“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! 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. 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.”

____________________________________________________________________

New York, New York/Chicago, Illinois

August 21, 1956

“You want to catch the phone?” Ruby yelled over Ravel’s Bolero.

“Yeah, sure,” turning the radio off. “Addressograph, Lipensky.”

Timing, so it would seem, is everything.

His wife leaving him on this day and Mitchell’s subsequent breakdown was the bad news.

Now…

“Lipensky, Commander Frohlick here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ve information on what you wanted to know regarding dependent medical treatment.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“The directive came through this morning… It’s affirmative.”

                                           ****

Sleeping fitfully with her head resting against the window, hearing the sound of a soft bell, sensing a change in her equilibrium and feeling an intensified queasiness, she opened her eyes. Seeing a steeply dipped wing with nothing but gray beneath—that she did not recognize as her beloved Lake Michigan—panicking a moment, looking up, Marsha noticed the flashing “NO SMOKING—FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT” sign. Touching the steel buckle on her stomach, that hadn’t been opened since taking her seat, looking at her wristwatch, Three hours. Remembering she had set the watch back one hour before taking off, No, we’ve been up here four hours. Noting that at 12:57 they were a few minutes late.

With no cross wind, United flight 374 was cleared for a straight landing approach to Chicago’s Midway Airport.

Looking through the window, holding her breath, Marsha watched as the far­ off, Monopoly ­sized houses and buildings changed to doll house ­sized houses and buildings, and the far off ribbon of thread­ like runway loomed larger and larger… until the runway was all there was beneath the plane.

With a puff of smoke from each of its wheels, the plane bumped once, then settled down.

Feeling the clatter of the wheels as the plane roared down the runway, when the hangers and buildings within her field of vision began to solidify, knowing she was safely on the ground, realizing she’d been holding her breath, Marsha exhaled.

Not crowded, this Tuesday’s mid-­morning flight from New York City to Chicago took no more than twelve minutes from the time the plane touched down and taxied to the United terminal, where the portable staircase was rolled to the side of the plane and the hatch opened, until Marsha stepped through the hatch into the moist, stifling heat of Chicago in August.

Feeling faint, holding onto both rails tightly, she took the steel steps slowly.

                                          ****

If Mitchell appeared sallow beneath his tan, then Marsha was positively green because, besides a badly upset stomach due to a combination of air sickness and the early months of pregnancy, the kidney infection had caused severe back pain. Also, worked into a state of depression because of the way she had left Mitchell, Marsha could not wait until she was able to get to a phone to talk to him, to tell him, to let him know that: Yes, baby, I do love you! And: Yes, honey, I certainly will be home! But she would not be able to tell him this for hours, not until that evening, when he came home from work.

Stepping off the stair-case, taking her concentration from the steps, looking up, Marsha saw her mother and father watching from behind the terminal window. On the ground now and firm footing, she waved and in turn received an enthusiastic wave from Eli.

Coming into the terminal…

“Marsha…”

“Hi, baby!”

“Mother! Daddy!”

“You look terrible!” Rhea said as the two women—not quite sure how to approach each other or how much emotion to display—stood awkwardly a moment. Then, each putting “air kisses” to the side of the other’s cheek, the mother and daughter loosely embraced.

Standing to the side, quietly agreeing with his wife’s estimation of Marsha’s appearance, Eli waited. When she turned to him, his eyes brimming, “Hi, baby.” Hugging his daughter he kissed her cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Daddy.” Returning the kiss, “I thought sure you’d be working and Roger would drive mother.”

“No, baby, he’s handling the store. I’ve missed you so much I couldn’t wait another minute.”

Feeling her amoral approach to life was the reason for the loving affection between her husband and daughter and, really not caring, in the past Rhea had never felt jealousy at the display of warmth between Marsha and Eli. “Marsha…” But now, sensing a tinge of regret and an urge to somehow make up for the lost years with her daughter, “Marcie…” Feeling left out and wanting to take command of the situation, “We’ve an appointment with Doc Schaffer, and it is a long ride downtown.”

                                         ****

“Laurette,” as soon as they arrived at the doctor’s office, “do I have time to make a phone call?”

Glancing at the clock, “Sure, Marcie,” the receptionist/ assistant/nurse said, handing the phone through the sliding window. “He should be at least another ten minutes.”

“Thank you.” Opening her purse, finding the number in her phone book…

“Walter Lewis Studio.”

“Hi!” Feeling guilty about the argument, and how she’d referred to her, the word slipping out, “Mom, it’s me, Marsha. I’m here, in Chicago.”

Surprised at receiving a phone call from her daughter-in -law at this time of the day, silent a moment, digesting two facts: The kids are home! And, Marsha actually called me ‘Mom’. “Well, hello! Where are you two?”

