Every time I thought of Lizzie, there would be a kind of tug in the region of my heart and I would try to envision how things might have been if I hadn’t left the lawyer’s office – On November 22, 1963, actually on the same day and exact time that John Kennedy was assassinated – and called Marsha asking if I could come home. Of course, back then it was the kids. I just couldn’t imagine life without my, at that time, three children. Now all four are grown and on their own, so what if I should meet a lady that I love as much as I loved Lizzie, would I… No! I love Marsha… I do.
Amazing how fast extraordinary things can become ordinary because here I was: completely naked sitting with my completely naked wife having a conversation about a sexual deviate because of a sexual deviate thinking of a woman that I once loved, and still might, as all the while naked men and women nonchalantly saunter by.
Elysium Fields 22: Cycle
Topanga Canyon, California
Saturday, May 17, 1986
Marsha and me? When things were good, as on this day, things between Marsha and me were lovely and loving when we couldn’t seem to get enough of the touch or the closeness of the other. Hands would be held, kisses would be exchanged and, even after thirty-one years of marriage, we were as newlyweds. But then, so it usually seems, from somewhere; as far as I’m concerned most often from nowhere a fog would be lain over us and with the fog would come bitterness along with harsh words then, shortly thereafter, absolute hatred and silence then the cycle of our lives from hatred to love, from love to hatred For Better or Worse, would begin anew.
“Mitchie, maybe we ought to head back to the blanket.”
“Yeah. I was wondering, though, Marsha, why didn’t you mention this, uh, Nate guy… this creep when
I saw you, when I got to Lakeside that morning, or sometime before now?”
I kind of forget about it until Clyde tried to shove his dick into my face. Also, it was something that I didn’t really want to remember. Besides, if I told you then, in Lakeside, you may not have wanted me to stay the rest of the summer alone. Also, on that day I was so excited to see you… And, my God, you looked so different from when I’d seen you before! You looked so…? Mitchie, I don’t have to tell you that you’re a really good looking guy, but, oh, God, that day…
July 4, 1958
From Skokie, Illinois To Lakeside, Michigan
Glancing at the clock: 6:45. Marsha cleaned and dressed Michael.
Glancing at the clock: 7:05. She fed Michael as, glancing at the clock, 7:12, as glancing at the clock, she grew increasingly apprehensive over seeing her husband and what his attitude towards her might be.
Glancing at the clock: 7:35. For breakfast Marsha had a cup of tea.
Glancing at the clock… “For God’s sake!” she said aloud, thinking, He said he’d be here about eleven! “Will you relax!” she said aloud to herself, but Michael, standing in the playpen watching television, said… “’Ucy!”
“Yes, Lucy,” Marsha said, glancing at the clock.
* * *
7:45: Through Skokie. 7:58: Into Chicago. 8:20: Onto the Outer Drive. 8:16: Onto Lake Shore Drive.
* * *
8:53: Marsha made and closed the sofa bed. 9:05: She vacuumed the carpet, ran the dust mop over the linoleum floors and dusted the furniture. 9:30: She attempted to watch television, but could not. She tried to read again, but could not.
* * *
9:25: Out of Illinois, into Indiana, through Hammond and Gary.
With each moment, with each rotation of the wheels his exhalation, along with his fear, increased.
9:58: Marsha went into the bathroom, let the water run to get hot, removed her pajamas and stepped into the shower.
9:58: Michigan City, Indiana. A sound from the past, remembering, the wheels hummed going over the “singing bridge,” and Mitchell’s heart began to beat even faster.
10:11: Stepping from the shower, Marsha dried herself and, still nude, cleaned the bathroom as she tried to make the monumental decision of: What should I wear?
10:15: New Buffalo, Michigan. Only eight miles to Union Pier. Raising his eyes from the white lined, black topped highway before him to the sparkling clear, deep blue sky above him, “Oh, God,” he said aloud, “let her still love me!”
10:24: Union Pier, Michigan. His head turned as the bowling alley, the Old Road cutoff, and the Union Pier Business Center sped by.
