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Staten Island, New York
July 6, 1956
“Lipensky,” the command piped throughout the ship, “lay to the ship’s office!”
Waiting for it, expecting the call all day, Mitchell glanced at his watch, then at Boatswains Mate Third Class Myron Linton, who, nodding his head, said, “Yeah, go on, Lippy, but get your ass back here on the double!” Knowing that Mitchell would prolong his visit to the ship’s office for as long as possible, then most probably lay low till “secure from work parties” was announced at 1700 hours—five o’clock—in about forty minutes, Linton added, “’cause I wanna finish this before we secure.”
Covering his can of the rust inhibitor “Red Lead,” “Yeah, sure I will, Myron.” Wrapping his brush in the blue waste rag he had been using to dab drips of the stuff off the deck, he laid it across the can lid. “You know me…” opening his arms to encompass the portion of the exterior bulkhead that he and three other seamen had scraped down to bare metal earlier in the day and were now preparing for its final coat of “Coast Guard white,” “…painting this shit on fuckin’ bulkheads is my life!” Thinking, Ain’t no way I’m coming back to painting today! And, This may be the last I’ll ever have to do this shit again!
On his way below deck, Mitchell grabbed a can of paint thinner and a couple of clean waste rags. In the head, he scrubbed paint thinner across his hands and dabbed it at his face removing the drips and red streaks. Washing, he used the other waste rag to wipe his hands and face. This done, leaving the paint thinner and rags for one of the others to use, he rushed to the ship’s office.
This was Friday. Having had liberty the night before, unless the transfer did come and he was separated from the ship this evening, he would have the liberty weekend commencing at 0600 tomorrow.
Taking this afternoon off, riding the subway into Manhattan, Marsha had gone to the Public Health Hospital to see if in fact she was pregnant.
Even though he knew she wouldn’t be home, Mitchell had tried to call her during his break at 1500 hours, three o’clock.
“Hey, Wilson, hi!”
Swivelling his chair from facing the desk to the hatch, “Yeah, Lipensky,” Yeoman’s Mate Second Class Donald Wilson said, “you got fuckin’ orders to report to fuckin’ Third District HQ!”
Stepping into the office, “Yeah, Don, I…” for a moment he thought Wilson was joking, but the look on the man’s face telling him otherwise, “what the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“What the fuck’s wrong with me? I’ve been on this fuckin’ tub almost three fuckin’ years! I’ve been in this fuckin’ Mickey Mouse navy…” jabbing at the two hash marks on his sleeve, showing two “re-up’s” (two reenlistments) “…almost nine fuckin’ years! That’s what the fuck’s wrong with me!”
Hearing Wilson, stopping in the passageway, two seamen looked into the office.
“Yeah, Don, I know, but…”
Standing, the sudden motion sending the wheeled chair skidding across the linoleum floor. “You fuckin’, cuck-suckin’, Jew bastard!”
In the year and a half of their friendship Wilson had never alluded to the fact that Mitchell was Jewish. Now his words and the vehemence in which they were said shocking him, taking a step backwards, jamming his back into the steel hatch frame, “Don, you don’t mean that!”
Grabbing the front of his red and white paint speckled shirt, bunching the blue chambray material in his clenched fist, “I can’t get no fuckin’ transfer to no fuckin’ third district headquarters! Guess that’s ’cause I ain’t no fuckin’ Jew, huh?”
Mitchell attempted to push him away but—the shirt ripping along the button seam—the bespectacled, bookish man did not let go.
And yet another seaman had been attracted by Wilson’s argumentative tone.
“Don,” glancing at his torn shirt, then at the three men standing outside the hatch, “get your fuckin’ hands of’a me!” Grasping Wilson’s wrist, “What the fuck’s it to you if I get transferred? It’s no sweat off your balls!” At least two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, Mitchell had no idea how to handle this situation. He truly liked Wilson, but what could he do? He couldn’t just let him get away with what he was saying! But yet, if he hit him he’d be hitting someone smaller and presumably weaker than himself, to say nothing of the fact that the other man was a non-com and is… was… a friend. But yet, if he didn’t do something, everyone on the ship would think him a chicken… to a shrimp. So, “And besides,” he said desperately, “we think Marsha’s pregnant.”
“Big fuckin’ deal! I got a kid, too! But I guess what I don’t got is a fuckin’ Jew mommy, and no fuckin’ Jew politician to pull fuckin’ strings!”
“Don,” speaking through clenched teeth, “you don’t…” prying Wilson’s fingers open, bending them backwards, forcing the smaller man to take a step back and bend at the knees, “mean what you’re saying!” Bending the fingers a bit more. “You’re just pissed off! Now damn it, stop it!”
Not expecting, or seeing it coming, but, clenching his free hand, bringing his fist behind his hip and forward again, Wilson hit Mitchell in the stomach. Releasing his fingers, fighting vomiting, doubled at the waist, Mitchell gasped for air.
Grabbing a large manila envelope off the desk, slapping it onto Mitchell’s chest, “Here’s your fuckin’ orders! The old man’s signed ’em already, and as of now you’re detached from the Halfmoon!”
