In 1933…

Gustafson’s loss of composure at the mere sight of one accidentally ­exposed breast, and minutes later his wholly involuntary ejaculation at the mere touch of that breast, had been the catalyst for what, in 1933, had begun as little more than a flirtatious game to see how much power she, and her breasts, could wield. Rhea soon discovered that most of the men she met were willing to be generous to her if she was “nice” to them.

Besides the game she and her breasts played, Rhea truly believed that she deserved more out of life than her husband could, or most likely would ever be able to give her, so, while Eli was at work—usually six days a week, often for ten hours a day—she began a series of liaisons and affairs that continued for the next thirty years.

The men she was “nice” to were usually the ones in her everyday life: the banker, the jeweller, the furrier… and the local hack politician. As a means of rationalization, she must be attracted to the man… Of course the more affluent the man, the more Rhea was attracted.

As a means of protection, because of the stringent divorce laws in the state of Illinois, the man must always be married and, depending on age, importance and, of course, worth, the man, if possible, must have no less than one child.

Although Rhea did, occasionally, enjoy sex, sex itself did not usually concern her.

What did concern Rhea, however, was the power, adoration and, most especially, the material things the act gave her.

Because she had deluded herself into believing it, Rhea truly did believe that power, adoration, and “things” were imperative factors in her life, and because of this she did not, in any way consider herself a prostitute. And most certainly not a whore.

Her men friends thought of Rhea as beautiful and refined; a “dame” in need of more than her working ­stiff husband could provide, and so long as they were careful, the situation was ideal because Rhea provided a safe rendezvous for their tryst—and she was a married woman with a family after all, who was not about to advertise their liaison, or affair.

As for Eli, accustomed to receiving the benefits of his overly generous mother ­in law, If it makes Rhea happy, he thought, then it’s okay with me! So he did not question where the money came from for the things that beautified their home. Maybe, he further thought, these things will make life a little more enjoyable for Rhea. Or, They will make life a little easier for Rhea.

Improprieties of any type, especially of that magnitude, for his china doll wife on his pedestal of adoration never occurred to Eli. Maybe because he was such a “nice guy” and so well ­liked that no one ever told him, or maybe, for Eli, ignorance truly was bliss, or maybe, as the saying goes, “The husband is always the last to know.” Eli never did know… or if he did, maybe fearful of having to topple Rhea’s pedestal and lose his china doll, Eli never showed it.

Seagate, New York

 July 3, 1956

“God, Mitchell! I’m on the toilet! Can’t you get the phone?”

“Sorry, Marcie, I was, uh, busy.”

“Yeah, I know!” she said through the closed door. “The Mickey Mouse Club! Get the phone!”

“Okay, already!” Answering on the fifth ring, “Hello.”

“Mitchell, you’ve a one ­room apartment! What takes so long to answer the phone?”

“Sorry, Mom. Marcie’s on the…”

The phone hanging on the wall directly opposite the bathroom door, “Jesus!” Marsha yelled, trying to suppress laughter. “You going to tell the whole world I’m on the toilet?”

“It ain’t the whole world, it’s your mother… Mom, she’s, uh,” smiling, “on the toilet, and I was a little busy.”

“Yes, Mitchell, I know,” Rhea said teasingly. “Marsha told me how her big, strong sailor rushes home to watch The Mickey, Mouse Club.”

Laughing, “Yeah, I do!” Thinking, Jeeze, A guy can’t even watch the fuckin’ Mickey Mouse Club anymore!

“Well, tell your wife to get off, or get out; I’ve got some news for you kids.”

It had been almost two weeks since the clandestine conversation with Rhea, and since then he’d been fending off an almost constant barrage of questions from Marsha about the secret he and her mother shared. For a guy with the reputation of never being able to keep a secret, it hadn’t been easy, because on three separate occasions Marsha had rolled onto him and tickled him to death, but he still didn’t tell. Once the outside doorknob fell off and the handle shaft pulled through and he was stuck inside the toilet and she wouldn’t let him out till he told, but he didn’t. And once and—oh, yeah, that had been the toughest—during sex he had been poised to “enter” when, shoving him off, squeezing her thighs together, Marsha warned, “You’d better tell!” And Mitchell began to laugh so hard his erection reversed and he ended up rushing to the toilet to have a bowel movement… But, for some unknown reason, he did not tell.

