__________________________________________________________________
As for Roger: Again, like many older sibling, Roger would go out of his way to be spiteful, and mentally and physically hurtful to his younger sister. But primarily picking up on the actions of his mother and aunts, mostly Roger ignored Marsha too.
As for Marsha: As a young girl shunted from one aunt to the other, as she grew older, when not in the home of her aunts, given money by mother’s “friends” or “uncles” and shoved outside and later warned—and sometimes beaten by her mother and warned—constantly to, “not ever, ever, say anything to your father!”
Though never catching Rhea as Roger had, eventually Marsha realized what her mother did while she was with her aunts, or out in the cold, or heat, or snow, or rain. But out of fear of her mother and brother, and because of her love for her father, and knowing how he loved his wife and not wanting to see him hurt, and most certainly not wanting her parents to divorce and then being sent to live with gypsies, Marsha said nothing to her father.
What began as a conspiracy by two sisters to teach a mother to care for her daughter, became an unlearned lesson for the mother… and a lifelong punishment for the daughter.
Retrospective: Chicago, Illinois—Lakeside, Michigan; 1944: Continuing….
In the cove of summer cottages, three were owned by the sisters, one by the Wolfs, and the other four by people that became known to Marsha as uncles Gene, George, Adam and Noah, and aunts Riva, Ruth, Estelle and Mina.
Bringing most of what would be needed, some of the families had made the trip to Lakeside over the Memorial Day weekend for the purpose of having the utilities turned on and the cottages cleaned and ready for occupancy once school ended.
As Harry Rafkin’s Cadillac pulled into the cove, the people that had arrived the day before or earlier that day came out of their cottages to greet the newcomers. A few of the summer friends had not seen or even spoken to each other since Labor Day the year before.
As the men unpacked the car, the women put the perishables into their refrigerators and the canned goods on the shelves. Beds were made with fresh, sweet smelling linens. The faucets to sinks and bathtubs were turned on and the water ran brown with rust, then clean and clear.
Although some of the people did not mind drinking it, the tap water did have a strong sulphur odor. So once unpacked, pulling an old, rusted wagon, the three men went across the highway to a nearby woods that had a swift running stream of sweet, cold water. On the wagon were four empty five gallon bottles for the water… and a full bottle of mosquito repellent.
Some of the children were given money along with ration tickets and sent down the road to the Red Dot Grocery to buy milk and butter, where they were greeted warmly by Dorothy, the owner.
****
WOOMPFF!
Twelve years later, though Marsha did not remember or realize why, when it happened to Mitchell it seemed vaguely familiar and for some reason very funny.
****
WOOMPFF!
“Goddamnit!”
Laughing, “Stanley’s done it again!” Rhea said to Sadie.
In the kitchen, “Jesus Christ!” on his hands and knees, “I hate it when that happens!” In front of the water heater, Stanley Bernstein had—although since it had become a yearly, beginning of summer ritual, one would think Stanley would learn after the first two times that he’d had part of his left eyebrow and all of the hair singed off his right arm—done it once again.
“Stanley,” Ida scolded, “if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: light the match before you turn the gas on. And if the match breaks or goes out, give it a chance to air out before you try lighting it again!”
“That fu…” remembering there were children and ladies present, “uh, goddamned water heater gets me every goddamned time! So,” he asked angrily, “do I have any eyebrow left?”
Suppressing a giggle as she smoothed butter over her husband’s recently denuded arm, “Yes, Stanley,” Ida answered. “Uh, some of it… more or less. ”
****
The delicious odor of barbecuing hamburgers and hot dogs wafting over the cove, the children sat on the grass or the wooden steps of the cottages reacquainting themselves, getting caught up on “what’s new” and what happened to whom over the past ten months as they’d waited for Uncle Harry to call…
“Hey, who’s ready for lunch?”
Being a butcher with his own shop, Harry was able, at times, to sneak some meat products past the scrutiny of the war rationing inspectors. Harry rationalized his unpatriotic behavior by sharing the meat with his close friends and relatives on special occasions.
The opening of summer was one of those special occasions.
Crowding around the brick barbecue in front of the Rafkin cottage—that Harry, with the help of Eli and Stan, had built last summer—the entire group joined in the feast.
Lunch over, changing into their bathing suits, Leonora “Leni” Field, the daughter of the family who owned the cottage directly across from the Goldman’s; Sharon Wolf; Marsha; and Maxine Bernstein, Marsha’s best friend and younger cousin—by four months—went to the beach.
The girls walked along the dirt road, across the cracked asphalt of the “old highway” then, rather than going the additional hundred yards to the public beach access, scrambling down the well beaten path of a fairly steep embankment…
There it is!
“Oh, God!”
“Can you believe it?”
“We’re back! We’re really back!”
The beach!
Savoring the moment, the girls stood in the hot sand shading their eyes against the million pinpoints of the sun’s glare on the rippling water… Then, feeling the burning sand on the soles of their, as yet untoughened feet, they dashed to the dark sand at water’s edge and the lapping coolness of Lake Michigan.
