“Daddy misses you, and”—causing Marsha’s heart to skip a beat—“I do, too.” She’d never thought she would feel this way about her daughter. But it was true ; for some reason she did miss Marsha. “So what if I pay for the plane ticket,” Rhea said, “and Doc Schaffer, too.”
She did not want to leave her home or husband, however Marsha had waited all her life to hear her mother say something as affectionate as “I miss you.” So now, warmed by her mother’s unexpected concern and, yes, of course she’d like to be seen by Doc Schaffer, if for nothing more than the assurance that everything was, indeed, okay with her baby and herself. Also, needless to say, Marsha would love to be able to attend Rosalie’s wedding. And to attend the wedding pregnant yet! To be the very first within their group of friends to be pregnant!
“That’s so nice of you, Mother! Let me talk to Mitchell and I’ll call back in a little while.”
Seagate, New York
August 20, 1956
Let me talk to Mitchell?
“Okay. But it’s about five here, and if you intend coming in tomorrow we’ll have to make a reservation pretty soon… I’ll give it back to you when you get here, but do you have enough money in your checking account to pay for it on your side?”
“Yes, I think so. Let me talk to Mitchell now and I’ll call back later… Bye, Mother.”
Let me talk to Mitchell now?
Reaching to the rear, able to hang up the phone without standing, “Mitchie, mother thinks I ought to go home…”
Hearing only one side of conversation, having some idea this was coming, “Home? I thought this,” motioning about the room, “is supposed to be your home!”
“Yes, you’re right!” Catching the belligerent tone of his voice, “I’m sorry, you’re right, this is my home! But mother thinks I ought to come to Chicago to have a real doctor look at me, and…”
Knowing, if for nothing more than Marsha’s peace of mind, that being examined by her family doctor would be for the best, the thought of being without her, even for one night—aware of Rosalie’s wedding, knowing she would be staying for, at the very least, a week—was something Mitchell very selfishly did not want to consider.
Thinking, don’t say it! However, “A real doctor?” Mitchell said, “What in the hell do you mean by a real doctor?” Thinking, Don’t! “What in the hell do you think that guy that looked at you today was?”
“Look, Mitchell…” really, she didn’t, “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Look yourself, Marsha! Thousands of women go to Public Health and somehow they survive!”
“I don’t want to argue with you!” Marsha repeated.
But, leaning forward, bringing his face closer to hers, “What in the hell makes you so…” Uh, oh, watch it! “fuckin’ different?”
Still attempting to hold it down, “Mitchell,” her anger surfacing, “I… am… sick!” she said, as if speaking to an idiot. “I… don’t… feel…”
“Yeah, I know, Marsha!…”
Between—most of which he thought was used as an excuse to not have intercourse—numerous debilitating headaches before becoming pregnant, menstrual cramps and a hormonal unbalance that would not receive a name for thirty years—“premenstrual syndrome”—and now, with her pregnancy, Marsha was very often irritable and very often complained of “not feeling well.”
“…You…” said in her same tone of voice, “don’t… feel… well!” Adding, “You ever think about how often you say…” Let it pass! he thought. Don’t say it! But, “‘I… don’t… feel…well.’” Alas, Mitchell did say it, in a mimicking, mocking tone of voice that he knew was not going to be perceived by Marsha as a molehill.
And it wasn’t!
“I… am… pregnant! And…” she said, now, not as if speaking to a simple person, but rather through her teeth, in pure anger, “…I do have an infection! And you have no idea of how many women go to Public Health and survive it. Besides, so far as I know, from the women I’ve seen there, they’re probably used to popping their kids out in a field somewhere, then going right back to picking beans or some other goddamned thing! But I’m not! And if I want to see my own doctor rather than some goddamned pimply faced kid, then god-damn-it, I’m going to!”
Standing above her, “You’re pregnant, huh?” Jabbing his finger just a foot from her face, “You’re sick, huh? You want to see a real doctor, huh? Well, uh, everything was just fine till you talked to your ‘mommy’ and your mommy told you to, uh, come on home!” Besides anger, frustrated now because, as always happened when they’d argue, especially at this time because Mitchell knew he was wrong, the imagined but, oh, so solid lump of anger in his stomach—that was really in his brain—was beginning to fog his mind. Starting to lose his train of thought, “And you just ‘happened’ to forget that this…” circling his rigidly extended finger around the apartment, “…here is your home!” Stopping a moment, then, “Know what else I think?” Again jabbing his finger before Marsha’s face, “I think it’s not enough for ‘Marsha’ that she’s going to her cousin’s wedding! I think that… uh, that you’re planning on going to Rosalie’s wedding, too!” Thinking, Shut up! But, “That’s it, isn’t it? Yeah! You want to go to her wedding and you figured a way to do it!” Stop! Cool off! But, “It’s not really the doctor, is it? It’s, uh, really Rosalie’s wedding! Isn’t it?” You’re getting stupid! Don’t say another word! But, “And, uh, being the spoiled brat you are… uh, you finally figured a way to do it! Huh?”
