Death, That’s Life?
March 29, 1952
Chicago, Illinois
One last blustery storm proved the adage: March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.
At approximately 2:27 p.m., on Thursday, the 29th of March, the last muddy remnants of an early March storm trickled down the drains, through the sewers and into the Chicago River where it joined forces with millions of kindred gallons bound for Lake Michigan and the never-ending water cycle; waiting for the sun’s evaporative force to lift the vapor skyward where it becomes rain, and in time, snow once again.
As though timed, as though Mother Nature herself had clicked a stopwatch, the very day, and, it seemed, the very hour the last trace of winter departed, the first signs of spring arrived: Earth-worms and microscopic hairs of grass burrowed out of the freshly warmed earth. Diminutive, barely-seen nodules formed at billions of points along the naked branches of millions of trees and shrubs.
As the earth felt the loving kiss of spring, so then did…
Flipping the partially smoked cigarette onto the muddy ground of Douglas Park, taking a deep breath of the fresh, invigorating air, lifting his face to the warmth in the sky, God, he thought, it smells so good!
The intoxicating caress of spring passionately warming his already passionately warmed blood, looking about, seeing no one, squeezing his crotch with a hard, rubbing motion, causing a partial erection, “God,” Mitchell said to the unhearing sky, “but I want to get laid!” Then thinking, Why am I putting it off? Well, yeah,” he answered himself, because what I really got a feeling for, what I really want…
He’d had a few single dates, and four dates with one particular girl, but no matter how impassioned the necking session became—and there was almost always a necking session—he had been rebuked whenever his hand wandered—in every girl’s opinion—too far up or too far down. And if he couldn’t even ‘cop a feel’ over the girl’s brassiere, over her blouse, over her coat, jacket or sweater, then that girl was too low on Mitchell Lipensky’s chain of sexual evolution. Besides, he hadn’t met a girl, including the four-date girl, that he cared enough about to invest the time, or his then hard-earned money, on in an attempt to cultivate her to a position where she might, just might, allow even a feel, even if that feel was over three layers of clothing.
Mitchell accredited this hands-off phenomena to the fact that he’d only dated Wej drubs—Jewish broads—and in his mind’s eye there was an absolute goldmine of shiksas that were waiting to be shtuped [laid]. Only problem was, all the cute shiksas with big, up-pointed, pointy tits seemed to be so hoodie and, he was sure, that every shiksa—especially those with big, up-pointed, pointy tits—had a big, hoodie-type boyfriend. And besides, he thought, what in the hell do I have in common with a shiksa? What in the hell do we talk about? So, not wanting to be too transparent about his reasons—or reason—Mitchell had never worked up the nerve to ask a shiksa out.
He’d been reluctant to call either of the two girls that he knew he would, maybe, have a sure thing with: Ina Dorfmann and Gina Glambos.
But on this day, feeling the hot surge of spring, he wanted more than ever to be close to a girl. Hell, he wanted to be closer than close! But more than just sex, what he really had a feeling for, what he really wanted…
What Mitchell Lipensky really felt was a deep longing in the pit of his stomach to meet a girl that he could love that loved him back… And if he could have sex, of sorts, with that girl, that would be really nice, too.
The only known choices on that day, though, were Ina Dorfmann and Gina Glambos.
Oh, well!
Running up the back stairs, anxious to get to the phone, taking the steps three at a time, “Mrs. Kaplin, hi!” he yelled to the long-suffering second floor neighbor; her of the broomstick-pockmarked ceiling. “Great day, isn’t it?” Not expecting an answer other than…
On her porch sweeping winter’s last accumulation of dirt through the bottom of her banister, Mrs. Kaplin did not surprise him and, “Harrumph!” she replied to Mitchell’s fleeting back.
Pulling the screen door open, expecting the inner door to be unlocked too, he twisted the handle twice before realizing that the door was locked. Fitting the long-shanked key into the lock, opening the door, “Mom, I’m home!” Stepping inside, he allowed the screen door to slam shut.
