Seagate, New York
July 1, 1956: Sammy and Abbie
It had become one of their comic rituals:
“Mitchie, I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Sighing, standing, pulling himself away from the Sunday afternoon showing of “The Million Dollar Movie”—“King Kong,” that Mitchell had seen—because he was an avid nonsports fan—almost as many times as the dollars taken to make it. “So,” he asked, “what are we having?”
Going along with the game, “Lamb chops,” Marsha answered.
“Oh.” Said in the same flat tone of voice as, going to the sink, he tore a paper towel off the roll hanging above the dishrack and, twisting it into a tight wick, looking at Marsha, “You ready?”
“Let me get the kids.” Grabbing Sammy and Abbie, opening the door to the hallway, stepping out of the apartment, “Yeah, we’re ready!”
Smiling, enjoying the game, Mitchell opened the oven door, lit the paper towel wick from one of the gas jets on the stove, laid it on the gas hole in the oven, and turned the knob…
* * * *
When Mitchell had been away on patrol, almost lonelier than she’d ever been, Marsha had felt the need to have some kind of a living creature with her; something to say goodbye to when she left for work in the morning; something to say hello to when she came home in the evening; something to say goodnight to when she went to bed at night. So after work one evening she’d stopped of at a pet shop in Bensonhurst and purchased Sammy to keep her company.
On a Saturday afternoon excursion to Long Island, spotting Abbie in the window of a bathroom accessory shop, “Marcie,” Mitchell had said, “I’ve always wanted screw on a bearskin rug!”
So they purchased Abbie and brought him home.
Sammy was a parakeet and Abbie, a caricature of a bearskin rug made of pink chenille, which Marsha and Mitchell placed on the floor in front of the television.
* * * *
Shortly after moving into the apartment, Marsha had asked Mitchell to light the oven.
The burners of the stove had a common pilot light, but the oven had to be lit by an outside flame.
Kneeling before the open oven, turning the gas on, he struck a wooden match… But the matchstick broke, so, reopening the box of Blue Diamond Matches, taking another match, he slid the box of Blue Diamond Matches shut, struck the match and… WOOMPFF!
There went all the hair on Mitchell’s hand, most of the hair on his arm, and part of an eyebrow.
Once Marsha discovered there was no serious damage, not knowing why, there was something about this that struck a familiar, humorous cord, and she had all she could do to keep from laughing as she rubbed butter over his hand, arm, and what was left of his eyebrow.
Marsha then refused to light the oven, so whenever she needed it lit, “Mitchie,” she would say, “I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven?”
With minimal enthusiasm, “Yeah,” Mitchell would reply, “I guess so.”
Then, going to the oven, having learned, using a torch made of a piece of twisted paper towel, “You ready?” he would call to Marsha.
“Let me get the kids!” she would answer. Grabbing the birdcage off the dresser and Sammy off the floor, rushing out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of “explosion range”… “Yeah, we’re ready!”
Since they’d been married, Mitchell had, playfully, tried to teach his wife two things: Early on, Marsha had refused to swear and the most, and the very worst he could possibly ever get out of her was…
“Kockie, doodie, peepee.”
Also, she would never expel gas anywhere near him. “Marcie,” he’d told her, “think of it this way: if God didn’t want us to fart, he wouldn’t have given us assholes.”
Foomp!
“Kockie, doodie, peepee… fuck!”
Standing in the hallway with the birdcage with Sammy the parakeet in one hand, and Abbie in the other, Marsha would wait until she heard the soft foomp of the oven igniting and Mitchell saying…
“Kockie, doodie, peepee… fuck!”
Then, laughing, coming back into the apartment, “Okay, schmeckel,” she’d say, “get out of the damn kitchen while I make your fuckin’ dinner!”
Marsha still refused to fart in his company, but they’d only been married for six months, and he’d taught her lots’a other real neat stuff.
Chicago, Illinois
July 3, 1956
Stopping at the ninth floor, the elevator’s stainless steel door silently slid open.
Tall and light complexioned, having close cropped, muddy gray hair, the moderately handsome man wore a crumpled seersucker suit and—his loosened tie hanging askew—a wrinkled white dress shirt open at the collar.