Slapping his hand away, “Uh…” mimicking him, “no, uh!” Moving from the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, which hadn’t been folded that morning. “I don’t, uh, have to make excuses to, uh, anyone…” Sitting straight up, leaning belligerently forward, the legs of her loose fitting, summer wear shortie pajamas above her knees, “…especially to an asshole like you!” Her dark brown, anger cold eyes locked onto his as Mitchell followed her to the bed. Looking up, “Uh,” she smiled… but didn’t really smile.
Unlike most of their arguments that usually escalated from a misjudged word by Mitchell that was picked up by Marsha when a mountain was made from—in his opinion—a molehill, this argument did in fact have a real basis. But from his first angry word the conclusion of this argument was preordained because when he became angry he became stupid, and when she became angry…
Mitchell was absolutely no match for Marsha. At that moment, in his frustration feeling unmitigated hatred, looking at his wife…
Leaning forward, Marsha’s lightweight, loose fitting pajama top gaping open he could see the sloping valley of her breasts.
Usually… hell, always, the sight of Marsha’s breasts excited him. But now he wondered what in the world he had ever seen in her because, in his eyes, now, the ribs of her bony chest seemed to protrude from her skin… Her suddenly small breasts dangled like two ugly strips of flesh. Her skinny legs and thin feet and her face with its long, hooked, Jewish nose all combined to become an insult to what Mitchell had always thought of as beautiful in a woman, and Marsha in particular… And he could not, simply could not understand what he’d ever seen in this skinny, ugly, mocking shrew.
Assuming that Marsha had decided to go to Chicago, “You can do whatever the fuck you want! But I’m not taking you to the airport! You can get to the, uh, fuckin’ airport on your own!”
“Oh, don’t you worry!” she said facetiously, well knowing her mocking was flustering and upsetting him further. “I’ll never ask you to do anything for me! Ever… uh!”
“That’s just fine with me! And by the way…” Will you shut your mouth! But, “uh, if you think being with your fuckin’ mother’s so fuckin’ great, uh…” Shut up! Don’t say it! But, “why don’t you stay with that…” No! “whore and not even bother…” Don’t! “to come back!”
But he did! Oh, yeah, Mitchell did say it—all of it.
“Thank you, Mitchell,” Marsha’s hard, dark eyes boring into his, lowering her voice, speaking matter of factly, “I was praying you’d say that so I’d have an excuse not to…” motioning about the room, “come back to this shitty place.”
“Shitty place?” Calming a bit. “You know you love it here as much as me!”
“Oh, but I don’t!” Lying, actually loving this, their first home together as much as he, but, “If I love it here so much, why’d I call Chicago ‘home’?” Twisting the dagger, “I hate it here!” Seeing the look on his face, looking further, digging deeper, looking for anything hurtful to say. “And you should be happy I’m leaving so then you can talk to your goddamned mother whenever you want and agree with her when she complains about me because I don’t call her Mom… That bitch!”
“Marsha,” he warned, “don’t say that!”
“Oh, really? It’s okay for you to call my mother a whore, but I can’t call your mother a bitch?”
“You’re the one that told me your mother’s a whore. You call her a whore!”
“She’s my mother and I can call her whatever I want! But not you! And what’s the matter, Mitchell? You don’t like being called a son-of-a-bitch? You son-of-a-bitch!”
Certain things for young men—for this young man—being sacrosanct, the purposeful calling his mother a bitch being one of those things, loosing control, grabbing the front of her pajamas, bunching the material in his left fist, bringing his, open, right hand back…
Hissing, “Go on, Mitchell,” looking into his eyes, smiling the smile that wasn’t a smile, “do it, Mitchell!” she said through clenched teeth. “Hit me!”
Hesitating… Suddenly sorry he’d started this thing. Marsha visiting Chicago for a week no longer having the importance it seemed to have minutes ago. Hesitating…
“Do it! Hit me, you Son-of-a-bitch!”
My mother’s a bitch? Never prone to violence—especially towards someone he thought he loved as much as he thought he loved Marsha, but—I’m a son-of-a-bitch! Marsha, forcing a heretofore unknown degree of anger…
Wanting him to do it… Yes! The heat of her anger tempering the force of the moderately hard slap, “Yes!” Marsha said. “The bitch’ll be so proud of her son… for hitting his sick, pregnant, wife. And think how proud all your friends and all your family will be when they find out, too!”
Instantly remorseful, Oh, God! Closing his eyes, releasing her pajamas, taking a deep breath, opening his eyes, Mitchell looked at the reddening handprint on the side of Marsha’s face a moment, then, going into the bathroom, closing the door, standing with his clenched fists at either side of the sink, Oh, God! Why? Why’d I do it? God, why?
“United Airlines… Yes, operator, I’ve got it, thank you.”
He heard Marsha call “Information” through the closed door. Then, a few seconds later…
“I’d like to make a…”
Holding his breath…
“…one way reservation for tomorrow morning to Chicago.”
One way! Letting his breath out, his throat tightening, tears formed in his eyes.
“Yes, Mother,” Mitchell heard a minute or two later. “I’ll be home,” Marsha said louder than necessary, “tomorrow.”
