Reactions: Skokie/Chicago, Illinois

Conversations: Seagate, New York

 July 3, 1956

“Larry! Hi, kid! How you doing? Getting ready for your birthday?”

“Yeah! Jeeze, Mitchie, I’m really gettin’ old!”

“Yeah, all of twelve. Wow! So, now that you’re getting to be a really old fart, you getting any… you know?”

A year before, Mitchell had cause to wonder what kind of a God it was that let an eleven year ­old kid get laid while denying it to him, because at the time Lawrence had told him that he’d had intercourse with a sixteen­ year ­old girl who thought he was fifteen, while Mitchell, then just a month from his twenty ­first birthday, was still a virgin.

“Nah.” Larry glanced at his parents, but they were absorbed with “Sid and Imogene.” “just that once… You’n’Marcie okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine! Super ­duper! Mom’n’Dad around?”

“You kiddin’? Eight o’clock: Sid Ceasar!”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Guess if I’d’a called reverse, they’d both be up and straining to talk with me.”

“Yeah, I guess…” Yelling without moving the mouthpiece, “Hey…”

Nine hundred miles away, wincing, “Jesus, Larry!” Mitchell jerked the receiver from his ear.

“…Any’a you guys wanna talk to your old son?”

“We’re right here, Larry,” Mitchell heard his father say in the background. “You don’t have to shout!”

“Yeah! Here, Mitch, dad’ll talk to ya… So long.”

Annoyed at being taken from his show, going the few steps across the small room, taking the phone from his middle son, “Yeah, Mitchell?” Walter said in a distracted tone. “Seems like we just talked to you. What’s up?”

“Ready for some news? Some good news!”

“Yeah? What kind of good news?”

“I’ll give you good news number two first, and the,” speaking through his nose in a really bad imitation of Ed Sullivan, “really good news last.”

“Okay.” Nudging Lawrence, who, relinquishing the desk chair, took his father’s place on the sofa as, still watching the black ­and­ white picture on the television, Walter sat down.

“Dad,” Mitchell said excitedly, “my mother ­in ­law somehow got someone to pull some strings and guess what?” Without waiting for his father to guess what, “I’m getting transferred off the ship to an office job.”

Now, his attention turned to the phone, “Mitch, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Using political pull could go down on your record and follow you around for a long time.”

Taken back by the negative response, “Dad,” he said, “first off, it’s done. And if I’m going to work for you, why should I have to worry about my military record? And if I can get an office job with extra money to live off base, then that’s just fine with Marsha’n’me. And besides… Ready for the really good news?” Once again, not waiting for an answer, “The money’ll come in handy when the baby’s born.”

“Huh?” Standing suddenly, “What?” Walter said. “Say that again!”

Listening to the one ­sided conversation, “What’s wrong?” Coming to the desk, taking the phone from her husband, “What’s wrong?”

“Hi, Mom! I just told Dad I’m being transferred off the ship…”

Knowing there was more to the conversation than just this, “Congratulations,” Myra said half heartedly.

“…and that you’re going to be a gra’ma.”

Her mind reeling, her heart jumping, quiet a moment, thinking, A baby! Oh, my God!

Always wanting a daughter, when her third son was born, becoming depressed, Myra had refused to see or name the baby for two days, forcing Walter—much to future the chagrin of “Morton Humphrey”—to name the infant. Now, though she was overjoyed, Myra felt a pang of jealousy at the thought that her daughter ­in ­law might have what she never could: a daughter.

“Are you sure? Put Marsha on!”

“Marcie,” handing the phone over, “my mom wants to talk to you.”

“Hi!” Though courteous to her mother­ and father ­in ­law, the true reason unknown to Mitchell, Marsha flatly refused to address either by name or title.

Myra well knew that Marsha and Mitchell loved each other. But rather than looking at Marsha as, so far as she knew, a good wife to her son and, really—other than not addressing her by name—a good daughter­ in ­law to herself, and rather than accepting this as something that with patience, in time, would likely work its way out in the future, Myra had become obsessed with Marsha addressing her as “Mom” and often complained to Mitchell, who would have words with his wife. And Marsha, being a quick ­to­ anger, very stubborn person, only dug her heels in further. In the six months of their marriage, the only real arguments they’d had have been because of, and over Myra, so now…

“Congratulations, uh…”

For some people it is easier to be stubborn than others, and Myra Lipensky figured that if her daughter ­in ­law would not call her “Mom,” then she would not call her “Marsha”; but in conversation Myra’s tongue moved faster than her brain and she would stumble over her resolve. At times it was so obvious, that at times, to Marsha, her mother ­in ­law was almost comical.

