Seesaw: Love/Hate: 2 of 6

May 17, 1957

Boiling

“Sit down.” Wanting to talk to him about it, but really trying to smooth things over between Myra and himself before the actual start of the year’s sailing season, calling Mitchell into his office the moment he came in. “Your mother and me know things have been kind of tough for you at home…”

Kind of tough!

“…but you’ve got to try harder, because, unless…”

“Damn it, Dad! I told you I’m doing everything I can to get Marsha to…

Stopping him, “yes, that, too! But what I’m talking about now is business… Look, you’ve just got to buckle down and start bringing more work into this place! We can’t just keep paying you for nothing, and unless something happens pretty soon, as much as we hate it,”—knowing he was not going to do it, but trying to shake him, more than Mitchell already was shaken—“we’re going to have to cut your draw.”

Okay, yes, things were slow, Mitchell knew that, but he’d been working at the studio for not quite seven months and sometimes it takes time, and a whole lot of callbacks to get things going. Sensing a constriction in his chest, not sure how much of what his father said was motivated by the widening kink between his wife and his parents, or, okay, yes, he knew he wasn’t bringing in much in the way of business at that precise time—or actually, since he’d been there. But it did take time and he did have some pretty good prospects.

“Dad, you know it’s slow out there,” he said, defending his effort. “You know I’m out pounding the pavement every day! You know I’m doing the best I can!”

“Well, Mitchell, apparently your best isn’t good enough! You’re going to have to try harder, or…”

“We can’t pay our bills on what I make now, Dad! If you cut my draw, I don’t know what we’re going to do!”

“She’s trained. Why can’t your wife go back to selling lingerie?”

Oh, God, like I don’t have enough trouble already, he thought, that’s all I’ve got to do, is tell Marsha to go back to work! “My wife just had a baby,” he said, “and surgery!”

Well thought out, and discussed with Myra, who thought of this as a subtle means of attacking her daughter-in-law. “It’s better than a month and a half now, Mitchell!” Knowing what he knew of Rhea basically from what Myra had told him, pretty much knowing this would never happen, still, “she’s even got her mother right there, to watch Michael.”

“Dad, my mother-in-law has told us already that she’s not a baby sitter.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way! Your mother found a way to go back to work after we had Mortie, remember?”

“Yeah, sure I remember, dad! Mom took him to the studio with her.”

Bubbling

Handing her daughter a cup of coffee, “Marsha,” Rhea then poured another for herself. “You look even worse today than yesterday. You two still at it?”

“Short of us snarling at each other every now and then, we haven’t spoken since Monday. And it’s not only that, but lately I’ve been worrying about money, too.”

“We’d hire your husband and pay him a livable wage,” Rhea said magnanimously. “But what would we do with your brother? Fire him?”

“Doesn’t matter, Mother. Mitchell would never work at the Grill.”

“What’s the matter, the bastard think he’s too good to work at the grill? At least we’d make sure he earned enough to support his family!”

Her mother calling her husband a bastard, didn’t seem to bother Marsha… not at all.

                                                          ***

“Lipensky, come on over here, I wanna talk to you a minute.” Putting his arm across Mitchell’s shoulder, Al led him to a secluded corner of the warehouse.

Speaking differently when one-on-one then while pitching. “Look, Lipensky, when you first started I thought I had a real hot shot here, makin’ a ‘mark’ the first night out, then gettin’ another in less’n’a week? Well, for a new guy that ain’t half bad. But for the last… what? seven, nine days, you been takin’ two, three leads a night an’ blowin’ ’em all. And I can’t keep havin’ you blow leads that way!”

What Mitchell did not realize was that the BIG $$$ ad was always in the newspaper, and that in this type of high pressure selling a rapid, constant turnover of salesmen was the norm. And, as each new salesman must buy his own sample case, usually by utilizing E-Z Credit with its maximum rate of interest—which, not coincidentally, was all commissionable to Al and Sierra Marketing—the hiring and firing of salesmen was, in part, the way this game was played… And if a family man like Mitchell Lipensky came along, one with potential, a man who somehow made two sales in less than two weeks, his first two weeks, well then, this was a bonus and keeping him motivated with the fear of losing his job, Sierra Marketing would continue to feed him leads… but only for a while.

“Al, I’m sorry,” Mitchell said, “but I’ve had lots of pressure on my other job and at home, but I’m sure I’ll make a sale tonight!”

                                                  ***

But he didn’t.

