Seagate, New York
July 3, 1956
Poom! Poppoppoppoppop! Poom! Poom!
A soft, palatable breeze came from the ocean. The sky darkly overcast, though neither moon nor stars shone from above, the millions of lights from Coney Island’s boardwalk and elevated structures cast an eerie bank of fog shrouded light from the east.
Thinking the tenants might use the flat roof as a sun deck, the owners of the building had had it safety fenced with six foot high chain link and, as the Tennenbaums also owned a furniture factory, they’d also upholstered two groupings of chairs and sofas in waterproof material and put them onto the roof for use by the building’s tenants.
His back propped against the padded armrest, reclining on a sofa with both legs spread forward, her back against his chest with his arms about her waist, all four hands clasped on her lap, sitting cheek to cheek, Marsha sat between his legs.
The sofa turned towards Coney Island and Brighton Beach where pre Fourth of July revellers were firing sky rockets and firecrackers, a thin stream of barely discernible light arched, wavered into the black sky and, Poom, erupted in a flower of twinkling pinpoints of silver light.
Speaking softly in her ear, “You thought of any names yet? Anyone dead you’d like to name”—about to say “it”—“the baby after?”
In the Jewish religion, newborns are often named after a deceased person, giving the child their name in Hebrew, or a reasonable facsimile of the name in English.
“No, no one I can think of. How’s about you? Any dead aunts, uncles, friends?”
The only person Mitchell knew that had died was Frankie: Frank Rizzo, a childhood friend that had been killed in Korea, but he didn’t think the name of an old Italian pal was quite what Marsha had in mind. “No,” he said. “Outside of an old pal of mine, I’m happy to say that everyone I know is still alive.”
Each savoring the comfort of the balmy night and the closeness of the other, other than the distant, Poppoppoppoppop of firecrackers, all was silent.
After a few minutes, “Well,” Mitchell said, breaking the silence, “there is a name I’ve always loved.”
The serious tone of his voice making her think, He’s kidding, “Yeah?” Turning her head to look at the shadow of his face in profile. “What name?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
Now knowing, It’s a gag, “Yeah, sure, I won’t laugh! Wha’z’it?”
“It’s a name… Well, I’ve always loved this name, and thought I’d really like to name a kid of mine some day.”
“Really, eh?” Turning her body, facing him. “So, h’vedy?” in her thick Yiddish dialect. “So tell me h’vedy, Mister Lapishky! Vhat’s dis voonderful name you been tinkin’ hof hall your facockdidah life?”
Marsha’s put on Yiddish dialect always causing him to laugh, forcing it down, giggling, “Calliope.”
“Calliope?” Marsha questioned. “Calliope Lapishky? What a name! Sounds like some kind’a venereal disease. What if it’s a boy?”
“Marcie,” he said seriously, “that’s the beauty of that name; it’s nonsexual. Calliope can be used for anyone.”
“You know, if it were anyone but you, Lapishky, I’d say you had to be kidding! But a guy with a brother named Morton Humphry…”
Holding her face, moving it to his, “I love you, baby.”
“Really? Calliope? You’ve got to be kid…”
His mood suddenly changing from frivolous to serious, his mouth cutting her words off, his hand finding the bottom of the pullover blouse she was wearing…
One thing about smaller busted women: occasionally they can go without a bra and a guy, sometimes, somehow doesn’t notice. But when that guy was Mitchell Lipensky… Always aware of Marsha’s closeness, always cognizant of her sexual presence, in his reflective mood he, somehow, hadn’t noticed and instead of feeling the slick, confining bulb of material that usually encased her breasts, the soft touch of bare, warm flesh surprised him and, the bare touch transmitting instantly from hand to upper brain to lower brain, “Ummm, Marcie!” His sudden surge of passion arcing to Marsha, igniting hers…
Somehow, not aware of the shifting of positions during the fervent kiss, sweetly pressed beneath his body, as….
Lifting the blouse to her neck, even in the darkness of the night, aided by the distant burst… Poom! of a red, white, and blue skyrocket, Mitchell saw the white of Marsha’s breasts against the tan of her chest and stomach and, both wearing old, worn Levi’s, fumbling with Marsha’s all but impossible to unbutton—especially in this position—steel buttons…
“Mitchie, don’t,” she said unconvincingly. “Someone may come up here.”