“Mom, does this have something to do with what you told me about, uh, you know?”

“You’ll know in a minute. Now I want to talk to my daughter!”

Thinking, Shit! Why’d she tell me what she told me when she didn’t want me to say nothin’ to no one, and now, when it’s okay to say something to someone, she still don’t want to tell me anything! “Yeah, okay!” he said. “She’ll be, uh, off in a minute.” Laughing, “Marcie,” Mitchell purposely said loud enough for anyone passing in the hallway to hear, “get your butt off the toilet! Your mother wants to talk to you!”

“Mitchell,” came the voice from the other side of the door, “I’m going to kill you!” But really, Marsha was laughing, too. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”

Hearing the toilet paper roller squeak in its brackets, “She’ll be right out… So, how’s Dad?”

“He’s fine, Mitchell… Don’t you ever have anything to say to me but ‘How’s Dad?’”

“Yeah, sure I do!” Thinking a moment, “How’s you?”

The door opening, relieved, he handed the phone to Marsha, who, grabbing it from his hand, curling her upper lip, scowling at him comically, “Mother, hi!”

“Marsha, I’ve…”

“Yes, Mother,” Marsha said, “don’t worry about my husband; later on they’re coming with a big net to take him away. He’s an idiot!”

Leaning against the bathroom door jamb, Mitchell stuck his tongue out at her.

Repeating patiently, “Marsha, I’ve got some good news for you!”

“This anything to do with the secret between you and the ‘idiot,’ Mother?”

“Secret? I didn’t have any secret with ‘the idiot.’”

Sitting on a kitchen chair, “Okay, Mother, you tell me your news first then.” Reaching for his hand, “But I’ve got some really good news, too!” Smiling, looking at him, Marsha saw Mitchell’s eyebrows knit in question.

“Marsha, you remember Uncle Morrie?”

The smile leaving Marsha’s face, her voice becoming cold, “Yes, Mother,” she said sarcastically. “I certainly remember ‘Uncle Morrie’!”

Hearing the change in the tone of her voice, putting his hand beneath her chin, tilting her head upward, “What’s wrong?” Mitchell whispered.

Recognizing the icy tone of her daughter’s voice, “Marsha,” Rhea said irately as, attempting to hide her guilt, trying, as always, to cover her guilt with a façade of anger—Rhea did feel guilt! At least as much guilt as she’d allow, but yet, unwilling to admit to it all, not even to herself—“Morrie Jacobson,” she said indignantly, “did something for you and your husband that no one else that I know of could possibly have done! Now, do you want to come off your high horse and listen? Or should I hang up and call Morrie and tell him to forget it?” Though Rhea might feel remorse, she sure didn’t show remorse.

“No, Mother, I’m…” starting to say “sorry,” but really wasn’t. “No, Mother, tell me now, please.”

Trying to recapture the positive feeling she’d had a minute ago, “Okay,” Rhea said, “Morrie does ‘things’ for a lot of the politicians around town and has some big connections… Well, he got to Senator Dirksen’s press secretary and told him about Mitchell…”

Now having some idea of what her mother had been up to, not putting it past her, cutting Rhea off, “Told him what about Mitchell?” she asked excitedly.

“About me?” Poking himself in the chest with his thumb, “what about me?”

“Shhh!” Shushing him, Marsha said nothing.

“And…” Rhea went on. “Are you sitting, Marsha?”

Having some idea, her stomach jumping, “Yes, Mother, I’m sitting.”

If built of shale, one thin layer in the mountain of her guilt might well have been removed as, “Mitchell should be getting orders by Friday,” Rhea said. “He’s being transferred to an office job in the city.”

Quiet a moment, letting it sink in, “Mother! Really? You did that?”

“No, Marsha,” she said as sarcastically as her daughter had a minute ago. “Uncle Morrie did that!”

Mitchell had thought about it ever since Rhea had told him that, maybe, it might happen. “What’s happening?” But because, really, it seemed too good to be true , “What the hell’s happening?” He never really thought it would happen. “Will you please tell me what’s happening?”