When he got home, very tired, very depressed, and very much in need of…  

Actually aching for a warm, affectionate touch, and most of all, desperate to put an end to this five-day-old, ongoing feud with his wife. To hold Marsha in his arms. To—though at that moment it was not sexual—to feel the warmth of her body next to his. 

What Mitchell wanted more than anything in the world was to say, “Marcie, I’m sorry honey! I love you, honey!” Then, take her in his arms, and hear her say, “Yes, Mitchie, me, too! I love you, too!”

However things did not work out quite that way.

As he entered their one-room apartment, sitting on the sofa, watching television, Marsha ignored him.

Hoping for, but not expecting an answer, “hi!” he said, feigning cheerfulness…

Receiving not so much as an acknowledgment that he had returned home.

On his knees before her, “honey, look...”

Attempting to put his arms about her, Marsha brushed them away and, as though he were not in the room, not on his knees before her, cocking her head to the side to see beyond his head, she continued to stare at the television.

Truly believing both were at fault in this, but, “I’m sorry, Marcie! Please, baby! It’s enough already! Please, let’s make up!”

“Mitchell,” bringing her stony eyes to his face, “you haven’t spoken to me in five days,”—she hadn’t spoken to him either—“and now you come waltzing in and expect me,” said angrily, “to just accept your apology and fall into your arms!”

Knowing his wife… thinking he knew his wife—somewhat—he knew that recriminations were not the way to go with Marsha if he wanted to end this and, oh, yes, he did, he truly, truly did! Thinking that deep down she must be at least as much in need of a human touch as he—forgetting for the moment that she had the touch of a baby, maybe too much the touch of a baby, which quite possibly might part of the problem—“Marcie, honey! Please, baby, please let me put my arms around you!”

At this time knowing she—as if she hadn’t always known that she—had the edge, spitting the words at him, “I know you! I know what this is all about! It’s sex, isn’t it, Mitchell? You want to fuck me,” her voice rising, “don’t you Mitchell?”

Remembering her tone of voice on the night she’d decided to return to Chicago. Once again taken back by the vehemence in her voice. Trying to remain calm. “No, Marcie, I’m really not thinking about sex now… Well, yeah, I don’t want to lie to you and say that I don’t want to make love to you, when, yes, I’d give anything in the world to make up with you right this second and get into bed and make love to you. But no, that’s not what I’m saying now! Although,”—one of Mitchell Lipensky’s problems was he didn’t know when to shut up—“we haven’t has sex since… when?” Making a recrimination, “the beginning of March? And that’s … what?” Making another recrimination, “two and a half months ago! But now, Marcie, all I want to do is to hold you, and feel you in my arms.”

“Two and a half months, eh! You do remember that I had a baby and an emergency operation, Mitchell! You are aware that I’m still having trouble with my stitches! You do know I still don’t feel well, don’t you, Mitchell!”

Attempting to remain calm, “yes, Marsha,” but not succeeding too well, “I do know that you had a baby!” His words sounding more sarcastic than sympathetic. “And believe me, I do know you still don’t feel well!”

Picking up on the tone of his voice—which in comparison to hers was melodious—“Okay, Mitchell,” said softly, venomously, “tell you what…” Ripping two buttons off, yanking her pajama top open, she bared her breasts to him. “Let’s do it! And if I begin to hemorrhage again,” her voice beginning to rise, “it’s okay! Just let me lay here and die and then you can raise my baby, and…”screaming now, “that God-damned bitch of a mother of yours can see him whenever she wants! Or better yet, because that’s what you really want, just move in with the bitch!”

Her voice waking Michael, he began to cry.

Not knowing what to say, afraid to say anything because he knew that anything he might say would only further inflame the situation. Looking from his wife’s breasts to her anger-distorted face, sighing, standing, going to the crib he felt the baby’s diaper, and changed it. Then, lifting Michael from the crib, going to the window, holding back tears, he stood with his back to his wife holding his son’s warm head in the crook of his neck and shoulder looking out the window. Looking out the window he saw nothing.

The Pressure Cooker Steamed, Boiled and Bubbled, Until…

May 18, 1957

The Lid Blew

Okay, yes, maybe he had been wrong! And then, as always…

He’d always been a light sleeper, much lighter than his wife, and whenever Michael would wake and cry Mitchell would awaken instantly but pretend to be asleep, and—after all, he was the one that left the apartment before eight every morning six days a week to go to work. He was the one that held down two jobs! So why shouldn’t he lay in bed and let his wife attend their baby’s needs? So then, as always…

The first weak cries woke him. Acclimating himself, he lay still a moment remembering his thoughts of the night before and his vow to do whatever it took to end this thing with Marsha and himself as soon as possible—today: now!