10:27: The twin water towers rushed by and suddenly, “There’s the road!” Approaching too quickly, but as there was no oncoming traffic the wheels of the Ford squealed as he made a sharp left and, still coming too fast, suddenly the dirt road was to his right and making another sharp turn there’s the second cottage, and…
10:28: What to wear still undecided, wearing only shorts and a loosely hanging T-shirt of Mitchell’s, that she’d taken by accident, brushing her hair, Marsha stepped into the sunshine, as…
10:29: Barreling into the cove the brakes locked and amidst flying pebbles and dust the Ford fishtailed to a stop as…
“Oh, God!” Startled, the Ford’s explosive entrance caused Marsha to stand stock still with the brush to her hair and her mouth open.
Oh, God! He’d planned on driving in slowly, nonchalantly. He had planned to appear aloof. But…
Oh, God! There she is!
If Marsha wasn’t there, just twelve feet away, staring at him through the now dust covered windshield, he would follow his all but uncontrollable urge to fold his arms across the steering wheel and hide his face. But instead, taking a deep breath, Mitchell opened the door, stepped out and, his hand raised in greeting, sheepishly said, “Hi!”
“Hi.” she returned, then…
Slipping out, “Mitchell?”
Marsha’s greeting came poised as a question because—though she knew it was her husband—standing barely twelve feet away, it was Mitchell and it wasn’t Mitchell because he’d lost at least twenty pounds in the near twelve weeks since she’d last seen him. And although she’d certainly seen him deeply tanned, he had never, not even on the (USCG) Halfmoon where he’d spent quite a bit of time working outside, had he been this tan. And his hair! She had never seen Mitchell wear his hair any way other than the way he’d always worn his hair, and now the sun-bleached crew cut gave him a burnished, rugged look. Thinking, Our separation sure doesn’t seem to have hurt him very much. Now noticing something that had always been wholly foreign on the body of Mitchell Lipensky: the bulge of muscles.
Having something akin to a hormonal epiphany, sensing a moistening in her vagina and the tightening of her nipples, and, Oh, yeah! Marsha Lipensky liked the way her husband looked… A whole lot!
As for Mitchell…
Taking the few steps from the car to the stairs of the cottage, for the few seconds it took from the car to the steps, his eyes were riveted to the face and body of his wife.
Having, really, not much else to do but tend her baby, eat and spend time in the sun, fresh from a shower, void of makeup, looking fresh as an ad for tanning lotion, Marsha’s tan, also, was deeper then than he’d ever seen.
Considering himself expert in these matters, noting she was not wearing a bra, he saw the natural form of her breasts and, for the split second it took him to notice—embarrassingly, he achieved a pressing erection that he hoped his wife did not notice—because, embossed upon the thin, still slightly damp material of his old T-shirt, he also saw the very sharply defined protrusions of Marsha’s suddenly erect nipples. Also, his eyes traversing their length, her long, dark, slender legs… Those long, dark, slender legs that seemed to go on forever where in his mind’s eye he pictured the juncture of Marsha’s naked thighs and at that moment Mitchell Lipensky would have given his life to have his face and lips there.
Forcing his eyes upward, to Marsha’s face, he saw—which he liked—that she’d gained a few pounds since he’d last seen her and her face—without a hint of makeup—without a doubt was the most beautiful face he’d seen since last he’d seen her, and, Oh, my God! he thought, “she’s so beautiful!
The husband and wife stood just three wooden steps apart: he looking into Marsha’s dark brown eyes, made all the darker by the tan of her face; she, looking into Mitchell’s green eyes, made all the greener by the tan of his face… And if each but knew the others thoughts, not a moment more would have passed before they were in each other’s arms, but…
Wishing she’d had time to put at least some makeup on. Wishing she were wearing something a bit more enticing than shorts and an old T-shirt.—unaware that there was no clothing or makeup made that could possibly have made her more alluring to her husband than as she already was—taking a deep breath, forcing her voice to sound almost disinterested, “You have any trouble finding the cottage?”
Taking a deep breath, “No, Marsha,” attempting to sound almost disinterested, “your brother gave me directions. It wasn’t a problem.”
“So, you’d like to see your son?”
©September 5, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman