Chicago, Illinois/Seagate, New York
August 22, 1956 to August 25, 1956
Turning onto her other side, opening her eyes, she saw flickering shadows on the walls in the living room of her parents’, albeit large, one bedroom apartment.
The lights off, the television on with the volume turned low, Rhea sat on an easy chair watching “The Late Show.” There was an empty coffee cup and a butt filled ashtray on the askew coffee table that had been pulled aside so the sofa bed might be opened.
Sitting up, “Mother?” Marsha propped the pillow against the back of the sofa.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens, eh. How are you feeling?”
“Besides hungry, I’m not sure… Did Mitchell call?”
“No. Rosalie called and Max called again, but your husband sure didn’t, and I for one, would like to know why!”
Not wanting her mother to know that she and Mitchell had fought over this trip, “He must be busy or something, Mother.”
“Till one thirty?” Rhea answered incredulously. “Come on, Marsha! He wasn’t happy about you coming here now, was he? And you two had a fight over it, didn’t you?”
“No, Mother. Everything’s just fine. I told him I’d call there after he got home from work, but I fell asleep and he probably fell asleep too, waiting for me to call.”
“That’s no excuse! When he didn’t hear from you, he should have called here, if for nothing more than to be sure you got in safely.”
“That’s one thing about flying, Mother, if there’s a—God forbid—accident, everyone in the world hears about it.”
“Okay! Then at least let him be interested enough to know what the doctor had to say. After all, you are pregnant!”
“Mother, I went to the doctor yesterday…” Thinking a moment, “I went to the doctor there the day before yesterday and he knows what that doctor had to say.”
“Yes, he knows what that doctor had to say, but what about what your real doctor had to say? Stop making excuses! He’s your husband and no matter what, he should have called long ago!”
“Okay, Mother, you’re right! He should have called here and I should have called there. But he didn’t and I didn’t and it’s too late to call now so we’ll talk to each other later, when he comes home from work this evening!… What have you got to eat?”
****
His thoughts on Marsha, he’d had a second restless, near sleepless night and by morning his loneliness had turned to anger.
“Okay, so she was mad when she left,” having picked up Ruby and the Chevy, driving to Coast Guard Headquarters, “but goddamn it, enough’s enough! She should have called!”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe she should have called. But she didn’t! So maybe, if you don’t hear from her by… say seven, maybe you should call.”
“No! Fuck her! She left me! It’s her place to call!”
Sorry he’d given that advice, no longer wanting to be involved in the problem between his friend and his wife, deciding against giving more negative advice, “Women sometimes have a way of getting stubborn and…”
“Yeah,” cutting him off, “especially Marsha!”
“…And maybe I was wrong yesterday. Maybe it might be best if you call her. You know, to kind’a break the ice.”
“No! Damn it! If going to a girlfriend’s wedding is more important than me, than our marriage, then us having a kid together…” saying these words, stopping, holding his emotions in check, “then just fuck it!”
****
Picking at her corned beef sandwich, feeling physically, if not mentally better, she’d allowed herself to be talked into lunch at Askanaz.
For the last fifteen minutes Marsha had heard nothing but happy chatter about both her friend Rosalie’s and her cousin Maxine’s upcoming weddings… And the talk of their weddings and future wedded bliss did little but add to her growing depression. Glancing at her watch again, Marsha wanted to push the seconds, minutes and hours forward… to the time she would be able to talk to Mitchell, to tell him how much she missed him, how much she loved him, and especially that she had decided to come home tomorrow so she could be with him on Friday, for his twenty second birthday, rather than staying even one more day—to the twenty fifth of August—to attend Rosalie’s wedding, which at that moment did not seem to be anywhere near as important as it had just yesterday.
Waiting for her to mention the argument, if in fact she and Mitchell had had an argument, “Marcie, you’re so quiet,” Maxine said. “Having a kid getting you down?”
“You kidding? No! I love being pregnant!”
“Jesus, you couldn’t tell by me you’re pregnant!” Rosalie said in envy. “You’re as skinny as ever!”
