The Poison Tree (11 page)

“Shaddup, you brat!” Dad shouted as he brought out another plate of curled Wonder Bread toast, soggy with butter. Bobby, who by now had given up waiting for Dad to come to him to supervise the tying of his tie, stuffed his shirt into his pants and ran into the kitchen to show Dad, stumbling headlong onto the kitchen floor.

“Get up and eat your toast, Bobby,” I said yanking him off the ground. Since he loved to eat, I was trying to fob off as much of my food as possible on him. The more he ate, the less I was responsible for.

“Why, what's wrong with it?” he asked suspiciously. Since my story about the Fuzzie family living in the wall above his bed, he understood the depths of my deviousness and cruelty. I was well on my way to becoming my father's son.

“Nothing. Dad made a lot. Just eat as much as you can.”

“Mom, did Henry spit on the toast again?”

“What a terrible thought! Besides, it's his bar mitzvah.” I supposed she meant that on a normal day, spitting on the toast would have been at least plausible.

“Wow!” Bobby observed, now distracted by something else.

“Yes, isn't it wonderful?” Mom said, observing the platter of toast my father produced from the kitchen with apparently more on the way.

“No—not that. That!”

“What is it, dear?” said Mom in her happy sing-song voice.

“I've never seen one that big before, have you, Henry?”

“What?”

“That cock-a-roach—it's huge!”

“Shut up, you stupid idiot!” I said between tightly shut teeth.

Dad entered with yet another plate of toast, raising his orange juice in a toast. “Look, Henry has become a man!”

“Not yet! He still has to recite his Haftarah,” Bobby said. “He won't be a man for a few hours yet, and maybe someth—”

“Shaddup,” Dad shouted, before adding, “All right, everybody eat up, we have to leave soon. Bobby, that's enough toast for you.” Then turning to my mother without lowering his voice, he continued, “Jesus, that kid's a fresser; the spitting image of Leon.”

“That was quite uncalled for, Norman. The child heard you. Look—now he's crying! Is that what you want? Besides, Dr. Anfanger said it's baby fat,
and he'll grow out of it. You know that.” Bobby was whimpering in a corner, now compulsively devouring buttered toast in between sobs.

“Aw, just kidding, Bob,” Dad said to mollify the situation. “How about some Cream of Wheat? We still have time, I think.”

“I only eat Cream of Wheat when I'm sick! Everybody knows that!” Bobby clumped heavily back to his room and slammed the door.

“Jesus Christ, Robert. Stop that crying, Robert or … I'll give you a real reason to cry.”

As I chewed yet another piece of the toast, I felt a rush of something hot in my neck, surging up into my glands. I was about to throw up. I knew the risks involved, and I had to act decisively. I also couldn't allow myself to ruin my new Best & Co. suit on the way to the synagogue. With everyone else momentarily out of the room, I took the soggy, masticated ball of toast from my mouth and tossed a thick wad behind the radiator. I imagined the roach scurrying under the radiator to get the toast, thus killing off two problems with one wad of toast. Then I threw another piece over the radiator. And another.

Rabbi Epstein conducted the beginning of the service with terse formality. I sat in a pew with my family, desperately wanting to peek over my shoulder to see who had decided to come to witness my disgrace, but Epstein's rabbinical scowl made that impossible. Finally, it was time for me to rise and step up to the bimah to recite my Haftarah. The synagogue was now full. Besides my grandparents and Uncle Lee, all my high school friends were nudging one another, making jokes, pointing and laughing. Cantor Vogel was there, too, obviously terrified and chewing his bottom lip.

I sang the short prayers without difficulty, having memorized them with the help of Cantor Vogel's record. I then realized that since no one was actually listening, it didn't matter what I sang. If I performed with confidence, I could have been singing my favorite hit, Del Shannon's “Runaway,” in my patented falsetto to the congregation. People seemed to believe I knew what I was chanting. I scanned the sanctuary from the bimah, and realized that perhaps only a dozen or so temple “lifers” realized how inept I was. Armed
with this revelation, I sang as never before, although I noticed Rabbi Epstein tearing at his tallis with his thumb and forefinger like a gunslinger preparing to spring a gun from his holster.

At the end of the service my Grandma and Grandpa Schvey came forward. Grandpa, who never seemed to know precisely who I was or acknowledge that I might actually be related to him, stood up. He gave me the most painful pinch on both cheeks I have, or ever expect to receive; a pinch so hard it made my eyes water. I can almost feel the pain of that pinch today.

I caught Cantor Vogel's eye as he left the synagogue and ran up to him.

“Well, boychick, you sure pulled one over on me. Who knew you could sing so good?”

“Not me, Cantor Vogel. But I was taught by a master,” I said. “But do you think they noticed all the mistakes I made in my Haftarah?”

“Only Rabbi Epstein, boychickel, only the Rabbi,” he said, licking his pointy upper lip with his tongue. “But that might be enough for Epstein to scratch at my hemorrhoids for the next 120 years.” I didn't understand this, but it was delivered with great earnestness, and I nodded.

Cantor Vogel smiled at Rabbi Epstein, who glared back at us as though he was considering litigation for perpetrating this hoax upon the congregation.

“Don't worry, Hennik Itzhak,” he said. “He'll get over it someday. I hope. Now go, have a good time. You earned it, and I earned at least a month in Miami Beach.”

“But you're coming to the reception, aren't you?”

“Well, boychick, I can't ride on Shabbat, so maybe I'd better take a skip. The synagogue is way up here on 87th, and your party at the Sherry-Netherlands is all the way down on 59th. That's a long way to walk.” Then he kissed me on the top of the head, and covered my right hand with both of his. “Mazel Tov, Hennik Itzhak, I'm very happy. Who knew you'd teach me something?”

“I taught you?”

“Of course, you taught me never to judge by first impressions.” Then he paused and continued. “Today I learned even a
schlimazel
once in a Purim can get lucky and shoot his peepee straight into the toilet. This I learned from you today, young man.”

I allowed this praise to wash over me, and then said, “Thank you, Cantor Vogel. But I do hope you can come to the reception.”

In the car, I celebrated becoming a man by announcing I was not attending my own reception at the Sherry-Netherlands. After a brief but meaningful silence, my father pulled the Oldsmobile 88 against the curb.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, shifting his weight against the vinyl front seat and turning ominously, “What exactly did you say?”

“The boy's tired, Norman,” Mom said, anxiously. “And don't forget how well he did. All that Hebrew!”

“I don't give a shit about Hebrew or his bar mitzvah; I always said he was a Lerner through and through, and this proves it. You're going to the party, and you're going to have a good time, you goddam son of a bitch!”

“But Cantor Vogel told me he can't come; he can't ride in a car on the Sabbath, and—”

“Why can't he ride in a car?” asked Bobby, puzzled. “Everyone can ride in a car; maybe he's too old to drive, but he can ride in one.”

“It's against his religion, Bobby dear,” Mom answered sympathetically.

“I thought Cantor Vogel was Jewish? Isn't he Jewish?” Bobby asked solemnly.

“Yes dear, he is. But there are different kinds of Jews, and some of them have strange practices. There are Reform Jews like us, Conservative ones like your brother, and even Orth—”

“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.