“Yeah, Don,” fighting nausea, forcing himself to straighten, “thanks a lot, you prick!” Turning away, pushing through the knot of men standing at the hatch, going to the enlisted men’s quarters he changed into his liberty uniform. The bulk of his military clothing rolled, hastily empting his locker and sea chest into his sea bag, flinging it over his shoulder, carrying his orders beneath his arm, climbing the steel steps onto the aft quarterdeck, walking to the gangplank, stopping, lowering his sea bag onto the deck, Mitchell handed the envelope to the Officer of the Deck.
Opening the envelope, studying the papers a moment, replacing them, “Good luck, Lipensky,” the man said, handing the envelope back to Mitchell.
“Yeah, thanks, Sir.” Turning, facing the bow, he looked at what had been his home for the past two years.
Hoisting the sea bag onto his shoulder, feeling—rather than the happiness he thought he would feel—hollow and depressed, turning to the stern, saluting the flag, nodding at the O.D., Mitchell Lipensky walked down the gangplank and off the United States Coast Guard Cutter Halfmoon.
Seagate, New York
July 17, 1956
“I’ll get it!” Putting the potato chips on the coffee table—although as of yet she hadn’t begun to show any weight gain—“Oy!” Pulling herself heavily off the sofa, going to the kitchen, “Hello.”
“Hi!”
“I was wondering when you were going to call.”
“I wanted to wait till you knew for sure, then… You know; making plans for the wedding, stuff just kind’a got by me and… A baby! Marcie, I can’t believe it! Really! You’re really knocked up?”
“Yeah,” sitting, “I am really ‘knocked up’!”
“So, how’s it feel?” Lowering her voice. “You and Mitch happy? You, uh, want a baby, now?”
“Yeah, Mitch and me…” looking at him, his back against the sofa, sitting on the floor, his attention now turned from television to Marsha’s conversation with her cousin. “…we really do want a kid. And, how’s it feel? Pukey! I’ve got all the symptoms of mommy-hood, especially Pukey! Except I don’t know why they call it morning sickness, ’cause vit me,”—speaking in her Yiddish dialect—“hit comes halmost heny time. Nu, today, I had to leaf a lady vit ha girdle pulled half-vay hup between her polkies hend her tuckas to go hend puke mein goots hup! So, mein cousin, how’s by you?”
“Marcie,” laughing, “by me, Ray and me have been going nuts! My mom’s making us meshugge [crazy] with the wedding! How’d you and Mitch ever handle it?”
“Mitch and me? Me, you mean!” Standing, turning her back to him, walking the two steps to the wall, whispering. “Only it wasn’t my mother so much, it was my mother-inlaw, she was—is—enough to make a lunatic a crazy person, or a crazy person a lunatic.” Returning to the chair, sitting, speaking so Mitchell could hear. “And where was ‘good old Mitch’ when I needed him? He just got on his little boat”—teasing him because he was always telling her “you can put a boat on a ship, but you can’t put a ship on a boat”—“and sailed away on a luxury cruise.”
“Luxury cruise? Luxury cruise my ass!” Coming into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator. “I was in the North Atlantic Ocean freezing my ass off defending the American way of life and the pursuit of liberty and justice for all and all that stuff… Where’s the rest of that cake?”
“Oy, Max! God help us if he’s defending our way of life… I ate it this morning, for breakfast.”
“You ate what, Marcie?”
“Sorry, I was talking to my husband. He asked where a piece of chocolate cake was from last night and I told him I ate it this morning, for breakfast.”
“You? Ol’ skin’n’bones had chocolate cake for breakfast? That sure don’t sound like my cuz.”
“Yeah? Well I’m doin’ lots’a’stuff I never done before! Being knocked up is doing great things for me. You ought’a see my boobies!”
“Boobies?” Pretending to look deranged, “What about boobies?”
“Guess I said the magic word,” Marsha laughed. “If I ever want my idiot husband’s complete attention, all I gotta say is ‘boobies’! Eh?”
“Booobies!” Grinning moronically, “Me want booobies!” Standing behind Marsha, his hand dropped through her blouse, and beneath her bra.
“Mitchell,” said more for her cousin than her husband, “get your hand out of my bra!” as she, good naturedly, moved his hand from her breast, and out of her blouse.
“They’re not growing yet!” Said not as a question but rather a statement, because Maxine Bernstein had all but inverted breasts and was jealous of anyone with even an “A” size cup. Marsha Lipensky’s, nee Goldman’s, breasts, although to say the least were moderate in size—outside of an occasional materialistic thing—were one of only two things about her cousin that Maxine Bernstein had ever been jealous of.
“No,” knowing what Maxine was getting at, “my boobies ain’t growing…” teasing her and Mitchell, Marsha added, “too much!”
****
Born four months before her cousin, though both girls were tall and thin, Marsha had a dark complexion with black hair and brown eyes, whereas Maxine had a light complexion with gray eyes and light blonde hair.
Growing up together, always living in the same apartment building or no further away than across the street, their friendship had developed from the time they became aware of each other and, except for the rules imposed by Ida Bernstein—because of Rhea’s exploitation of Sadie and Ida’s hospitality—throughout their lives the two girls had been all but inseparable.
