For a Cup’a’joe 2

July 24, 1959

From Chicago to Peoria, Illinois

How could it be?

How could this day possibly be such a beautiful day?

In surrealistic contrast to this beautiful summer day the mood within the car was drearily gray, and the silence oppressive.

Emotionally drained from the horror of last week’s endless drive from Peoria to Chicago, and the funeral, then the Shiva—the seven days of mourning for the dead, beginning immediately after the funeral in the home of the deceased—since leaving the home of, now, only her mother, though he had made an attempt at small talk, Marsha, with Michael cradled in her arms, asleep, had not responded and, receiving no response, Mitchell, too, had lapsed into a depressed silence.

Breaking the silence, “you know,” Marsha said softly, “they say only the good die young.” Adding sarcastically, “guess that means mother will live forever.”

Relieved at hearing her voice, glancing at her, not thinking she expected an answer, placing his hand on Marsha’s knee, Mitchell brought his attention back to the ribbon of highway before him.

“You do know they liked him! The cops really liked daddy and they always told him: ‘Eli, don’t threaten those bastards! Just kill ’em, then give us a call and we’ll send a wagon and cart ’em away with no questions asked.’”

He’d heard someone at the funeral or Shiva say that, possibly even one of the many policemen that had come to offer their condolences.

“Poor Roger.”

Never having heard Marsha say anything nice about her brother, he glanced at her again.

“Having to identify the b… uh, daddy.”

He didn’t remember who told him, but Mitchell had heard this before, too, but thought it best to let her talk.

“To be called there! To find daddy sitting on the floor between those two stools with his eyes open, smiling… Oh, God!” Shuddering, shaking her head from side to side as though attempting to rid herself of the sight. “At first he thought daddy was okay, then Roger saw the hole in his forehead and that he wasn’t moving.” Hugging her son, “oh, God!”

Wanting to offer solace. Desperately wanting to say something, anything to console her, but not knowing what to say, he squeezed her knee.

“And they let him go!” Now railing against the police. “The God-damned cops find the son-of-a-bitch running around waving a gun saying, ‘I just shot a man’! And because the God-damned Urban League”—the forerunner of the N.A.A.C.P.—“said it wasn’t his gun, and that he shot daddy in self-defense they let him go! God-damn-it!”

Attempting to give comfort, of sorts, “Marcie, you know what that one cop told you.”

“Yeah, that one day they’ll find that nigger dead in an alley.”

“Marcie…”

“No! Don’t say it! Ruby’s a mench, but the bastard that killed my father is a nigger!”

Silent a moment, then, “I want a baby!”

“Huh?” So far out of context, “what did you say?”

“I want to give daddy a name! I want to become pregnant!”

Knowing he could barely afford the family he had. Also knowing that in the Jewish religion the soul of a departed person cannot rest—so he’d been told—until that person is “given a name.” And because Mitchell was well aware of Marsha’s love of her father, and well aware of her stubborn determination, also because he truly liked his father-in-law—and, because of the reason Marsha had for wanting to become pregnant at this time, it was but a fleeting thought: because it was so much fun trying—“Sure, honey,” he said. “If that’s what you want, it’s fine with me.”