At the end of the season, in late September, the sails would be stripped, the mast lowered and lashed to the deck. Hoisting Friendship out of Lake Michigan, the crane then lowered her onto the trailer to once again begin the yearly cycle.

The studio and boat were the major factors in Walter’s life.

Unfortunately, Myra was one of those people who refused to accept what she could not change, but because she worked with her husband at the studio, she did know that she was, at least, that much a part of his life.

But the boat! Always demanding of his love, even were he to invest his time on and with the boat moderately, which Walter didn’t, the boat was something he wanted and she did not, so Myra hated it and participated with—and consequently her husband’s enjoyment of—the boat less and less with each ensuing year… And with each ensuing year the battle of the boat wore on… and on.

Walter well knew that Myra was jealous of the time he lavished on Friendship but, “Shit!” he rationalized, “if you’ve an investment like this, you’ve got to keep it up!”

In reality, though, Friendship was more than just enjoyment and relaxation. Friendship was Walter Lipensky’s psychiatrist, and lately, due to Myra’s constant haranguing, his mistress.

Despite a noticeable paunch, Walter was still a handsome man, and there were a few women at the club that he’d easily be able to have an “opportunity” with, but another woman was an involvement he did not want because he was sure the end result would be the loss of everything he’d worked for all his life. And also—though in a million years he would never admit it—he was truly afraid of Myra’s ability to, as she’d always told him, “read him like a book.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, looking at this lovely girl, Walter felt the soft pang of lost youth and the longing feeling in the pit of his stomach of wanting something… of wanting to be young, and in love with a young woman again.

                                                      **** 

A brown Chevrolet was parked at the front curb. “Looks like Ma and Pa are here.”

“Yeah, Larry, looks like.” Pulling into the alley, parking just past the front crosswalk, leaving enough room for a car to pass between the Buick and his neighbor’s hedge, Walter felt somewhat relieved because if the visit by Marsha did not blunt his wife’s anger at them coming home this late, then he hoped the presence of her mother and father would.

Sitting on the sofa alongside her husband, “Mitchala!” remaining seated, “Oy-yoy-yoy, Morris.” Jennie held her arms to her grandson. “Look at him, Morris. He’s so skinny!”

“Ma!” Bending, putting his arms about her neck, hugging his head to hers, Mitchell kissed his grandmother’s dry cheek. Straightening, he turned to his grandfather, who was now standing.

He hadn’t seen his grandparents since his last leave and was shocked at the change just one year had made; not so much with Jennie, because in his eyes she’d always looked old, but in his grandfather.

Morris’s scraggly eyebrows shot off in all directions. The whites of his eyes were tinged with a slight yellow cast, and the piercing grey, hawk-like corneas appeared to have a slight haze over them. The flesh beneath his chin hung lower than Mitchell remembered and, though still streaked with black, his hair was grayer and the stubble on his cheeks pure white.

Holding back tears, “Pa!” Mitchell embraced his grandfather.

Turning, taking her hand, “Ma, Pa…” bringing his attention to Myra, who was standing on the far side of the room, “Mom, this is Marsha.”

Going to the old lady, “Hello.” Taking her hand, Marsha held it for a moment. Turning to Morris, who was still standing, “Hello,” she held her hand to him also, then, walking across the room, extended her hand.

In the flash of a moment, both minds whirling, the two women scrutinized each other.

Sensing… something, glancing from Marsha to her son, seeing the look on his face, two thoughts came to mind: This one is it; this one is going to be my daughter-in-law! Myra also wondered if maybe, maybe she saw something in this young woman that she’d wanted, so it seemed, all of her life: a daughter.

This lady could be my mother-in-law. “Hello, Mrs. Lipensky. I’m glad to meet you.” Her heart warming even further, Marsha thought that maybe, maybe she saw something in this woman that she’d always wanted: a mother.

Looking at the offered hand, brushing it aside, putting her arms about the girl, hugging her, “Welcome to our home, Marsha.”

Lost a moment, her arms hanging limply, Marsha hadn’t been in another woman’s embrace since… she didn’t know when. Feeling a burning in her throat and a stinging in her eyes, fighting the urge to cry, instead, returning the others embrace, “Thank you,” she said to Myra. And, to God, Thank you! Who in Marsha’s mind had brought her to this miraculous time and place.

