Pregnant Three

                           Chicago, Illinois

                January Through March 19, 1957

 Carrying low and being a thin person, the added weight of the baby and its outward push on the flesh of Marsha’s once tight, concave abdomen caused a constantly uncomfortable feeling. She often had cramps in both legs and near continual heartburn that gave rise to the “bubbea-meisseh” (old wives tale) that heartburn in a pregnant woman meant the baby will be born with an overabundance of hair. And, indeed, to quote her cousin, Marsha sometimes did feel like, “some kind’a ugly, grotesque, misformed string-bean”

On the other hand, though, other than the general discomfort of being pregnant, her clear complexion clearer than ever, her lustrous hair more lustrous than ever, always an attractive girl, in the mid and later months of pregnancy, Marsha Lipensky had become radiantly beautiful and, other than the discomfort, she loved being pregnant and loved showing she was pregnant.

Mitchell rationalized the looks he received from other men – notably those of older men – as jealousy because it was he that had the good fortune to be intimate with this young woman. It was his penis and his semen that had impregnated this beautiful, young woman and he walked a bit taller and a bit prouder whenever he and Marsha were out together.

Regarding sex: Between times of anger or, “Mitchie, not tonight, I’m so tired!” Or,  not that he  always believed her,  “I have terrible heartburn!” Or: “Stomachache!” Or: ”Backache!” Or, hardly ever believing her,  “I’ve such a headache!” Sex became possibly, maybe, a once a week event and actually most days ended with Marsha – because she needed it – and Mitchell – because he liked it – each, drinking a quarter-glass of water with, “plop-plop, fizz-fizz,” two ‘Alka-Seltzers’, “Urrrppp!” belching, turning their backs to each other...

“’nite, baby.”  

“Good night, Mitchell.”

...the two fall asleep.

                           March 2, 1957

Into the start of her ninth month of pregnancy, even though it was only 8:15, because Marsha was more comfortable lying in bed, both in pajamas on the open sofa-bed, watching that Saturday night’s edition of ‘The Jackie Gleason Show’.

“Ouch!” Holding her stomach. “The kid doesn’t stop kicking!” Lifting the top to beneath her breasts and the bottom to under her protruded stomach, “Give my your hand, Mitchie.”

Turning to his side, he watched as Marsha placed his hand, palm down, onto her bare stomach.

“There! Feel it?”

Feeling the rolling, jabbing motion of his unborn child’s elbows and knees in the confines of his wife’s uterus, “Yeah! Sure I do! The kid must be jitterbugging in there.” Actually able to see the poking movement under the taunt flesh of her stomach, sliding downward on the mattress, positioning himself between Marsha’s thighs, propping his head in both hands, he watched until the gyrations stopped.

Always affected by the realization that it was his baby there, swallowing to keep his emotions from surfacing, “Marcie,” he said hoarsely, “I love you!” Also aroused by the heat and close proximity of Marsha’s crotch to his face, his passion rising, rubbing his lips and tongue lightly over her distended stomach, kissing her bulging, rounded navel...

This spat of passion transmitting to Marsha, the sensual touch of his mouth and tongue on her stomach warming her, she knew where this was leading and, having taken a bath earlier in the evening, for

the first time in weeks ‘in the mood’, knowing this is the one way she will orgasm....

Expecting to be stopped at any moment, unbuttoning the top of her pajamas, letting the sides fall open, looking over the hill of her stomach, Mitchell gazed at her sloping breasts.

Through the eight months of pregnancy. Marsha’s breasts had grown from a size 34C to a 36D cup. The areola of her nipples, as though bursting through their rounded, dusky pink domes, had enlarged and flattened.

Lifting himself, holding his weight above her stomach, Mitchell kissed Marsha’s eyes, her mouth, her neck, the flat hardness of her chest and, slowly, sensually drew the tip of his tongue over and around the soft flesh of Marsha’s right breast, then closed his lips over her, by then, turgid nipple.