“Mumser!” (bastard) Below, in her kitchen now, glancing at her pockmarked ceiling, Mrs. Kaplin muttered, again, “Mumser
On the kitchen table was a note:
“Mitchie, honey, it is such a nice day I decided to take Larry and Mortie for a walk. We are going to walk to Sears and daddy will pick us up and bring us home. Love, Mom.”
Throwing the note into the can beneath the sink, pouring himself a glass of milk, taking a package of Hostess Cupcakes from the pantry, he threw the cellophane wrapper into the can also and, balancing the small cardboard sheet with the two chocolate cupcakes on the rim of the glass, going to the telephone table in the dining room, putting the glass onto the table, taking his wallet from his pocket, removing a scrap of paper, dialing a phone number… “Hi! Is Ina home?”
“Yeah, I am. Who’s this?”
“Ina, It’s Mitch,” he said as though she’d have to remember him.
“Mitch?” Ina said, thinking, Mitch who?
“Mitchell Lipensky. You know, from Union Pier.”
“Oh… Oh, yeah,” her hand absently going to her forehead, feeling a bump that had disappeared months ago, “that Mitchell! How are you, Mitch?” she asked in an oddly flat tone of voice.
That Mitchell? “Fine, Ina. I’m just fine.” Suddenly at a complete loss of words, trying to think of something to say without sounding too obvious, “So,” he asked, “how’s school been for you?”
“Ehh, you know, ’bout the same’s it always is.” Not really caring, “How’s it going with you?”
“School’s fine!... Ina, the reason I’m calling…”
I know the reason you’re calling, Ina thought.
“Is because I’d love to see you again, and maybe, if…”
Now he’s gonna say, If no one’s home later, maybe he can…
“…you’re not doing anything tonight, or maybe tomorrow night, if you want, maybe we can”—the thought of his conversation with Frank Rizzo regarding going to a movie with Gina flitted through his mind and, as then, he really didn’t want to—“go to a movie or something. Or if, uh, maybe, if your folks aren’t going to be home, maybe we can, uh, you know, kind’a hang around there… at your house.”
*
Ina thought she remembered most of what had happened on the night of their tryst. She had given it a lot of thought and was sure that they did not have completed sex because he wasn’t wearing a rubber, leastwise she had no memory of seeing him put one on, or take it off. And if he wasn’t wearing a rubber she had no backwash of semen in her panties. But she did find a number of the familiar, translucent, dried droplets of semen on her thighs and stomach. But also—which added to the mystery—the next day her father had wanted to know, “Who’s the goddamned slob who dripped goddamned ice-cream all over my goddamned dashboard? No, no, she had thought at the time, that sure as hell ain’t ice-cream! Only thing is, how’d he get jizim all over me and the dashboard, too? Oh, yeah! Ina had thought about that night and, What the hell’d he do to me? still was unable to figure it out.
As soon as Ina had dropped Mitchell off she’d pulled to the side of the road and inspected the flashlight. If he’d’a hit me as hard as I got hit, to raise a goose egg the size’a goose egg on my forehead, he’d’a dented it good! she had thought. But the flashlight didn’t have so much as a dent and, as improbable as it was, Okay, maybe I did bump my head on the steering wheel, but why? And why’d he keep apologizing? And what in the hell was he apologizing for?
Ina was an insecure, promiscuous girl who would look anyplace for approval, and who would have intercourse with almost anyone if she thought it would make him like her. And yes, she would have liked to be with Mitchell that way again, but Ina Dorfmann, the girl that would screw just about anyone, thought that Mitchell Lipensky was some sort of a pervert and was afraid to be alone with him.
*
“Gee, Mitchie,” trying to think of an excuse without being rude, “I’d love to see you again, but, uh, my dad’s been transferred to, uh, Peoria, an’ we’re movin’ tomorrow.”
“Peoria? You’re moving to Peoria, tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” she said sadly. “We gotta.”
“God, Ina, do they even have Jews in Peoria?”
“Don’t know… Yeah, I guess so.”
Grasping, hoping, “How’s about tonight? Can I see you tonight?”
“Nah. I’d really like to, but, uh, we’re packin’ and I gotta help my folks.”
