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worldwide catastrophes, shopping lists and children’s songs, her reminders of things to do or people to call. Occasionally, she would ask Peter if it was all right if she used his phone, and she would go upstairs to begin calling numbers from her address book—people she’d met in psychiatric wards, Dr. Gurney, or friends from college whom she complained avoided her calls. At home, she was always talking about “blacklisting” her unresponsive friends, but as far as I knew, she never crossed out anyone’s number. Once Mommy got through her entire address book, she would call 1-800 suicide hotlines, or the Pathmark Super Center to ask a question about the price of this and that, or St. Mary’s Hospital to request that they send her a packet on cancer or some other dire disease she was afraid she or I would get.
    In addition to “Danger Tiger,” Peter and I also played a lot of games that he made up. One was an enhanced version of “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Peter would claw his fingers inward and wiggle them frenetically to form the legs of two friendly tarantulas that would then climb all over my body, tickling me. Two other games were Mad Scientist and Mad Gardener, the latter played in the yard. Peter would chase me with the garden hose, spraying me full blast whenever I was cornered. Mad Scientist was another game that involved tickling and, when caught, I’d be held down and subjected to what we called Tickle Torture Time. Peter would start at what he referred to as the third degree, which was mild—he wouldn’t tickle my belly, armpits, or the soles of my feet, but he’d later upgrade to those (what he called the first degree) if I didn’t surrender. Peter said he’d never met anyone before me who’d gotten all the way to the first degree without begging for mercy. I was proud at first when he said that, but then I was a little put off and jealous: I’d thought Mad Scientist was our own special thing and I couldn’t help but wonder who else he’d played the game with.

4
    SAVAGES
    A pparently, Poppa had put a down payment on a house, yet there was no anticipation of the move, just a September day replete with sealed UPS boxes and a big white truck. We donated my old toys to the Emanuel Methodist Church across from the Thirty-second Street playground. The previous day, Poppa and I had taken a short drive through our end of town, so he could point out all the ugly things we were escaping by moving nine blocks. Poppa had offered to take Mommy on the drive with us, but she said she’d rather stay home and listen to the radio. The bedroom was depressing now, with all our stuff packed and just my mother and the radio flat on the white sheet. Mommy hadn’t gotten dressed and wore a long checkered garment with snaps down the front that she had gotten from one of her hospital stays. The bare living room was a worse sight—now that all my toys were packed up, the only whisper of my presence left was the marker scribbles on the wall, from the many times Poppa had gotten angry at the landlord and granted me artistic liberty.
    “Always dragging your feet!” Poppa said, and briskly pulled me along. On our way down the hallway stairs, which smelled like urine and beer, he said, “Keesy, when I take you driving today, take a good look around at the things and places you have enjoyed. That woman is lazy and I am sure she will not take the trouble to walk to this end of town once we have moved, and, to be honest, I am not sure I want you in this area anymore.”
    When we got to Thirtieth Street, Poppa parked the car to buy cigars from Havana Cigars one last time. In the Chevy, I had nothing to do but stare forlornly at Beeline Arcade, where I would always go to play Galaga and Ms. Pac-Man. I thought of the roller rink a block away from our apartment with a giant red-wheeled skate painted upon its white brick wall; my mother had never allowed me to skate there, for fear I’d fall and break my neck.
    Just when I