“Mitchie, mother’s got a… uh, friend,”—Oh, God, this is too good to be true —that’s been able to get you transferred to an office job!”

Wondering, Who the hell’s she know? “She pulled it off!” Again wondering, What the hell kind of pull does she have? “Your mother really pulled it off! Jesus, that’s great! I can’t believe it! S and Q!”

“S and Q? What’s ‘S and Q,’ Mitchell?”

“Sustenance and quarters!” Seeing she still didn’t understand, “Marcie, they’ll pay me extra for living off the ship—for an apartment and food.” Reaching for the phone, “Let me talk to your mother!”

Sustenance and quarters, she thought, handing the phone to him. That’ll help solve the money problem.

“Mom, thank you! I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this! If you give me, uh, the name of the guy that did this for us…”

“Morrie… Morris Jacobson,” Rhea said.

Repeating, “Morris Jacobson. I’ll call, or write to thank him.”

“That would be nice, Mitchell…” Knowing there was no way that Morrie wanted to be linked to Mitchell, and especially to his mother­ in­ law, “…but I’ve already thanked him for you and Marsha.” Oh, yeah, she sure did! “Put my daughter on again, will you.”

“Yeah, Mom, sure. And thanks again!”

“Hi, Mother.”

“You said you had something you wanted to tell me, Marsha?”

Marsha had wanted, very badly, to tell her mother. But now?

Even though Rhea had done this great favor for Mitchell and herself, the mere mention of Morris Jacobson’s name, or the thought of any “uncles,” had opened a floodgate of bitter memories.

What Marsha had wanted to say—what she’d wanted to share with her mother—she no longer wanted to share, at least not at that time, not right then.

“No, Mother,” Marsha said. “I’m so excited about this, what I wanted to tell you isn’t all that important compared to this,”—Oh, yes it was—“so I’ll tell you some other time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, Mother. Say hello to daddy for me and, uh…” finding it hard to mention Morrie’s name, for whatever reason, in the same breath as her father. “…thank Morrie for us.” Although she knew Morrie had been thanked, and how he’d been thanked… Well, in Morrie’s case, Marsha just thought she knew how he had been thanked. “Bye, Mother.”

“Bye, Marsha.”

“Oh, baby!”

“Mitchie, I wanted to…”

“I can’t believe it! I’m off the ship!”

“Mitchie…”

Remembering, “Oh, there goes our honeymoon in Bermuda… Sorry.”

“Mitchell… Seriously.”

His smile fading, “What’s wrong?”

“Mitchie,” taking his hand, leading him to the sofa, “I’ve something important to tell you.” Sitting apart from him, not knowing… Having no idea what his reaction might be. Wanting to see his face, wanting to see his reaction. “I’ve always been pretty regular…”

Slightly alarmed by her demeanor, “‘Regular’?”

“My period. My periods have always been between the 25th and 28th of each month…”

Not realizing what she was trying to say, or its importance, “Yeah,” he interrupted, “except when we got married, huh!”

A bit annoyed at the interruption, “Well, yeah, that’s right,” she said. “Now please, Mitch, let me finish!” Placing his hand on her stomach, softening the tone of her voice, “A few weeks ago, when we came back from the fireworks and took a shower together… Remember?”

“Sure!” he said, nodding his head. “Yeah!” He sure did remember, and was looking forward to doing that again, real soon!

“Well, Mitchie, we didn’t use a rubber, and…”

“Marcie?” Beginning to understand what she was trying to tell him. “Once! One time without a rubber and you’re, uh…”

“Pregnant, Mitchie.” Watching his face, seeing his mouth drop open, “Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I think… No, I know I’m pregnant!”

Their unblinking eyes locked.

His hand on her stomach had been still, but now, moving in a circular motion, lowering his eyes, watching his hand, which seemed to be moving by its own volition, “Marcie… I don’t know what to say.” Quiet a moment, “You, uh, want a baby now?”

“Oh, yes!” Said emphatically, “I want a baby so badly, I can’t even tell you how much!”