Having one of those enviable metabolisms that allowed Marsha to eat whatever she wanted in whatever quantity she wanted without ever, so it seemed, gaining weight, while, just the opposite, whatever Maxine and Rosalie ate, so it seemed, immediately went to hips and buttocks.
Looking at her watch again, One thirty here, Marsha thought. Two thirty there; three more hours.
****
Coming off the elevator, he heard a phone ring. Even though there were twelve apartments on this floor and it could have been anyone’s phone, instinctively knowing it was his phone, running through the hall holding a bag of groceries in one hand, fumbling for the keys with his other hand, unlocking the door, rushing into the apartment he grabbed the phone… just as it stopped ringing.
Envisioning Mitchell running through the hallway, bursting into the apartment and rushing to the phone, counting the rings, Marsha let it ring twelve times.
****
Waking early, he’d straightened his little home and, for the first time since Marsha left—only yesterday?—made and closed the sofa bed, washed, dried, and put away what dishes were in the sink and, in the anger of this morning, knowing were he to meet another girl today, tomorrow or the next day, if he could—so he’d thought—he would bring her to the apartment, Mitchell removed all visible traces of his wife.
Putting the groceries away, stripping off the clothes he had worn throughout the day, he was standing nude over the toilet when the phone rang again. Leaning through the doorway, looking at the phone, by stretching his arm he could have easily lifted the receiver, but didn’t, as…
Again counting the rings…
Waiting to take a shower, sitting on the sofa, fighting the urge to grab the phone and talk to Marsha, who he was positive was on the other end of the unanswered call. But then again it might not be Marsha, because knowing her she might still be angry, and it was possible that she really had no intention of returning, or even calling.
But then again, if it wasn’t her, who’d call and let the phone ring this long?
A remembrance came to mind: While in boot camp, he’d written one last letter to Susan Friedman telling her he still—had never stopped—loved her, and that “she ought to be spanked for allowing her parents to break them up.” Somehow, either given to him or, more the likely, short stopped, the letter had found its way to Susan’s father, whereupon he called Walter to tell him that his son had threatened to “beat up his daughter for breaking up with him.” Whereupon Walter immediately wrote a letter telling Mitchell he “knew him better than to believe that he could, or would ever make such a threat.”
But now, if Marsha did tell her folks he’d slapped her… No! That he’d “beat her up,” Walter and Myra would certainly remember Mister Friedman’s call and believe he really had made that threat to Susan and that now he really had beat up his pregnant wife and, Yeah, he thought, it’s probably mom or dad calling to tell me that Marsha told her mother and father, and that either Rhea or Eli called to tell them what a fucking bastard I am, and that nice Jewish boys don’t go around beating the crap out of their wives… their pregnant wives!
The phone rang again.
But, “The hell it!” The phone didn’t get answered then either. And…
Hanging up, Marsha looked at her mother—who was watching her from the sofa in the living room—counted to thirty, dialed the operator and placed the call again… But now, surprisingly, the line was busy. Thinking Mitchell might be calling her, hanging up quickly, Marsha waited… and waited, but the phone didn’t ring, because as soon as she’d hung up…
Mitchell dialed the operator, placed a call to Skokie and, “Hi’ya, Larry!” attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. “How’ya doin’?”
“Okay. How are you doin’? I hear Marsha’s in town.”
“I’m okay. Yeah, she wanted to see her old doctor. Mom or dad around?”
“Yeah, they got in a minute ago and dad’s on the pot and mom’s in the bedroom changing’ clothes. You wanna talk to her?”
They just got in! Means they couldn’t have called. “No, you schmucko kid!” Forcing a weak laugh, “I’m paying for a long distance call so’s I can talk you? Yeah, I wanna talk to mom!”
Smiling, holding the receiver an inch from his mouth, “Mom!” Larry yelled. “It’s Mitch! He wants to talk to you!… Okay, big brother?”
His ear ringing, “Yeah. And like I said, Larry, you really are a schmucky kid.”