Glancing nervously to the left, then leaning his head around the corner, to the right, satisfied that there was no one in the hallway, stepping out of the elevator, walking quickly to the adjacent door—having called from the intercom in the outer lobby—knowing the door was ajar, pushing it open, stepping inside, “Rhea?” closing the door, the man locked it.
“Morrie, in here!”
Three steps taking him out of entry into the living room…
* * * *
Nearing age 45, Rhea remembered how she’d felt about herself earlier, when she was younger: her face, her figure, everything about her—with the exception of her thin legs, and the fact that her breasts sagged—was exactly the way she liked… She was beautiful! She knew it every time she looked in a mirror. She knew it by the way people, especially men, looked at her, by the way they treated her…
But that was not, so Rhea thought, the way it is now.
When Rhea looked in the mirror now, to her, her face was haggard, her eyes shadowed, her stomach soft and crisscrossed with stretch marks.
Actually, the pregnancy caused stretch marks had faded to barely noticeable lines across her abdomen. And, true , her stomach, hips, and buttocks were slightly larger and rounder. And yes, her facial features had softened…
But Rhea was almost 45, and the image her mirror reflected was no longer that of the young woman she’d been. What Rhea saw in the mirror then—what she found hard to accept—was the image of a mature woman.
In truth, physically, Rhea Goldman was lovelier than ever.
* * * *
Wearing a leopard skin patterned nylon robe, Rhea lay on her left side with her elbow propped on a armrest, with the side of her head resting upon the palm of her hand. The upper end of the zipper open ten to twelve inches, the purposeful position she was in—forming a deep fissure—the length of her right breast lay upon the length of the left breast.
Standing a moment, he looked at her from across the room. Crossing the room, sitting on the edge of the sofa, “We’re having the kids over tomorrow, for the Fourth, you know, and Dottie’s expecting me home to take her shopping, so I can only stay a couple of minutes, but…”
Turning onto her back, the motion caused the robe to part, exposing most of both breasts. Teasing him, reaching to him, Rhea held the back of his neck in one hand… and put the other high up on his thigh.
“Uh, I wanted to stop by to let you know that…” No longer speaking, unable to resist, pulling the tab to the zipper downward, using only his forefinger, he lifted the edge of the leopard skin patterned material that partially covered Rhea’s breast, exposing it completely.
A diminutive woman, Dorothy, Morrie’s wife, was so flat chested that her chest was actually concave, and man, always wanting that which man does not have, Morrie, of course, had a breast fetish.
“Um, to, uh…”
Her fingers, absently moving to the inner seam, touched him “there”—which caused Morrie to all but jump at her touch.
Rhea Goldman and Morris Jacobson had known each other intimately for four years. But even so, each time she touched him, there, Morrie bounced, and Rhea loved to make Morrie bounce.
“Uh,” finding his voice, “I wanted to let you know that that thing you wanted me to take care of…”
Sitting up, “For my son in law?”
Both breasts fully exposed, “Yeah.” Forcing his eyes to her face. “We kind’a lucked into something. You know, when we first talked about it…”
* * * *
At age 55, Morris Jacobson was a political hack on the north side of Chicago.
Although a hack, Morrie was an influential, well know hack—a man whom local politicians could rely on to solve many of the troublesome problems between themselves and their constituency. Because of this, Morris Jacobson was a man who had “connections” throughout city hall, including the Cook County Assessors Office, of which he’d taken monetary advantage for himself, his friends, members of his family, and also Rhea Goldman, because the way Morrie repaid Rhea for her “friendship” was that on occasion he’d pass on a bit of information regarding a “neat” piece of property that might be on the list to be confiscated by the state of Illinois in lieu of unpaid, back taxes.
Rhea then called around until she found another of her “friends” that might be interested, then relayed the information.
When a deal was made—always for thousands beneath the assessed value of the property—Rhea received a secret cash commission that she stashed in her own private safety deposit box.
This secret stash was primarily where the cash came from to pay for Marsha’s and Mitchell’s diamond engagement rings and their large wedding.