Hearing the back door open, “Don’t slam the…” Myra called over Marsha’s shoulder as the door slammed shut. “…door.” She broke her embrace as Morton tramped through the kitchen into the living room with Cricket, who immediately ran to Marsha and sniffed her shoes.

“That’s Mortie, and the one with the spots is Cricket.”

And a dog, too. Stooping, petting Cricket, looking at the six-year-old, “Hi, Mortie. My name’s Marcie.”

“Yeah, Marcie, hi!” Morton, as the rest of his family, had taken an immediate liking to Marsha.

“Hey, Mitch, seeing as you’re a guest here, I’ll give you a crack at the hot water first.

“Thanks, Larry.”

“Marcie, I’ve got to get out of these filthy clothes,” he said, holding the T-shirt away from his chest as though it smelled bad, which in fact it did. “You be okay here if I take off for a few minutes?”

“Sure! Why shouldn’t I?” Feeling the warmth of his family, for the first time in remembrance Marsha felt as though she were wanted, and oddly, since she had been in this house for no more than a few minutes, as though she belonged here, too. “Maybe I can help your mother.” Turning to Myra, “Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Lipensky?”

“Don’t be so formal, Marsha, we’re not that way around here. Call my Myra, or better still, Mom.”

Mom? She wants me to call her Mom! Anyone else might have passed it off as someone attempting to be overly friendly, but, Yeah, Marsha thought, I can do that. Not comfortable, though, calling this lady that she’d just met “Mom,” and feeling that “Myra” would be disrespectful, “Thank you,” she said.

Gesturing towards the fully-set table, “There’s nothing left to do now, Marsha, but thanks for offering.”

Now, though, glaring at Walter, her voice hardening, “We expected you home hours ago, and,” breaking with the Sunday-morning tradition, the Lipenskys now had their lox and bagels for dinner on Saturday, “everything’s out but the fish and cream cheese.”

Having seen the set table when she’d come in, now, Fish? Lox? Marsha thought, Uh, oh!

Going to his wife, kissing her on the cheek, “Sorry,” Walter said apologetically, “we ran out of wind. What the hell could I do?”

Trying to retain her façade of anger, “Yes, I know!” Dismissing her husband with a steely, kind of “I’ll talk to you later” look, Myra added, “Go on! You get cleaned up, too!”

Knowing his wife, knowing her moods well, knowing that her anger had passed, Thank you. Silently thanking God for small miracles, Walter obeyed.

Motioning to the chairs on either side of the picture window, “Sit down, why don’t you.” Myra said to the still-standing young woman. “Here, in my home, you be comfortable.”

“Yes,” sitting, “thank you.” Her senses reeling, Marsha had suddenly been made a part of a family. A family with grandparents. A family with brothers—two of them—that even spoke to her. And most of all, a family with a mother. A mother that had even prepared a meal. Looking at the overloaded table, thinking, This is just for a lox and bagel dinner? It looks more like Thanksgiving. Not sure if she quite knew how to handle the situation, she did know, however, that if she thought she loved Mitchell before—Holy cow, they even have a dog—she loved him all the more now.

Waiting, remembering the time it took for the hot water to get to the second floor… Finally, adjusting the temperature, aware that Larry and his father were waiting to shower, taking a “sea shower,” wetting, turning the water off, lathering, rinsing, Mitchell showered, shampooed and shaved. Finished, turning the water to cold, he stood in the spray until his scalp and skin tingled. Pulling the towel from the bar at the foot of the tub, he roughly dried his hair and body. Stepping from the tub he squeakily rubbed the towel over the steamed mirror, then brushed his hair, as, drifting up through the stairway… “My dad owns a small, uh, kind of a restaurant near the Stadium,” he heard Marsha say. And, Damn! Naked, his skin tingling from the cold water and brisk toweling, with the bathroom door open and Marsha just one short flight of stairs below, his mind as far from thoughts of sex as possible, Damn! he unknowingly had attained an erection. Looking at his penis in the mirror, You little pecker, he thought. Now, as always, truly believing it, You really do have a mind of your own, don’t you!