Alarmed that he’d be calling a second time in as many days, taking the phone from Lawrence, “Mitchell, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Mom. I, uh, wasn’t able to reach Marsha and wondered if you’d talked to her today.”
“Mitchell, what’s going on? You did have a fight with your wife, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, okay, we had an… argument. I didn’t want her to go to Chicago and she wanted to, so we got into an argument and we haven’t talked to each other since I brought her to the airport yesterday… So, did she call you again? How is she?”
“Yes, your wife called the studio at about eleven. She said she wasn’t feeling well but was feeling better, and that she was going to lunch with her cousin and a friend, and that’s all I know.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, thinking, If Marsha was going to tell anyone I’d slapped her, she would have by now. “Okay, Mom,” he said, “thanks.” Also, the fact that she hadn’t told anyone made him believe that she did plan on returning.
“Mitchell, it’s none of my business, but no matter why the argument, besides the fact that you should, knowing your wife, if I were you I’d call right now to find out firsthand what the doctor had to say.”
Although, knowing he should, “Look, please, when you talk to her again, please just tell her that I called and asked about her.”
“I really don’t want to get involved in this.”
“Mom, it’s the truth! I did call and ask! Okay?”
Marsha tried calling again, but the line still busy. Feeling her mother deserved an explanation, going into the living room, sitting on the far end of the sofa, “Okay, Mother, you were right. Yes, we did have an argument. I wanted to see Doc Schaffer and Mitchell thought the doctor at Public Health knew what he was talking about. And as it turned out, he did. Also, Mitchell felt that the real reason I wanted to come ho… uh, here, was to go to Rosalie’s wedding.”
“What do you mean, Mitchell thought the doctor at Public Health knew what he was talking about?” Rhea asked in self righteous indignation. “It’s your body and your baby and he has no right to ever tell you what doctor you should see! And if you want to see the best specialist in the world, so long as I’m paying for it—especially since I’m paying for it—it’s none of his goddamned business! And why, pray tell, wouldn’t you want to be at your best friend’s wedding?”
Irritated by her tone of voice, “First off, Mother, I never told him you were paying for this trip, and secondly, the kid… the doctor I saw at Public Health, was right! He did say the baby is fine, and that I do have a kidney infection and that’s exactly what Doc Schaffer said!” Having a need to defend her husband, “Because of work and money we’d… Mitchell and I agreed that I would go to either Rose or Max’s wedding and, because blood is thicker than water, I decided on Max’s wedding.”
“But your husband didn’t know, for sure, if the doctor at Public Health was right! Your husband doesn’t know what Doc Schaffer told you!” Drawing angrily on her cigarette, “And as far as that bastard knows…”
At the word bastard, and with the vehemence in which the word was said, her head coming up, Marsha stared at her mother.
“…Schaffer could have told you just about anything!”
Living as Rhea had lived all of her life: spoiled as a child, and as an adult given full rein to do as she pleased by her unseeing husband, now, for the first time in her life, feeling protective of her daughter. And also, at this time unknown even to herself, looking for a means of control of both Marsha and her unborn child, her hypocritical anger mounting. “The nerve of him! That’s why he hasn’t called! Because he doesn’t think you should have come to see whatever doctor you want to see! The bastard!”
“Mother!”
“Don’t you call him again, Marsha! You make him call you, here!”
“He said some things and I said some worse things, then I…”
Cutting her off again, “The hell with him!”
“He tried to make up, but I wouldn’t let him.”
“The hell with the bastard!” Rhea hissed. “You don’t need him!”
“That’s enough, Mother! Mitchell’s my husband and I don’t want to hear you call him that again! And what do you mean, I don’t need him? I’m going to have a baby! How can you say I don’t need my husband?” Standing, starting to the kitchen, turning back, “Mother, I not only need Mitchell, but I miss him and I miss my home and I am going to call him, then I’m going to make a reservation to go home, tomorrow!”
“I can’t believe you, Marsha!” Relenting, “Okay, if you do miss him and you do miss your home then you belong there! But so long as you’re here already, stay for Rosalie’s wedding! Go back Sunday.”
