The Poison Tree by Henry I. Schvey Read Free Book Online

be awake. I am pretty used to my parents’ fighting, and usually just block things out. I have my own peculiar ritual of getting myself to sleep when I am frightened: I recite every member of the New York Yankees’ twenty-five-man opening day roster, by number and position. If that doesn’t work, I remind myself of the players’ heightsand weights, which I have memorized from the back of their baseball cards:
    Mickey Charles Mantle, No. 7, Center Field; Born October 20, 1931, Spavinaw, Oklahoma—5’11”—198 lbs.
    Lawrence Peter (“Yogi”) Berra, No. 8, Catcher: Born May 12, 1925, St. Louis, Missouri—5’8”—194 lbs.
    William Joseph (“Moose”) Skowron, Jr., No. 14, First Base: Born December 18, 1930, Chicago, Illinois—5’11”—200 lbs.
    And so on.
    The players’ numbers bore a special significance, just as their individual batting stances did. Number 8 was more than a numeral draped across Yogi’s stooped, broad back, making him look like Quasimodo carrying his beloved Esmeralda across the rooftops of Paris in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
. No, those uniform numbers were the simple bedrocks of existence for me. They represented the curtain that I pulled down to block out the strange, terrifying reality around me.
    If my mumbled recitation of the Yankees failed, I listened to “Cousin” Bruce Morrow on the transistor radio hidden under my pillow. These were the tricks I used to dampen the animal sounds and screams that, at odd intervals, invaded my sleep from my parents’ bedroom down the long, thin hallway. But on this night nothing worked; I was excited about my birthday, and worried about the screams. So when my other tricks failed, I threw the covers off. I heard something like sobbing down the hall, and got up and followed the sobs like the breadcrumbs in “Hansel and Gretel.” My brother, Bobby, slept through everything; he cradled a toy Cadillac in his arms like a baby. As I stole down the hallway, I saw my father in his familiar green bathrobe with a towel draped over one of his shoulders like a prizefighter, holding our silver ice bucket in his arms. I recognized the ice bucket right away, since it was something I was warned not to play with. It was a silver wedding gift to my parents from Tiffany’s. It was also just the right size to catch a pair of balled-up white sweat socks lobbed from the dining room. I taught Bobby how to lob socks with just the right amount of arc, like I did, or to bank them off the wall. But his efforts were feeble, even allowing for his age. He was a spazz. I knew it was inevitable that he would get picked for right field if I didn’t straighten him out fast. My theory was that boys who couldn’t throw properly were destined to fail. My ambition was to get to the point where wecould play catch without him utterly humiliating himself. It never happened. He was oblivious to his glaring inadequacy; he apparently thought baseball was just a game. I knew better—it was life itself.
    Beside my father, there was another man who was short and stocky with black, shiny shoes and squeaky soles. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform. Both men disappeared into my parents’ bedroom, and then I heard more whimpering. It sounded like a child, or a dog, but I knew it wasn’t either one. Then it stopped and sounded exactly like a baby who’s been crying so long he can’t catch his breath.
    The sight of the uniform terrified me, and I wanted to yell, “What’s going on around here?” But I couldn’t make a sound. So I crept back to my bedroom. My brother was still asleep, still caressing the Cadillac, but it was a long time before my ears stopped straining to hear each pitiful noise from beyond my parents’ door.
    The next morning was my birthday, and I woke up to the smell of Joy, Mom’s perfume. I still smell it today, though now, it makes