Stopping him, Mitchie,,,,” holding his head,

Positive she was going to stop him, Marcie, please...”

“My nipples are very sensitive, not to hard, please.”

Knowing he had permission, “Yeah, baby.” he lowered her pajamas to beneath her ankles and over her feet. Although well aware this was strictly for Marsha, knowing this was not a night for intercourse, having the need to be nude with his wife, Mitchell removed his pajamas, too.

On this night, at this time, his lips and tongue mere inches from his unborn child, on this night, at this time, this, to Mitchell Lipensky was beyond sex... this, now, was spiritual. However...

As always, the taste of his wife was as honey upon his lips.

                         March 19, 1957: Before

“God-damned fuckin’ cunt!” Yelling angrily, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of  his hand, “Who the fuck the fuckin’ bitch think she’s bullshittin’?” Narrowly missing the rear fender of a Cadillac waiting to make a left turn, jerking the wheel sharply, swerving into the right lane, “Use your fuckin’ turn signal, asshole!” he yelled through the window as, pressing his foot to the accelerator of the ‘Chicago Fastener, Corp.’ half ton pick-up, Randall Detwiler caught up with the north bound vehicles in the early evening traffic on McCormick Boulevard, then, easing the peddle, he impatiently tailgated the Plymouth in front of him.

Stopped in traffic, waiting for the light to change, “You know, I’m kind of glad your mom invited

us for dinner tonight,” she said. “This might very well be the last time I’ll be getting out for a while.”

“Kind’a thought you’d feel better once you got out.” The light changing from red to green, making a right turn onto McCormick, “So,” Mitchell asked, “you think Greenblatt’s right?”

“About tomorrow? I don’t know. You know, when a doctor gives a ‘due date’ it’s only an educated guess.”

Anxious to get back to the plant to punch out so he can ‘have it out’ with his girlfriend, the instant the light at the Touhy Avenue intersection changed, shifting gears, Detwiler popped the clutch and, gunning the motor, sped around the Plymouth into the left lane, then, to get past an older Pontiac, shooting back to the right lane, he drove within feet of a beat up, gray Dodge.

Two car lengths ahead, glancing in the rearview mirror, Mitchell saw the ‘in and out’ swerving motion of the cream colored pick-up, but did not notice that the light on Howard Street had changed from green to red until he was almost into the pedestrian lane. In a spontaneous motion, slamming his foot onto the break peddle, he threw his arm across Marsha’s chest, bracing her for the hard stop, as...

Ruben Hernandez, following too close to the car before him, also stamped his foot onto the break peddle, stopping the rusted, pitted bumper of his ’48 Dodge inches from the shining chrome bumper of the navy-blue ’52 Ford convertible, as...

“Fuck!” Detwiler had time enough only to notice a plastic, grass-skirted, swaying cupie-doll held onto the rear window of the Dodge by a section cup, before...

Even though Mitchell Lipensky and Ruben Hernandez each had a foot firmly planted on their break peddles...

“Fuck!” With a shattering of headlights and taillights, the ricocheting motion propelled the Dodge forward, smashing into the Ford, pushing it about three feet beyond the white pedestrian line.

“Fuck!” Mitchell felt his body snap forward and back along with a strong pushing pressure on his outstretched arm as Marsha, also, jerked forward and back.

Looking at her, rubbing his elbow, “You okay, Marcie?”

Thankfully, “Yes,” coincidentally at the moment of impact she had been sitting with both arms cradling her stomach, supporting it. “I think so.”

All three driver-side doors opened simultaneously as traffic on both sides of McCormick came to a crawl as the vehicles behind the three car pile-up attempted to merge into the left lane. South bound traffic slowed as those drivers ‘rubbernecked’ in order to see what had happened in the north bound lanes.

“Why’d’ya have’ta stop so fast?”

“Hey, pal,” Mitchell said, looking at his crunched trunk. “the light changed colors, that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“God damn-it!” Knowing he was to blame, and because this was his second accident within a month, also knowing that most probably this was going to cost him his job, trying to transfer culpability, “Why’d’ya stop so fuckin’ fast?”