Looking for the familiar faces of summers past, the four girls trudged through sand and shallow water to their longstanding special place behind the Red Dot Grocery, halfway between the water’s edge and the tall embankment.
Running as far toward the misty horizon as the eye will allow, the crooked shoreline followed a slight curve in both directions. Looking to the south, towards Union Pier, rising eerily out of sand and water, like the broken ribs of a beached, long dead prehistoric monster, were the hazy remnants of the old, burnt pier that, so rumor had it, was the result of a 1920s gun battle between federal agents and a gang of Al Capon’s bootleggers.
Walking in the opposite direction, the girls passed a group of teenage boys who were—what else?—looking for girls. But passing this group of spindly legged, flat chested girls, the boys did not venture even a cursory backward glance… this year.
Approaching “their spot,” the girls saw that there were adults with young children, some kids their age they didn’t know, and…
“Hey!” Starting to run, “Hey, look!” her blanket and towel trailing behind, “Shelly!” small geysers of hot sand, that were thrown up by the motion of her feet stinging the backs of her calves, “Shelly, hi!”
Hearing her name called, a plump, sunburned girl with frizzy red hair looked up. Shading her eyes with the palm of her hand, “Marcie!” bounding off her blanket. Running to each other, the two girls embraced for a moment, then, in a high pitched, animated conversation, walked back to Shelly’s blanket.
Over the entire beach, blankets were spread on patches of sand that became each person’s, or group’s, territory, their private spot. And unless some adult or another kid unknowingly trespassed, that was precisely where that person or group could be found on any beach day.
Vacation had officially started.
****
But then, on Sunday evening…
“Don’t look so sad! Mother and I’ll be back on Friday. I’ll see you Friday evening! Okay?” Tilting her head upward, “Okay, baby?” Kissing her forehead, Eli got into the back seat.
Hugging Roger, Rhea kissed his cheek.
Turning away as Marsha approached, leaving the girl standing awkwardly by herself, stepping into the car, Rhea sat alongside her husband and, slamming the door shut, leaning her head through the window, blowing a kiss to her daughter, “Bye, Marsha!”
Starting the car, Harry Rafkin reversed to the right, put his arm out the window, waved to his family one last time, shifted to first, then stepped lightly on the accelerator.
As the Cadillac pulled out of the cove and turned to the left, poking her head through the window again, “Bye, kids, I’ll see you on Friday!” Rhea threw a kiss in the direction of her two children.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Roger turned away and, letting the screen door slam shut, walked into the cottage.
Wisps of brown dust thrown by the car’s wheels still floating on air, looking at the spot where it had been, Marsha listened to the lowering pitch of the sound of the car’s motor. As the car’s gears went from low to high, the sound became faint… then disappeared.
Slamming screen doors reverberated as children, and their mothers, went into cottages together.
She was, once again, alone.
Five months from her eighth birthday, Marsha Goldman was tall for her age; tall and thin. Showing little muscle tone, Marsha’s calves, thighs, buttocks and stomach were straight, starting and ending with only the slightest protuberance. Marsha had short-cut, tightly curled black hair and dark brown, expressive eyes. Her mouth was small and her nose, a gift from her father, had a slight hook and was, for a child, a bit longer than best suited for her oval shaped face. A gift from her mother, Marsha had a smooth, olive complexion that—even with but one weekend in the sun—was showing the beginnings of a deep, golden tan.
Sighing, fighting tears, turning from the lost sight and sound of the automobile, slowly walking up the four wooden steps, also letting the screen door slam shut, Marsha went through the screened porch into the cottage.
At the kitchen sink, Roger was spreading thick layers of jelly and peanut butter onto two slices of Silvercup bread.
Scrapping a straight backed, wooden chair across the linoleum covered floor, sitting at the red and white checkered oilcloth covered table, Marsha waited as her brother poured a glass of milk, put the milk and jelly back into the refrigerator, slammed the door shut with his behind and sat across from her.
“Roge, why’s mother hate me so much?” Her left elbow on the table, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, looking intently at her brother, the girl awaited his answer.
Biting into the gloppy sandwich, deliberately chewing noisily and slowly, Roger washed it down with a large gulp of milk before answering. “She doesn’t hate you, Marsha. Mother loooves you!”
The sarcasm lost on his sister, “How can you say that, Roge? She hates me! The only time she ever even talks to me is when she’s hollering, and she never touches me or kisses me or nothin’!”
“Oh, yeah! How’s ’bout just last night, then?”
Marsha thought back.
They had had dinner at the Rafkin’s. Afterwards the families had sat in the living room talking, Uncle Stan on the sofa and, leaning against the sofa, Aunt Ida on the carpeted floor between his legs. Stan and Ida’s daughter, Maxine, was sitting between her mother’s outstretched legs as Ida brushed her daughter’s long, light blonde hair.
On the floor also, her back against the easy chair Eli sat on, smoking, Rhea held a large glass ashtray on her lap.
Lying on her stomach on the floor alongside her mother, suddenly, for one fleeting, joyful moment, Marsha felt the touch of her mother’s hand in her hair… Then, Roger coming in the room, as though caught in the act of doing something to be ashamed of, as though caught within the embrace of one of her lovers, Rhea hastily jerked her hand away. It had happened so quickly that Marsha was not sure it had really happened at all, and if it did, if Roger had even seen it.