As a child, Maxine would argue with her mother: “But why can’t we have Marcie here for breakfast,”—or lunch or dinner—“Mommy, she’s all alone! Please let’s ask her over! Please!”
But, “No!” would come the emphatic reply.
“But why?” would come the just as emphatic rebuttal.
“Because I said so, that’s why!” would come Ida’s terse retort.
“Why are you and Aunt Sadie always so mean to her?”
“You’re too young to understand, but we have our reasons and believe you me, it’s for her own good!”
In time, Maxine became tired of the constantly recurring argument with her mother and aunt so gave up and stopped questioning the reason for the sisters’ partial ostracism of her cousin.
As teenagers the two girls were a team, each having their own distinct personality traits and, although they were best of friends, within their combined circle of friends they each had one girl that considered herself either Maxine’s or Marsha’s best friend.
As for boys, the boys either liked the light one or the dark one, or the character of Marsha or the disposition Maxine, so the two girls rarely found themselves in competition.
Besides Marsha’s breasts, whatever their size, the second thing Maxine Bernstein had always envied about her cousin was her ability to tan because, by the end of their first week in the country Marsha always had a rich, deep tan, whereas Maxine did little more, throughout the entire summer, than become painfully sunburned and was never seen in the sun without a greasy coating of zinc oxide covering her nose.
So, whereas Maxine had always envied her cousin’s breasts—whatever their size—and her ability to tan, Marsha had always and still did envy her cousin her mother.
Always embarrassed by her mother’s wanton actions, until speaking to Mitchell about it, Marsha had never said a word about Rhea’s extra marital activities, not even to her cousin.
Being unable to speak of her problems or go to any member of her family for even the slightest mental or physical comfort, Marsha had developed insecurities, which she was able to mask only with a quick mind and a farcical sense of humor. And—although her husband thought she seldom showed any sign of emotion during sex—in a subdued way Marsha was a sexual person, but because of her mother, had vowed to never be as her mother and did find it hard, if not impossible to show emotion during those times.
As she’d vowed to never be like her mother, Marsha had also vowed to be everything to her husband that her mother wasn’t to hers, and so tried—if not at work—to always be home when Mitchell arrived, to always have a meal ready, or in progress, to always attempt to keep their tiny home clean—except for those times when an unreasonable weariness overtook her and she could do little more than lay down. And now she anxiously awaited the time when she would become a mother so she could bestow upon her child, and children—for Marsh had decided she wanted four—what she had never received from her mother: her attention, her love.
****
“So when’s it due?”
“The baby?”
“Yeah, yoyo, the baby! When’s the baby due?”
“March. Sometime around the end of March.”
“Jesus, you’ll probably look like some kind’a ugly, grotesque, misformed stringbean for my wedding.”
“Thanks, Max, you really know how to make a guy feel swell!”
“Sorry, Marcie, but I don’t make the rules, and when the boobies get bigger, so does the belly… You’re really not going to be able to make it to Rosalie’s wedding next month?”
“No. It’s either yours or hers, and believe me, I really want to. I can’t imagine Rose getting married without me there. But I’ll lose my job if I keep taking off. And besides, now I’ve got to get as much time in as possible, to try to put some gelt aside in case they do lay me off when I start to look like…”
“Some kind’a grotesque, misformed string bean?”
“Yeah! You got it! That’s me.”
“How’s your doctor? You like him?”
“God, Max, that’s going to be tough. I hate it! It’s not like you’n’me know; when someone gets sick we call Doc Schaffer and he comes to us or we go to him. Where I go now is Public Health, and you can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like there.”
“Public Health? The Coast Guard doesn’t have their own doctors?”
“Yeah they do, on ships, but they wouldn’t take care of dependents anyway. That’s me, a dependent, and dependents go to Public Health. It’s so creepy! It’s in an old building downtown, uh, Manhattan. You give them your name then wait in this big waiting room with all kinds of strange people, even bums!”
“Bums!” Maxine questioned incredulously. “They make you wait with bums?”
“Yes! When I was there one of ’em came in and sat down and everyone moved away from him, and even from where I was sitting you could smell him; he stunk of pee! You don’t even get your own doctor. When you get there they give you a number…”
“A number?”
“Yeah. And when a doctor becomes available they call your number. I asked, and the lady there told me you hardly ever get to see the same doctor twice.”
“You don’t even get your own doctor? You don’t even know who’s going to deliver your baby? Marcie, that’s terrible! There’s no place else you can go?”
“Sure, to a civilian doctor! But remember, we don’t have insurance. But Mitchell’s spoken to his commanding officer, and he told him that because it’s become so bad at Public Health, and because so many of the men’s dependents are complaining about what I just said, that there’s something new that’s supposed to be passed that’ll allow dependents to see whatever doctor they want and the government will pay for it. I only hope it passes soon… real soon!”
“Yeah, Marcie, for your sake I do, too! I can’t even imagine doing that: not knowing who your doctor is, or even who in the hell is going to deliver your baby! Having to wait with bums! That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of!”
The line silent a moment…