“…Are you sure?”

“Well, I haven’t seen a doctor yet, if that’s what you mean. But you can make book on my period starting between the twenty ­fifth and twenty­ eighth. At the very least I’m six days late now.”

“Six days isn’t that long. Maybe you’re just late this month.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I’m pregnant!”

“Give me the phone back!” Taking it from his wife, “Marsha, you two kids are way too young! Jesus, I didn’t have a kid till I was twenty ­nine! How the hell are you two… three kids going to live?”

                                       ****

When Marsha had first met Myra and Walter, considering Myra as the type of mother she had never had, she truly loved them. But between the time Mitchell had proposed and the actual wedding, Myra had become jealous, demanding and manipulative. While at their home one evening awaiting Mitchell’s call from New York, in an unreasonable fit of anger, Myra had thrown a cup of hot coffee at Marsha and, rather than coming to her defense, Walter had turned against the frightened young woman.

Since that time, Marsha had not addressed either of them by name, as “Mom” or “Dad” or, as Walter had jokingly requested—because he owned a sailboat—as “Skipper.”

                                     ****

“Walt,” Marsha heard Myra say, “if she is pregnant then it’s too late and they’ll get by somehow.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, “Well, if you are, congratulations. Here, I’ll let you talk to, uh, your mother ­in­ law.”

Immediately, “The first thing you’ve got to do,” Myra said, “is tomorrow, you see a doctor!”

This being one of the things Marsha resented, Myra thinking she was the only one with common sense, “Tomorrow’s the Fourth!”

“Oh. Yes. Is he off tomorrow?”

“No. He’s aboard ship tomorrow.”

“Okay, then on Thursday, first thing in the morning, you call and make an appoi…”

“I know what to do!” Marsha said tiredly.

Annoyed that Marsha, as per usual, did not want her advice, “Well, if you knew what to do”—Myra behaved like a lady, but didn’t always speak as one—“then why’d the two of you screw without a rubber?”

Her back to Mitchell, eyes looking skyward, her teeth clenched, thinking, God, I hate her! Turning, looking at him, not wanting this evening of good news to turn sour, “At the moment,” Marsha said, attempting to keep her anger down, “things kind of got away from us.” Which, so far as Marsha was concerned, was a lie. Which, of course, was none of her mother ­in ­law’s business.

“Okay, if you are…” Myra’s voice softening. “Marsha, if you are pregnant, then both Walter and myself want to thank you, and tell you that we’ll love the baby as much as we do you and Mitchell.”

Oddly enough, she did! Wanting Marsha to be the daughter she never had, and expecting her to treat her as though she were her mother was part of the problem, because in her own way, Myra did love Marsha.

Softening, too, “I know you will, but Mitchell wanted to tell you first and I haven’t even told mother and daddy yet, and I want to…”

Surprised they were the first to know, cutting her off, “Your folks don’t know yet?”

“No. Mitchell wanted you to know, so we called you first.”

Touched, “That was nice of you, Marsha. But before you tell too many people, I really think it might be a good idea to talk to a doctor.”

“You’re right,” she said. “And we’re just going to tell you and my folks.” And, she thought, Rosalie and Maxine.

“That’s good… Why don’t you give me a call on Thursday, after you see a doctor.”

“Yes, I’ll do that… Bye now.”

“Goodbye, Marsha.”

                                      **** 

“Daddy, hi! I’m glad you answered the phone!”

“Marcie! Baby, how are you?” In the kitchen, eating a cold dinner because, as usual, his wife was out. “Seems like most times when you call I’m at work.”

Sitting, holding the phone close to her face with both hands, “I know, Daddy. You’re always working! Why don’t you call me when you get home once in a while, then?”

“Sorry, baby, but with the time difference, by the time I get home and take a shower it’s usually too late.”

