Arriving home, Mitchell found his wife and baby were not there, but his clothes were… in the middle of the floor.

Seesaw: love/hate 4 of 7

Because they had but one closet, most of Mitchell’s off-season clothing was at the home of his parents. Now, his underwear, socks and jeans were in one carton and, because Marsha had never learned to iron, or just didn’t want to iron, all his shirts and wash pants that were in need of ironing were in a second carton and his hanging clothes, still on wire or wooden hangers, were laying across both cartons. On top of his other Robert Hall jacket there was a note:

           I meant what I said. I want you out of here!

Staring at it, truly finding it hard to comprehend the implications of the one line note, taking a long moment for the simple meaning to sink in—as though it didn’t really mean what it said—he stared at the note until—his eyes watering—the letters began to shimmer. Then, feeling lost, for the second time since his quick withdrawal from the Rosenberg home he did not know what to do: should he cry with sadness or scream in anger. His throat thick, his eyes wet, turning in a tight circle Mitchell looked at his little home.

                                                   ***

Above: She’d been watching for her husband from her parent’s living room window. Seeing the blue Ford make a U-turn on Lakewood and park in the open spot to the right of the building’s entrance, Marsha’s heart began to pound and her willful resolution, that had been fed and bolstered by her mother, began to dissolve.

Waiting.

Waiting for Mitchell to either come pounding on the door or call on the telephone. In either case, having no idea what she would do, what she would say, sitting stiffly on the sofa, waiting for the knock or call, holding her breath, reminding herself to breathe, Marsha waited.

                                                    ***

Below: Because it had been raining when Marsha left the apartment, both windows were shut and the pent-up heat caused Mitchell to sweat. As he sweat he felt the clammy moisture of his clothing that had been wet and body-dried three times on this day and his flesh prickled and the level of his discomfort rose, along with his anger.

Above: Startled when the phone did ring, bounding upward, pale, obviously distressed, when Rhea answered the phone Marsha stood slightly behind her.

As calmly as possible, “Mom,” he said, “is my wife there?”

“Yes, Mitchell, she is. But she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

We’re married, he thought. We have a child together! How can she not want to discus this? “What do you mean, my wife doesn’t want to talk to me, Rhea?”

“Just what I said, Mitchell!”

The words, the tone of the words sounding so familiar, for a moment he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the mother or daughter.

“You hit my daughter, and she does not want to talk to you!”

Ashamed because he had slapped her, even if she did hit him first. Also because Marsha saw fit to tell her mother. “Okay, yeah, I did.” he said reluctantly, “and I’m really sorry, but she…? Rhea!” Realizing she’d hung up, “God-damn-it!” He slammed the receiver onto the cradle and the angry tension of the week, along with the absolute frustration of this day and the total discomfort of that moment combined, overwhelming him with a wave of self-righteous rage as, lifting the receiver, “fuck you!” he yelled into the non-hearing phone, slammed it down, then, lifting it again, “and fuck your fuckin’ daughter!” He slammed the receiver down again. “God, I hate her!” Clenching his fists till his knuckles turned white, till he could feel his nails dig into his palms, “okay, baby!” he said aloud. Thinking, If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get!

Carrying the cartons, he made two rapid trips to the elevator. Before beginning a third trip with an armful of his hanging clothes, stopping, he wrote a note under her note:

              I meant what I said, I want you out of here!

   Marsha, I hope you and that whore of a mother of yours are happy together!

                                    FUCK YOU!

He put the note on the card table weighed down with the keys to the downstairs security door and the apartment, made a trip to the elevator with the first armful of clothes, laid them across the boxes, returned for the reminder, started out the door, was about to pull it shut and locked behind him, when… Thinking better of it, he went back inside, dropped his clothes onto the sofa, took the note off the card table, tore it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet, then wrote another note, that read:

         Marsha, I hope you and your mother are happy together.

Above: “What the hell’s the bastard doing?” Rhea said. “We packed everything! How long’s it take him to get the hell out?”

Below: About to leave the apartment for the last time, hesitating, Mitchell came back in the room, laid his armful of clothes back onto the sofa, went to the crib, stared down for a number of seconds, then, lifting the cotton blanket, holding it to his face, he smelled the scents of baby lotion, talcum powder and…

“Oh, Mikey!”