“Mitchell’s not with me. I’ve been feeling terrible lately and came in to see Doc Schaffer by myself. I’m with mother and daddy and we just got to the office, so I wanted to call to let you know I’m here.”

“Mitchell’s not with you, you say?”

“No. He couldn’t get away, so I came by myself.”

Both aware, Myra and Walter did sympathize with Marsha about the quality of her Public Health medical care. Now, though, rather then minimally showing pleasure that Marsha was in town, that she had addressed her as 'Mom', and concern for Marsha’s health, Myra felt an irrational anger because she hadn’t been told her daughter-­in-law was flying in that day and been given the opportunity to go to the airport along with Rhea and Eli to pick her up. “Oh,” she said irritably, “and why wasn’t I told you were coming in?”

Catching the tone of her mother-­in-law’s voice, annoyed that Myra would ask that rather than show concern for why she was here, sorry now she’d even bothered to call her Mom, “We didn’t know till late last night and figured I’d call you when I got in.”

“How’s Mitchell?”

How’s Mitchell? Surprised that Myra still hadn’t asked what was wrong with her, not sure if she purposely hadn’t asked to goad her, or because she was just plain stupid, attempting to keep her voice neutral, “Mitchell’s just fine.”

“Are we going to see you later?”

Not if I have anything to say about it! “No, I don’t think so—at least not today. I really don’t feel well and think I’m just going to go home, uh, to my parents’, and get into bed.”

“What’s wrong?” Myra finally asked. “What’s the matter with you?”

“The nausea I expected, but I’ve had terrible back aches and this awful pain under my ribs.”

“You’re peeing a lot?”

“Yes. Mitchell went with me to Public Health yesterday and the doctor…”—trying to justify her reason for being here—“…would you believe he was no older than Mitchell, with pimples yet?” Waiting for a response, when none came, “Anyway, he said I have a kidney infection and…”

“That’s what I think.” Myra interrupted. “I get kidney infections all the time and know how bad they can be! The baby? The baby’s okay?”

“Oh, yes! So far as I know. That’s why I’m here. I’ll just feel better when Doctor Schaffer tells me everything’s all right… Oh,” she lied, “the doctor’s ready for me and I have to go. Look, I’ll call back later to let you know what he said.” Not waiting for a reply, “Bye!”

“Thanks, Laurette .” Handing the phone through the window, going to the vacant space between her mother and father, as Marsha sat Eli took hold of her hand.

Knowing the right thing to do: not wanting Mitchell to call his parents later to tell them that she was in town and then being accused of not calling her in-­laws. Also, not knowing if Mitchell would mention their argument, and if he did, just how much he’d tell them and certainly not wanting to add fuel to the fire, Marsha thought it best to call Myra as soon as possible so when Mitchell did call, he would, at least, know she cared enough to call his parents.

                                        ****

For you!” Shaking her shoulder, “It’s Max.”

Groggy from the combination of the pain shot Doctor Schaffer had given her along with the medication he’d prescribed, barefoot and in pajamas, coming off her old sofa bed in the living room, followed by Rhea, Marsha walked through the dining room into the kitchen and, taking the receiver off the table, “Hello, Max.”

Sitting at the table, Rhea lit a cigarette.

Knowing each inflection of her voice, catching the tone of her cousin’s voice immediately, “Jesus, Marcie, you sound like hell.”

“Thanks. Doc Schaffer gave me one of his shots and I’ve been in la­la land.”

“Oh! Sorry to get you up, but I was really surprised when mom told me you were in. You’re not feeling so hot, huh?”

“No, I’m really not.”

“Everything okay with you and the baby?”

“Yes. Everything’s just fine… with the baby and me.”

Catching something in the pause, “Marcie, there’s something else! You and Mitchell had a fight, didn’t you?”

Looking at her mother, wanting her out of the room so she might talk to her cousin privately. But then again, what Marsha really wanted, what Marsha desperately wanted at that moment, was to go back to sleep. “Max, I’m getting dopey. Let me talk to you later, please.”

“Tell you what, cuz, go back to bed and give me a call when you get up and maybe, if you’re feeling up to it, we can go to Askanaz for a bite to eat. Or if you’d rather, I’ll come over and we’ll sit around and talk. Okay?”

“Yeah, Max, see you later.” Placing the receiver onto the cradle, yawning, shuffling back to bed, Marsha fell asleep immediately.

                                       ****

The two had made a compromise: as Ruby liked classical music and Mitchell popular, they would listen to an hour of classical, then, unless something of particular interest to Ruby was forthcoming, they would change stations.

Ruby did not mind Benny Goodman, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James or most of the big bands, but hated what he called “that rock and roll shit,” and particularly hated “Elvis the Pelvis.”

