Walter and Myra

June 15, 1944

The Daily News alongside his dish, bringing the fork to his mouth with one hand, Walter patted the crease of the newspaper with his other.

“You know, Walt, you shouldn’t have said that to Mitchell. You should have told him… Walter! Are you listening to me?”

“Huh?” Looking up from the paper. “What?”

“That’s what I thought!” She stared at him angrily. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t want the paper at the table when we’re eating!”

Folding the paper wearily, laying it on the chair next to him with exaggerated motions, “There, Myra, the paper’s not on the table anymore.” Folding his hands in front of him, staring back at his wife, “So tell me, Myra, what’s so god-damned important?”

She stared back, then dropped her eyes. “Walt, today, at the train station, you should have told Mitchell about the baby.”

“Oh, yes, Myra,” he said sarcastically, “you think the train station’s the proper place to tell your son about the birds and bees, do you?”

“No, Walt, maybe not… But a watermelon seed?”

“Come on, Myra! Jesus Christ! The kid didn’t believe that! He’s got to have some idea! Doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know, Walt. You’ve never talked to him about… things.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Myra, I never have talked to him about sex… So when, tell me, was I supposed to talk to him about sex? When he was three, or maybe four?”

“Walter, we’re having a second child, and it really bothers me that you’ve never taken the time to get to know the one we already have.” Laying her hand on his arm, Myra’s tone softened. “You never do anything with him alone, just you and your son. Don’t you think it would be a good idea for Mitchell to know he has a father?”

“God-damn-it!” Pushing away from the table so fast that, falling over, the chair clattered on the linoleum-covered floor. “That old chestnut again, eh, Myra?” Righting the chair, taking the paper, he stalked out of the kitchen.

“Walter, come back here and finish your dinner!”

“I’m not hungry!” Going to the living room, he dropped into the easy chair, opened the paper and angrily folded it back to the page he’d been reading.

Following him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, “Walt,” Myra said, “I don’t want to nag, but you’ve got to spend more time with him!”

“Myra,” lowering the paper, “we have nothing in common, the kid and me. I don’t have time to make small talk with him, and, to be honest, I don’t want to make small talk with him. He’s only been home one day… shit, one afternoon, and already Manny Kaplin stopped me on the stairs to tell me he’s been running and if we don’t make him stop they’ll call the damned landlord—again! Jesus Christ! What in the hell do we have to do to keep him quiet? Beat the crap out of him?”

“Walt, you and me, we’ve as much in common with our kid as most parents have with their kids. But sometimes you’ve got to make an extra effort; sometimes you’ve got to go out of your way. You? You never do! You work, you eat, you sleep, and you read your damned newspaper. It really wouldn’t kill you to spend some time with your son… He’s your son, Walter; you’re supposed to love him. If someone were to ask Mitchell if his father loves him, he’d probably say, ‘I don’t even think he likes me’.”

“Like him? God-damn-it!” Throwing the paper onto the floor where it scattered into loose pages and sections, “I’m always here for him, aren’t I? I worked my ass off so you could send him to that fancy military school! Didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes!” Myra said angrily, “So I could send him to that fancy military school! And, Walter, oh, God, I feel so guilty about that!”

Leaning forward, Walter brought his body closer to Myra, who leaned forward also. Their faces scant inches apart, their glaring eyes boring into each other’s, each feeling the fine spray of the other’s spittle as they screamed at each other.

“You feel guilty about what? That we sent the kid to Baylor?”

“Yes, damn it! About sending my son away from his home because of you—his father!”

“That’s a bunch of crap! Remember, he was the ‘bad kid!’ You sure told me so every day! Hell, the second I’d walk through the door that’s all I’d hear: Mitchell did this!” In a high pitched, falsetto voice, “Mitchell did that! You told me everyone said he was bad! Even our god-damned dentist! And besides, didn’t you want to make some extra money, too? And what should we have done with your son, while his mother went to work? So don’t blame me for everything!” Sitting back in the chair, Walter reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

Holding her hand forward, Myra motioned for a cigarette, too.

Handing her one, Walter lit both.

“My God, Walt, you’ve a way of always twisting everything! First off, what’s so bad about Mitchell? He runs? He makes noise? Jesus, all kids run and make noise, Walter!” Taking a deep drag, she exhaled furious streams of smoke through both nostrils. “God-damn-it! Just because those shtonks [stinkers] downstairs banged on their ceiling and that maven dentist, who doesn’t even have a kid of his own, said Mitchell was bad, is not the reason I sent my son away! Oh, no, Walter! I would never send my son away from his home because of them or because of anything any of them would say!”

“So tell me, Myra! Why’d we do it then? Seems to me, if I remember right, sending him away was your idea!”

“Oh, yes, Walter, you’re right! It was my idea! But all kids run and all kids make noise,” she repeated, “and maybe Mitchell ran a little more and made a little more noise, but I would never send my son away from his home because of that!” Taking a deep draw on the cigarette, she pointed it at her husband. “It is because of you, Walter! I sent my son away because of his father and only because of his father!”

“So you say, huh? Because of me!”

