They’d spent every possible moment together.

That Monday, after leaving Eli’s they had driven to Lanathin’s, where Mitchell came in and stood by Marsha’s side as she’d honestly told the store manager why she must have the next twelve days off.

As the manager’s husband had been in the army during Korea, and as she well remembered her own feelings, she did understand Marsha’s and, liking this young couple, did give Marsha the time off… without pay.

They went to the zoo, to the beach, to the movies. They went for quiet walks and long drives.

With the barrier broken on Undeen, if the situation became “hot” enough—and, oh, yeah, it most often did—she would allow him to touch her breasts, but only over her clothing and, though he’d tried—good Lord how he’d tried—his hands and eyes were not again allowed under her blouse or bathing suit.

They’d had long, hot—so hot—necking sessions with restricted petting and barely restrained passion, and even though at times he’d thought Marsha must think him a centipede and a half, Mitchell was happy to be with her, and to be allowed to touch and hold her within whatever boundaries she’d felt herself comfortable with, but…

Being human with a natural curiosity and very much in love, and certainly wanting him as much as—having no idea of just how badly he—wanted her, she’d actually had—although, considering how emphatically she’d been able to hold him off, he would never believe that she had—a harder time controlling her passion than he and, oh, yeah, she did want to touch him there, and oh, yeah, she did want him to touch her there. But somehow Marsha was able to find the presence of mind to keep his hands, and eyes, above her bathingsuit or blouse and completely away from the area of her groin, and…

Whereas she had counted their ever-dwindling days with dread, she really didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep her resolve and virginity intact, and though she knew she would miss him terribly, she also thought, in a sense, that she’d be relieved when he did leave.

But, oh, no, she wasn’t, and…

                                                     **** 

Watching as the plane became little more than a reflecting silver speck, Marsha was sorry that she hadn’t gone further with him, and allow him to go further with her… Maybe even… No! She knew herself and knew she’d never let Mitchell go all the way… Maybe.

Now, this was the fear he’d felt when Mitchell had first realized the depth of his feelings for Marsha.

Last year when he left home he’d had an immediate sense of homesickness; but not like this. Never like this! Now he knew, without a doubt, that he had left part of himself on the runway of the now barely visible airport.

Their time together: Talking to Marsha; the feel of her touch; the scent of her hair; being with her; loving her… Also, the dream of sex: of seeing Marsha nude; of lying next to Marsha nude; of the sight and feel of Marsha’s breasts, bare; of kissing her nipples, of tasting her nipples; of placing his hand onto her, into her, there; of feeling the warm moisture, there; of kissing her, there; of tasting her there; of loving her, there! Of Marsha loving him in return! Of, Oh, God! the consummate act.

These were the factual thoughts and masturbatory fantasies that had occupied Mitchell’s mind while he and Marsha had been together. But now…

Passing over Illinois, the plane flew east, and with each passing moment, with the physical distance between Marsha and himself widening, he could remember only one other time in his life that he’d felt this alone and this lonely, and though there was not a thing he could do about it then… Now?

For the first time, My, God! a thought came to mind, and, the thought jolting him, Why didn’t I think of that before? He knew that this time, now, he definitely could do something about it.

                                                      **** 

The plane landed at La Guardia Airport at 7:57 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

Having thought about it the length of the entire flight, knowing with absolute clarity what he intended to do, taking the subway to Times Square, he walked no more than a half-block before finding the exact type of store he’d thought about finding. Inside he found exactly what he’d thought about finding, bought it, wrote the note he’d mentally written and rewritten the entire length of the four-hour flight, then, “Do you have a box for this?” he asked the girl behind the counter.

Reaching into the waste can beneath the counter, “Yeah,” she tossed him a cardboard box and cover that was triple the size needed.

Using crumpled newspaper to hold it steady, enclosing it along with his note, “You got something I can wrap it with?”

Chomping on a wad of Double Bubble, “Yeah,” the girl handed him a brown paper bag, scissors and a roll of Scotch tape.

He wrapped it, addressed it, and—using five stamps, just to be on the safe side—kissing it, Mitchell dropped the clumsily-wrapped package into the first mailbox he saw.