“Don’t blame me, man!” Hernandez pointed to Mitchell. “He stopped first!”

“Hey, I was going the limit and the light changed! You shouldn’t have been following so close!”

“Mitchell, come here!”

Leaving Detwiler and Hernandez to argue among themselves, going to the car, he looked inside.

Pointing to her stomach, “I can’t see past this.” Leaning back, Marsha motioned to the crotch of her light colored maternity slacks. “You see any blood?”

“Blood?” Alarmed, he looked between her thighs. There was a small, wet spot: the normal seepage of a pregnant woman? – so Marsha had told him on another occasion – “It’s a little damp; it’s hard to tell,  but it doesn’t look like blood.”

“Thank God!” Reaching to him, “Help me out of here, will you, Mitchie.” Supporting herself by the right, rear fender, waddling rearward, Marsha looked at the damage. 

Having three children of his own, Ruben Hernandez recognized the ‘any time now’ degree of this woman’s pregnancy. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary.” Ruben muttered under his breath, and silently prayed he did no damage to this woman or her unborn child, as...

“Oh, fuck!” Randall Detwiler said aloud, having some good idea of his, or rather ‘Chicago Faster Corp’s’ possible liability.

“Marcie, come on.” Holding her elbow, steering her back to the seat. “You ought to be sitting.”

“Yeah,” Holding one hand beneath her stomach and the other against her lower back. “My back’s starting to hurt.” Said loud enough for all within hearing to hear.

Not knowing if her back really did hurt or if she recognized an insurance claim, or, quite possibly

both, staring at her, looking for some sign of whether or not something was really wrong. “Marcie, do you

want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes. But I think we’d better wait for the police.”

This, telling him nothing. “Okay, “ pointing to Howard Street, “I’ll find a phone and call Greenblatt to see if he wants to see you now... When the cops come, tell them where I went and that I’ll be right back.”

                                                 ***

“Officer, we were stopped.” Jerking his thumb in the direction of Hernandez. “And he was, too, when he,” pointing at the cream colored pick-up, “hit him and he,”  pointing to Hernandez,  “plowed into us. And now my wife is ‘spotting’ and her back hurts, and her doctor wants to see her at the hospital.”

Just over the Chicago line, it was a Skokie squad car that had responded to the accident. Finishing his report quickly, handing Mitchell his drivers license, going to the passenger side, looking through the open window, “You sure you don’t want an ambulance, Mrs. Lipensky, or for us to get you to ‘Weiss’ in the squad car?”

Not sure if there would be a charge for the ambulance, and really, not wanting to be separated from Mitchell at this time, “No officer.” Forcing a smile through, seemingly, obvious pain. “If you’re through now and we can go, I’d like to get to the hospital.”

“Okay, ma’am, if that’s what you want.” Turning to Mitchell, “Tell your insurance company the report’ll be filed in Skokie.” Looking at Marsha again, “And good luck to you, and your baby.”

                                   ***

“You say you called your folks when you called Greenblatt?”

“Yeah! I told my mother why worry Rhea until we know if there is a problem, and that we’d call her, and your mother from the hospital.”

                                     ***

Lewis A. Weiss Memorial Hospital is approximately six miles southeast of Skokie.

Knowing the neighborhood, avoiding rush hour traffic by taking side streets, Marsha and Mitchell arrived at the emergency entrance at 6:17. It took another hour until they were assured that, regarding the baby, everything was okay. However, diagnosing the pain in her back would take X-rays that, because of the imminent birth of the baby, the attendant was hesitant to do.

Due to indications that she may be hours away from going into labor, Doctor Greenblatt suggested Marsha remain in the hospital overnight.

But she did not go into labor within hours.

But because it looked as though she might go into labor at any moment, Marsha Lipensky remained in the hospital the next day, too.

But she didn’t go into labor that day... Or the next... Or even the next day.