Mother’s a Whore

                              Seagate, New York

                                  July 3, 1956

Quiet.

The tepid breeze fluttering the curtains behind their bed, lying on their backs atop the summer quilt: he with his hands beneath his head; she with her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He, nude, she, wearing one of his T-shirts

Unknown to the other, each thought the same thought: the unbelievable thought that she, Marsha, was pregnant, and that he, Mitchell, was going to be a father.

Also thinking of the difference in their lives once he was off the ship... “Marcie?”

“Yeah, Mitch?”

“Your mother? I’ve asked before and you always say, ‘you’ll tell me some other time’. Now’s ‘some other time’, and I think it’s time I know. Why do you dislike her so much?”

Hesitating. Wondering. Deciding. Thinking, Maybe it’s time he knew. “My mother’s a whore.”

“Huh?”

Softly spoken. Said so matter-of-factly. “My mother’s a whore.” 

Turning quickly, spilling her head onto the pillow, “Marsha, how can you say such a thing about your mother?”

“ ‘How’?” Turning onto her side, facing him, propping her head in her hand, “Because that’s exactly what she is!” Adding vehemently, “A whore!”

“ ‘A whore’?” Speaking actually or figuratively, right or wrong, “A whore! Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yeah, Mitchell, I know what a whore is! And she’s more than just that, because until I told her you and I were going to be married she was always the world’s worst mother! Why do you think she insisted on making a big wedding?” Answering herself, “To make up for the guilt she felt for always treating me like I wasn’t there!” Speaking fiercely, quickly, as if wanting to get it off her chest. “All my life my mother treated me like I wasn’t there; like she wished I’d have never been born, and that all she ever wanted was my brother!”

He had seen the two women together often enough to know there was...? something wrong; that there was a strange kind of...? distance between them, kind of a...? informal formality. But the coolness, in Mitchell’s opinion, seemed to emanate more from the daughter than the mother and he felt the word ‘whore’ was used more as a metaphor than as an actual description of his mother-in-law.

“But a ‘whore’, Marcie? A ‘prostitute’? A real whore! A woman that goes out and screws guys for money?”

“Yeah, Mitchell, a whore!” Becoming angry. “A real whore! Where do you think these diamond rings came from?” To emphasize her words, she held her hand forward, then lifted Mitchell’s.  “You think daddy can afford rings like these? ‘Uncle Sid’s’ the jeweler! And just where do you think all that money came from to pay for that big wedding? The caterer? The man that owns the Palmer House? ... The Rabbi?”  About this she was not too sure herself, so offered no explanation.

“She saved it?” Said weakly. “Okay,” conceding, “ I don’t know where the money came from!”

“Yeah!” Still doubting he believed her, sorry she allowed this to come out on this night. “Okay, Mitch! Here’s one just for you! One that’s even closer! How’s about before, tonight?” Seeing a blank look on his face, “Just where in the hell do you think your transfer came from? Tell me!”

“Uh?”

“Yeah, ‘uh’! Just how in the hell do you think she was able to wrangle that?”

Recalling the telephone conversation earlier this evening, and the cold anger in Marsha’s voice when she’d said, “ ‘Yes, Mother, I certainly remember ‘Uncle Morrie’!”

“Morrie is your mother’s, uh?” Not knowing the word for a man that frequented prostitutes. Although he was still reluctant to think of, or even consider his mother-in-law as a prostitute.

“One of ‘em, yeah!  Mother’s been seeing ‘Uncle’ Morrie ever since I was kid.  He’s some kind of a politician and knows lots of  people, and mother must’ a screwed the son-of-a-bitch pretty damn good to get you your transfer.”

Both quiet, the thoughts of each far different than they’d been a short while age.

He, trying to absorb and believe what he’d been told.

She, remembering...

“When I was a kid, mother would have ‘uncles’ come to our apartment, and they’d give me money to get rid of me.” Agitated with the memory, sitting up, “ ‘Here, kid’, they’d they say, ‘here’s a quarter, go get an ice-cream cone’. ‘Here’s a half-buck, go get a soda’.  ‘Here’s a buck, go buy yourself a toy’. And when I got older... oh, say nine, ten years old, it was five, ten, or even twenty dollars to get rid of me, and it never mattered to mother if it was below zero or a hundred degrees outside, the bastards!”

Her voice rising, alarmed, Mitchell turned the lamp on.

Basically a modest person, Marsha was aware of how much her husband enjoyed seeing her nude, especially her breasts, and even if she often hid her feeling, she did enjoy knowing he was looking at her  and occasionally would  go out of her way to tease him, to see how fast she could ‘turn him on’, but, unless having intercourse, it was only her breasts she would purposely expose, never her naked crotch, so now...

Blinking in the sudden light, with his T-shirt raised above her waist, Mitchell looked at the hairy triangle within her thighs and though he felt a surge of ‘heat’, also feeling  he was violating a trust, his eyes reluctantly moved to her face.

“The bastards always tried to get rid of me!” Marsha went on. “And when I was ten ‘good old Morrie’ handed me ten bucks and told me to ‘go out and buy myself a present’. But I got stubborn and told him ‘no’ and wouldn’t budge. So mother and ‘good old Morrie’ had to go someplace else.  Later, when she got home she beat me with a belt... the buckle end of the belt.” Stopping, catching her breath, Marsha swiped her arm across her wet eyes.