Writing the note and sending the package had helped, somewhat, but now, despondent and lonely, standing on the bow of the Staten Island Ferry he saw the greenly-illuminated Statue of Liberty and the lights of the dozens of boats that were in the harbor. There was a bright, three-quarter moon and the pin-point lights of millions of stars that speckled the clear, pitch-black sky. “Marcie,” he whispered as he struggled to keep from crying, “is it possible that maybe you’re looking at this very same moon now, right now, at this exact time?”

Mitchell never knew but wondering, Mitchie, is it possible that you’re looking at this same moon this very same time? From her ninth floor apartment window, Marsha Goldman was.

July 5, 1955, to August 29, 1955

Tuesday being the Fourth of July there was no mail.

On Wednesday, Marsha Goldman came home from work, as usual, at 5:45. Her father, as usual, was still at work, and her mother, as usual, was…? It had been a long, hot day and she missed Mitchell terribly. Highly depressed since he’d left only three days ago, Marsha had no idea how she was going to exist until she saw him again.

On her way to the kitchen, passing the dining room table, she stopped, turned around and, barely able to contain herself, ripped off the roughly wrapped brown bag paper and opened the cardboard box. Her first reaction was to laugh, then, suddenly realizing what it really meant, holding Mitchell’s note in one hand and the garish, novelty store diamond ring in the other, she began to cry.

7/2/55

Dear Marsha,

When we said goodbye and I got on the plane and left you today, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life.

I cannot imagine life without you in the future. God knows I’ve been lonely before, but never like this. I know this ring isn’t much, but I’ve spent my entire life’s savings buying it. So until I can afford another one, maybe even a real one, please consider it as an engagement ring (but you don’t really have to wear it). And please, please say that you will marry me.

I love you more than life itself.

                                                   Mitchell 

Reading the note again, “Oh, my God!” she said to empty apartment. “Yes! Yes, Mitchell! Thank you, God! Thank you!” Elated, confused, Marsha did not know what to do or who to call first.

“Rosalie!” she shouted into the phone as soon as it was picked up.

“Marsha?” She never called her Rosalie unless there was something wrong. “What’s wrong, Marsha?”

“Rose! Mitchie… He sent me a ring and a letter and asked if I’d marry him!”

“Really, Marsha? Really!?”

“Yes, really!”

“And he sent you a diamond ring?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “from the ten-cent store. But it’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe it!”

“So, what are you going to tell him?”

Knowing she knew that Rosalie knew she was going to accept, “Are you nuts? I’d walk to New York and marry him right now if I could!”

“Your folks know yet?”

“No! You know no one’s home. I called you first.”

“Think your mother’ll have any objections?”

“She never wanted me in the first place, and now’s her chance to get rid of me. And, to be honest, I don’t give a damn what she thinks.”

Reflecting a moment, “You’re the first of us to go,” Rosalie said. “Good luck, Marcie. I hope you have lots’a kids.”

“Yeah, thanks, Rose. Me, too. Look, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

Six o’clock here, she thought, New York’s an hour later. Wonder if he’s on the ship. She’d put the scrap of paper in her wallet when he gave it to her…

“Coast Guard Cutter Halfmoon!” Electricians Mate Second Class Raymond Carson, the Officer of the Deck, answered the telephone in the watch shack alongside the aft gangway.

“This is the Chicago operator. I have a person-to-person call to Seaman First Class Mitchell Lipensky.”

“Hold on a minute, operator, let’s see if he’s aboard tonight.” Checking the duty roster, Mitchell’s section did have liberty, but he hadn’t gone ashore. “He’s here, operator. Hang on, will you?”

“Lipensky, lay to the quarterdeck, on the double!” The call coming through the loudspeakers reverberating throughout the ship, “Lipensky! To the quarterdeck, on the double!”

“Christ!” Writing a letter to Marsha, he was lying on his bunk in his underwear with a note pad propped on his knees. Thinking, What the hell do they want now? swinging off the bunk, he shoved his cap on his head and his legs back into the denims he’d taken off no more than ten minutes earlier.

“Carson, I’m on liberty! Why the hell you callin’ me?”

