The Poison Tree by Henry I. Schvey

all day with my Birthday Boy; that’s why there’s no cocktail sauce, Norman.”
    â€œWhat else is there?”
    â€œPorterhouse steaks comin’ right up!” she sang in a falsetto, clearing the shrimp cocktails and exiting towards the kitchen as she sang about moonbeams in jars and swingin’ on stars.
    â€œShaddup, Rita!”
    She either ignored, or didn’t hear this, and returned with four huge steaks, gurgling in their own blood with blobs of curdled brown fat.
    â€œLook at this! Did you ever see meat like this? Special for Hen-yee!” Mom always talked baby talk when she was in high spirits. I usually hated it, but today, for some reason, it didn’t bother me.
    â€œHow do you expect me to cut this, Rita?” My father was sorting through a dense thicket of knives and forks looking for a carving knife. To illustrate, he actually bit into one of the steaks, holding up one end in the air with a fork. Always immaculately dressed and supremely careful about his appearance in public, my father deliberately allowed steak juice to trickle down his chin and onto his plate.
    â€œI’ll find us some sharper knives.”
    â€œDon’t worry, we can eat it with our teeth,” he said, winking at Bobby.
    â€œYeah, we’ll eat it with our teeth—right, Dad?” Bobby squealed with high-pitched laughter.
    â€œStop imitating your father, Robert!” Mom said, as he reached for one of the steaks with pudgy fingers.
    â€œLook what you’ve done, Norman!” she said, and scurried over to the break-front, rummaging around for a carving knife. “See—the boy’s imitating you.”
    â€œWhat I’ve done?” my father said innocently, grabbing one of the knives, and trying to slice the meat. “These won’t cut, either!”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œSorry, my ass.”
    Mom didn’t respond, but left and promptly returned with a set of gleaming, sterling silver steak knives, still in their Tiffany blue box.
    â€œDo you know how hard I worked on this, Norman? All you’ve done is play tennis, sleep, drink Scotch, and criticize. How, after the day I’ve had, can you criticize me? Cocktail sauce? I took him bowling all day long—five games! What did you do? Play tennis? Where’s a boy’s father on his son’s birthday?”
    On the black and white television in the room behind us, Ralph Kramden balled his fist and held it up in the air dangerously close to his wife’s face. “To the moon, Alice, to the moon!”
    â€œGo ahead and try!” Alice said, defiantly.
    â€œBang zoom!”
    â€œYou don’t like it?” Dad challenged.
    â€œNo, Norman, I don’t like it. Not one bit.” Mom put her hands on her hips.
    â€œFine, I’ll eat out with Sy.” Dad rose from the table, scraping the parquet floor.
    â€œI mean it, Alice!”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you’re eating with Sy? It’s Henry’s birthday! You’re certainly not eating out with Sy!”
    â€œGo ahead, Ralph! I’d like to see you try!” Alice said again.
    â€œOne of these days, Alice, one of these days—
Pow
, right in the kisser!” The TV audience laughed.
    I turned my neck to see the TV screen, but when I turned back, Mom was rubbing her cheek, even though Alice Kramden was unscathed.
    â€œBastard! You filthy bastard,” she growled, eyes bright. My father was already halfway down the hall, wallet and keys in hand. “Children, do you realize your father is a filthy bastard? Well, now you know, and you can imitate him some more. How dare you, Norman!” she shouted after him. “And on his birthday, too!”
    The front door slammed, and my mother got up slowly and walked away from the table. After a few minutes, she returned. She reached for the bowl of steaming baked potatoes, each one wrapped in its own tinfoil jacket, with crystal dishes for sour cream and