“You two have a fight or something?”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “and something.”
“Oh! Well, take it easy, Mitch. These things have a way of working them-selves 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.
___________________________________________________
Seagate/ New York City, New York
August 21, 1956
“Can I help you pack?”
Silence.
****
A stifling, cloudless day. Although he had given plenty of time to get to La Guardia, traffic and vapor locked cars slowing travel to a crawl, Marsha’s silent fidgeting told Mitchell that she was becoming nervous about the time.
Since leaving for the airport he’d tried to instigate conversation a number of times, but all of his attempts had been met with cold silence. “You don’t have to worry,” he said, trying again, “we’ve plenty of time.” Although, to be honest, he’d be delighted if she did miss her flight. But…
Silence.
Since their altercation the night before, Mitchell had been repentant and remorseful. But now, with his wife about to leave without giving him even a hint as to when she planned on returning—or even if she was planning to return—becoming angry again, “Look, I am going to say it one more time then I’m not going to say it again… Marsha, I love you more than anything in this world, and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am about this whole thing. I’m sorry if I didn’t want you to go to Chicago now and”—still unable to believe that he’d actually slapped her—“especially for… you know. But we’ve only been married eight months and I still think of us as newlyweds and… Okay, so I’m a selfish…” about to say sonofabitch, but thinking better of it, “…jerk for not wanting to be without you.” But…
Glancing at him, Marsha remained silent.
“And, okay, I can see how you’d be unhappy about going to Public Health, but we both know that’s only a matter of time. And, yeah…” trying to lighten the situation, “I know it’s your ‘box’ ‘Dennis the Menace’ is looking up, or down, and I’m sorry for that, too. But I didn’t tell you to get pregnant now!” Adding quickly, “Not that I’m unhappy about it! I love our baby and I want you here with me so I can watch the two of you grow, together. I’m sorry for everything that happened yesterday! And most of all, Marsha, I’m so sorry I slapped you. There is no excuse for that… But you shouldn’t have called my mother a bitch!”
“Yeah? Why not? You called my mother a whore!”
Surprised to hear her speak, taking a long moment to respond. “I’d have never known about your mother if you hadn’t told me! It was you that told me she was a… excuse me, but you said she was a whore.”
“You wanted me to tell you about her, Mitchell, but she’s my mother and, if I want, I can call her a whore, but not you!”
“Okay, you’re right, Marsha!” Relieved that she’d spoken to him, willing to do anything, to say anything to make amends so he would know, at least, if she was planning to come back. But…
Opening her purse, taking their savings passbook and checkbook out, putting both into the glove compartment, “You take these,” she said with finality—twisting the knife, enjoying twisting the knife—I won’t be needing them anymore!”
Mitchell had, jokingly—kind of jokingly—not been allowed to write a check since they had received three NFS’s two months ago just because, one time, he wrote a check and added rather than deducted.
“I wrote a check to United for the flight today and another for fifty dollars that…” stopping, weighing, deciding to twist the knife once more, “…I’ll cash when I get home. You…”—normally she would have said “we”—“don’t get paid till the end of the week and…” twist, “you don’t have enough in your account to cover my fifty bucks, so you’d better get over to the savings and loan later and take some money out and get it into…” twist, “your account.”
He did feel Marsha’s knife twist, and did pick up on the fact that she no longer considered them as “we,” and that she no longer considered what they had as “ours.”
****
Even with the delay in traffic, they arrived forty minutes before United flight 347 boarded.
The flight confirmed and Marsha’s two large suitcases rolling along the conveyer belt, sitting side by side, but a mile apart, waiting for the call to board. “Would you like a magazine or anything?”
Silence.
Although she had spoken to him in the car, Mitchell felt it was only because she had to. Knowing now every second was bringing him closer to the moment his wife, along with the growing baby in her womb, would board the plane and fly out of his life for… God only knows how long, he thought. And maybe, biting his lower lip, fighting tears, forever.
It’s enough already! Marsha thought. Don’t leave him here alone without knowing whether I’m coming back or not… But Marsha said nothing.
A plane taxiing closer to the waiting room exit stopped. A portable stairway pushed to its open hatch by a ground crew.
