June 16, 1955 to July 2, 1955
Resting her head on his lap, “Normie,” scratching behind her ears, “hi, pal!”
“Hey, Mitchie! When’d you get in?”
Rubbing between the Dalmatian’s expressive eyes, “About five.” Sitting in the den with his ankles crossed over the corner of the desk. “How the hell’ve you been?”
“Fine! Now that I’m home, just fine… So, what are you doing?”
“At the moment, studying, but later, anything you want… How long you back for?”
“Sixteen days. I got to be back on the third… So, how’s college? You glad you didn’t enlist last year?”
“College? It’s okay, I guess. But I still have no idea where I’m going with it, and I’m still considering the Navy when this semester’s over.”
“Hey, Normie, take it from me and give it lots’a thought before you do.”
“I have, Mitchie, I have.”
“So, how’s it feel to be an old fart?”
“Old fart, huh? Why, ’cause I’m twenty-one? Hey, schmucko, you got what, another couple’a months?”
Quiet a moment, “Jesus!” Mitchell said, “Twenty-one! I can’t believe it.”
“You know what the alternative is, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess… Hey, where the broads hanging out now’a’days?”
Coming into the den, Myra handed her son a dish.
“Same ol’ Lipensky, eh? Never change, do you?”
Nodding to his mother, “Yup,” opening the sandwich of homemade bread, “that’s me, the same ol’ Lipensky,” revealing a thick layer of chopped liver, biting into it, “Mmmm.”
“I said, 'mmmm', but I’m talking to my mother.” Holding his right thumb upward, “That’s great, Mom!”
“Thursday evening?” Norman hesitated. “Saturday nights it’s still the J, I guess.”
“Think, maybe, we’re getting a little old to hang out at the J?”
“Yeah.” The J. The remembrance of a tall, pretty, dark-complected, Semitic-appearing girl flitting through his mind, “Maybe.”
“Askanaz? You mean the deli on, uh…?”
“Yeah. On Morris, near the beach?”
“On a Thursday? Yeah,” Norman said, “that’s the best I can figure.”
Turning, “God-damn!” looking over his shoulder.
“No, I wasn’t talking to you. Hold on a minute, Larry just came in.”
Laying the phone on the desk, standing, “Holy shit! I can’t believe it! Look at you!”
Just past his twelfth birthday, Lawrence was almost as tall, and just about as broad, as his older brother.
“Jesus, Larry, you’re bigger’n’me!”
Beginning to hug, thinking better of it, the brothers began to shake hands, but then hugged anyway.
“Yeah, well,” pointing to the chopped liver sandwich, “you know how mom feeds us.” Glancing at the phone, “Who you talking to, Norman?”
“Go on, Mitchie, talk to him. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Norm, shit, I can’t believe how these kids have grown. How’s Marshall? He’s a giant, too?”
“Nah, I’m still bigger’n him… How’s your folks and Mortie?”
“My dad’s still at the studio, so I haven’t seen him yet. Mom and Mortie drove to the airport to pick me up and I couldn’t believe it when I saw him. God! Can you believe he’s going to be seven in six months? Shit! Where’s the time fly?”
“You said it! So, you want to see who’s at Askanaz?”
“Yeah, I guess… I’ll pick you up at, oh… say about six-thirty, seven, okay?”
“You want to meet me at Askanaz later, maybe see who’s around?”
“Yes, sure. What time?”
“You want to eat there?”
“Sure,” she said tersely. “You don’t think my mother came home to feed me, do you?”
“No, guess not… Six-thirty, seven, okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine, but make it closer to seven, and if you beat me there, get a table… Bye, Shelly.”
Dropping the phone on the cradle, walking from the kitchen to her dresser in the dining room, opening the top drawer, the girl rummaged carefully until she found a push-up bra and nylon underpants. Going to the 6x5 passageway between her parent’s bedroom, the living room and the bathroom—that also acted as her closet—the girl removed the summer wool skirt and white cotton blouse she’d worn that day. Dropping the blouse in the clothes hamper, she hung the skirt on a hanger. Sitting on the hamper, the girl removed her loafers and bobby socks. Leaning against the wall, holding her legs forward, letting the comforting air cool them, she wiggled her long toes.
The girl had spent the last eight hours on her feet, working as a corsetiere in training at Lanathan’s, a large lingerie shop located on Lincoln Avenue on Chicago’s north side—a job she’d held since graduating from high school last spring.
Standing, she unhooked her bra, pushed down and stepped out of her panties and, using the toes of her right foot, lifted them off the carpeted floor and dropped her underpants, along with her socks, into the hamper.
Nude, going into the bathroom, closing the door, the girl stood a long moment looking at her reflection in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door.
No one knew where her height came from because, at five-seven and a half, the girl was taller than her brother and both of her parents.
Having broad shoulders, a straight waist, practically no hips and small, tight buttocks, looking at her from the rear, the girl could easily pass for a slight boy.
From the front, though, there was no mistaking that Marsha Goldman was definitely all woman.
Her long, curly, black hair framing a pretty, dark-eyed, classically sensual face; deeply tanned, the portions of her body that had been protected from the sun stood out in solid contrast to the rest of her body. Though the size of her bra was 34B, because she had a wide rib cage, appearing larger than they actually were, her breasts did tend to fill out at the sides, giving her attractive, wide cleavage. Roughly the size of half-dollars, her areolae were domed, dark pink in color. Marsha had a thin—bordering on skinny—torso, and long, slender legs. Her tightly curled, pitch-black pubic hair was silky fine and had been trimmed short so that no embarrassing, stray “pubies” could slip out from between the legs of her bathing suit.
No matter how good they may look to others, as most people, being unhappy with certain aspects of their appearance, Marsha wished there was some way her nose could be made shorter, and, bringing her hands tightly down her sides, pushing her fists into the soft flesh above her hips, making deep impressions, Marsha thought—for at least the millionth time in her eighteen, going on nineteen, years—If I only had hips!
Marsha Goldman had a sharp, quick mind and a funny, extremely pleasing personality. Well liked, she was often the center of attraction no matter whom she was with, and did have numerous friends, both male and female.
As though to spite, or rather in spite of her mother, Marsha was a definite “hands off” girl. This was not to say that she didn’t like to “neck”; on the contrary, with the right young man she truly enjoyed “schnoogling.” But no matter how hot the situation had become, for either the young man or herself, Marsha’s breasts and everything between her waist and thighs were absolutely, strictly, hands-off!
Fastening the three hooks of the push-up bra in the front, rotating it around her chest, Marsha fit her breasts into the cups and, lightly pinching the flesh, pulled both upward. Searching the bar that held her blouses, choosing a light blue, sleeveless blouse, she put it on, buttoned all but the top button, then decided to leave the second button unbuttoned, too. Pulling on a pair of ironed Levi’s, she tied the tails of the blouse over the waistband. Sitting on the hamper, Marsha put a pair of sandals onto her bare feet, then went back to the bathroom to appraise herself in the full-length mirror.
The Goldmans lived two blocks from the beach, on the ninth floor of a moderately high priced, somewhat fashionable apartment building just west of Sheridan Road on the far north side.