“Marcie, no one ever comes up here! There’s never anyone up here, even when the sun’s shining! Why in hell would anyone come up at night, at…” glancing at the luminous face of his watch, “10:47?” Sliding his hand beneath the band of her panties, feeling the warmth of her stomach, the silky roughness of her hair, her soft/hard mound, and the overlapping, fleshy furrow of her labia, which, with the probing of his finger, did not remain overlapping very long, as…
Feeling his touch, there, “Yeah,” she murmured, “who ever comes up here?” As, reaching to the fly of his jeans, Marsha found that, somehow, he’d unbuttoned it, and as he sometimes went without underpants because, as he told her when she’d first asked, “Why aren’t you wearing underwear?”
“Because,” he’d answered, “you never know when I might have to ‘whip it out’ really fast!”
His penis poking rigidly through the gaping fly, Mitchell was as surprised and thrilled at the unexpected feel of Marsha’s bare breasts as Marsha was surprised, thrilled, and most of all amazed at her husband’s dexterity at ‘whipping it out’ and, “How’d you do that so fast?”
“Marcie, uh,” closing his eyes as her cool hand encircled his warm penis, “’cause I’m faster than a speeding bullet.”
“Thought that was Superman.”
“Yeah? Ummm! Superman whips it out that fast, too?”
Working the buttons one handed… getting her Levi’s fully opened, sitting up, grasping the waistband of Marsha’s jeans and underpants, he attempted to pull both downward, but, widening her thighs, stopping the downward slide of her jeans and underpants, “But what if someone does come up here,” she asked again.
Shifting his body, “Marcie,” he answered again, “I told you no one ever comes up here! Come on, honey, please take ’em off!”
“Okay,” she said dubiously, “but you first.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, “I did.”
Marsha could not, could not understand how he’d dropped his jeans without her noticing and, “Mitch,” she asked in absolute wonderment, “how the hell’d you do that?”
“For a guy that’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound,” he answered, “anything’s possible!”
“Okay. But I’m telling you, Mitch, if anyone comes up here and catches us I’ll die… Then I’ll kill you!”
“Don’t worry about it!”
Holding the waistbands of her Levi’s and underpants with both hands, with the help of Marsha, as she lifted her buttocks and wiggled, he was able to pull them down. But, hung up at the angle between crotch and knees, her panties remained, which Marsha herself pulled down and off.
Uh oh. “Marcie, I don’t have a rubber.”
“It’s kind of immaterial now, don’t you think?” Thinking, I know I am, but If I’m not pregnant already, this should really do it!
Happily, “Oh, yeah, I don’t need one, do I? God, I hate those things!”
“Yeah, baby.” Feeling him slide into her well lubricated vagina, “Sure don’t have any trouble keeping it up now.” Smiling, “Knew I shouldn’t have given you that bottle of ink.”
For Mitchell, though, there was a time for joking and a time for… “Ummm, Marcie, I love making love to you, but especially love doing it without a… ummm, rubber.”
Maybe it was being outside, making love beneath the open sky, or possibly the excitement of knowing that at any moment someone may come to the roof and catch them both nude. Or maybe, for Marsha, the knowledge that she was, or would be fully impregnated. Or, for him, Marsha’s, Oh, yes! wonderfully tight vagina, and the feeling of being warmly, wetly, tightly encircled without a sensation dulling prophylactic gripping his penis.
But whatever….
Whatever the reason, Mitchell ejaculated within, at the most, a minute and a half.
And though, as usual, Marsha did not say, or show any sign that she’d had an orgasm, considering the speed in which he had, Mitchell could only hope she had because, Poom! it was over in a spectacular flash of pulsating sexual delight… for Mitchell and Marsha.
Again sensing the flow of semen into her vagina, “Mitchie?”
Still joined, catching his breath, “Yeah, baby?”
“You know you were wrong, don’t you?”
“Huh?” Breathing warmly in her ear, “Wrong about what?”
“Someone ‘came’ on the roof after all.”
****
Quiet.
The tepid breeze fluttering the curtains behind their bed, lying on their backs atop the summer quilt, he with his hands beneath his head, she with her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He, nude; she, wearing one of his T-shirts.