“No, Mother! Mitchell’s birthday is the day after tomorrow and suddenly it’s more important that I be with him than go to the wedding! Rosalie will understand, and if she doesn’t… well, I’m sorry.”
Perverse Emotions
Letting the phone ring five times before answering, “Halloo!” Mitchell said in a high pitched, purposely happy sounding voice.
Though it was not the tone of voice expected, the sound of his voice causing her heart to jump, “Mitchie! Hi, baby!” Speaking in a purposely happy tone also, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Hearing her voice, his heart jumping also, “Baby!” he thought. She called me baby! She’s not mad anymore! But now, the modulation of his voice lowering, “Yeah, Marsha, I’m sure you’ve been trying to reach me. Where the hell were you all last night then, huh?”
Even more surprised at this new tone of voice, “Doc Schaffer gave me a shot and some medicine,” she said defensively, “and I fell asleep as soon as we got”—the word slipping out—“home.”
“When you got home, huh? How nice!” Thinking, Why am I doing this? She called me baby! It’s over! She is coming home! But, “Yeah, sure you did, Marsha! How come you didn’t call me this morning then?”
Now becoming annoyed at his accusatory tone, “Look, Mitchell…” Swallowing her building anger, stopping, forcing the tone of her voice to normal, “The shot really did knock me out and I did sleep all night, and I knew you’d be gone this morning when I woke so didn’t call then, but have been trying to get a’hold of you all evening…” her anger finally coming through, “okay?”
Okay? In his mind, No! Suffering too much to let her off the hook this easily. “Yeah, okay, so you’re calling… now! So, what’d’you want?”
Now, her voice hardening, “What do you mean, what do I want, Mitchell? Don’t you care, Mitchell? Don’t you want to know what in the hell the doctor had to say to me, Mitchell?”
“I know what the doctor there had to say, Marsha! The same goddamned thing the doctor here had to say: the baby’s fine and that you’ve got a kidney infection! So, what else is new, Marsha?”
“You’ve talked to your mother, huh?”
“Yeah, twice! Why not? You ran out on me! Aren’t I supposed to talk to someone? You think I don’t care about you and my baby? Sure I talked to my mother! So what?”
Thinking, Of course he cares! “Mitchell…” forcing her voice to soften again, “Mitchie, look, I do miss you, and want to come home tomorrow so I can be with you on your birthday.”
Tomorrow! His heart lurching, Tomorrow, he thought. She’s coming home tomorrow! But he did know: So long as she’s there already, if she does leave just three days before Rosalie’s wedding she’ll have ammunition to throw up to me next time we have an argument. Besides, it wasn’t very often, if ever, that he had the upper hand, so why shouldn’t he jerk the hook once? Yeah, sure, he thought very wisely, let her know I don’t need her! Look, Marsha…” Mitchell said, oh, so wisely, “don’t do me any favors!” Yeah, that’s it! That’s real smart! Give her a taste of her own medicine! “I’m getting along just fine without you!” Yup, real smart, because…
“You’re getting along just fine without me, huh?” Her good cheer dropping. Her anger rising… very rapidly! “Okay, then, I’ll tell you what, Mitchell, you do just that! You just get along without me! I promise you, I won’t call again, and whenever you feel like it, you call me and I’ll decide then whether or not I want to talk to you, you stupid jerk!”
Attempting to beat her to the punch, “Screw you, Marsha,” he slammed the receiver onto the cradle, but…
Marsha didn’t hear the long distance click because her receiver, also, was slammed onto the cradle, and…
Nine hundred miles apart, Marsha and Mitchell each stood catching their breaths, fighting back tears and wondering, What just happened?
“Mother,” Marsha said to Rhea, “I am going to Rosalie’s wedding after all.”
Friday, August 24, 1956
Pulling the door open, stepping aside, “Glad you could come.”
“Hey, would I leave a pal alone on his birthday? …Here.”
“Come on, Rube, I didn’t ask you here so you could bring me a present.”