“Oh. Oh, well. Gosh, Ina, I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry again. “Yeah, me, too. Well, if we ever move back, maybe I’ll see you sometime.”
“Yeah,” disappointed. “Well, bye, Ina.” Breaking the connection, sitting back, looking at the phone a moment, Mitchell peeled the dark frosting off one of the cupcakes and, slowly, savoring the chocolate, ate it, then, taking another scrap of paper from his wallet, dialed Frank Rizzo.
A youthful, feminine voice answered, “Hello.”
“Uh,” picking on the frosting of the second cupcake, “this the Rizzo residence?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Is Frankie home?”
The line silent a moment, “Who’s calling?” the young woman asked again.
Breaking the frosting, putting half into his mouth, “Mitchell.”
“Mitchell? You a friend of Frankie’s?”
“Yeah, we went to military school together, during the war.”
“Oh, that Mitchell!” Her voice sounding oddly flat, “This is Cynthia, Frank’s sister.”
That Mitchell? “Oh, yes, Cynthia! I visited your house….” thinking, God, was it two years ago? “…two years ago. Frankie wanted me to meet you, but you were away, at school or someplace.”
“Retreat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Retreat.” Assuming he knew she meant, “I was away at retreat.”
“Oh.” Having no idea what Cynthia meant by retreat. “Oh, yeah. Your mom’n’dad, they’re okay?”
“Mitchell, when’s the last time you talked to my brother?”
“I don’t know.” He did, though. It was two years ago when he got on the streetcar and he and Frank said goodbye. Picking the second half of the frosting off the cupcake, “It’s been a while, I guess.”
“Yeah, I’ll say it’s been a while… Frank’s dead.”
“Huh! What?”
“My baby brother,” her voice catching, “is dead.”
“Cynthia, I, I…” Dead? How can Frankie be dead? He’s only a kid! Stunned, his fingers opening, the frosting dropped to the floor. “Dead! Cynthia, Frankie’s a kid! How can he be dead?”
“Yeah. Well that kid joined the Marines and got sent to Korea.”
“How? You’ve got to be seventeen, at least!” Remembering that Frank was, almost a year older than himself. “Oh, my God! Cynthia, I’m so sorry! What happened? Uh, if you want to talk about it.”
“He stepped on a land mine. A pal of his called when he got back to the States and told us. Thanks be to Jesus it happened fast and he never knew what hit him.”
“Cynthia, I…” feeling his throat thickening and his eyes burning, he didn’t know what to say.
“Please, tell your Mom and Dad I called and that I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry… Goodbye, Cynthia.”
Replacing the receiver he stared at the wall a few moments, then, as if in a trance, walking to the sofa, folding his legs beneath him, resting his chin on his crossed arms on the back of the sofa, staring out the window, seeing nothing, How can Frankie be dead? Kids don’t die. Kids’ friends don’t die!
No one he knew had ever died. Death, to Mitchell, was a complete abstract. Death was something detached from himself. Death was something that happened to Nazis, Japs and bad guys in movies. Death was something that happened to faceless voices on the radio. Dead! To be gone! To never see or talk to again! Never! Too inconceivable to comprehend. I’ll never see or talk to Frankie again? Slowly, the realization sinking in, No! How can that be?
Sounds in the hall.
The door opening, Walter, Lawrence and thirteen-month-old Morton, in Myra’s arms, came into the apartment.
Trying to keep his emotions under control, Mitchell went to his family.
Seeing his bloodshot eyes and the look of terrible sadness on his face, grasping her baby tighter, frightened, her voice high-pitched, “Ma?” Myra asked. “Pa?”
Unable to speak, shaking his head no, for the first time since he was five, going to his father, putting his arms around his neck, laying his head on Walter’s shoulder, Mitchell cried.
Living with Mitchell, seeing him every day, Walter hadn’t seen him grow nor noticed how tall he’d become, now, being held in his embrace he realized that his son was taller than himself and, being held in another man’s emotional embrace embarrassing him, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, “Mitchell, what’s wrong?” he asked.
