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
_____________________________________________________________________
Seagate/Coney Island, New York/ Chicago, Illinois
August 21, 1956
Unhappy when he entered their little home, Mitchell was overtaken by, if possible, an even deeper sense of loneliness.
Thinking what he was going to say to his mother had helped him through the door.
But now? Putting the phone onto the cradle, looking about the one room apartment, the one room loomed as large as Grand Central Station.
Not taking the time to make the sofa bed before leaving for the airport that morning, he saw Marsha’s pillow, still indented from where her head had lain.
Going into the bathroom to urinate, he saw a piece of Kleenex with the folded imprint of Marsha’s blotted lipstick on it floating in the toilet. Aiming his stream around the Kleenex… flushing the toilet, he watched as the tissue swirled down the drain, and out of sight.
Back in the living room, he sat on the edge of the bed a minute or two, then, laying face down on Marsha’s pillow he drew the fading fragrance of his wife’s flesh and hair deeply through his nostrils. Fighting back tears, sitting up, “No more,” he said through clenched teeth.
Coming off the bed, he undressed. Opening the sliding closet door, tossing his clothes into the hamper, Mitchell stared at the gaping, empty space on Marsha’s side of the closet.
Back in the bathroom, delaying returning to the memory laden living room, taking a long, slow shower, as had become habit, Mitchell shaved in the shower. Finished, he dried himself, brushed his teeth and hair, dabbed some Old Spice on his face, and dressed in well worn Levi’s, a yellow, short sleeved shirt, and his tattered deck shoes.
Hands stuffed deeply in his pockets, walking slowly, passing the guard shack, rather than the hardy, “Hi, Mister Swanson!” he usually called to the guard who had just come on for the night shift, merely nodding his head, Mitchell walked through the gate, past the rows of stores on either side of Surf Avenue, onto the boardwalk and—feeling alone in the crowd—within the throng of happy, but to Mitchell, unnoticed people that had come to Coney Island on this sultry, summer evening.
****
Hearing the phone ring, Marsha stirred in her deep, medicine induced sleep. Responding, a part of her brain hoped it was Mitchell, and another part of her brain hoped it wasn’t so she could go back to sleep.
“Marsha.” Shaken gently, “Marsha!”
“Huh?” Looking at her mother through slitted eyes. “Huh?”
“Rosalie’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
The one part of her brain feeling disappointment because it was not her husband, and the other feeling relief because she didn’t have to get out of bed to talk to him. “What time’s it?”
“Four fifteen. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I know you haven’t eaten all day, and so long as she called…”
If it was closer to five she’d force herself to stay awake to call Mitchell, but knowing he was not usually home till well after five, “Thanks, Mother,” she said, “but I’m not hungry now. Tell Rose I’m sleeping and that I’ll talk to her later… please.”
****
Mitchell bought a Coke, two lobster rolls and, so long as it was for dinner, two Nathan’s hot dogs also and, as it was vacant, sat on the bench that he and Marsha usually sat on.
Beginning the first lobster roll, Yesterday? His mind going back to, Yesterday? Jesus, he thought, was it only yesterday? Because yesterday seemed like another life. Because yesterday he had everything and now, today, slightly less than twenty four hours later… Eating the second, suddenly tasteless, lobster roll, Mitchell Lipensky felt as though everything he had, everything he wanted, everything he loved had gone from his life.
Hot and humid in the city, at the beach it was somewhat cooler.
Above, the sky was covered with wispy clouds. Off to the east, though far over the ocean, layered banks of clouds gave promise of a glorious sunset.
Staring trancelike at the million pinpoints of reflected sun on the slightly rippling water, Mitchell ate the first hot dog, then automatically began the second.
Knowing he was eating, he tasted nothing.
Unaware he was staring, he saw nothing.