… his baby.

Oh, God! His throat constricted, “I love you, Mikey.” His shoulders heaving, “I’m so sorry, my baby!”

Mitchell Lipensky cried.

Above: Now afraid he was going to come upstairs, Marsha nervously, constantly looked from the door to out the window to the street below, then over her shoulder again to the door.

Below: Sighing deeply, forcing himself under control, he wiped his eyes, blew his nose and, “Mom, it’s me,” made a phone call. “I, uh… You mind if I come home for a while?”

“Mitchell, what’s wrong?”

“Marsha and me…” hesitating, barely able to say the words, “I, uh, I guess we’re going to…” forcing back a sob, “get a divorce.”

There was a pause on the line, then, “I’ll pay for the lawyer!”

                                                      ***

Watching, waiting until she saw the car drive away and was sure her husband was really gone, Marsha Lipensky then took her baby and went downstairs

May 19 through June 20, 1957

The Chasm

The imaginary chasm of a hundred miles that had separated the husband from the wife the night before, on this night felt as distant as the Atlantic to the Pacific. Though Mitchell was actually less than a half hour’s drive from Marsha, both felt the void of transcendental distance.

As though on the two arms of a scale, their anger and hatred sat upon one arm, and their love and loneliness on the other. One would outweigh the other, but in a moment’s breath, the arms would reverse.

Were each left to their own devices, the wife and husband would surely find a way to force the significance of their love to outweigh the consequence of their anger, However…

The hatred and anger scale had additional weights: “unwanted advice” and “fanning the flame.”

Advice was given freely and the flame fanned constantly.

“After all, Mitchell, how much can a person take?”

“Marsha, you should have done this a long time ago.”

“The bitch doesn’t know the meaning of respect.”

“The bastard can’t even earn a decent living.”

“Who’s ever heard of a Jewish wife that refuses to iron?”

“Who’s ever heard of a Jewish husband that beats his wife?”

“Yes, Mitchell, believe me, we miss the baby, too! But thanks to your wife, we don’t know him; and what we don’t know, we can’t miss all that badly. Don’t worry, Mitchell, you’ll get over it, too!”

“He’s got to support you and Michael, Marsha! And when the lawyer gets through with the bastard, he’ll wish he was dead!”

“Don’t worry, Mitchell, anyone as good looking as you’ll have girls crawling out of the woodwork. And when you’re ready, say in a couple of years, you’ll find another wife, and you’ll have other kids, too. You sure as hell don’t need her!”

Not sure if he really wanted to find another wife, trying to sound convincing, “yeah, sure, Dad!” Mitchell said, thinking, but, oh my God, I miss Mikey!

“As soon as you’re legally separated, I’ll watch Mikey and you’ll start dating again. Don’t worry, Marsha, a girl as pretty as you’ll find another husband, you don’t need him!”

Not sure if she really wanted to ever find another husband, trying to sound convincing, “you’re so right, Mother!”

But a week away from Mitchell found Marsha thinking, maybe Mikey needs his daddy!

However…

Hearing the “advice givers” and “flame fanners,” because the two felt maybe they really should, the husband and wife further hardened each against the other.

Marsha had her prideful stubbornness to harden her, to keep her from softening and Mitchell his… what? Distance?

                                                       ***

“Marsha, the bastard hardly sent enough for you to get by on! Give up the apartment! Move in here, with daddy and me!”

“But the furniture, Mother! What’ll I do with our… with my furniture?”

In the deep place: beyond the stubbornness and pride, hatred and anger, Marsha had the pinpoint, common sense thought that, maybe, if Mitchell has someplace to come back to, maybe…?

“Why be alone, Marsha? Put what you don’t need in storage, move in with us, and that way you’ll have more money to live on and daddy and I’ll be here to help out… all the time!”

Remembering her childhood: Remembering the quarters, then, as she became older, the dollars given to her by her mother’s “friends” to get rid of her, to send her into winter’s cold or summer’s heat while her mother carried on her affairs. Remembering the maternal indifference shown her her entire life. Wondering, why now? Why does mother want me around now, with my own child yet? To make up for the past? To show the world what a good mother she really is?

Why?