Sitting Morton on the floor, going to her eldest son, “Mitchie,” putting her hand on his shoulder, “tell us! What’s the matter?”
Crying, barely able to speak… “Frankie.”
Spotting the piece of chocolate frosting on the floor, crawling to it, Morton shoved it in his mouth, and a brown, frothy drool dribbled down his chin, onto his light-blue spring jacket.
“What’s wrong with Frankie?”
Moving his face from Walter’s shoulder, “Mom, he’s dead.”
Shocked, but at the same time relieved that it wasn’t her mother or father, taking a deep, relaxing breath, “What happened?”
Attempting to speak, Mitchell gulped air.
Walter barely remembered Frank Rizzo, and only because this was affecting his son so badly did the death of this one person affect him more than that of any stranger.
“Mitchell, calm down.” Moving him from his shoulder, holding him at arms length. “Tell us what happened.”
Forcing himself to stop crying, “F-Frankie joined the Marines. Got shipped to Korea, and got killed by a land mine.”
“Oh, Mitchie, I’m so sorry!” Turning him in her direction, putting her arms about him, “I know he was a good friend.” Trying to console him, “What a shame. Shhh.” Patting him on the back, “Shhh.”
Hissing, “Bastards!” in her ear. “Fuckin’ bastards!”
“What?” Not sure she’d heard what she knew she heard, shocked, Myra looked at her son. “Mitchell, what did you say?”
Breaking from his mother’s arms, “Fuckin’ bastards.” Speaking softly, venomously, looking from his mother to his father to his six-year-old brother. “Fuckin’, gook, commie, bastards!” Speaking faster, louder, “He was right! Martinez was right! He said we ought’a drop the fuckin’ A bomb on the whole fuckin’ country and kill all those fuckin, sonsabitchin’, commie bastards!” Catching himself, remembering where he was and whom he was with, stopping suddenly, he tried to calm himself.
Holding his hand to his mouth, “Ohhh,” Lawrence said, “Mitchie said the ‘F’n’ word, a whole bunch’a times.”
Seeing the shocked look on his mother’s face, “Mom, I’m sorry, but they killed my friend.” Turning from his family, rushing to his room, Mitchell slammed the door shut.
Myra began to follow, but…
Seeing his pain, a sudden sense of empathy causing a bond Walter hadn’t before felt for his son. “Wait.” Stopping his wife, “Give him a while to calm down and I’ll go talk to him in a few minutes.”
When the sound of sobbing stopped, “Mitchell,” knocking on the door, “can I come in?”
A deep sigh coming from behind the door, “Yeah, Dad.”
Opening the door, Walter went into the room.
“Okay to sit?”
Moving aside, making room for his father, “Yes. Sure.”
“Mitchell, I know we don’t talk much…”
“Yeah,” forcing a smile, “the last time you told me about the birds and the bees.”
“Yeah. Well I think it’s time I told you about the other side of the birds and bees story. This may sound strange to you, but the other side of the story is that everyone who’s born has got to die. Thing is, we all hope to die in our proper time. Problem is, no one knows when the proper time is and we all want it to be some other time. Bubby and Pa have lived long lives and, unless something bad happens, when they die it’ll be their proper time. I hope your mother and brothers, and you and me, too, are as lucky as Bubby and Pa and we die only after long lives, and in our proper time.”
Feeling the tightening in his throat again because, though he knew they would, he’d never allowed himself to think of life without his parents, to think of his mother and father dying. Then again he’d never thought that a friend of his would die either.
“Thing is,” going on, Walter said, “sometimes we do die at a time that doesn’t seem proper, like your friend, Frankie. It’s a real bad thing that he had to die, but who knows, maybe, if you think about it, maybe it was Frank’s proper time to die… You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I guess, to make it real easy, when you talk about dying, what you’re really talking about is living, too.”
Slightly confused, “Death,” Mitchell asked, “that’s life?”
“You got it.” Smiling, reaching to him, doing something Mitchell could not remember his father ever doing, tousling his son’s hair, Walter said, “That’s life, kid.”