“United flight 374 to Chicago now boarding for departure!”
Oh, God! Concentrating, once again biting his lip, standing, he walked alongside Marsha to the door of the passageway.
Approaching the doorway, suddenly realizing the threshold she was about to walk through, inwardly panicking, Marsha’s mind flashed back to those loveless years before Mitchell; to the way he had looked the evening he’d walked into Askanaz. And she remembered the absolute joy she had felt at that moment, at knowing she had found him again. And now… What? That she was purposely losing him. That she, herself, was throwing Mitchell away. Marsha did remember those loveless years before she found him and he found her. Marsha remembered, and she felt the love she knew he had for her and in this moment of panic Marsha thought, Good Lord, what am I doing? What am I doing? But her body remained rigid. Her face remained straight forward. Her demeanor remained coldly distant.
“Marcie!” Pulling her to the side of the doorway, his arms about her, holding her tightly Mitchell pressed his lips to hers, but…
Marsha’s lips remained tightly closed and though his tongue forced its way through, it could not find a kink in her tightly clenched teeth.
Loosening his hold, “I love you, baby!” he said as once again his eyes became glassy with barely restrained tears. “My God, we love each other! This is so stupid! I’m sorry for everything I said and did yesterday! Please, Marcie, say you’re coming back!” But…
Through this outpouring of emotion, her arms hanging limply at her sides, “People are looking at us!” Marsha said, “I’d better go.”
Dropping his arms, Mitchell stood aside as…
Turning away, without a backward glance Marsha walked through the passageway, across the short distance to the portable stairway, up the steps, and disappeared through the plane’s hatch.
Going to the window, his hands pressed against the glass, his forehead pressed against his hands, he looked at the long row of portholes. Not knowing if she was even sitting on that side, focusing his attention on the porthole just aft the wing, “God,” he prayed softly, his lips moving—because, since a child Mitchell had believed that God might hear his prayer only if he said it aloud—but aware there were people nearby, saying his prayer loud enough only for his mind to hear, “God, please, please let Marsha change her mind. Please let her get off the plane before it takes off… Please, God, please!” Closing his eyes, thinking, hoping, praying that when he opened them again he’d see his wife coming down the stairs, and again, as a child thought, I’ll count to ten, open my eyes and she’ll be there. As this was not a prayer, mentally: One… two…he counted slowly as…
Walking in a stooped position, looking through a porthole… bulkhead… porthole… bulkhead, finding a window seat just forward the wing, Marsha sat down as…
Three… four…
She saw him standing at the window, resting his head against the glass, seemingly looking directly at her, but really…
Five… six… he could not see her.
Closing her eyes, Marsha felt an urgent tugging in her mind and heart and knew… Marsha knew what she should really do.
Seven… counting even slower, eight… as
There’s still time Marsha thought. There is still time! Just stand up and get off the plane! Her knees tensed in preparation of standing, as…
Nine… slowing further, reluctant to think… ten.
Opening his eyes, he saw the portable staircase being rolled away from the plane, and…
Marsha was nowhere in sight.
Moving from the terminal, the plane taxied to the distant end of the runway, hesitated two minutes, then, a flume of exhaust bellowing from each of its four engines, the propellers, one after the other, spun to life, blurred as their speed increased, then became invisible.
Hardly hearing the roar of the motors inside the pressurized cabin, besides the sad realization that now it was really too late, that now she was really leaving her husband behind, because now was the first time she had ever flown—further feeling a sense of doom because Marsha knew she should not be on this plane—when, feeling the plane shudder as it strained to go forward, her hands became wet and her heart thumped in fear as, slowly, then faster… faster, the patched cracks in the concrete and the weedy grass alongside the runway became a blur and, without realizing, for only a few moments, though, the wheels were an inch, a foot, a yard off the ground.
The steeply angled flight rose over hangers, planes, and the commercial structures that dotted the fringe of LaGuardia, then over houses and yards. As the plane rose higher it banked to the west and, reflecting off the millions of windows of the skyscrapers of New York City, the brilliant mid-morning sun moved from port to starboard.
