Seesaw: love/hate 6 of 7

June 21, 1957

A Long Day … A Very Long Day

Nervously waiting for this time all day, at 1:10, p.m., Marsha Lipensky put on her new, cream colored chemise, then slipped her feet into ‘Peds’ and a pair of beige flats. In the bathroom, she applied eyeliner and lipstick, then studied her face in the mirror.

Weather permitting, she had spent her days wheeling Michael in his buggy, walking the twisting sidewalk that followed the Lake Michigan shoreline until she became tired, then would either sit on a park bench or spread the light blanket she carried in the buggy on the grass verge, change and feed Mikey and, while resting, eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she usually made for herself while reflecting on the sad state of her life and marriage. After sitting a while, she would begin the long walk home… to the home of her parents.

Marsha had three reasons for these long, solitary walks: always a sun-worshiper, the walks gave her an excuse to be outside; the exercise helped her to sleep at night because, worrying about the divorce, wondering it was really the right thing to do, she found it hard to sleep. Also…also, Marsha was always desperate to be out of the home of her parents, and especially away from her mother.

Though well tanned from the hours upon hours she’d spent in the sun, standing before the mirror, in Marsha’s opinion she looked drawn and haggard. Actually, her evaluation was pretty much correct.

“Mother,” coming from the bathroom, “do I look okay?”

Barely glancing at her, “you look fine...What time you supposed to be there?”

“Three. I’ve plenty of time! ...You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I’ve taken care of babies before, Marsha! Remember?”

                                            ***

That morning Mitchell made his fifth call-back on a preeminent, prospective account where he was given his largest order to date for a series of full color photographs of plastic injection presses to be taken at five different locations. Elated over the order—but apprehensive about today’s court appearance and especially in regard to seeing Marsha—he returned to the studio to give his parents the good news. Then, driving to Skokie he took a shower, shaved and, while standing before the mirror brushing his hair, looking at his reflection…

                                             ***

The five weeks of separation had, of course, caused untold stress, but had temporarily relieved the financial pressure because with Michael and Marsha at her parents’ and he at his, the cost of adult food had been eliminated. And, no longer having to pay the rental on the apartment, Mitchell found it easier to handle the ongoing bills that Marsha had forwarded to him en masse. Also, as though God were compensating him for the potential loss of his wife and child, in those five weeks some of his persistence had paid off and, in addition to this day’s major account, he’d opened two more lesser accounts. Also, Walter and Myra, seeing their son’s distress—maybe, in some way feeling bad, or guilty—decided to call his draw a wash and had given him another five-dollar-a-week raise, bringing his take home to approximately $73.00 per week.

With the financial strain lessened a bit, at least for the moment, and with prospects at the studio heightened, mentally exhausted, Mitchell had decided to temporally forgo the search for a part-time job and, being a sun worshipper also, besides spending time in the open convertible he also spent time just laying out.

                                          ***

...Looking at his deeply tanned face and upper torso in the mirror, unlike Marsha—who thought she looked drawn and haggard—needing all the confidence he could muster on this day, Damn, he thought, I’m looking really good!

                                           ***  

Marsha left the apartment at 1:40, walked to Sheridan Road, and took the south-bound bus to Devon Avenue, where she walked the half block to the ‘El’ station. She then took the Loop elevated to Randolph Street, walked the two blocks to LaSalle Street and the County Building.

Each second bringing her closer to the time, each step bringing her closer to the place, Marsha’s unbending resolve began to bend, and, if only he’d…? If only I’d…?

Compromises for her heretofore uncompromising reasoning coming to mind, Marsha became fearful because of what she knew was about to happen! And because she was about to see Mitchell and because truly, she truly did not know what her reaction would be when she did see him, beads of sweat prickled her hairline and the palms of her hands became damp.