Why? Maybe because...

Since his marriage, her son—the only child Rhea had ever wanted, the child Rhea did not want to abort—Roger had become totally ambivalent towards his mother. So now, with another male child, with her grandson, maybe, Rhea thought, if she lavished enough love and attention on Michael he might be the one to care for her in her old age. And also, possibly, because of the hatred she felt for Mitchell, because…?

Why?

Mitchell treated Rhea and Eli with complete respect.

Because he wasn’t what Rhea considered to be a good provider? Because he’d slapped her daughter?

No! Rhea hated her son-in-law because... Actually, if pushed for an answer, Rhea did not know why she hated Mitchell.

Oh, yes, Marsha had pride and stubbornness and her mother to help hold her hand.

Mitchell…

Mitchell had his ever vacillating anger and distance and, afraid to speak to and certainly afraid of seeing Marsha or, most certainly his baby for fear of “falling apart.”

Two weeks away from Marsha—though he had sent one check—he’d made no direct contact, but did have a secret channel for information.

As soon as he got off the phone, going into her office, “she’s moved, Mom! I just got off the phone with Marty and he told me that Marsha’s given up the apartment and moved in with her parents.”

In a deep place beyond hatred and anger, as did Marsha, Mitchell, too, had the pinpoint, common sense thought that, maybe, if I had someplace to go back to, maybe…?

Not wanting to believe, having to see for himself, driving to the building at ten that night, getting out of the car, going into the lobby he looked at the row of brass mailboxes, and, oh, God! His throat tightened, his eyes became moist because there, on the name tag for 912, it read Goldman/Lipensky. And because at that time it all seemed so final, his heart sinking, Mitchell recalled the one other time in his life that he’d felt as sad, lonely and despondent as he felt at this time.

Then, at that time he’d joined the Coast Guard to escape the sadness. But now he was an adult, and in his sadness and loneliness and anger; because he was an adult, Mitchell Lipensky did a very adult thing…

Pressing his thumb to the doorbell, counting to seven before releasing it, running to the car, stamping on the gas the blue Ford peeled away from the building.

Rather than west to McCormick and north to Skokie, he drove the long block to Sheridan Road, made a left turn, drove a few minutes, stopped the car at the curb and lowered the top. Driving again, Mitchell twisted the knob of the radio till he—surprising himself—found a station playing classical music… Past the far north side of Chicago, through Evanston. Twisting sharply in and out of hairpin turns, Sheridan Road follows the Lake Michigan shoreline through Wilmette into Winnetka.

Knowing where he wanted to go, driving faster than he knew he should, the balmy air ruffled his hair… and dried his tears.

In the darkness he missed the turnoff and had to backtrack about a mile until he found the short road leading to the bluff that overlooked the lake. Once there, although it was near eleven and a school night, still, he was surprised to find the local make-out spot deserted. Inching forward till the bumper touched the safety rail at the edge of the cliff, he turned the lights and motor off.

Slouching in the seat, he listened to the crying strands of a violin concerto, which seemed absolutely appropriate for this time, place and mood. Staring at the star-speckled sky, wondering, how’d it go this far? Mitchell again felt the bitter ball of emotion work its way into his throat. Divorced? Marsha and me divorced? Angry at her for allowing—causing—it to go this far! Hurt because Marsha had let it go this far! In his anger, in his hurt, it’s her fault, damnit! Mitchell forced himself to think of the one thing that possibly might make even the thought of divorce palatable: other women! And the wisp of a remembrance came to mind. In the peripheral vision of his memory, he could actually see the girl’s sun-streaked, straw-colored hair… Who is she?

She was sitting next to him and both were looking at the water… Only he wasn’t. He was looking at the golden strands of pubic hair that had strayed from beneath her tanned, well rounded thighs and the tightly stretched elastic bands of her bathing suit, and… Oblivious to the thoughts or problems of the upper brain, the completely detached—so it had always seemed—lower brain of Mitchell Lipensky awoke and, sensing the twitch in his penis, who the hell is she?

The eye of his mind—his lower mind—traveled upward, to the top of the two-piece bathing suit, to the soft, deep valley, to the overflowing flesh of the girl’s breasts… Mitchell’s mind—both minds—focused on the phantasy of this girl, and another twitch.