Again wiping her hands on the sides of her skirt, the sweat of fear prickling her scalp she resting her head against the back of the seat. Closing her eyes, Marsha attempted to concentrate on anything other than where she was: Mitchell… And she realized for the first time that, although he’d started the argument, the reason she was here was as much her fault as his—maybe even more so because she knew she did not want to go home… No, she thought, I am leaving my home! Further, I don’t want to go to Chicago without Mitchell… But yet did want to go. True, she did feel it important to be seen by Doctor Schaffer, but, really, that was a rationalization because what Marsha really wanted was to go to Rosalie’s wedding wearing a maternity dress… But to go to Rosalie’s wedding at what cost? Leaving Mitchell? Yesterday she was subconsciously torn between doing what she wanted and what she thought she should do. She needed some impetus, some catalyst to move her in one direction or the other. Then, the direction she desperately wanted to be moved in was to the west, to Chicago. But now? Though she would never admit it, especially to Mitchell, Marsha realized that it had been she, as much as he that had carried the argument forward.
As for the slap: knowing him, Marsha knew he was a peaceful person that, with the possible exception of her father, was as incapable of physical violence as anyone she had ever known. Also, now realizing that needing a reason to accept her mother’s offer to do what she wanted to do, it was she that had motivated the slap from her husband. Also, though she had started to, she hadn’t told Mitchell her mother was going to reimburse them for the airline fare and that the only reason she’d purchased a oneway ticket rather than a roundtrip was because they didn’t have enough money in their checking account to cover the roundtrip fare. But there wasn’t and she didn’t, so Mitchell had assumed that she was not coming back and she went along with it.
Now, here she was, in the air, and…
There he was, on the ground, watching, as United flight 374 gained altitude in the cloudless sky. Watching, as they banked to the west. Watching, as the plane became little more than a shiny, reflecting silver speck… Watching, as the plane carrying his wife and unborn child disappeared from sight. Sighing again, wiping his eyes again, drawing his stomach in tightly, steeling himself against the long, now very lonely walk, attempting to avert his face from approaching people, he rushed through the huge terminal.
Fuck it! Mitchell thought as he hurried through the parking lot to find their… his? car. And fuck her and fuck the fuckin’ horse she rode in on! If that’s what she wants then fuck her and fuck it! Swiping his hand across his eyes, What the hell am I, a fuckin’ baby? God damn it! I’m through with this bullshit crying! Looking about the parking lot, seeing no one within hearing range, “Fuck her!” he yelled angrily. But, when he opened the door to the car, the pentup heat, radiating the subdued scent of Marsha’s perfume, White Shoulders, causing his resolution to crumble, Mitchell Lipensky cried.
****
Finding a parking space behind the building, he climbed the rusted fire escape to the third floor.
As usual, the radio was blaring so Ruby might hear his classical music above the din of the Addressograph machine.
Tapping him on the shoulder…
“Mitch! Jesus, you scared the shit out’a’me!”
“Sorry, Rube, but you’ve got that so loud.”
“Yeah, classical music has a way of dropping way down then crescendoing.” Looking at Mitchell a moment, getting up, turning the radio off, “You look like shit. What happened?”
Wearing Coast Guardissue white slacks and a Tshirt, after being stuck in traffic on this hot, humid day, the slacks and shirt were sweat stained, smudged with dirt and badly wrinkled. Well tanned, Mitchell’s face appeared sallow, his eyes red and his hair, which was always perfectly combed, disheveled.
“I… Shit, Rube,” his voice catching, “I don’t know what to do; Marsha’s gone.”
“It was some fight yesterday, huh?”
“Yeah, and I…” Said more as an attempt to get it off his chest than to inform. “Fuck! She got me so mad I slapped her.”
Due to Mitchell’s temperament, surprised at this, “You hit her?”
“No, I didn’t hit her,” he said, defending himself. “I slapped her.” Ashamed, adding softly, “Once! I only slapped her once, and I said some things I guess I shouldn’t have.”
“That’s what usually happens when people fight, Mitch. They say things they shouldn’t… Look, when Sherry and I were over a couple’a weeks ago, the two of you acted like a couple of love birds, and Marsha treated you like she really loved… loves you; Sherry and me both picked up on that. Matter’a fact, when we left that night Sherry even said she’d never met a married couple who looked like they love each other as much as you’n’Marsha.”