Arriving at the courthouse twenty minutes early, expecting to bump into her husband at any minute, Marsha breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator door opened and she stepped inside. Coming off the elevator on the fifth floor, looking about the crowded, dingy hall, still not seeing Mitchell, looking for the courtroom, she walked first in one direction, than the other. Finding room 508—somewhat reminding her of the Public Health waiting room in New York City—Marsha sat uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench outside the courtroom, apprehensively waiting, watching for her lawyer… and her husband.

                                         ***

Strangely, because he’d been dreading this day, this time, as though it were his execution day, now that it was here, though, glad to get it over with, Mitchell resigned himself to the fact that, if this is what Marsha wants, really wants, then, okay! Fine! Fuck it! And if she wants me out of her life, then fuck her, too! But, he’d thought, I’m going to make damned sure she knows what she’s throwing away!

Mitchell wore dark brown slacks and, because it was his favorite color—especially when he had a tan—a yellow sport shirt, his new white poplin jacket and brown penny-loafers.

Leaving the house at 1:45, it took a few minutes short of an hour to get downtown, where he parked the car in the lot across the street from the County Building.

Even though he’d conditioned himself into thinking, fuck it, waiting for the elevator, searching his jacket, then his pants’ pockets, finding the letter from Don Hoffman, glancing at it, expecting to bump into his wife at any moment, as the door opened, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped inside, “five, please,” he said to the elevator operator. Coming off the elevator, turning right, he began to walk, and…

She saw him… Oh, my God!

He saw her… Oh, my God!

Walking: 522… 520… 518… 

She felt the prickling sensation on her head as, again, droplets of perspiration pushed their way through the pores of her scalp. As…

Walking: 516… 514… 512…

Feeling the thumping of his heart, wiping his suddenly-wet palms on the sides of his slacks. As…

Tempted to look away, to pretend she didn’t see him, Marsha forced herself to look directly at him. As…

510…

Through layers of tan, the shock of seeing each other once again turned her complexion to… khaki? and his… auburn? And…

Thinking, fuck it! Looking directly at her, smiling a smile that could successfully adorn a toothpaste ad, coming abreast, “hi’ya, sweetie!” he said facetiously. And…

In the eye-locked seconds it took him to come alongside, Marsha noted that he’d lost a few pounds, which she liked. And his tan, made even richer by his blush, brought out the green of his eyes and the white of his teeth and, damn! she thought, whys he always got to look like a God-damned movie star?

And though his appearance and the smugly spoken, “hi’ya, sweetie!” bugged the shit out of her, she did feel a thawing in her heart. But…

As always, Marsha had her unbending stubbornness and she couldn’t… just couldn’t give in! So, dredging up the remembrance of her anger, she forced an exaggerated “you’re a maggot and you disgust me” lip-curling kind of snarl to form on the right side of her mouth. That…

Apprehensive, to say the least, about seeing his wife—and for the reason they were there—as he approached his smile had been forced, but in the eye-locked seconds it took for him to come abreast and pass, Marsha’s snarl was so absurdly overstated that he couldn’t help but smile in earnest. And…

Doing all she could do to “stay tough,” Mitchell’s smile completely disarmed Marsha. As…

Passing, he stood about six feet beyond her on the other side of the hall staring at her in profile, thinking…

Marsha could sense that he was looking at her and, oh, God, how she wanted to turn her head to the left and stare back at him. But with an extreme show of self-control, Marsha Lipensky looked straight forward.

Staring at her in profile, she’s skinnier than ever, he thought, and, to him, then, wanting to hate the very sight of her, Marsha’s nose appeared longer and the flesh tone of her face looked to be more green than tan. Yes! He had been concerned about what his reaction might be when he saw her, but now thinking, she looks really shitty! For the first time since their separation Mitchell truly believed he did hate her, thinking, so far as I’m concerned she can go drop dead! They won’t keep me from seeing my kid! Fuck her! Other men get divorced and they see their kids and I will, too! Fuck her! Who the hell needs that ugly, skinny bitch? Working himself into a hateful anger, he considered calling her name, and telling her to, ‘go fuck yourself!’