“Yes, my dear, sweet husband,” she said sarcastically, “because of you! You wanted to read your newspaper in peace!” Making jabbing motions with the cigarette, “You wanted to come home and not have the bother of a little boy climbing on your lap! So tell me, Walter, when’s the last time that little boy climbed on your lap? You wanted to sleep as late as you like on Sunday! Well, Walter, you have been able to sleep as late as you want on Sunday, haven’t you?”

She waited for him to respond, but Walter said nothing.

“And most of all…” mimicking the falsetto voice he’d used a few minutes before, “you don’t want to worry about taking the time to find something in common with ‘the kid’!” Her voice returning to normal, “And now you say to me,” mimicking again, “‘I don’t even want to take the time to make small talk with him’! Jesus, Walter!” Angrily stabbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, “Now you don’t even want to talk to your son!”

The truth in his wife’s words stinging, no longer able to hold onto his anger, Walter’s eyes dropped.

“Walt, we’re getting older, you and me,” she said kindly. “You’re thirty-eight now, and someday, believe me, Walt, a day will come, sooner than you think, when you’ll wonder where all the years went and then you’ll give anything, anything, to have your son sit on your lap. To have ‘something in common’ with your son,” tears forming in her eyes, “to just talk to your son! Walt, to have your son love you.” Leaning back on the sofa, Myra pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. “And, yes, I was wrong, too. Other mothers work and find a way to do it without sending their children away. Somehow they work things out. Walt, look…” She waited for him to look into her eyes. “We’re about two months away from having another child and Mitchell doesn’t even know that he’s going to be a big brother.” She reached for his hand. “It’s not fair to him. Dammit, Walt, it’s not fair! This evening, when he comes home from the movies, I want you to sit down with him and tell him about the baby. And maybe even,” she smiled, “about the facts of life.”

Thoughtful, Walter snuffed his cigarette out, then, easing his pose, sat back and crossed his legs. “Okay, Myra, you’re right. I will tell him about the baby, and, about ‘the birds and bees’ and maybe even…” Looking at the strewn newspaper, “Hold on.” He got up, gathered the scattered sheets, returned to the chair and thumbed through the disarrayed pages till he found the entertainment section. “Yeah! Here it is!” Looking at his wife, Walter smiled. “Tell you what! What if tomorrow Mitchell and me, just the two of us, go to the circus.” Holding the paper up, he showed her the full-page advertisement for Ringing Brothers, Barnum and Bailey. “How’s that?”

“Walt, he’ll love it!” Coming off the sofa, she sat on his lap. “Just tell me one thing. Do you remember the facts of life?”

“Yeah, I know ’em well enough to…” moving his hand from her enlarged abdomen, unbuttoning the top three buttons of her housedress… “tell ’em to a nine-year-old, emm…” holding a brassiere-encased breast, he nuzzled Myra’s neck. “But a little practice sure couldn’t hurt, to, uh, kind of refresh my memory.”

“Uh, this is only for educational purposes, huh?”

Her brassiere popped above her pregnancy-enlarged breasts, Walter’s lips found their way to a swollen nipple.

“Yeah, baby, for education… Mmmm.”

“Walt, what you say, uh…” Closing her eyes, more due to the discomfort of the pressure on her enlarged and ultra-sensitive nipple then an enjoyable sensation, but not wanting to stop him. “…will stay with him forever, so…” Knowing what he wanted, shifting her body, attempting to unbutton his fly, “use ‘the book’.”

“Yeah, the book…” Lifting Myra’s buttocks so she was then sitting more on the padded arm of the chair then on his lap, Walter was able to unbutton his pants, part the fly of his shorts and extract his penis. “…The, uh…” Feeling her hand encircle him, “‘Joy of Sex.’”

“Yes, Walt, The, uh…” Their mouths came together and their hands, one higher and one lower, explored the soft and the hard. “…‘Joy of Sex’.”

Distracted, the running footsteps clumping up the stairs were not heard, nor the key in the lock, nor the turning of the knob.

“Hi!” Standing just inside the dining room, Mitchell saw the weird sight of his fat mother on his father’s lap, almost on his father’s lap. They had their arms about each other—at least the arms he was able to see… In the past he’d seen an occasional kiss or a pat on the tush, but rarely an outright show of affection. As a matter of fact, what he usually saw was just the opposite of affection. What he usually saw was more a kind of an armed truce, and often no truce at all.

“Uh, hi!” Standing quickly, as Walter crossed his legs and grabbed a sheet of the newspaper that he’d dropped on the floor alongside his chair, Myra pulled the front of her dress closed and, “Mitchie, get washed,” she said over her shoulder as she all but ran the few steps to the bedroom. “Your dinner’s ready.”

The one sheet of newspaper pressed onto his lap, “Yeah, kiddo,” Walter asked with unusual interest, “how were the movies?”

Usually keeping the paper in as neat a form as possible, Mitchell noted the disarrayed sheets and wondered if they’d had an argument, but their arguments never ended, so far as he knew, with the show of affection that he’d just seen, and also, his father’s cheery greeting was totally out of character.

A bit bewildered, “Fine, Dad. The movie was just fine,” he answered, adding, “It’s great to be home again.”

“Yeah, Mitchie, me, too. I’m glad you’re home again, too.”

Huh? the boy thought. What’s wrong