“Really? Sherry really said that?”
“Yeah, really!” Sherry really hadn’t, but, as a friend, attempting to placate Mitchell, “Lots of married couples act like they really love each other, but that’s probably only because the guy’s so fuckin’ horny he’s afraid to do or say anything to make his wife mad at him and then he probably won’t get laid that night. But you two acted like, uh, you weren’t married.”
“You’n’Sherry friendly with lots of married people, are you?”
“No,” answering honestly, “not lots.” Now lying, “But those we do know are usually, you know, kind of stand-offish to each other. You’n’Marsha hardly took your hands off each other the other night.”
This was true , and this was also the major reason for his irrational anger the day before. When ever near Marsha he liked holding her hand or touching her in some way. Now and then he’d ask Marsha to tell him if he was being a “nudnik,” and occasionally she would. But Marsha usually liked to hold his hand also and by this time they’d gotten so used to each other’s touch that he’d told her that unless he was touching her in some way at night, he couldn’t sleep. And although never admitting it, unless angry at him, Marsha felt much the same way.
Remembering how much he enjoyed just touching her, and being touched by her, thinking, Who am I going to touch tonight? the remembrance and thought brought the lump back into his throat, but men do not ever let other men see them cry, so he forced the lump down. However, Mitchell Lipensky had one of those faces that were easily read by anyone who knew him—kind of opposite a poker face—that being the reason he was such a bad liar. Not that he lied! To the contrary, Mitchell Lipensky had very rarely been able to get away with a lie… Now and then, maybe, a fib, yes, but a real lie? Never! Especially before with his mother and now, certainly not with his wife.
Seeing the look that crossed Mitchell’s face, noting the concentration it took to force the emotion down, knowing he’d touched a sore spot, trying to lighten his friend’s sorrow, “Mitch, you remember what I told you last night?”
“Yeah.” Actually, the reasoning for this thought was his one hope that Marsha would return. “Who’s ever heard of a pregnant woman deserting a sailor?”
“Yeah! And if you want my advice…” Stopping, waiting for confirmation that Mitchell did, in fact, want his advice.
“Yeah, Rube, sure I do! You’re a friend! And to tell the truth, I’ve always had a hard time with girls.”
When he’d first met him, looking as he did, Ruby had thought that Mitchell must have always had it made when it came to females. Since getting to know him, though, he was always surprised at his lack of knowledge when it came to really understanding women, so Mitchell’s admission came as no surprise.
Sighing, “I’d look at myself in a mirror when I was younger and think about the guys that were getting the girls I wanted to get and couldn’t understand it because I was always… I don’t want to sound conceited, Rube, but I was always better looking then those guys, but they always got the girls.”
“Yeah. Well, Mitch, sometimes it’s more than just looks that girls want,” Ruby said knowingly. “Some times girls want what they can’t have, and that’s what I want to tell you… Marsha left you! She went back to mama! How’s she get along with her folks?”
“With her dad, fine. With her mother? Now, I don’t know, but before we got married, not at all; she hated her.”
“That’s good! After a couple of days Marsha will begin to remember why she wanted to get married. The more she’s with her mother, in her mother’s home, the more she’ll want to get back to her own home, to be with you, her husband.”
“You think so?” Mitchell asked hopefully. “You really think so?”
“Hey, pal, I’d bet the bank on it! And here’s what I’d do if Marsha were my wife…”
Mitchell didn’t say anything, so Ruby went on.
“If Marsha were my wife, I wouldn’t call her! Fuck her! She left me and I’d let her stew in her own juice! Let her jump every time the phone rings! Fuck her! Let her be disappointed every time the phone rings and it’s not you! And, Mitch, she will be disappointed! And I’ll tell you something else: I wouldn’t answer my phone till after, uh, ten or eleven o’clock. Fuck her! Let her call and wonder where the fuck you are!”
“Yeah!” Listening to his friend with his head fairly bobbing up and down, “Fuck Marsha!”
“Okay,” Ruby said, sitting at his machine, “now that you’ve gotten my advice, let’s get back to work.”