“Yeah, I know, but they’re not for you, they’re for me because, if I’m going to spend the evening here, I don’t want to drink your shitty booze and I certainly do not want to listen to your shitty music!”
Ripping the pink bunny birthday paper off the thin, flat, square package, “‘The Brave Bulls.’ How’d you know,” Mitchell said facetiously, “that I’ve always loooved Mexican bullfight music?”
“Ain’t Mexican, you ignorant schmuck, it’s Spanish and that’s great music to drink by… Go on, open the other one.”
Ripping the yellow elephant birthday paper off the gurgling package, holding the bottle by its neck, “Oh, yeah! Now you’ve really shown your true , you should excuse the pun, shvartzer colors. ‘Southern Comfort’? And you call what I drink shitty?”
Going to the portable hifi phonograph, “Hey, schmuck, don’t knock it till you try it.” Putting both long play records onto the spindle, pushing the Auto button, the first record dropping onto the turntable, exciting music filling the room… “You pour!”
The coffee table pushed aside so they might stretch their legs forward, sitting with their backs resting against the sofa, their shoes off…
“Hey,” sipping the drink, “it tastes like candy.”
“Yeah,” holding the tumbler to the light, swirling the quarter glass of amber fluid around clinking ice cubes, “but this candy’ll set you on your ass.”
****
The second side of the first record sliding down the spindle, moving back, the arm lowering, “Brave” music filling the room once again…
“Yeah, this time it was all my fault, and I fucked up royally!”
“Yeah you did; you fucked up royally! So, what’a’ya gonna do now?”
Thinking a moment, “Later, I don’t know, but right now,” pulling himself off the floor, “I’m gonna take a piss.” Wobbling, going into the bathroom, closing the door, he stood staring at his stream of urine as it splashed into the toilet… Through, flushing the toilet, Mitchell, out of habit, lowered the seat. Starting out of the room, “Fuck it!” turning back, he flipped the toilet seat up.
Adding fresh ice cubes, refilling each of their glasses with the 100 proof liquor, Ruby was back on the floor by the time Mitchell returned.
“Do you know… Do you have any idea what the real struggle between men and women is? The real struggle?” On the floor again, taking a swig of Southern Comfort. “The ultimate fuckin’ battle?”
Thinking a moment, Ruby suggested, “You wann’a screw an’ they don’t?”
“Shit! That shows how muckin’ fudge you know! No, that’s just a game broads play with guys.”
“Jesus, will ya look at who’s tellin’ who ’bout women!” Blinking his bleary eyes, “Uh, that they wanna spend money on really dumb stuff like, uh, groceries an’ stuff?”
“Nah, that ain’t it either.” Taking another drink, Mitchell swiped his wrist across his mouth. “Guess ya gotta be married to know the thing women want a guy to do more’n anything.”
“Oh, yeah, sure! When it comes to broads,” Ruby giggled, “you’re definitely one’a the dumbest guys I know!”
“Oh, yeah! Maybe you think I’m dumb when it comes to women,” Mitchell said with feigned indignity, “but you don’t know what’s really important to ’em!” He laughed. “But Lipensky do.”
“Lipensky do, eh? So if you’re such a smartass, fuckin’ Yankee, why don’t you just tell me an’ then I’ll know, too.”
“Okay you shvartzer schmuck… It’s the toilet seat!”
“Huh?” Sitting back, Ruby stared at Mitchell. “The toilet seat?”
“Yeah! That’s the most important thing in their lives! To have a guy put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after he takes a leak. I mean, Jesus, where’s it written a guy’s gotta put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after he pees? Why don’t she gotta put the toilet seat down when she’s gotta pee? What’s it, the eleventh commandment: ‘Though shalt put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after thou takest a pee’? Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ! You’d think a broad’s afraid of fallin’ in the fuckin’ toilet!”
Laughing, “Maybe puttin’ the toilet down is the twelfth commandment, but it ain’t the eleventh!”
“It ain’t?” Tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks, Mitchell asked, “Why ain’t it?”