Jesus! Remembering the brief encounter with the girl he’d met on the Coney Island boardwalk on that other sad, lonely evening when he and Marsha were—as it turned out—temporary separated.

Remembering the girl’s name, “Karen!” he said aloud as, feeing the flow of blood, wanting—needing—a sensation other than misery! Wanting—needing—a sensory release, rubbing the palm of his hand roughly over the growing bulge within his jeans causing a hot, delicious friction on his—oh, no, not nearly as flaccid as it had been a minute ago—penis, till…

Stopping, considering whether he really wanted to do this, here, in the open, he decided—the decision no doubt made by his lower brain—Why not! No one’s here! Why the hell not?

Knowing he’ll be needing it, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, unbuckling his belt and popping the top button, unzipping his pants and parting the fly of his Jockey shorts he freed his partially engorged penis, then, closing his eyes, holding his breath he sensed the kiss of comparatively cool night air upon the sensitized flesh causing an immediate, full erection, as…

Laying his head back, staring at the dotted, silver-pierced sky, taking hold of himself, beginning slowly, he thought of the absolutely inaccessible golden haired Karen of the long ago, far away memory…

But that memory triggered a more recent memory and the long ago, far away Karen transformed into another Karen, a possibly accessible Karen: Karen Rosenberg, the lovely, dark-eyed, dark-haired Karen he’d met two weeks ago, that by now might, just might be looking for a replacement, a Jewish replacement, for her Kenneth, her shaygets, and Mitchell fantasized what this Karen might look like naked: the size of her breasts, the texture, shade and size of her nipples, the triangle of her pubic hair…

Transposed once again, no longer having to imagine the, oh-so-well-remembered texture, shade and size, they’re a different dark-eyed, dark-haired girl’s breasts, nipples and pubic hair, before she became pregnant, and…

Welcoming the metamorphosis, lost within this sexual fantasy:

Marsha, naked, is above him, straddling him… And the scene of the past became the illusion of now as Marsha’s breasts swayed above his face, and Marsha’s long hair and excited, elongated nipples brushed his lips and, in the throes of her passion she screwed her eyes shut, and…

The movement of his hand increasing with the rate of his breath, “I love you!” he said to the unhearing sky. “Oh, God, I love you!” and…

The Marsha of his memory, the Marsha of his imagination, the Marsha of his fantasy replied, “I love you, too, Mitchie!” and…

Mitchell again sensed the slight, all but imperceptible pulsing from within her vagina as the Marsha of his memory, the Marsha of his imagination, the Marsha of his fantasy orgasms, and as she does…

Feeling the itch that precedes the onset of his orgasm, missing but one beat, Mitchell shrouded his penis with the handkerchief, as…

More than three months of physical desire and mental tension gave sudden release to an orgasm of such breathtaking magnitude that his ejaculations bordered on pain, but…

As his semen flowed, slowed, then stopped, as always, so, too, did his passion and he was then left with a hollow, depressed feeling that, as he waited for the penile blood to reverse, Mitchell Lipensky became angry; not the faltering anger of the past fourteen days brought about by his vacillating love for and hatred of Marsha, but steel hard, cold anger.

Having the need to urinate—as he always must after orgasm—stepping from the car onto the gravel-strewn ground, walking to the rail, Mitchell urinated over the steel barricade. As his stream went from straight to arched, he stared at the place his water joined the darkness. Replacing his penis, zipping his fly, turning to the car he took three steps, turned back to the barricade and thinking a moment of what he was about to do, feeling an overwhelming sensation of helpless frustration, “fuck you, Marsha!” he yelled as, twisting the band of gold from his finger, Mitchell threw it, “fuck you!” as  hard as he might at the dotted, silver-pierced sky.

                                                           ***

Not everyone, though, was an advice giver or a flame fanner. A few mutual friends and relatives did their best to keep their two-cents worth to themselves.

Rosalie and Marty were deeply saddened at the apparent breakup of the marriage of their friends and remained neutral, and they, in essence, became double agents and were the clandestine source of non-harmful information to each about the other, hoping, in some small way, that they might be instrumental in helping effect a reconciliation.