                                     ****

Rhea was Eli’s first love, but often, and more and more as they became older, Rhea seemed…? distant, and at times so cold. Eli’s life being as bleak as it had for as long as it had was accepted by him as “how life is.” Although his daughter was his second love, Marsha was all the warmth there was, or had been in his recent life, and as much as he liked his son ­in ­law, he also hated him for taking his “baby” away.

When Marsha was younger, her “daddy’s” was the only love and attention she had received. But in order to support his family, Eli had spent long hours driving an open ­door ­bakery delivery truck—which eventually caused the loss of much of the hearing in his left ear—then, with money borrowed, ostensibly from Rhea’s mother, until it had mysteriously burnt down, a moderate ­sized bar and package liquor store. And now, “Eli’s Hamburgers & Hot Dogs,” a small but sufficient money maker near the Chicago Stadium in the skid ­row area of Chicago’s near north side.

                                    ****

“Daddy, I don’t care when you get home! I always want to talk to you and it’s okay for you to call here whenever you want!”

Listening to Marsha speak to her father, Mitchell always wondered at the warm inflection in her voice when she’d say “Daddy,” and the coldness when she would say “Mother.” He had asked about this on occasion, but Marsha had always given him the same reply: “I’ll tell you all about my mother someday, but not now!” Early on, learning the set of her face and the tone of her voice, Mitchell had learned not to push it.

“Where’s mother?” Marsha asked, knowing if Rhea was home she’d have answered the phone.

“Don’t know,” Eli answered. “She was out when I got in.”

                                      ****

As a child, Marsha had accepted every modicum of affection and attention without question and looked upon her father as her “knight in shining armor.” As she became older, she began to wonder, How can daddy not know what Mother does with other men? How can daddy not wonder where all the money comes from? And especially, How could daddy ever, ever allow mother to treat me like she treats me? Which was the reason Marsha hadn’t told Mitchell about her mother; he would have to ask, “What’s wrong with your father?” “How come he doesn’t stop her?” “How couldn’t he know what she’s been doing with those other men all these years?” “How come he didn’t ask where all the money came from, all those years?” And especially, “How could your father ever allow your mother to treat you as she’s treated you, all these years?” What could she say in defense of her father? And what if Mitchell should ask—and he most assuredly would—“How come someone didn’t tell him?” “How come you didn’t tell him?”

What could she say? How could she tell Mitchell that…

…Due to the threat of physical pain—not from her mother, because her mother rarely struck her—but from her brother whom had threatened then­ seven ­year ­old Marsha with, “If you tell daddy, he and mom’ll get a divorce and if that happens because of you”—said with his squeezing hands about her throat—“I’ll kill you!” Truly fearing her brother, the little girl said nothing. But in time, no longer fearing her brother’s threat, out of love for Eli, Marsha would do nothing to cause her father pain.

The habit ingrained, Marsha had learned to never mention her mother’s “activities,” or the financial results of those activities.

                                        ****

“How’s Mitchell?” Eli asked.

“Mitchell’s just fine, Daddy. He’s standing right here and wants to say hello to you.” Covering the mouthpiece, “Don’t say anything about the baby,” she whispered, “okay?”

Nodding his head, taking the phone, “Hi, Dad! How are you?”—the usual greeting for someone who hadn’t the slightest idea of what to say to someone when the only thing in common is the fact that his daughter happened to be your wife.

“Fine, Mitch,” Eli said. “How are things on the ship?”—the usual reply for someone when the only thing in common is the fact that your daughter happened to be his wife.

“Great Dad! I’m being transferred off the ship, and…”

In near panic, poking him, “Don’t say anything about my mother!” Marsha whispered sternly. “Don’t mention her!”

Not understanding why, “Uh…” searching for words, “I’ll be working in an office and won’t be going to sea anymore, so Marcie won’t be alone anymore.”

“Hey, that’s great, Mitch!”

“Yeah…” After a long moment’s pause, “Anyway, I’ll give the phone back to Marsha… Bye, Dad.”

Taking the phone, “Daddy…” actually glad her mother wasn’t home, and that he would be first to know, “Mitchie and me… Daddy, I’m so happy! We’re going to have a baby!”

Blinking his eyes a number of times, digesting what his daughter had said, How? he thought. How can she have a baby? She’s a baby herself! “I, uh… Marcie,”—and truly, he didn’t—“I don’t know what to say!”

“Daddy, I’m so happy! Please, just tell me you’re happy, too.”