However, looking beyond Marsha, approaching, he saw both attorneys, his and hers, together… together? Stepping across the hall, he stood a pace to the left of Marsha.

“Hi, kids!”

As Hoffman and Mitchell shook hands, “you may not remember,” Berman said, “but Don and I sat at the same table at your wedding.

Neither lawyer had mentioned they knew each other, nor did Marsha or Mitchell remember that they had been at the same table at their wedding. And now both felt something akin to betrayal at this revelation.

Glancing at his watch, “the Judge’ll be hearing your separation petition in about fifteen minutes,” Hoffman said, “and we’d like to talk to him before we get started, so why don’t you kids relax out here a minute and we’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, sure.” Mitchell went back to his place on the opposite wall and Marsha once again stared into space.

                                             ***

Opening the door, Berman motioned them to come inside.

Marsha and Mitchell found seats on opposite sides of the small courtroom.

Mitchell had been to traffic court on two occasions. She, though, had never been to court and was surprised and embarrassed to see that there were fifteen or twenty scattered spectators that would be hearing their motion for separation and, possibly the reasons for separation, that, with each passing day somehow seemed to be less and less important.

“The court will stand,” the bailiff said. “The honorable Charles A. Bankston presiding.”

The judge, taking his seat at the bench…

“The court may be seated.”

“Lipensky verses Lipensky!”

Oh, God!

Oh, God!

Rising, going beyond the banister, sitting on either side of their respective attorneys, the two took seats behind a long table.

The judge, a tall, slender, white-haired man in his early sixties, seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time studying the file before him… until, “you two!” Pointing first at Marsha than Mitchell, “come with me!” Standing, Bankston came from behind the bench and, with a flurry of his black robe, went through a doorway into his chambers.

The two looked at each other, then their attorneys, who nodded their heads affirmatively. Rising, they apprehensively walked to the front of the room and, Mitchell allowing Marsha first entry, through the doorway into the judge’s chamber.

Sitting behind a desk, “you, here!” The judge motioned to Marsha by crooking his finger, waited for her to come forward, then, “there!” Pointing, he positioned her at a place just to the left center of the desk. “You!” Crooking his finger at Mitchell, “there!” he positioned him at a place just to the right center of his desk.

Now, using the forefingers of both hands—glancing at each other, Marsha and Mitchell, haltingly moved—“Closer!” Bankston said, forcing a thin smile, “I don’t want to get a crick in my neck talking to you two.”

Standing side by side, their arms and hands but an inch apart, as in a field of radiated energy, as though touched by static electricity, the ions of each were felt by the other, and both foreheads prickled with sweat.

“Lipensky,” directing his gaze to Marsha, “you’re here to petition this court for a legal separation, are you?”

“Yes, Sir!” Marsha said emphatically, “I am!”

“And you?” Bankston asked, looking at Mitchell.

“Yes, Sir,” said no less emphatically.

“You are, huh?” Turning his attention to the array of smoking paraphernalia on the desk, taking his time—letting the two stand closely apart—the judge selected a pipe from the rack, rooted the bowl with a tool, then opened the lid of the humidor and, taking a pinch of tobacco, stuffed and tamped it into the bowl of the pipe, struck a wooden match and sucked the tobacco to life.

Looking at Marsha and Mitchell through the haze of aromatic smoke, “young man,” he said, “here in court, in this room you must answer honestly! So let me ask you just one question!” Stopping, sitting back in his overstuffed, leather wing chair, taking another deep draw on the pipe, tilting his head back, exhaling, he watched the gray smoke swirl over his head. His eyes coming forward again, he forcibly asked, “do you want to see your wife in the arms of another man?”

“No!” Shocking himself with the vehemence of his soul-felt answer. “I do not!”

Her body stiffening, Marsha’s head snapped to the right.

“And you,” pointing the stem of his pipe at Marsha, “do you want to see your husband in the arms of another woman?”

