Atlantic Ocean: Streamers

Winter Patrol

November 5, 1955, to December 12, 1955

A piercing, glacial wind howling across the yawing deck, solid sheets of frigid water and salt spray blew across the superstructure. The prow of Halfmoon, rising from the water, slammed back with a jarring crash.

His watch cap pulled low on his forehead, wet and cold and even though he wore foul-weather gear and layers of clothing beneath, still, spray coming through the collar trickled down his neck.

Standing on the port side of the lookout bridge, he tried to find a place where there was even minimal protection from wind and water, but the pitching ship offered no concealment.

Glancing at the luminous face of his watch: 0557.

“Fuck!” Not sure if he’d said it because there were still two hours left to this miserable watch, or because of his miserable—Why’d I do it?—thoughts. Why? Am I that fuckin’ lonely? Actually, yes. Am I that fuckin’ hard-up? Actually, yes. “Shit!” She ain’t even all that fuckin’ pretty!

The frustration of, once again, being cheated out of intercourse, even though he was married, even though it was justifiably and legally right had been on his mind since the start of this patrol and highly negative thoughts had festered and filled his heart with doubts about Marsha, himself and, most certainly, about their marriage.

If her fuckin’ mother had stayed in her room another minute! One minute more! Shit, five seconds later and I’d been there!—the thought still incomprehensible—Inside her! He thought reverently, Inside Marsha!

Due to circumstances throughout his life that had made actual penile penetration impossible, the completion of the sexual act, in Mitchell Lipensky’s mind seemed an impossibility, and even when he does do it, if he ever does it, that in some way, some how… in this respect, more and more, Mitchell had actually come to believe—and maybe so—that God was truly against him.

But then again, considering the potency of a healthy, twenty-one-year-old male and the fertility of a healthy, nineteen-year-old female, and the fact that the healthy, twenty-one-year-old male did not have a prophylactic handy, maybe, after all, God may not have been against him.

And all of a sudden, he thought, why all of these fuckin’ problems?

At first the complaints that he’d received from Marsha and his mother seemed minor, and more than likely gross exaggerations.

But for the last few weeks…

“Mitchell, your future mother-in-law…” Future?

“Mitchell, your future wife…” Future?

“Marsha never calls anymore.”

“Marsha won’t let me tell her anything!”

“Marsha includes me only when she absolutely has to!”

And the big one, oh, yeah, the real big one…

“Marsha refuses to address me when she talks to me.”

And Marsha! And Marsha! And Marsha!

Also…

“Mitchie, I don’t know what’s wrong with your mother!”

“Mitchie, I can’t seem to do anything to please your mother!”

“Whenever I talk to your mother she sounds like she’s mad at me.”

“I can’t ever do enough for your mother!”

“I don’t know what your mother wants from me!”

“Your mother!” “Your mother!” “Your mother!”

“Marsha this!” “Your mother that!” “Marsha…” “Your mother…”

“Fuck it!” “Fuck it!” “Fuck it!”

Hunching his head lower into his jacket. Pulling his watch cap lower onto his head. Jamming his hands even deeper into his pockets, Maybe we shouldn’t have done it, he thought. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married. As black waves surged beneath the ship, black thoughts surged through Mitchell’s mind, and heart. But we did! he reasoned. We’re really married! Rather than the wonder he felt when he was with Marsha, Mitchell now thought of his marriage as a sentence and again, Shit, we never even screwed! And a nagging thought came to mind, a thought he’d put down each time he’d thought it. But now, letting it surface, he remembered hearing: “When a guy’s married, until he and the girl screw, they’re not really married, and the guy can get it…?” Thinking, trying to remember the word…

The yawing ship, the biting wind, the frigid spray and drab sky coloring the world exactly to his depressed mood…

Remembering, he said the word aloud, but, the wind carrying the word away, as though the word was the solution, saying it louder: “Annulled! I can get the whole fuckin’ thing annulled!”

Digging its way through, in the distance a thin stream of light pierced the clouds and shone, beacon-like, onto the roiling ocean below.

Mitchell’s eyes focused on the streamer of early morning light, But, he rationalized, her parents have spent so much for the wedding. As the adage, “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” for Mitchell, now, where there was light, there was hope and, the beam of light bringing a ray of optimism, But she loves me! he thought. Maybe even more than anyone ever has or ever will! Remembering! He remembered a sad time in the past when he’d said these exact words to a different girl under yet worse circumstances. And lo, now another positive thought came to mind… And the apartment’s great!

The two-story elevator building was owned by Harry and Clara Tennenbaum.

Because the Tennenbaums had known Aunt Ida for years and, thinking of him as “a nice Jewish boy,” not only had Clara given Mitchell the lowest possible rent, but, as the building was in the process of being remodeled and refurbished, Clara had also taken the decorating of the one-room, second-floor apartment on as her own project, and had furnished it with the very best, brand-new “seconds” from her husband’s furniture factory in Brooklyn.

Closing his eyes, he could see it.

Opening the door in the plushly-carpeted hall, he stepped into the sixteen-foot wide, thirty-foot long apartment. Looking straight ahead, there are double-hung windows. About twenty feet beyond the windows is the brick wall of the neighboring building. Under the windows is a double-sized sofabed that had been upholstered in muted, floral design pastels. In front of the sofa is a blonde, glass-topped coffee table. On either side of the sofa are matching end tables with ceramic lamps. To the right of the doorway is a large dresser with the same light finish as the coffee- and end tables. To the left of the door there are two Danish modern chairs separated by a table and lamp. The entire left wall is sliding closet doors. In the far right of the apartment is the kitchen area with lavender-colored, asbestos floor tile, a white porcelain sink, a contrasting lavender Formica countertop, a new built-in oven and range, and a reconditioned Philco refrigerator. The bathroom is to the right of the kitchen. The entire apartment is painted a flat, pale lilac, and the synthetic wall-to-wall carpeting is moderately darker.

Light and cheerful, in the opinions of Mrs. Tennenbaum, Aunt Ida and himself, this apartment was the perfect place to begin a marriage.

Ready for occupancy when Halfmoon returned to Staten Island on December twelfth, five days before the “real” wedding, even though the Tennenabums were allowing occupancy, as a wedding gift to Ida Charney’s grand nephew—that nice Jewish boy and his “shayner kalleh,” [pretty bride]—the actual rental would not begin until January first.

Marsha had sent her clothing and shower gifts—pots, pans, dishes, silverware, linens and the dozens of knick-knacks that go into making a room a home—by rail-express, and the four large boxes had been accepted by Mrs. Tennenbaum and carried into the apartment by a workman.

Mitchell would have two liberties to unpack and get the apartment ready before he returned to Chicago on Friday the sixteenth, the day before the wedding. He’d even thought of ordering a telephone from New York Bell, which will have been installed by the time he got home…

Home!

The black clouds were now stippled with streamers of light and the jagged holes lined with silver.