“Keep your shirt on, Lippy, you got a call.”

Unless an emergency, local calls were not accepted; long distance calls were accepted only for the time needed to ascertain who was calling so the information could be passed onto the man called, but Carson had taken his share of Mitchell’s pennies and nickels at their penny-ante poker games.

“Oh,” sheepishly, “sorry, Ray.” His first thought was that something was wrong at home. Picking the phone up with apprehension, “Hello.”

“Mitchell Lipensky?”

“Yes, operator, I’m Mitchell Lipensky.”

“One moment, please.”

Still excited, “Mitchie!” her voice boomed over the phone.

“Marcie!” Overjoyed at hearing her voice again, “Hi, baby!”

“Mitchie, I got it! Yes! Yes! I will!”

“My God,” he said softly. “Thank you, baby. Thank you!”

“I miss you! I love you!”

Looking at Carson, “Me, too, Marcie!”

“You know,” Carson whispered, “you ain’t supposed to get calls here. Okay, just for a minute.” Giving Mitchell some privacy, Carson walked to the fantail.

“I can’t wait to do it! When do you want to?”

“The sooner the better,” she answered. “I can’t wait either.”

“Your folks know yet?”

“No, I haven’t even seen them yet. Do yours?”

“How could they?” Laughing, “You just told me you would.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so nervous… Mitchie, how’ll we be able to afford it? I mean, my living away from home and us having to pay rent and our own bills and things.”

“You’re working now, aren’t you? And when you get to New York you’ll be able to say you have experience as a… uh?”

“Corsetier.”

“Yeah. And as a, uh, corsetiere you’ve got to make pretty good money, right? And I checked with my pal Don, he’s the yeoman aboard, and he told me you’ll get an allotment check of $91.30 a month, and I get paid, too, don’t forget, with a wife, about twenty-two bucks a month. I know it’s not much, but it’s enough to buy groceries with, which, by the way, we can buy at a PX, and with that and what you’ll be making we should be able to get by pretty good. I don’t know if I told you, but I’ve been taking a yeoman’s correspondence course that…” he admitted, “I’ve been ‘schluffing off’ on. But now that I’ve got a reason, I’ll get back to it, and if I make a higher grade, we’ll get more money.”

“I know you can do it, Mitchie. And now that you’ve told me, I’m sure”—she hoped—“that we’ll manage just fine… When do you think you can take leave again, so you can come home and we can, uh…” still unbelievable, finding it hard to say… “get married?”

“I checked on that, too. Right now I still have a week coming, but I’ve just had leave, and there’s other guys here that want it before our next patrol. Probably when we get back, in October.”

“October! My birthday’s in October. That’s just fine, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart! No one had ever called him sweetheart before. The familiar lump coming to his throat, “Marcie, honey, I love you!”

“Please, Mitchie, don’t ever stop saying that.” Laughing, “I must really love you. You realize that I’ll be giving up a beautiful name like Goldman for Lipensky.” Immediately realizing that what she’d said might have hurt his feelings, “Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky. God, that sounds great!”

He’d never thought of his name as being particularly ugly, and did feel a slight flush of… but, instantly placated by “Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky,” “Yeah,” he said, “the things we do for love.”

“Hi!… Mother and daddy came in, and I want to tell them.”

“Tell them what?” Rhea asked from the living room.

“I’ll tell you in a minute, Mother…” Turning her back to her, speaking softly, “Mitchie, why don’t you call your folks and let them know. Then reverse the charges and call me back, and let me know what they said.”

“Sure, honey. I’ll call back in a little while. Bye-bye.”

“Bye, Mitchie.”

“Hey, Ray,” he called. “Thanks! I’m getting married!”

“No shit?” Flipping his cigarette over the side, “Congratulations!”

“Yeah, thanks.” Going below to his locker, he took a couple of nickels from his wallet. Back topside, saluting the flag, starting down the gangway, “Got a couple’a calls I gotta make, Ray.”

“Sure, Mitchie, go ahead.”

Leaving the ship, walking to the row of telephone booths by the facility’s entrance, fishing a nickel from his pocket, Mitchell dialed “O.”

(A "Becoming" Excerpt)