No less shocked, “no, Sir! I don’t!”

One arm lifting upward, the weight of their inadvertent, honest answers moved the other arm of the scale downward, and suddenly each felt the substance of their love. Their two hands came together, their ten fingers entwined and the touch of each to the other was as soft as fresh fallen snow, as solid as a rock of granite.

“Okay, then, I want you to stop wasting the court’s time!” Bankston said, feigning anger. “I want you to get the hell out of my courtroom and I never want to see you here again! Understand?”

Mere seconds ago each had felt but loathing for the other. Now, both hearts swelled to near breaking with renewed love.

“Do you understand me, Lipensky?”

Not sure which Lipensky the judge was referring to, utterly confused by the roller-coaster ride from the pit of their hatred to the peak of their love, barely able to pull their thoughts together, let alone speak them. Motioning his head backward, “uh, what’ll we tell our…”

“You don’t have to tell them anything. I’ll let ’em know you’ve changed your minds. You don’t even have to go back in there.” Pointing a thumb over his shoulder, to another doorway. “This’ll get you kids out’a here the back way.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Mrs. Lipensky… Marsha, you can thank those two in there,” nodding towards the courtroom. “But not now. Go on, kids, get out!”

Anxious to be alone, hand in hand they started to the door.

“Oh, yes, one thing more!”

The door open, stopping, the two looked at Bankston.

“Among other things, wearing this robe, being a judge, gives me the obligation to give advice, so I’m going to do it. I know it’s going to be tough, but you kids have got to live your own lives! So when they, your parents… whoever starts making you nuts, you tell ’em the judge told you to tell them to ‘go to hell,’ and it’s up to you two to do what you know is right, not what they think is right! Go on now, beat it!”

In the empty passageway, the door closed behind them.

Instantly in each others arms, their lips pressed together, unwilling… unable to break the magnetic hold of their kiss, I love you! Their commingled thoughts, though unspoken, were heard… were felt by the other, I love you! The silent words transmitting from mind to mind, from soul to soul… I love you! I love you!

“Marsha,” moving his mouth from her mouth, “I love you! Oh, my God, Marsha, I love you!”

He looked at her, oh, God, beautiful face and into her beautiful dark eyes and, having to prove that this was real, that Marsha was really here, really held in his arms, sensing the feel of her heart against his chest, holding her tighter…

Feeling the beat of her husband’s heart against her breast, tears coming to her eyes, “Mitchie, I love you, too!”

                                           ***

“Mother, take care of Mikey a bit longer, will you? I, uh… guess I won’t be home for a while.”

“What do you mean, you guess you won’t be home for a while?”

“The judge…” looking at Mitchell, who was three telephone booths down talking to his mother, “talked to us and…”

“The judge talked to you? And?”

“Mother, he said he thought Mitchell and me should try it again.”

In an accusatory tone, “I had a feeling this was going to happen, Marsha.”

“I don’t understand you, Mother! You should be happy for me! He’s my husband and Michael’s father, and if there’s any way for us to work it out, then damn-it, we’re going to do it! What the hell do you have against Mitchell anyway?”

Silent a moment. What the hell do I have against Mitchell? Really having no idea herself what she truly has against him.  “For one thing, honey,” Rhea said sarcastically, “in case you forgot, he did hit you!”

Marsha sighed. “No, Mother, to be honest, I punched him in the face first then hit him on the head and he slapped me back! But you were so anxious for me to leave him…”

Recalling Marsha’s reluctance to have Bruce Berman use the fact that he struck her, though not excusing Mitchell for slapping her daughter, for any reason. “Yeah, well remember, with Mitchell comes his mother.”

Thinking, yeah! And with me comes my mother! And you’re not such great shakes either. “Maybe I’m a little bit at fault there, too… So, you’ll do it; you’ll watch Mikey till I get home?”