At that moment, “But, Marcie,” his thoughts shooting off in different directions, “how’ll we live?” Looking about the one ­room apartment, “Where’ll we live? How will we be able to afford a baby without you working?” In near panic, “My God, there’s so much we’ll need for it!”

“Mitchie,” placing her finger over his lips, “shhh, Mitchie.”

He stopped speaking.

“First off, forget everything else: the money, where and how we’ll live. First off, Mitch, first thing… do you want a baby? Do you want to be a daddy?”

Throughout his life, whenever he’d been in love, Mitchell had loved wholeheartedly, always feeling as though there was not enough room in his heart to contain the emotions he felt. The loneliest times of his life… The worst times of his life, had been when he’d had no one to love.

Now, Do I want a baby? he thought. Do I want to be—the thought incomprehensible, the thought actually inconceivable—a father? Do I want a part of Marsha and me to love? To always, no matter what, to always love! Do I want, oh, God, to be a daddy? “Oh, God,” he said, “yes!” Tears coming to his eyes, “Yes, Marcie, I do!” Hugging her, “I do! I love you!”

Waiting, hoping for this response, “I love you, too!” Relieved, “Mitchie, I love you so much!”

Marsha and Mitchell kissed and…

Though their tongues touched, this kiss, oddly, was not sensual, this kiss was…? Spiritual.

Both sensed this and, though not prone to easy tears, Marsha’s tears came, too.

But their kiss, no matter how spiritual, because Marsha and Mitchell were human after all, soon became sensual, and in a rather short time, the sofa bed now open…

Her on her back. He above, on his stomach, at a right angle to her.

Thrilling him as always, Marsha’s bare breasts cushioned against his bare chest, the now passionate kiss breaking, looking at her breasts, wondering, as always, at their beauty, holding one within both hands, rubbing his lips over the nipple… then his tongue… Then, his mouth covered it completely as, scooting lower on the bed, leaving her breast, his tongue fondled Marsha’s navel a moment, then stopping, laying the side of his face flat upon her stomach… Mitchell did not move.

Taking a few seconds to realize what he was doing, entwining the fingers of one hand in his hair, placing her other hand flat onto his back, feeling the motion of his heart, as…

Inches away, Mitchell saw the rise of Marsha’s mound, the black of her hair, the slim roundness of her thighs, her long legs and thin feet, and… Usually by now, his head, along with his mouth and tongue, would be attempting to move downward, while Marsha, depending on whether she was fresh out of a shower or bath and whether she wanted him to do that now, would either be allowing him to go further, or stopping the downward movement of his head, along with his mouth and tongue, but…

No matter, because, lying still, hearing the soft, fluid sounds of his wife’s stomach, Mitchell thought of what, even at that moment, was growing within… was growing within this beloved stomach that the side of his face now rested upon.

                                     * * *

Throughout his life, since Mitchell had become old enough to realize, his penis had always been the most self ­serving member of his body, a source of, most often, frustration and, most often, self ­gained pleasure. The fluid that, most pleasurably, came from within was the result of that enjoyable, albeit, most often self­ gained pleasure and, yes, since he was old enough to know, of course he’d known that that fluid was one of the major components that formed human life, but…

To do it!

To really…

To actually make a baby with his penis; with his fluid?

Now, lying as he was, with his cheek in the soft hollow of his wife’s stomach and to know, to know that he had done it! That he, he and his self­ serving penis had actually made a baby was…

That he had actually made a baby was—truly, it always is—nothing short of a miracle, and…

Mitchell felt such an overflowing of love for that which he had… for that whom he now lay next to, for that which was not yet born, that once again his sentiments became too much to contain and—the many times throughout his life when his emotions had opened the valves to his heart and eyes he’d felt less than manly, now—fighting a sob, his heart lurching, biting his lip against the stinging behind his eyes and the pain within his throat, but…

With her hand flat upon his back, feeling the catch within his chest, “Shhh,” Marsha whispered to her husband. “Shhh, my baby.”

Of all of God’s miracles…

Of all of God’s miracles, to Mitchell Lipensky, one synonymous with the other, woman- kind and love, above all else, is the most wondrous.

As for Marsha Goldman Lipensky…