Being a captive audience, Mitchell was, more or less, beginning to appreciate classical music, at least the louder, faster, up­beat classical music. Usually, within any two­ hour period, were someone to come into the Addressograph room—if anyone ever came to the Addressograph room—they might hear Ruby, “BA­BA­BA­BUMM”ing, or Mitchell, “YOU AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HOUND­DOG,” singing above the clanking clatter of the Addressograph machines.

                                         ****

Trying to convince himself that Ruby was correct in his estimation of Marsha’s actions and that everything would work out okay if he did, in fact, ignore her calls and stay aloof—to make her appreciate and miss what she left behind—so now, in a show of forced—very forced—bravado, “Daa­vee, Daa­vee Crockett!” he sang louder than ever, until, “Hey, Rube! I just remembered. I gotta get some money over to the bank before it closes. Mind if I take off early?”

“Nah,” Ruby shouted back, “I got to drive the Chevy back anyway. Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Finishing the last plate, he switched the machine off.

“Hey, Mitch, remember what I told you!”

“Yeah. I’m going to call my folks soon as I get in to tell them she’s there; then I’m not going to answer the phone till after eleven—maybe not at all.”

“Yeah, do it!” Ruby said. “Tell you what; I’ll check on you later and let it ring once, hang up then call right back.” Holding his fist forward, thumb upward, “Okay?”

Forcing a smile, “Yeah!” Likewise, Mitchell held his hand, thumb upward, in manly acknowledgment.

                                          ****

“Mom, hi!”

“Mitchie, hello.”

“Everyone there okay?”

“My neck’s hurting and I’m back in that damned brace; outside of that, though, we’re all fine, but I hear your wife isn’t.”

“Oh?” Surprised, he asked, “My mother-­in-­law called?”

“No. Your wife, twice: from the doctor’s office, then later, after he examined her.”

“She called you, huh? Twice!”

“Yes, twice.”

Thinking, Twice! Marsha called twice! Ready to read anything good into any of Marsha’s actions, well knowing how she felt about his mother, Would she have even bothered to call once, he thought, let alone twice if she really planned on breaking up with me?

The reason for this call, basically—although he didn’t think she had—was to see if Marsha had spoken to his mother, and if she had, did she mention their argument—and the slap? And also to assure himself that once he’d spoken to his mother she would not call later when he did not plan on answering the phone.

“What did she say? What did the doctor tell her?”

“Why are you asking me,”—still spitefully refusing to call Marsha by name—“instead of your wife? You two have a fight?”

So tired of this game played between his wife and mother, lying, “No, Mom…” Thinking she might ask this if, perchance, Marsha had spoken to her and did not tell her about their argument; having rehearsed what he planned on saying, “…everything’s fine, but we’re kind’a broke and I don’t want to make too many long distance calls, and Marsha said she’d call me from her parents’ later, but I was anxious to hear what the doctor said and wanted to talk to you anyway. So,” he asked, “what did Doc Schaffer say?”

Not fully buying this, “What did your wife tell me? Only that she came to see her doctor because she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t trust those kuni lemmel (Simple Simon) doctors she has to see at Public Health. And to tell the truth, Mitchell, I don’t blame her, not one bit!”

Surprised to hear his mother agree with his wife, very relieved that Marsha hadn’t said anything about the argument because, in his mind, he could see Marsha, as she had said she would, telling everyone they know that he “beat the crap out of her.”

“And the doctor… uh?”

“Schaffer, Mom.”

“Yes. Doctor Schaffer told your wife everything’s just fine with the baby, and that she has a kidney infection.”

Yeah, he thought, like she didn’t know that already. “So, where’s she at now?” Knowing where, but looking for something to say, “Her mother’s?”

“Yes. When she called back, she said she was home…”

Home! She said she was “home”! Shit!

“…and that she was tired and going to bed.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks… I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

“You want to say hello to your father? He should be out of the darkroom any second now.”

“No, I’ve some stuff I’ve got to do. You say hello to dad and the kids for me, okay? Bye, Mom.”

                                       ****

Leaving the Addressograph room, he’d driven to Brighton Beach Savings and Loan, withdrew fifty dollars from their… his? savings account noting that they… he? had less than a hundred left of the $800 they’d deposited in December. He then went to their… his? bank, deposited the money into their… his? checking account, as all the while coming closer to Seagate and sooner to the moment he had been dreading all day: the moment he turned the knob and opened the door to their… his? apartment knowing that Marsha was not going to be there.

He’d come home, of course, many times when she wasn’t there, but always knew she would be there. But now? Knowing Marsha was not home and was not going to be home soon: not today, not tomorrow—or maybe ever.