“Sure, I’ll watch my grandson! What’ll you think I’ll do, put him out on the street? You planning on coming home tonight?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if he’s got enough money for a hotel, and I’d feel… I don’t want to spend the night at my in-laws! Besides, I’m sure Mitchell is going to want to see his son, soon!

Hesitating a moment, “okay,” Rhea said, “you two come on back here. You can stay here, if you want till you figure out what to do.”

“Thanks, Mother. Oh, by the way, when you see Mitchell please don’t say anything to him about this! It’s going to be hard enough as it is for him to go there without you making him feel even more uncomfortable.”

“Marsha, I know what to do!”

“Thank you, Mother. See you later. Bye.”

“Walter Lewis Studio.”

“Mom.” He had hoped his father would answer the phone because he’d have rather broken the news to him than her.

“We’ve been expecting you. So, how’d it go?”

“Good, Mom. Real good!”

“Hold on, Mitch, your father’s in the studio; let me get him on the line and you can tell both of us about it.”

“No, I haven’t got time.” He looked at Marsha, three telephone booths down. “Listen, Mom, the judge took us into his quarters and talked to us privately, and, uh, we’re going to try it again, Mom. Marsha’n’me, we’re getting back together.”

“This is what you really want, Mitchell?”

“Yeah, Mom. You know how much I’ve missed her’n’Mikey.”

“I know you have, Mitchell.”—she had seen his love/hate vacillation regarding Marsha—“And I’ve… your father and me…well, we’ve missed Mikey, too. And, believe it or not, your wife, too…”—Mitchell found that hard to believe—“and if this is what you really want, then congratulations. But, Mitchell, this is a good time for the two of you to settle things between yourselves! And if I were you…” the tone of her voice changing, “there are certain things I’d insist on straightening out! And I’m sure you know what I’m talking about!”

That’s just about why this whole thing happened! Yeah, he thought, that’s just what Marsha’n’me are going to do now: talk about her calling you ‘mom,’ You bet! “Look, Mom,” he said, “Marsha’s waiting for me and I’m not sure where we’ll be staying tonight, but when we decide, I’ll let you know. Okay?” Not waiting for a response, “bye, Mom.”

“So, how’d they take it?”

“Okay! Fine!” Taking her hand, “How’s ’bout your mother?”

“Yeah, her, too.” Putting her arm about his waist. “And she said that if you, uh we want to stay there till we figure out where we’re going, it’s okay with her.”

“Hey, baby, what I really want to do is spend the night at a hotel making…”—remembering her accusation of “sex is all you ever think about”—“uh, sorry, baby, that’s if you want to.”

“Want to? God, Mitchie, I can’t wait till we’re in bed together! But a hotel? We got enough money for a hotel?”

We! The simple connotation was not lost on him. We! Meaning they were now a single unit again.

Looking at her, “nah, I’ve only got about fifteen bucks on me.”

“And I’ve got three.”

“Doesn’t matter too much, ’cause I couldn’t wait till tomorrow to see Mikey anyway.”

“Yeah, and it’s not like we have to rush to my mother’s.”

“Yeah... Remember where we went last time we left city hall?”

“Yeah, the planetarium.”

Mitchell had always been a “touching” kind of person and, unless angry at each other, whenever he was near Marsha he felt compelled to hold her hand or to touch her in some way, and now, just as it had been in the days before and just after their marriage, Marsha, also, seemingly could not get enough of the feel of him, nor the feel of his touch on her. As though virginal newlyweds, the touch of each sending sensations of warm comfort and carnal desire to the other, crossing La Salle Street, holding hands, their arms held tightly about each others waists, were it not for the very distinct possibility that they’d be arrested or, more the likely, killed by the onslaught of rush hour traffic, they would surely had lain down and made love in the middle of the street.

The Ford traveled east to Lake Shore Drive, then about two miles south to the jog of U.S. 41 and Lake Shore. Turning left, they drove along Solidarity Drive, through the thin peninsula of land that juts into Lake Michigan to the Adler Planetarium.