Though completely attuned to her baby, she had taken a pain pill earlier in the evening and it took Marsha a bit longer than usual to wake up, and her waking sound was that of a resigned sigh, and her weary movements were those of a simultaneous throwing off of the blanket and the lifting of her body, but…

Holding her shoulder, “Marcie, I’ll do it.”

“Huh?” Taking a second for the words to sink in, “you’ll do it?” she said sarcastically. “Mitchell is going to do a night feeding?”

Truly not sure if he had been right or wrong for not helping Marsha with Michael more than he had, but, truly, he did feel by working two jobs he was doing his share and, after all, if Marsha did get tired during the day or didn’t feel well all she had to do was lie down.

“Yeah,” he said as applying gentle pressure he tried to force her back onto the pillow. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll take car of Mikey this time.”

Oh, yes! The thought of missing the two o’clock feeding, of being allowed the luxury of sleeping through the entire night was so tempting! However, as much as she would love to lie down and close her eyes again, Marsha’s obstinate nature would not allow her to accept her husband’s help because, if she allowed him to do a nice thing for her, she might be obligated to do something nice in return, and accepting this offer of help—so, she figured and Mitchell hoped—could be the wedge that might begin the process of putting an ever-widening kink in the armor of her inexorable anger. And what Marsha wanted…

In addition to her weakness and weariness due to the combination of the delivery, appendectomy and subsequent uterine hemorrhage, all was further exacerbated by the task of taking care of a newborn and her depression over the bills and the lack of money to pay those bills. And, of course, the malicious conversations with her mother had caused Marsha to lose faith in her husband, and in so doing felt that her love of Mitchell had eroded. And what Marsha wanted…

What Marsha wanted, no matter the cost, was to teach her husband a lesson! To be sure he’d learned that lesson! To be sure her husband would never again allow his parents—his mother in particular—to tell him what to do, nor, how he should react to his wife’s behavior—meaning to never question her motivation, for whatever she does—so…

In order to teach her husband these lessons, so Marsha thought, she must make him suffer! In her present frame of mind—her love for Mitchell non-existent anyway—Thinking, I really don’t give a damn how he feels! So, “no, Mitchell,” she said, forcefully shrugging his hand off her shoulder. “Don’t bother! I’ll do it!!”

“Marcie, please!” Coming off the bed, going to the other side, holding her by the arms—just as Michael began a full-lunged wail—“I want to!”

Speaking through her teeth, “let-go-of-me!” Twisting from his grasp, she turned the lamp on. “I told you, Mitchell, I don’t want you to do anything for me!”

Becoming angry, “enough’s enough, already!” Following Marsha to the crib, moving in front of her, lowering his voice, “go, on!” Taking her by the arms again, attempting to steer her back to bed. “Marcie, please go back to sleep! Let me take care of Mikey!”

“Don’t-do-me-any-favors!” Pulling from his hands, she slapped him. “I don’t want your help!”

Shocked! Thinking, she hit me! Holding his temper. Not wanting to become physical. “Yeah, okay, Marsha,” rubbing his cheek, “but it’s not only for you! He’s my son, too, you know!” Lowering his voice, bending over the crib, feeling the diaper, “hi, Mikey.” But as he began to unpin the urine-drenched diaper…

Grabbing his arm, she pulling him around. “How come suddenly tonight, now, he’s your son?”

“He’s always my son!”

“Oh? He’s never been your son at…” glancing at the clock on the wall, “two-fifteen before!”

“Yeah, that’s true , and I’m sorry! But I want to help now!”

“Why can’t you understand? I don’t want your help!” Her nails digging into his arm, she yanked him from the crib. “I-don’t-want…”

“Marsha...” Pulling from her hand, her nails leaving bloody scratches. “what the hell’s the matter with you? You crazy?”

“Yeah, I am! I am crazy… for marrying you!”

Her words cutting deeply, “what the hell’s wrong with you,” he repeated sadly. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Why? How’s about, for starters…” scornfully, in her mother’s words, “because you can’t even earn a decent living!”

Defensively, “I’m doing everything I can! You know I’m doing everything I can!”

“And I thought I married a man!” Marsha said, curling her lip in disgust. “Not a…” again, her mother’s words, “God-damned-mama’s-boy! And that’s what you are, Mitchell, a God-damned-mama’s-Boy!”

Hearing the raised voices of the two people standing alongside his crib, no longer crying, Michael’s eyes followed the individual sounds of the two voices.

