“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.
<
br /> “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?’”
“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 c
ome 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.”
The Poison Tree Page 15