His mind nine hundred miles away, with a young woman that at this time he was not sure he loved or hated, but, at that moment, were someone to ask, he’d probably say—but without too much conviction—I hate her! His thoughts of Marsha were of such intensity that he was not aware of the girl… Then, sensing someone nearby, looking to the left, he drew a deep breath.
Usually friendly, on this evening, though, not feeling like sitting with strangers, as there were a number of vacant benches nearby, placing the two paper plates holding the hot dogs and French fries to his right, Mitchell sat nearer the middle then the end of the bench.
The girl was not sitting on the far end of the bench, either, but nearer the middle, with her body angled to the right, towards him.
Eighteen, maybe nineteen, the girl’s long, blond hair was streaked with modulating shades of gold; the color Marsha termed as “shiksa blonde” because those multi-toned shades of golden hair could never come from a bottle. Her face elfin cute, the girl had startlingly blue eyes and a small, slightly turned up nose with a brace of light colored freckles running above the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes. Wearing a scantily cut, two piece bathing suit, the slight, low cut top revealed sumptuous, creamy cleavage, and, sitting as she was, staring straight ahead, seemingly hypnotized by the sun flecked, rippling water, Mitchell was compelled to look down and he saw that—sitting as she was, with her left ankle laid over her right knee—the crotch of her tight fitting bathing suit had pushed upward and, taking a deep breath, he could see the indentation of the fissure of the girl’s vulva. Also, taking another deep breath, a few long strands of golden pubic hair had strayed between the band of her bathing suit and the inner side of her lush white thigh. Oh, God! he thought as his penis engorged with blood and his mind weighed the possibilities, and problems.
Breaking her gaze, turning from the ocean, the girl’s eyes came to Mitchell and, quickly lifting from the strands of golden pubic hair, Mitchell’s eyes came to the girl’s. Her blue eyes and his green eyes locked for a long moment, then he and she both looked to the ocean… But his eyes, magnetically drawn back; darting back and forth from her face to her breasts to—most especially—the fissure of her crotch and the flaxen strands of hair that appeared to sparkle in the sunlight.
Mitchell Lipensky had always been a girl watcher. But since marrying Marsha thoughts of sex with another woman, any woman, had been no more than fleeting… till now… So now, Why’d she pick this bench to sit on? he wondered.
Aware of his good looks, Mitchell remembered the many times in the past when he had noticed a girl looking at him and knew that if he could bury his shyness, find the right words and have the courage to say those words, he knew he would be able to meet the girl, so now…
****
When Mitchell had met Susan Friedman in 1951 that was exactly what had happened: he saw Susan and it was love at first sight and, out of an absolute need to meet her, did, somehow, find and say the right words. As it turned out, she saw him too, and, so Susan later told him, fell in love with Mitchell based on his looks alone.
****
So now thoughts of the possibilities with this golden girl peppered Mitchell’s sexually overactive mind.
Should he even try to meet this girl? After all he was married! And if he did meet her, should he tell her he was married? Then, if he did and, if she agreed, should he bring the girl to the apartment? And if they did go to the apartment, how do they get past Mister Swanson at the guard shack without him seeing the girl? And once past the guard shack, how’s about the block long walk to the building with this beautiful, all but naked girl at his side—even if they waited until it became dark—without someone who knew Marsha seeing him and this girl together? And once at the apartment, if he didn’t tell her he was married beforehand, how would he explain the feminine touches there, or the cosmetics that Marsha had left behind?
It all seemed so complicated! But, he rationalized, Marsha shouldn’t have left me in the first place! But what if I do take this girl to the apartment and Marsha does find out? But, What the hell! Maybe just get her phone number and take it from there.
“Hi,” turning to the girl, burying his shyness, finding words, some words, “I’m Mitchell,” he said. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
Without the slightest hesitation, turning to him, “Hi, ya! Yeah! It’s kind’a pretty here now,” the girl said in a nerve grating tone of high pitched Brooklynesse. “I’m Karen. Pleased to meet’ch’ya.”