“How’s about Roger? He knows, too?”

“Yeah, sure. He found out when he was a little kid, too.”

“How’s about other people? Your aunts?”

“Nobody ever said anything, at least to me about it. But I know they know.  As a matter of fact, when I was a kid, I always thought they were mad at me because my mother’s a whore.”

“Like it’s your fault, huh?  Your dad, how can he not know?”

Thinking, I knew this would happen! Not wanting to discuss her father, “I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe that in all those years your aunts, your brother, you, nobody’s ever said anything to your dad!”

“Roger was terrible  to me when we were younger! He used to beat me up all the time, and told me that if I ever said anything to daddy he’ll really  beat me up, and then mother and daddy would have to get a divorce! I didn’t even know what divorce meant then. And because, if they got a divorce, it would be all my fault and everyone would hate me and they’d give me away to gypsies.” Sighing, holding back tears. “And then I’d never see my daddy again!” Hiding her face in her hands, “And that...” beginning to cry. “And that I’d always be alone...” sobbing, barely able to get the words out, “all by myself.”

Never able to watch anyone cry without having to fight to keep from joining them, especially someone that he loved as much as he loved Marsha, his tears coming also, “Honey, no!” Putting his arms about her, holding her closely. “No, Marcie, don’t cry.  You’ll never be alone! You’ll always have me and...” patting her stomach, giggling through his tears, “little Calliope.”

“Yeah.” Uncovering her face, “ ‘Calliope Lipensky’,” she smiled. “Jesus, Mitchell, you really know how to make a guy feel swell.”

“Your father, baby?” Taking her hand, “You really don’t think your dad knows about your mother?”

“No!”  Said defensively, “If daddy knew he’d beat the crap out of her!” But, really, Marsha knew Eli would never hurt his wife.

Mitchell could not help but think that, After all those years Eli must know something about his wife! And that, Marsha must be kidding herself if she thinks her father doesn’t. But not wanting to dispute Marsha, especially about this, especially regarding her father, wisely letting the subject drop, “Okay, honey, if that’s what you think.” Not knowing what else to say, turning the light off, he lay back again.

“You remember when we first met?”

“In Union Pier? Sure!”

“Yes... I was alone then.”

“What do you mean ‘you were alone’? Shelly was with you.”

“Yeah, she was, but my mother sure as hell wasn’t!”

“I didn’t know anything about your mother, but Shelly was with you when we met and Norman and me walked you girls home.”

“No! Norman walked Shelly home.” Relaxed now, Marsha laid back. “You let me go home by myself.”

“Hey, hold on! If I remember right, you called me a ‘jerk’ and ran away.”

“Actually, I called you a ‘big jerk’, and, yeah, you were!”

“How was I to know that anyone that looked as good as you was twelve year old jail bait?” 

“Tough poop!” On her side, facing him, ”You should have kept your mouth shut, walked me home first, then dropped me.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Pretty sure she was joking, but he’d learned the best way to avoid an argument with Marsha was to agree with her, because, as so often happened between them, arguments started with only a joking or unthoughtful word – unfortunately, at times Mitchell seemed to have a penchant for unthoughtful  words – then, in his opinion, ‘mountains were made out of molehills’, because, in his opinion, Marsha had a distorted perception of how a husband should react to his wife. So now he did not pursue that long ago night and just ‘dropped it’, which was advice he often gave himself but, sadly, it was advice that he would think of, consider what he was about to say, considered ‘dropping it’... then, more often than not, say it anyway.

                                                        ***

As for Marsha: Though she hated the way her mother treated her father, because she knew her father did love her mother, Marsha, subconsciously – because that was the way she had always seen Eli react to Rhea – Marsha equated subserviency with love and expected her husband to be more attentive and attuned to her wishes and her thinking and readily became angry when he didn’t and, though, it did not occur to her,  nor did she keep track, but if she had, Marsha would probably realize that there was a time each month when her patience with Mitchell was less and her anger more. Also, which became a cause for argument...

Coming home with very little, if anything done in their one-room home, “Why can’t you at least straighten up around here?”

“Mitchell,” answering angrily, “because I work and when I get home I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired! Why would a twenty year old woman always feel tired?”

Marsha, almost always, had an underlying feeling of weariness which caused her anger to trigger even easier.

                                        ***

“You know,” she said softly, “I always loved the country. I loved it more than anything in life.” Remembering sadly. “But I guess I always knew the country was just a way for my mother to get rid of me. All the other women stayed with their kids, but not my mother! She always left me there alone. Oh, Roger was there and my aunts and some friends I called ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, but I was left alone.  Even when mother was there I was alone.

Hearing Marsha’s softly spoken words. Feeling her warm breath on his face...

In a few minutes Marsha realized Mitchell was asleep and, turning over, nestling her backside into the comfortable crook of his stomach and crotch, she tried to sleep... But, her mind drifting, remembered  the misery of life with her mother. But she also remembered the summers, the wonderful summers of her life...