In the bedroom, he put on Jockey shorts, Levis’. And, with but a fleeting thought of who it was that had given it to him, taking the cranberry colored cashmere sweater from its plastic bag, he pulled it over his head. Slipping his bare feet into a clean pair of canvas deck shoes, going back to the bathroom, looking in the mirror he bloused the sweater over his hips, then re-brushed his hair. Going downstairs, “Hi!” he said from the foot of the stairway. “So, you all acquainted now?”

Turning her attention from the conversation with Myra, looking at Mitchell, Marsha could not believe that anyone could shower, shave, and get dressed in that short a time, and look that perfect. His still-wet hair shone black. His light eyes and teeth were dazzling in contrast to his tan and a thatch of hair showed from the V of the sweater. But, as attractive as he was, what was even more important—and still, she could not believe that this was really happening—was that she was really here with Mitchell and his family, and especially that Mitchell had told her that he loved her. “Yeah, we’re all good friends now.” Moving aside, making room for him on the armless chair, patting the seat, “Come on.”

Sitting closely next to her, he draped his arm across Marsha’s shoulder. Putting her hand on Mitchell’s knee, he covered it with his.

As though she were incapable of answering, “So, Mitchala,” nodding her head towards Marsha, “she’s a Jewish girl?”

“Jennie,” Morris said, “she wears a Mogen David! Would a shiksa wear a Mogen David?”

“Oy…” Craning her head forward, squinting, Jennie looked at the small six-pointed gold star that hung from a fine chain about Marsha’s neck. “…so you’re right, Morris. So I’m sorry… ehh?” Forgetting her name, she looked to her grandson for help.

“Ma, her name’s Marsha.”

“Yes, Marsha. So, Marsha, your mother, she keeps kosher?”

“No, Bubby,” smiling outwardly, “my mother doesn’t keep kosher.” Frowning inwardly, My mother doesn’t keep anything.

“Bubby, ehh?” Jennie smiled. “If you eat here, that’s good. My daughter and her husband,” looking at Myra, scowling, “they don’t keep kosher, too.”

“So, Jennie, we don’t keep kosher either!”

“Morris, talk for yourself! You eat trayf—pork, shellfish—outside my house, it’s up to you. In my house we don’t eat trayf!”

“Yes, but Jennie,” Morris said patiently, “we also don’t got for—dairy and meat products—milichedig and flayshedig.

“So big deal! We use the same pots and pans and dishes.”

“And silverware! Don’t forget silverware!”

“So, okay already! So we don’t got special for milichedig or flayshedig. God’ll forgive me, but we got no trayf!”

Smiling, Morris winked at Marsha.

Enjoying the good-natured bickering, she giggled.

“Your papa,” Jennie asked, “he go to shul?”

“Yes. Sometimes on Friday, if he can, he goes to the synagogue.”

“That’s good.” Looking at Myra again. “Is good someone goes to shul!”

Morris had asked Walter on many occasions to go to the synagogue with him, and he’d been turned down on as many occasions.

“So, Ma, what can I do?” Myra said defensively. “He’d rather be on his fershtonkina boat than go to shul. Should I tie and drag him?”

“Hey, when’s chow?” Bare-footed, toweling his hair, Walter came from the bathroom wearing trousers and an undershirt. “I’m starving!”

“Don’t blame me—dinner’s been ready for hours!”

“Yeah, I know, honey.” Still placating his wife, going to her, putting his arms around her, he kissed her, this time lightly on the mouth. “And I am sorry we got in so late.”

Returning the kiss, “I’m sure you are!” Myra said sarcastically, pushing him away. “And get dressed, we’ve got company!”

Marsha was unable to tell if she was angry, or playing with him.

“Company?” Looking about, “Who’s company?”

“Marsha!” Going along with him, pointing to her, “Your son brought a girl home… Remember?”

“You’re not company, are you?”

“Well, Mister Lipensky, I sure don’t feel like company.”

Truly, she didn’t. Marsha felt more at home here, in the half hour she’d been in this house, then she often did in the homes of her aunts.

“Marsha, call me Skipper.”

“Skipper?”

“Yes, please. Coming from you, ‘mister’ makes me feel old.”

(A "Becoming" Excerpt)