“No, Mitchell,” Throwing a stone into the water, making a long-lasting, reverberating ripple, “you two are not spending the night together, alone!”

“What do you mean, ‘we’re not spending the night alone’?”

“She was supposed to tell you!” Rhea said angrily. “I told her to tell you!”

“Tell me what?”

“What? What I said: that the two of you are not spending the night together, alone!”

“Why?” Sitting up in the seat, glaring at Rhea. “We will be married, won’t we?”

“Marsha, you tell him, now!”

“Mitchie,” she said haltingly, “in the eyes of God…” looking beseechingly at her mother, who, nodding her head emphatically, gave her daughter a go-ahead sign. “Uh, on Monday,” turning her face to the window, “in the eyes of God…” speaking as though by rote, “we won’t really be married.”

“What in the hell do you mean, we won’t really be married in the eyes of God? Who’s that religious all of a sudden?”

“Calm down, Mitchell! Monday is only a formality, and as far as we’re concerned,” nudging Myra with her knee, looking for support, but this had been all Rhea’s idea and Myra drove without comment. “…until you’re married by a rabbi, as far as your mother and I are concerned,” glancing at Myra, “you are not married in the eyes of God! And we want you to promise us, Mitchell, that you will not have, uh,” Marsha had, under great coercion, promised to take care of this, and Rhea was struggling to find, and say, the proper words. “…sex, uh, intercourse with my daughter.”

“Your daughter? My wife, you mean! I can’t believe this! Marsha, is this the way you want it?”

Knowing her morals, this, coming from Rhea at any other time would be ludicrous. But for the first time in her life Marsha was enjoying her mother’s attention—to say nothing of her money—and also, for the very first time in her life she felt loved by her mother. So, continuing to look out the window, “Yes,” she mumbled, “I guess so.”

“My daughter’s already promised us, and I want you to promise us, too, Mitchell, your mother and me, that you won’t, uh, do… it… until after the real wedding.”

“You know, Mrs. Goldman, I…”

“Rhea. If you want to, it’s okay to call me Rhea.”

“Okay, Rhea. I really don’t understand this!”

“I am spending a lot of money for a white gown! Do you know why a bride wears white, Mitchell?” Not waiting for an answer, “I’ll tell you why. It’s because white is the virginal color, and if Marsha is not a virgin when she gets married…”

“But we will be married!”

“When she really gets married,” looking at her daughter, “in the eyes of God, if she is not a virgin she does not deserve to wear the white gown!” Her dark eyes shift, looking into Mitchell’s first, then—as she’d turned from the window—Marsha’s. “Do you understand me, Mitchell?”

No answer.

“Myra, you agree with me!” Nudging her again, harder, “Don’t you!”

Stopping for a traffic light, turning, looking at her son, trying to lighten the situation, “Look, you kids have all your lives to get laid. Just remember, you’re not really married…”

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” Mitchell said wearily, “in the eyes of God.”

“…until you break the glass under the huppe.” Looking forward, she accelerated away from the light.

“So, Mitchell, do I have your promise?”

“Rhea, I am not going to rape your daughter!” he said angrily. “If she’s promised she won’t, and if she doesn’t want me to, then it doesn’t matter whether I promise or not, because I love Marsha, and I would never do anything to her that she doesn’t want me to!”

“Okay, then it’s settled.” Turning, Rhea looked forward.

Oh, God! Mitchell thought. You’re going to drag this on forever, aren’t you? What have you got against me ever getting fucked… even by my own wife?

 October 15, 1955

“Mitchell, but I want you to do it this way!”

“But, Mom, it’s so embarrassing! I can’t understand why you want me to do this, now.”

“Mitchie, for me. Please, do it for me!”

Saturday evening: Both families, including Morris and Jennie, and Roger and Brenda, were at the Lipenskys for a combination engagement and nineteenth birthday party for Marsha. Having served coffee and birthday cake, after Marsha had blown out the candles, Myra had motioned for Mitchell to follow her into the den, where she’d handed him the small, square box that she’d insisted Rhea give her earlier when Myra had demanded, “I went along with you; now you go along with me!”

Returning to the dining room, Myra took her place at the foot of the table and Mitchell went back to his seat alongside Marsha, who looked at him questioningly, but, looking straight ahead, he said nothing.

Tapping her glass with a spoon, “Everyone!”

Conversation stopping, all eyes turned to Myra.

“Mitchell has an announcement to make.”

“Uh,” turning to Marsha, “Marcie, I…”

“Stand up!” Myra commanded. “Stand up so we can all hear you.”

Standing, looking down at Marsha, reaching into his pocket he removed the black box, opened it and—surprised at the size and beauty of the ring—“Ehhh-ehhh!” Nervously clearing his throat, “Uh, Marsha…” looking at Myra, who motioned for him to go ahead. “I love you and, ehhh-ehhh, will you marry me?” Becoming red in the face, without waiting for Marsha to answer, lifting her hand, the wrong hand, Mitchell put the ring on her finger, the wrong finger of the wrong hand.

Looking down at the ring, then up to Mitchell, Marsha felt embarrassment for both him and herself. She looked at Myra, who had a satisfied, smug look on her face and, though she had come close a few times, now for the first time since meeting her, Marsha allowed herself the thought, I hate her! Unwilling to prolong the embarrassment longer than necessary, shifting the ring to the proper hand and finger, “Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. Standing, she kissed him lightly on the lips, glanced at her mother, and sat down.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Mitchell gladly followed.

“Marsha,” Myra asked, “haven’t you something for Mitchell, too?”

Refusing to be manipulated, “Something for Mitchell?” Pretending to think, “No,” she said, “I don’t think so.”

Glaring at her a moment, “Walter,” turning to her husband, “I thought you were going to take some pictures.”

“Oh, yeah!” Going to the den, returning with a camera, posing everyone around Marsha and Mitchell, Walter took a number of pictures at the table, then in the living room… “Marsha,” sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by Roger, a very pregnant Brenda, and Larry and Morton, “hold your hand up so we can see the ring.”

Holding her hand forward, showing the ring, “Sure, Skipper.”

The picture taking through, “How’s about opening some presents!”