He did… He knew he more often than not did act on his mother’s or father’s words. And most times Mitchell did feel cowardly for not coming to the defense of his wife more than he did… But so often, in his opinion, his wife’s actions were indefensible and at those times it seemed the logical choice to side with his parents rather than his wife because he really could not understand why Marsha would always take as strong a stance as she did over what he considered to be a trivial matter. But, at those times—every time he took his parents’ side—when the argument between Marsha and himself did begin, he did feel guilt for not coming to her defense more than he did… But a “mama’s boy”? No!

“A mama’s boy, Marsha? Uh,” as usual, his rising anger causing him to lose track of what he wanted to say. “Why am I a Mama’s boy, Marsha?”

Tired of looking from parent to parent, the wet diaper irritating him, Michael began to cry again.

“Could it be because, uh, I happen to think my parents deserve even the barest courtesy from my wife, eh? The same courtesy, by the way, that I, uh, show your mother and father… To be called by a name!”

“Oh, that’s what you want me to do, to call your parents a name, do you?” Marsha said sarcastically sweetly. “Okay, how’s about ass-holes? They’re both a couple of ass-holes!”

“Ass-holes? My parents are ass-holes? It sure as hell wasn’t my mother that stole our money and lost it! It was, uh, your fuckin’ mother!” His face but an inch from hers. “But it’s my parents that are ass-holes, huh? And what’s your mother but a, uh, God-damned whore, and…”—he knew he was treading on mighty thin ice, but she started this whole thing, didn’t she! And she was the one perpetuating it, wasn’t she!—“…your father’s too, uh, fuckin’ stupid to know it!”

Balling her fist, Marsha swung at his face, but instinctively turning away, the blow glanced off the side of his head, hurting her hand far more than she hurt him. And, in a spontaneous movement, Mitchell slapped her across the face.

Her cheek stinging, “get the hell out of here, Mitchell,” she screamed. “Get out of my house and go live with those ass-holes!” Attempting to hit him again, grabbing both wrists, backing her onto the bed, holding her down with his left hand, bringing his open right hand back…

“Go on, Mitchell! Do it! Hit me again!”

Remembering, well remembering, their physical argument in Seagate. “No!” Instead, squirming forward, laying flat atop her, her fists harmlessly pounding onto his back, “I am not going to hit you,” he said emphatically, as…

Trying to squirm from beneath him, attempting to pound a knee into his groin, “get off me!” but, his thighs together, she could not do it. “Let go of me!”

“Marcie, you’re hysterical!”

“Get off of me!”

“Calm down first!”

“Get-off-of-me-Mitchell!” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I will, soon as you calm down.”

Doing all in her power to shake him off, she’d bite him except the weight of his chest was on the side of her face and, with the exception of her no-longer-flailing arms, Marsha was held fully immobile until… “Mitchell,” she said in some semblance of calm, “the baby’s crying! God-damn-it, let me up. Please!”

Rolling to the side, he followed with his eyes as, standing, rubbing the knuckles she’d hurt when her fist had come in contact with his head, going to the crib. “Shhh, baby, shhh.” Soothing her baby, Marsha removed the dirty diaper, as…

Coming off the bed, Mitchell took a pre-measured bottle of formula from the refrigerator, put it in the sauce -pan of water on the stove and lit the fire beneath it.

“Marcie, please, please, let’s not let this thing go on!”

Ignoring him, she cleaned and changed the baby, then, cradling him in her arms, going to the stove, she watched the slight jiggling motion of the bottle in the now-boiling water.

“Okay,” he asked softly, “what do you want?” Putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do anything to stop this.”

Shaking his hand off as though a loathsome bug, turning to him with a withering look of hatred, “I want you out of here!”

The look of her face. The tone of her voice. The words spoken with such vehemence taking him back a moment, looking at his wife sadly, having no idea what to say, Mitchell went back to the bed.

                                                     ***

Having fed and settled Michael in his crib, Marsha took the sedative she had been given by her mother, also—because she had been suffering with them since yesterday afternoon—another pain pill for the cramps that always signaled the start of her period.

Back in bed, glancing at the clock—2:57—without a look or another word, her back to Mitchell, Marsha soon fell into a drug induced sleep, as…

Lying awake, “I want you out of here!” her words resounding in his mind, “I’m crazy for marrying you!” Unable to sleep, Mitchell Lipensky once again had the eerie sensation that the few inches that separated his body from hers was truly a chasm of a hundred miles.

“I’m crazy for marrying you!” … “I want you out of here!”