The Poison Tree by Henry I. Schvey Page A

butter beside them. Mom slit a cross in the foil of one of the potatoes, added plenty of sour cream and butter andsalt, and mashed it all together in one delicious goop. Then she did the same thing to another potato, then a third, until all four potatoes were fixed that way. Although my stomach started hurting from the moment they’d begun fighting, those baked potatoes looked good, and I could imagine eating one as Mom mashed the soft insides of each one with a fork. But she didn’t offer either Bobby or me a baked potato. Instead, we just sat there watching her smash the potatoes with the tines of her fork, frantically, over and over again for a long time. Then she returned to their bedroom, and emerged with the oblong bag Dad used for tennis. She carefully removed the rackets from their wooden presses, and, with a sterling silver spoon, scooped out all four potatoes and slathered the mixture all over his Slazengers. Then she took his shorts, shirt, and jockstrap, and packed them up in the tennis bag, and ladled the rest of the mess in with the clothes, and zipped it up again. She continued to sing “You Could Be Swinging on a Star” as she worked.
    When she was finished, my mother announced she was leaving.
    â€œWhere ya’ goin’, Mom?” Bobby asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you don’t know—when are you coming back?” I asked, voice cracking.
    â€œI don’t know if I’ll ever come back,” she said, “or where they might find me.” Bobby began howling, “
Noooo
!”
    â€œI want you to know if I don’t return, or if they find me somewhere dead, I’ve always loved you both, and none of this is your fault.”
    â€œMom! Don’t go! Please!” Bobby and I said in unison. I thought about standing in front of the front door, but was frozen to the spot.
    â€œFarewell, my children, goodbye!” She waved and put a pink silk scarf over her head, shrugged into a light topcoat, and slammed the door.
    Bobby sat with his back to the door, rocking back and forth, Indian style, sucking his thumb. I told him she didn’t mean it; she would be back soon. But of course I wasn’t sure. She had done this before and always returned, but I couldn’t really be sure this time. Not after the mashed potatoes on my father’s rackets. This was something new and dangerous.
    After a while I wandered into their bedroom. In my father’s drawers, everything was perfect: his laundered shirts folded and stacked neatly, back to front, so they formed neat, symmetrical piles, each wrapped with a thickblue strip of paper like a birthday present. He used to fold his handkerchiefs so they had five little points like a king’s crown, and tuck them carefully into the breast pocket of his suit. I took one of the monogrammed handkerchiefs and inhaled its rich fragrance. It smelled like pine trees in Maine or some-place hours from the city. In a box, I saw an assortment of gold collar stays and cuff links, each tucked away in its own neat compartment. Ordered, like a Swanson’s TV dinner. I walked into the bathroom and saw my mother’s nylons splayed out over the radiator, panties in heaps on the floor, a girdle slung over the shower rod like a flayed carcass. The contrast couldn’t have been more marked.
    I went back to the dining room to make sure Bobby wasn’t doing something stupid, but he was in our bedroom, reading a
Richie Rich
comic out loud, laughing. As I passed the TV, I noticed
The Honeymooners
was still on, and heard Ralph taking Alice in his arms.
    â€œBaby, you’re the greatest!”
    I turned the set off.
    That night, my parents must have come home separately. They kissed and made up, sort of like on TV. She called him “Normie.” She did that when they were affectionate. Then Dad laid out his tennis things for Sunday’s game, and discovered the mashed potatoes and went