Taken back, always surprised at this American dialect, especially coming from such a beautiful package, “Hi, Karen.” Holding his hand forward, “I’m glad to meet you, too.”
Unsure a moment because Brooklyn men did not usually offer to shake hands with a girl, then, actually wanting to feel him hold it, Karen let him take her hand, then offered no resistance when he did not immediately release it.
The soft, warm touch of this unknown girl’s hand sending a mental jolt through him, swallowing, he looked at their hands. Now was the first time in over a year and a half that he’d held a girl’s hand, other than Marsha’s, and it felt so…? strangely different.
“Don’t call me Mitchell,” he said, using his old line, “it sounds so formal! Why don’t you call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie?” But feeling exposed sitting in broad daylight holding this girl’s hand with who knows who milling about. But encouraged because she hadn’t attempted to free her hand. But now? Because of a guilty conscious? Because of cowardice? Because of inherent honesty? Maybe, because of all three, but also, maybe, because of stupidity, trying to make a joke of it, he added, “And I’m married, but if it doesn’t bother you, it sure as hell doesn’t bother me.”
Enjoying the feel of his hand, too, staring at him, “Oh!” her smile fading, obvious disappointment showing on her face, “I, uh…” pulling her hand from his, stretching her neck, looking someplace over his left shoulder, waving to someone, or no one, “I think I see my girlfriend there, Mitch.” Standing, “Nice to meet’ch’ya!” Karen hurried away.
Taking a deep breath, knowing full well what he’d thrown away, a new dimension of lust was added as he watched Karen’s bouncy, Oh, my God! so well rounded buttocks sway back and forth as she rushed from his life.
“Oh, well,” said aloud, thinking, It’s probably for the best anyway. But his badly deflated ego somewhat reinflated by a beautiful girl’s interest.
However, as Karen disappeared within the crowd Mitchell realized that, really, he was not in the mood to see a lovely sunset alone on this night. Standing, dropping the two paper dishes and cup into a garbage can, Mitchell Lipensky began the walk home.
Due to this evening’s ego boosting encounter, though, he did feel a bit better.
****
At 9:45 the phone rang… once, then silence, then, rang again. “Yeah, hi, Rube.”
“So, what happened? You talk to her?”
“No. Besides my mom, you’re the first person I’ve talked to tonight, but I walked over to Nathan’s to get a couple’a hot dogs for dinner and I suppose it’s possible she tried calling then.”
“Yeah, that’s possible, I guess.”
“My God, Ruby, you should have seen her! I could have picked up the most beautiful girl tonight. I was sitting on a bench on the boardwalk and she sat right next to me, and I know if I hadn’t told her I was married, I’d’a gotten laid tonight.”
“Hey, pal, but you are married!”
“Yeah,” said sadly, “I know. Guess that’s why I told her.”
“So, what happened then?”
“She took off like a big assed bird.”
“Good girl!” The line silent a moment… “I never asked and you didn’t say and, unless you’d rather not say, what was the fight about anyway?”
“Marsha, to say the least, is not too happy with the doctors at Public Health, so she wanted to go to Chicago to see her family doctor, and I didn’t think it was necessary. Also, a girlfriend of hers is getting married on Saturday and she wanted to go to the wedding and I didn’t want to spend the money for the trip. Besides, we need what she earns on her job. But I suppose, really, I didn’t want her to go and leave me alone for a week, so I said some pretty shitty things and Marsha said some shitty things and…”
“You popped her.”
When he thought of it, of slapping Marsha, Mitchell felt a well of remorse. Besides regret, now, the reason for his anger seeming rather lame, embarrassed over the slap, “Yeah, Rube, I did slap her and feel pretty goddamned bad about it! But, you know, one thing kind’a led to another.”
“Yeah, it usually does.”
“Yeah, you’re right, at least with us it does.” Sighing, “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Look, pal, things’ll work out. Take it easy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