Attempting to muster enthusiasm, “Yes! I am!” Forcing himself to sound it, “Of course I’m happy! It’s just that you’re my baby, and I can’t imagine you pregnant, having a baby! Does your mother know?”

“No. I talked to her earlier, but wanted to tell Mitchell first and that’s why I called back now.”

“Your husband, he didn’t know till now?”

“No. I was going to break the news tomorrow, but he has to be on ship, so I was going to call this evening, but then mother called, and I hadn’t told Mitchell; besides, I wanted you there when I told her so…”

“Hold, on, I think she’s home now… Re, Marsha’s on the phone, and has something to tell you…

“Baby, here’s mother. I love you! Bye-bye. Oh, and tell Mitchell congratulations… for, uh, both things.”

“I will… I love you, too, Daddy. Bye.”

“Marsha,” hearing “congratulations” but not “both things,” thinking Eli’s congratulations pertained to Mitchell’s transfer off the ship, “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again this soon.”

“Yes. Well, remember I told you I had something to tell you?”

“Yes… Eli,” Marsha heard the muffled words as, holding her hand lightly over the mouthpiece, “light a cigarette and pour a cup of coffee for me, will you? Okay, so what’s your big news?”

Annoyed at her mother for breaking into the conversation to ask her father to light a cigarette and pour a cup of coffee when she could very well do it herself and, knowing her father, in her mind’s eye, seeing him rushing about to do it, “I’m going to have a baby!” Marsha said bluntly.

Quiet… Silence, then, “You sure?” Holding her excitement down, “Are you sure?”

Repeating what Marsha had told her mother in­ law, “I haven’t seen a doctor yet, if that’s what you mean, but I’m, at the very least, six days late now, and if you’ll remember…” although sure her mother really didn’t know anything about her, “I’m always very regular.”

Pulling a chair from the table, sitting, “Yes, sure I remember!” Rhea said, but really didn’t and, because he’d become so distant since he and Brenda had Dennis, her thoughts went to Roger. “You don’t think it’s a little too soon for you and Mitchell to be having a baby?”

“If you’re talking about money, Mother…”

Thinking, Oh, God, their money! “Yes,” she said, “among other things.” Rhea truly could not understand peoples’ need, or rush to have children. All she had ever wanted was a son, one son, Roger, and even then she and Eli had been married for two years. “But to be tied down! To be having a baby this soon! Is that what you want, Marsha? What you really want?”

“Mother, that is exactly what I want! And your news came at the right time because once Mitchell’s off the ship he’ll be getting, uh…?” Looking questioningly at Mitchell.

“Subsistence and quarters.”

Nodding, yes, she said to her mother, “Subsistence and quarters. That means the Coast Guard will be paying us extra to live off the ship. And when I start to show and have to quit work… well, we’ll worry about that then.” Thinking of something, “And if I get paid as a dependent, that means they’ll probably pay more for another dependant.” Once again looking at Mitchell questioningly, who, shrugging his shoulders, made a “beats me” gesture with his hands.

Relieved that the question of their money was shelved, at least for the time being. “Okay, Marsha,” Rhea said. “If that’s what you kids want, then daddy and me wish you the best of luck. Only…”—although she often behaved like a whore, Rhea always spoke like a lady—“you two should have used a prophylactic.”

“Well, okay, Mother, if that’s what you think, but it’s a little late now, so we might just as well accept it.”

“Oh, I have, I really have. Congratulate Mitchell for me, will you, and call me after you see the doctor.”

Not sure what she had expected from her mother, feeling somewhat let down by her and her father’s reactions, after a moment of silence, “Yes, I will, Mother,” Marsha said. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Marsha.” Breaking the connection, sitting back, drawing deeply on the cigarette, “I hope it’s a boy,” she said to her husband. And once again her mind went to Roger, Brenda and Denny.

                                     ****

Married almost two years, Roger worked for his father, lived with his family in a nearby apartment, and had recently made the announcement that Brenda was in the early months of her second pregnancy.

Rhea wondered at her son’s “distance” and at the strict rules he’d made regarding her visits to see her grandson and the frequency—or rather the infrequency—of the visits, I won’t let Marsha do that to me! she thought. If it’s a boy, I’ll see him when I want and do with him what I want!