“You mean in Aunt Sadie’s living room?”
“Yeah! She was touchin’ you then!”
“How can you say that, Roge? She was only trying to show Aunt Sadie and Aunt Ida that once in a while even she can be a mother, too. And it’s the only time that I can remember her ever touching me without pulling my hair or hitting me or pinching me!”
“Look, I don’t wanna talk ’bout this no more an’—actually Roger was glad when his parents left them alone, because then he was able to eat what he wanted and was able to come and go as he wanted… and was able to do whatever he wanted to his sister—I gotta get goin’!” Standing, leaving his glass, dish, and napkin on the table, jerking his thumb in the direction of the sink and open bottle of peanut butter that he’d left, “I’m gonna meet the guys over at the Palladium, so how’s ’bout cleanin’ this up for me!” Spoken not as a question, but a demand.
“Roge, wait!” Marsha hesitated, considered, then, “I wanna ask you somethin’ ’bout’ somethin’.”
“Yeah, okay, but,” looking at his watch, “make it fast!”
Marsha had wanted to talk to her brother about this for some time, but had been afraid. Hesitating again, wondering if she should say anything at all.
“So?”
“Roge…” faltering, “you know mother, uh, mother sometimes does bad things with other men…”
In the past thinking she had to know, nonetheless embarrassed that his sister did know, embarrassed that anyone knew about his mother—and his sexual fantasy—Roger simultaneously seized the back of a chair with one hand and flung it across the kitchen as he slapped her face with his other hand causing the frightened girl’s head to fall from the palm of her hand. Twisting his fingers tightly in Marsha’s hair, Roger jerked upward then pushed downward, smashing his seven year old sister’s forehead hard onto the table. “Don’t’ch’ya ever, ever say that to me…” twisting her hair in his fist so Marsha’s neck wrenched and her face turned upward. “…or anyone! Ever! Don’t’ch’ya ever!” Yanking her hair, the upward pressure pulling Marsha’s eyes open, forced her off the chair, onto her feet, “If you ever tell anyone, maybe dad’ll kill her…” shaking her head by her hair, his spittle spraying her face, “or maybe they’ll get a divorce like Myron’s ma’n’pa; an’ if they do you’n’me’ll be alone an’ I’ll give you away to gypsies an’ you’ll never see no one you know again!” Aware of Marsha’s love for their father, Roger added, “An’ especially you’ll never, never get to see your daddy again ’cause he’ll hate you for tellin’! An’ it’ll all be your fault! Hear me?” Shaking her head by her hair. “You understand what I’m tellin’ you? You understand?”
In pain, “Yes!” Terrified, she tried to nod her head, but, her hair held so tightly she could barely move it. “Roger, please! You’re hurting me! Please let me go! I promise I won’t say anything to anyone! Please let me go! Please!”
Breathing harshly, Roger opened his fist and Marsha slumped onto the chair. “Just you remember!” Holding his clenched fist under her nose, “Don’t’ch’ya tell no one! Never!
Crying tears of sadness, pain, and fear, “Roger, I’ve known ’bout mother and other men since I was little and I never told no one and I’d never tell daddy ’cause it would make him feel so bad knowing mother doesn’t love him.”
“Well, it don’t mean she don’t love him, it just means she’s…” Having no idea how to explain his thoughts regarding their mother, Roger stopped speaking, went into the bedroom he shared with his sister and returned a moment later with his White Sox jacket. “Look, I don’t wanna talk ’bout this no more, an’ I’m late now an’ goin’ an’ don’t know when I’ll be back.” Starting out the cottage door, turning back, once again making a fist, “If you ever say a word…”
Her eyes focused on the menacing fist, Marsha said nothing, but the fear on her face telling Roger all he had to know, turning away, his heavy footsteps echoing in the cinderblock raised cottage, stomping outside, Roger angrily slammed the screen door behind him.
Sitting perfectly still, trying to overcome the outburst of her brother’s anger and the fear he’d instilled in her, although her eyes were focused on some distant point far beyond the closed screen door, the peripheral vision of Marsha’s mind saw only the absolute emptiness of the small cottage.
In a while she rose from the table, went to the refrigerator, took the jelly and milk out, made a thinly spread peanut butter and jelly sandwich, placed it on a paper towel, poured half a glass of milk and—having been warned, knowing how fast ants can come from nowhere—she put the milk, jelly and peanut butter away. Marsha then cleared her brother’s glass from the table, washed and dried it, washed the table, sink and counter with a soapy dishcloth, turned the radio on and went to the screened porch where she sat on a canvas lawn chair with the sandwich that she picked at with her fingertips.
“Amos’n’Andy” was on the radio, but sitting in the by then semidarkness of the screened porch, looking directly across the cove through the screened porch of the Field cottage, Marsha did not notice nor hear “Amos’n’Andy.” What she did hear and see though was laughter, and Marsha watched enviously as Leni and her mother sat at the table in their brightly lit kitchen playing checkers.