Swiping his hands over his eyes, coming from the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her, feeling the pain of sadness within his stomach, he listened as Marsha said, “It’s with United, flight 374,” consulting the slip of paper in her hand, “leaving New York at 9:32 and arriving at Midway at 12:50, Chicago time… Yes,” looking at him, her lip curling in obvious disgust, “my husband’s just fine about it… Okay, Mother. Yes, tell daddy I’d love to have dinner at…” still looking at Mitchell, “Askanaz.”
****
After meeting and losing each other in August of 1949, then again in March of 1954, it wasn’t until June of 1955 that Marsha and Mitchell had, once again, accidentally, met in the popular north side delicatessen Askanaz, never again to lose each other… till now.
****
“Yes,” Marsha went on, “tell daddy I can’t wait to see him, too… See you tomorrow. Bye, Mother.”
Dropping the receiver onto the cradle, going to the kitchen sink she took a teaspoon of the medicine Doctor Sobecki had prescribed earlier in the day.
Watching her, “Marcie…”
Walking to the television, turning it on, she lay on her back on the bed.
“…I’m sorry.”
Ignoring him.
“I’m so sorry!”
Pretending to ignore him.
“Okay, I know now it’s for the best: you going to see Doc Schaffer… I’m sorry,” he admitted, “but I love you so much, I couldn’t stand the thought of being here without you… I’m sorry!” Knowing her, knowing this was futile, but making an attempt, “I’m so sorry for, uh, all of this!”
Moving to the far edge of the bed, turning onto her side, she faced the television, away from him.
Walking around the bed, kneeling on the floor, “Baby, I’m sorry! So sorry for, uh…”
“Hitting me!” Staring at him. “You hit me,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I slapped you,” he corrected. “And yes! I know I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry! Please, Marcie, forgive me! I’m sorry!”
“Leave me alone.”
Silence.
Above the sounds of television, the silence roaring about him, “You do plan on coming back, don’t you?”
Silence.
She’d done this before, the silence. “Marsha, please,” but he’d never slapped her before. “Please talk to me!”
Silence.
Dejectedly, now resigned to her anger, and silence, “What should I tell then at work?”
“Whatever you want.” Marsha said wearily. “You tell them whatever you want, Mitchell.”
“Well, okay,” surprised she’d answered. “I’ll tell them you got sick and had to go to Chicago to see a specialist. You’re a trained corsetiere, and if you lose this job I’m sure you’ll be able to find another when you”—said hopefully—“come back.” Waiting, hoping she’d give him even the barest hint that she did intend to return. “Especially,” he continued when she said nothing, “with the Christmas season starting in a couple’a months.” Waiting for Marsha to respond, waiting for her to say anything. When she didn’t, changing from a kneeling to a sitting position, taking a chance, he reached to her hand.
Jerking her hand away, “Don’t touch me!”
“Marcie, listen,” his sadness growing deeper, “I didn’t mean it when I said I wouldn’t take you to the airport. I will take you, okay?”
Silence.
“When did you say the plane’s leaving?”
Silence.
Sighing, standing, going to the kitchen table, he looked at the slip of paper she had written the flight information on: 9:32. Looking at Marsha’s back, “That means we should leave here no later then, uh, to be on the safe side, say about 7:45. Okay, Marcie?”
Having no idea how to get to the airport by subway and, even if she had, lugging two suitcases? Well aware that La Guardia was quite a distance away and more than a little reluctant to spend that much money on a taxi, if Mitchell insisted on taking her, and as…
He would do anything, say anything to get her to show some sign, any sign that she’d forgiven him, even slightly, but still…
Around the sounds of television, there was only silence.
****
“Ruby.”
“Good timing, I just got in. How’s Marsha?”
“She’s got a, uh, like you said, kidney infection.”
“Mitch…” In the three weeks since they’d met, getting to know each other fairly well, sensing something amiss in the tone of Mitchell’s voice, “…is something wrong? Is there a problem with the baby?”
“No. No, everything’s okay… How’d it go at the office today? Anyone looking for me?”
“No, like I told you, so long as the car’s there and the plates get made the fuckers don’t even know you’n’me exist.”
“Look, I’ve got to, uh, take Marsha to La Guardia tomorrow morning. Think you can do it for me again? Pick up the car, and I’ll come on in after the plane takes off.”
“Mitch, where’s Marsha going all of a sudden?”
Facing the bed, “She, uh…” Marsha still laying on her side on the far edge of the bed with her back to him. “…wants to see her old doctor and visit her family in Chicago,” adding, “for a little while.”
“What’s wrong? You sure everything’s okay with her and the baby?”
“Yeah, sure! It’s nothing like that, Rube. I’ll tell you…”
“You two have a fight or something?”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “or something.”
“Oh! Well, take it easy, Mitch. These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I told you, don’t worry, she’ll be back!” Ruby said positively.
“You think so?” he asked hopefully.
“Yeah, of course! When did you ever hear of a pregnant woman deserting a sailor?”
****
In bed that night—the mental chasm as wide as Grand Canyon—prematurely lonely, remorseful and apologetic, unable to sleep, Mitchell did little more than toss and turn throughout the endless night.