Unknown to the other, each thought the same thought, the unbelievable thought: that she, Marsha, was pregnant, and that he, Mitchell, was going to be a father.
Also thinking of the difference in their lives once he was off the ship, “Marcie?”
“Yeah, Mitch?”
“Your mother? I’ve asked before and you always say you’ll tell me some other time. Now’s some other time, and I think it’s time I know. Why do you dislike her so much?”
Hesitating. Wondering. Deciding. Thinking, Maybe it is time he knew, “My mother’s a whore.”
“Huh?”
Softly spoken. Said so matter of factly. “My mother is a whore.”
Turning quickly, spilling her head onto the pillow, “Marsha, how can you say such a thing about your mother?”
“How?” Turning onto her side, facing him, propping her head in her hand, “Because that’s exactly what she is!” Adding vehemently, “A whore!”
“A whore?” Speaking actually or figuratively, right or wrong, “A whore! Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, Mitchell, I know what a whore is! And she’s more than just that. Until I told her that you and I were going to be married she was also the world’s worst mother! Why do you think she insisted on making a big wedding? To make up for the guilt she felt for always treating me like I wasn’t there!” Speaking fiercely, quickly, as if wanting to get it off her chest. “All my life my mother treated me like I wasn’t there; like she wished I’d have never been born, and that all she ever wanted was my brother!”
He had seen the two women together often enough to know there was…? something wrong; that there was a strange kind of…? distance between them, kind of a…? informal formality. But the coolness, in Mitchell’s opinion, seemed to emanate more from the daughter than the mother and he felt the word “whore” was used more as a metaphor than as an actual description of his mother in law.
“But a whore, Marcie? A prostitute? A real whore? A woman that goes out and screws guys? For money?”
“Yeah, Mitchell, a whore!” Becoming angry. “A real whore! Where do you think these diamond rings came from?” To emphasize her words, she held her hand forward, then lifted Mitchell’s. “You think daddy can afford rings like these? ‘Uncle Sid’s’ the jeweler! And just where do you think all that money came from to pay for that big wedding? The caterer? The man that owns the Palmer House? The Rabbi?” About this she was not too sure herself, so offered no explanation.
“She saved it?” asked weakly. “Okay,” conceding, “I don’t know where the money came from!”
“Yeah!” Still doubting he believed her, sorry she had allowed this to come out on this night. “Okay, Mitch! Here’s one just for you! One that’s even closer! How’s about before? Just where in the hell do you think your transfer came from? Tell me!”
“Uh?”
“Yeah, ‘uh’! Just how in the hell do you think she was able to wrangle that?”
Recalling the telephone conversation earlier that evening, and the cold anger in Marsha’s voice when she’d said, “Yes, Mother, I certainly remember ‘Uncle Morrie’!”
“Morrie is your mother’s… uh…?” not knowing the word for a man that frequented prostitutes. Although he was still reluctant to think of, or even consider his mother in law as a prostitute.
“One of ’em, yeah! Mother’s been seeing ‘Uncle’ Morrie ever since I was kid. He’s some kind of a politician and knows lots of people, and mother must’a screwed the son-of-a bitch pretty damn good to get you your transfer.”
Both quiet, the thoughts of each far different than they’d been a short while before.
He, trying to absorb and believe what he’d just been told.
She, remembering…
“When I was a kid, mother would have ‘uncles’ come to our apartment, and they’d give me money to get rid of me.” Agitated with the memory, sitting up, “‘Here, kid,’ they’d say. ‘Here’s a quarter; go get an ice cream cone.’ ‘Here’s a half buck; go get a soda.’ ‘Here’s a buck; go buy yourself a toy.’ And when I got older… oh, say nine, ten years old, it was five, ten, or even twenty dollars to get rid of me, and it never mattered to mother if it was below zero or a hundred degrees outside, the bastards!”
Her voice rising, alarmed, Mitchell turned the lamp on.