“Why ain’t it?” Attempting to look at him seriously, “’Cause ‘Thou shalt not get caught’ is the eleventh commandment.”
****
“You believe in God?”
One third of the quart bottle of Southern Comfort empty, the second side of the second record of “The Brave Bulls” nearing completion… for the third time, the tone of the evening having turned from drunken jovial to drunken serious, still sitting on the floor, the boys had swapped liquor for coffee.
“Don’t know if I believe in God all the time, Rube,” chuckling, “but I sure do when I’m scared or something.”
“Yeah, don’t we all. How’s ’bout heaven? Think there’s a place like heaven?”
“Don’t know, but if there is a heaven, and if heaven’s all it’s cracked up to be, then I think everyone’s got to have their own private, separate heaven ’cause your idea of heaven might not be my idea of heaven and I might not want to spend forever doin’ stuff you may want to do forever… Understand?
Thinking he did, “Yeah, maybe,” Ruby nodded.
Going on, “I mean like maybe you want to spend all eternity eating cornpone an’ chitlins… Whatever the fuck cornpone an’ chitlins are.” Looking at Ruby, Mitchell laughed. “I mean like maybe my idea of heaven is fuckin’ my brains out an’ eating Chicago style, kosher hot dogs.”
“Cornpone and chitlins? You dick! I ask a serious question and what do I get? Well, cornpone, maybe, but chitlins? Never! ’cause chitlins are cooked pig guts, an’ like I told you…”
“Yeah, I know! You’re kosher.” Giggling, “Cooked pig guts? That’s what chitlins are, huh?”
“Yeah! Okay, so much for God and heaven.” Trying to get a handle on Mitchell’s beliefs, becoming serious again, “How’s ’bout… Who do you admire, Mitch? Who do you really admire? You got any live heroes, Mitch?”
Taking a drink of coffee, he thought a long moment. “I’ve never been an athletic, sports kind’a person, so there’s no one there. But if he were still alive, I’d probably say F.D.R.”
“Franklin Roosevelt. Yeah, you and most every other Jew. But I said alive.”
“Uh…” Really, having no heroes, “How’s ’bout,” pulling the names out of thin air, not really caring about either, “Elvis Presley an’ Marilyn Monroe?”
Having drunk a bit less, sobering up a bit quicker, “Elvis Presley? Lipensky, like I said, you’re a dick! You’re only saying Elvis Presley ’cause you know I hate him! And Marilyn Monroe? Couldn’t be ’cause she’s such a great actress! Could be, maybe, ’cause she’s got great tits, though! Come on, get serious! Who, alive, do you admire?”
“I don’t know, Rube.” Taking another drink of coffee, “I can’t think of any heroes. How’s ‘bout you? Who do you admire?”
Without the slightest hesitation, “Rosa Parks and Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior.”
Thinking a moment, the names a bit familiar, but remembering neither, “Who the hell’s Rosa Parks and, uh, Martin Luther King?”
“Doctor!” Now very serious, “His name is Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior!”
Catching the change in the tone of his voice, looking at Ruby, “Yeah, okay! So who are they?”
Wondering how Mitchell could not know. “You don’t remember last December?”
“Last December?”
“Yeah! December, 1955.”
Yeah, sure I remember last December!”
Looking at Mitchell expectantly, “Yeah? So?”
“Me’n’Marsha got,” his voice catching, “me’n’Marsha got married last December.”
“Idiot!” Not really said in jest, “Schmuck! You don’t remember what happened last December? Other,” said facetiously, “than you’n’Marsha getting married?”
The blank look on his friend’s face answering Ruby’s question, “Rosa Parks is the little shvartzer lady who got arrested because she insisted on sitting in the front of a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, last December. You know, because shvartzers are made to sit in the rear of buses in the south, and…”
“Oh, yeah, I remember reading about that. And this, uh, Rosa Parks is a hero to you.” Posed not as a question, but rather a statement.
“In the light of what she knew she had to face…” this posed not as an answer, but rather an exclamation, “…bet your ass she is!”
“And,” Mitchell asked, “this Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior, who’s he?”
