to Scarsdale in Sy's white Eldorado, and Alex and I sat in the back and played Baseball Initials.

I liked being around Alex, but I didn't really like him. Actually, I think I preferred being around Alex's father more than I did Alex, because his father had a calm I had never witnessed in another adult before. My mother told me he was a Jewish Cary Grant. He was the antithesis of my father: forgiving and patient, with a dry wit. Sy was a doctor, and when he died a few years later, I was really sad. He had his own tragedy, too, my mother said, when I told her how much I liked being around him. Don't say anything to anybody, she said—your father would kill me if he knew I told you—his wife Rebecca is very sick.

“What do you mean, sick?” I asked.

“She has agoraphobia,” my mother said in hushed tones.

“What's agoraphobia?” I whispered back.

“Agoraphobia's when you're afraid to go outside your own house or anywhere else. She can't even walk across the street. She's mentally ill.”

When we arrived at Len's place, Alex took off running. After being cooped up in the back seat of Dr. Friedman's car for an hour and a half, we were anxious to move. We grabbed our rackets, and took off on an impromptu race across the freshly mowed lawns of the Rosen estate down to the clay court. I was faster than Alex, and would certainly have reached the court first had I not heard my father's voice boom, “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

I pulled up lame, and remember feeling like Mickey Mantle must have when he twisted his knee on the drain embedded in the outfield grass during the 1951 World Series. I walked back to the car dragging the head of my Slazenger through the fragrant grass. I thought about what The Mick might have accomplished, if only he had remained healthy. When I got back to the car, I was informed it was my job to carry both my father and Sy's tennis bags (each with two rackets and accessories) to the court. I wanted to ask why Alex didn't have to do this too, but didn't. I lifted both bags out of Sy's trunk, and saw my friend already warming up and practicing his serve.

In between the men's matches, Alex and I were permitted to hit a few balls, either by ourselves or with the grownups for half an hour until they were ready to start the next set. Occasionally, we would be paired with one of the older men for a game of doubles. The crunch of red clay underneath my feet felt wonderful as I strode happily onto the court. I had felt sluggish sitting around all that time while the adults played, but it was worth it as soon as I stood up and walked on the clay court. I unscrewed my wooden racket from its press and began swinging to get limbered up while the grownups swallowed salt tablets from a large glass bottle. It was early fall and leaves were beginning to fall. Soon they would need to be swept off the baselines so as not to interfere with the match. Soon, too, it would be cold outside. This was probably one of the last times we'd be able to play until next spring. I wore my white tennis sweater with the maroon stripes along the V-neck. Grandma had bought me that sweater. Usually I hated getting clothes for my birthday, but this was different. It came in a robin's egg blue box from B. Altman's.

“Where'd you get those sneakers?” my father asked harmlessly. I swung my racket round and round in a circle like a windmill.

“Gimbels? I don't know—Mom got them,” I said, and tossed an imaginary ball in the air and slammed it over an imaginary net.