When Marty told Mitchell—thinking the move logical—about Marsha’s move to the apartment of her parents it was meant as a means to help relive Mitchell—by no longer having to pay rent—of a bit of his concern over his overwhelming debt.

Because he truly loved Marsha, Lawrence also remained neutral… Although, really, he might have had an ulterior motive for wanting his brother and Marsha to reunite because he was not too happy about having to give up his bedroom and move back into the rear bedroom with his younger brother.

Eli, too, although loving his daughter dearly, for the sake of his grandson tried to remain a voice of calm in a sea of turmoil.

Oddly enough— and Mitchell would be shocked if he knew—but his staunchest ally in “the enemy camp” was Marsha’s brother, Roger, who, while he was always his mother’s favorite, had secretly despised Rhea since the time he’d found her giving “Uncle Manny” a blowjob, and—although unaware that his mother had been the major instigator in the breakup of his sister’s marriage—Roger vehemently argued with Rhea for allowing Marsha such quick and easy sanctuary.

Besides, his mother’s mental abandonment of his sister had never registered on Roger and he’d always thought of Marsha as a spoiled brat.

He did not believe what he heard about Mitchell, but even if all the stories were true , knowing his sister as he thought he knew her, wondering how anyone could ever live with her, Roger thought that if Marsha did get smacked, more than likely she got exactly what she deserved.

                                                         ***

Okay, Mitchell thought, if she don’t want to be married to me, then screw it!

It took but one day of driving with his hand in direct sunshine for the sun to tan and equalize the circle of white around the fourth finger of his left hand.

If she don’t want to be married to me, then screw it!

Wearing his snazziest Robert Hall sports jacket and coolest tie, carrying his art portfolio—so he’d look the picture of a Michigan Boulevard Ad Exec—he went into Chauncey’s, a Michigan Boulevard watering hole catering to the downtown, after-work crowd of advertising and allied field “hotshots.”

His portfolio propped against the bar, as were the portfolios of some of the other hotshots, he stood with his elbow upon the high-sheen bar, as were the elbows of some of the other hotshots.

“What’ch’ya drinking, pal?”

Drink? He hadn’t thought about that. Looking blankly at the bartender, “uh…”

“Beefeater martini, dry!” A hotshot two bodies down ordered.

Yeah! “Beefeater martini, dry!” Mitchell parroted.

Within three minutes, “here you go, pal!” The stemmed bar glass was placed before him on a white paper napkin along with a cash register receipt.

Looking at the receipt, “ulp!” audibly swallowing, Mitchell took two of the twelve dollars he had with him out of his pocket but, as he laid the bills onto the bar a deep sense of guilt overtook him because, for the cost of this one drink, he could have bought three days formula for Mikey. But, so long as I’m here, and so long as he’d paid for it, I might as well enjoy it! Swirling the appetizingly fat, pimento-stuffed olive by its fancy toothpick, tempted to eat it, he looked at the hot shot two bodies down, who, sipping at his martini, held the olive at bay by putting pressure on the toothpick against the rim of the glass with the tip of his finger. So, doing as the hotshot did, the olive held steady, Mitchell also lifted and tilted the glass to his mouth.

In the span of his not quite twenty-three years, Mitchell had occasion to get drunk on scotch and Southern Comfort, and get sick on Canadian Club bourbon and homemade “Dago Red,” but he’d never had gin along with a whiff of dry vermouth and, the transparent bland appearance of the martini deceiving, taking a large swig, “gaghht!” As none of the other hotshots appeared to be gagging on their drinks, willing himself to stop in mid-gag, holding his stomach down by sheer willpower, surveying the action, Mitchell’s attention was drawn to a young woman standing at the far end of the bar.

The complete opposite of what he was looking for on this early evening, the tall, thin, dark complected, young woman had long, dark brown hair and, frowning, turning away, Mitchell Lipensky became angry at himself because the one woman… The only woman in this entire crowd that he was even remotely attracted to, resembled Marsha.

Even though he was wearing his snazziest Robert Hall jacket and coolest tie, feeling very much out of place here, Mitchell left Chauncey’s without finishing his Beefeater martini, dry, or leaving the obligatory, minimal twenty-five cent tip. He did, however, eat the appetizingly fat, pimento-stuffed olive.