Basically a modest person, Marsha was aware of how much her husband enjoyed seeing her nude, especially her breasts, and even if she often hid her feeling, she did enjoy knowing he was looking at her and occasionally would go out of her way to tease him, to see how fast she could excite him, but unless having intercourse, it was only her breasts she would purposely expose, never her naked crotch, so now…
Blinking in the sudden light, with his T-shirt raised above her waist, Mitchell looked at the dark triangle within her thighs, and though he did feel a surge of heat, considering the seriousness of the conversation, feeling he was violating a trust, his eyes moved to her face.
“The bastards always tried to get rid of me!” Marsha went on. “And when I was ten, ‘good old Morrie’ handed me ten bucks and told me to go out and buy myself a present. But I got stubborn and told him, ‘No’ and wouldn’t budge. So mother and good old Morrie had to go someplace else. Later, when she got home she beat me with a belt—the buckle end of the belt.” Stopping, catching her breath, Marsha swiped her arm across her wet eyes.
“How’s about Roger? He knows too?”
“Yeah, sure. He found out when he was a little kid, too.”
“How’s about other people? Your aunts?”
“Nobody ever said anything, at least not to me, about it. But I know they know. As a matter of fact, when I was a kid, I always thought they were mad at me because my mother was whore.”
“Like it’s your fault, huh? Your dad—how can he not know?”
Thinking, I knew this would happen! Not wanting to discuss her father, “I don’t know.”
“I can’t believe that in all those years—your aunts, your brother, you—nobody’s ever said anything to your dad!”
“Roger was terrible to me when we were younger! He used to beat me up all the time, and told me that if I ever said anything to daddy he’d really beat me up, and then mother and daddy would have to get a divorce! I didn’t even know what divorce meant then. And because I knew that if they got a divorce, it would be all my fault and everyone would hate me and they’d give me away to gypsies.” Sighing, holding back tears, “And then I’d never see my daddy again!” Hiding her face in her hands, “And that…” beginning to cry, “…and that I’d always be alone…” sobbing, barely able to get the words out, “…all by myself.”
Never able to watch anyone cry without having to fight to keep from joining them, especially someone that he loved as much as he loved Marsha, his tears coming also, “Honey, no!” Putting his arms about her, holding her closely. “No, Marcie, don’t cry. You’ll never be alone! You’ll always have me and…” patting her stomach, giggling through his tears, “little Calliope.”
“Yeah.” Uncovering her face, “Calliope Lipensky.” She smiled. “Jesus, Mitchell, you really know how to make a guy feel swell.”
“Your father, baby?” Taking her hand, “You really don’t think your dad knows about your mother?”
“No!” said defensively. “If daddy knew, he’d beat the crap out of her!” But really, Marsha knew Eli would never hurt his wife.
Mitchell could not help but think that, After all these years Eli must know something about his wife! Marsha must be kidding herself if she thinks her father doesn’t know. But not wanting to dispute Marsha, especially about this, especially regarding her father, wisely letting the subject drop, “Okay, honey, if that’s what you think.” Having no idea what else to say, turning the light off, he lay back again.
“You remember when we first met?”
“In Union Pier? Sure!”
“Yes… I was alone then.”
“What do you mean you were alone? Shelly was with you.”
“Yeah, she was, but my mother sure as hell wasn’t!”
“I didn’t know anything about your mother, but Shelly was with you when we met and Norman and me walked you girls home.”
“No! Norman walked Shelly home.” Relaxed now, Marsha laid back. “You let me go home by myself.”
“Hey, hold on! If I remember right, you called me a jerk and ran away.”
“Actually, I called you a big jerk, because you were!”
“How was I to know that anyone that looked as good as you was twelve year old jail bait?”
“Tough poop!” On her side, facing him, “You should have kept your mouth shut, walked me home first, then dropped me.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He was pretty sure she was joking, but he’d learned the best way to avoid an argument with Marsha was to agree with her, because, as so often happened between them, arguments started with only a joking or unthoughtful word. Unfortunately, at times Mitchell seemed to have a penchant for unthoughtful words. Then, in his opinion, “mountains were made out of molehills,” because, in his opinion, Marsha had a distorted perception of how a husband should react to his wife. So now he did not pursue that long ago night and just dropped it, which was advice he often gave himself. Sadly, though, it was advice that he would think of, consider what he was about to say, consider dropping it… then, more often than not, say it anyway.
****
As for Marsha...
