The Poison Tree by Henry I. Schvey Page B

crazy. He slapped her and we watched him drag her body through the dining room by her hair. He ordered us to stay in our room and shut the door. We obeyed. We heard our mother screaming “You pock-faced prick!” daring him to lay another finger on her. We listened as he threw her bodily out into the hallway outside the apartment, slamming the door. Bobby and I sat on our beds holding hands in silence as Mom banged on the door and screamed for the police. The police never came, and after what seemed like hours, the banging stopped. Robert fell asleep. Later, I heard the door open softly. Then there was silence.
    And this was what I had been foolish enough to tell Grandma when she handed me that ten dollar bill on my birthday.
    Now, everything I have touched so far on or near my father’s desk, I have put back in its proper place. I’m about to leave, key in hand, and suddenlyrecall why I’ve entered his apartment in the first place. I’ve been sent to find a small leather address book and bring it back to him in the hospital. It’s there, just as he said it would be, in the left-hand drawer of his desk, on top of a stack of business cards and legal pads. I open the book and check for Fionna Bingley’s address, just to be sure it’s there. The address is written in her own sophisticated British handwriting.
    I close the drawer again, but it jams. After more futile attempts to return it to its proper place in the desk, I lift out the drawer and compare it with its twin on the other side. They do not seem to match. I stick my hand inside the dark hole and feel around with a twinge of unreasonable fear. Will my hand get bitten or lost in there? I press on and touch something odd, a piece of wood, and another drawer springs open—a secret compartment! I open it and shudder. I am cold, feverish. I am relieved that this second drawer is empty; empty that is, except for a slim cream-colored leather portfolio trimmed in gold with initials embossed: NIS. I hold it in my hand, wondering whether to open the clasp. I start to put it away, like I have with the rest of the photos and menus and invitations, but I can’t.
    I release the clasp and open it. What I find inside is an assortment—no, not an assortment—a collection of twenty-eight, 4x6 inch, black and white Polaroid photographs, most going back more than fifteen years, each precisely dated and numbered. My breath catches in my throat, and my chest cavity is invaded with a burning sensation. A corrosive heat seeps into my stomach and begins to spread. All the Polaroid photos are in black and white, and all have the same delicately scalloped edges. They remind me of his white porcelain cup sitting politely on its wire rack in the kitchen.
    I pick up the first photograph. It is of a woman. I think I recognize her. But I’m not sure. She is on all fours in the middle of my father’s bed, the same bed I am sitting on now. She is naked and bound by rope, but the rope does not seem like it has been drawn especially tight. It feels like it’s part of a ritual, rather than a crime. The woman smiles a goofy, embarrassed grin. Her smile is what most disturbs me. It suggests participation in a sexual game, rather than violation. Yet the look on her face indicates the game may have gone on too long, or she no longer wants to play, or maybe, does not want this photograph taken. Maybe she is ashamed and wants this whole thing to stop. Maybe the photographer says just one more picture. Just this last one.I turn over the photo and see there are several more of the same woman in various poses. In one there is a red whip; in another a dildo. As I sift through them, I realize that there are a great number of women, most bound, most in similar poses, all with similar smiles. They are smiles of resignation and humiliation. I am trembling and feel afraid in a way I have never been since early childhood. This is not simply discovering a secret