The only direct favor she had ever asked of Morrie—besides if he knew a way to get Mitchell transferred from the Halfmoon into an office job—was to “Get the fire inspector off my back!” regarding a slum apartment that she and Eli and, unknown to them, Marsha and Mitchell, had purchased with the money received from their wedding, that Rhea was holding for safekeeping. The money for the slum apartment building had come from—so Eli had been told by Rhea—Rhea’s mother, who, for some reason did not want her name on the Deed of Trust, and insisted the entire transaction be kept wholly secret from all the members of the family.
“So don’t say anything to her or anyone! Okay, Eli?” Rhea had warned.
Deep down, her three sisters and brother knew Rhea prostituted herself, but refused to admit, or hint to Eli, where their baby sister’s “extra money” came from.
Rhea’s mother still gave gifts of “things” or cash to her children. But by that time Pearl had become a bit addled anyway, so, certainly, if asked to do this by his “china doll wife” Eli was not about to mention it to the family, or speak to Pearl about her very generous gift.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave…
* * * *
“You know, when we first talked about it,” Morrie continued, “I thought I’d have a try at working it from here, from city hall, but then I ran into Jim Dickson, Senator ‘D’s’ press agent, at a fundraiser about a week ago and asked if he’d, maybe, mention it to the senator, you know, as a favor to me. So Dickson took your son in law’s name and what information you gave me and today I got a call from Washington, from Dickson…” Stopping, taking hold of Rhea’s hand, placing it palm down onto his flaccid penis, Morrie immediately sensed himself beginning to engorge.
Looking at him expectantly, “Soooo?” Rhea asked.
“Soooo…” Morrie smiled, squeezing her hand, squeezing his now fully erect penis, “it’s all taken care of! Your son in law will be getting transfer papers by Friday.”
“Morrie, thank you!” Knowing full well how Morris Jacobson wanted to be thanked, fully unzipping the robe, purposely allowing her pendulous breasts to dangle before him, taking his hands, holding both palms up in hers, holding them fractionally beneath her thick, protruding nipples, moving them grazingly, barely touching, in a small circle. “You’re wonderful, and the kids’ll thank you, too!”
Staring at her breasts, sensing the hardened tips of her nipples pleasantly searing the flesh of his palms, breathing her name, “Rhea… Do it!”
Smiling wickedly, “I thought you had to take Dottie shopping. Remember? For tomorrow.”
“Screw Dottie!” Morrie said vehemently. “I’ll tell her I got tied up in traffic! Come on, Rhea, please!”
“Sure, Morrie.” Standing, holding his hand, leading him into the bedroom, “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
Shrugging the robe off, naked now, Rhea left it where it fell. Taking a towel from the bathroom, laying it flat on the bed, going to her dresser for a bottle of hand lotion, opening it, Rhea set it on the night stand.
At six foot, one inch tall, Morris Jacobson weighed two hundred, ten pounds and, for a man his age, in his type of nonphysical work, was in fairly good shape…
But it was very understandable—for Rhea—to see why he’d married as small a woman as Dorothy, and why he always, jokingly, or maybe not so jokingly, referred to his eldest son as, “That kid with the goddamned big head!” Because…
* * * *
Except for her son when he was nearing nine years old—the last time she had seen him naked—Morris Jacobson had the smallest penis Rhea had ever seen.
The first time she’d seen him minus clothing, she had to force herself to keep from laughing, and when they’d attempted intercourse Rhea knew he had to feel lost within the breadth of her vagina… But “good old Yankee ingenuity” came into play and Rhea, having what Morrie really desired—big breasts—and Morrie, having a penis too small to feel the friction within Rhea’s vagina, believing “where there’s a will there’s a way,” Rhea came up with a solution…
Both nude now, Morrie sat with his back against the headboard, with the towel beneath both their buttocks, as, sitting with his thighs spread over hers, Rhea poured a small amount of hand lotion into the palm of her hand and squeezed it tightly over Morrie’s elongated, albeit boy sized penis as, ogling Rhea’s breasts, holding both within his hands, kneading the soft flesh between his fingers, Rhea…
* * **
And Mitchell wondered what kind of “pull” his mother in law could possibly have to get him transferred off the ship.
