Seagate, New York
Friday, August 24, 1956
“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?”
___________________________________________________________________
Seagate, New York/Chicago, Illinois
Saturday, August 25, 1956
Awaking early, unable to fall asleep again, Marsha lay in bed thinking about Mitchell, vacillating between her anger, and rationalizing the reason for his anger, and also vacillating between getting out of bed to call him and not getting out of bed to call him… Until, at 4:47 deciding she must speak to him, now, even though it was only 5:47 a.m. in New York, getting out of bed, she dialed the operator.
****
Mitchell awoke with a start, and an idea. Glancing at the clock, he got out of bed.
“Ruby, it’s Mitch. Sorry to call so early, but…”
“Mitch, it’s not even five! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Listen, I’m going to Chicago…”
“Chicago?”
“Yeah! If I leave now and drive straight through, I can be there by five or six tonight.”
“That’s a long time to drive a car, Mitch.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got to get my wife back! And I know I can do better in person than over the phone… Do me a favor: pick up the Chevy and stand by for me if I’m not back by Monday.”
“What do you plan on doing? Drive there, get Marsha, turn around and come right back?”
“Not exactly. If everything goes alright, we’ll sleep in Chicago tonight and start back early tomorrow morning and should be back here by sometime early Monday.
“Mitch, don’t kill yourself! Don’t even think about coming in on Monday. If—and I don’t think anyone will—but if someone comes in looking for you, I’ll tell them you came in, got sick and went home.”
“Thanks, Rube, you’re a real pal.”
“Hey, on the upside, I won’t have to listen to your farshtinkener music… You just be careful!”
To wake himself, Mitchell took a fast, cold shower, put on Levi’s and a short sleeved shirt, then, as an afterthought, searching in Marsha’s top drawer, found the invitation to Rosalie’s wedding. Not having a suit or an up to date sport jacket, he took the wooden hanger holding his best pressed dress whites, along with his black dress shoes. While thinking about it, Mitchell draped his neckerchief over the hanger. Taking his shaving kit, a change of underwear, white and black socks, two handkerchiefs and a clean shirt, he laid all, along with his dress shoes, into Marsha’s green, imitation lizard overnight case.
Making sure Sam the parakeet had enough food and water for two days, he put his watch on, his keys and wallet in his pocket and, scooping the change off the dresser, thought, Thank God I cashed a check for twenty bucks yesterday.
The hanger holding the uniform and neckerchief over his arm, the green, imitation lizard overnight case in his hand, leaving the bathroom light on for Sam, turning the other lights off, pulling the door shut, testing to be sure it was locked, Mitchell rushed down the hall to the elevator and, as the door slid shut, looking at his watch: 5:45.
****
Marsha let the phone ring six times before hanging up, then, to be sure the operator had rung the right number, placed the call again.
Back in bed, staring at the shadow speckled ceiling, wondering, Where is he? Marsha lay in bed until the sun began to rise, then tried calling again, and again. Marsha tried calling all day, till she left with her parents for Rosalie’s wedding at five thirty that evening.
****
Mitchell drove out of Seagate, through Coney Island, onto the Ocean Parkway to the Shore Expressway, over the Brooklyn Bridge, along the Henry Hudson Parkway, over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey and across the Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana turnpikes.
****
Having driven from sunrise to sunset, at 7:37 p.m., Mitchell stopped for the third and last time at a truck stop in Gary, Indiana, where, using the trucker’s bathroom, after shaving, he changed into his dress whites.
****
“Come on, damn it! Come on!”
The last thirty miles, from Gary, Indiana, to the Palmer House in downtown Chicago, put him smack dab into Chicago’s Saturday night traffic. Knowing he was as close as he was, his adrenaline beginning to pump, Mitchell was more than anxious to finish this trip, to set all well with his wife… and could actually sense a dull ache in his arms for want of holding Marsha.
Finally, at 8:40, coming to a stop, tossing the keys to the parking attendant, he ran through one of three revolving doors and up the five marble steps to the lobby.
****
Almost nine months before, on the morning after their wedding, at this very same hotel, Marsha, carrying her highly conspicuous wedding gown while struggling with an unruly crinoline undergarment, and her new husband carrying the large, highly conspicuous white plastic tuxedo bag and the very same green, imitation lizard overnight case that now sat in the trunk of the car, both trying their best—believe it—to look as inconspicuous as possible, had made their way across this very same marble floored lobby when the top of the green, imitation lizard overnight case popped its clasp spilling its contents of underwear, pajamas and pennies—2,143 pennies—that bounced, bounded and rolled through and around the feet of the milling, Sunday morning brunch crowd, and all over this very same marble floored lobby.
So much for being inconspicuous.
****
Smiling at the remembrance of this—in retrospect—funny, but ominous start of their lives together, Mitchell stopped to look at the announcement board: “Winkler/Fishman wedding.”
As the elevator rose, he straightened the neckerchief and nervously recombed his hair… When the door slid open he heard the garbled sound of a multitude of voices.
Looking through the triple width doorway of the large ballroom he saw a mass of unfamiliar faces.
Mitchell had met Rosalie’s immediate family at his wedding in December, but it was now August and he was rather sure that he would not recognize any of them. Standing in the doorway, he looked about to see if there was anyone he did know.
Although Mitchell saw no one he recognized, he was certainly noticed and a number of people, especially women people, especially older women people, nudging their tablemates: “Mina, will you look at what the cat dragged in!”
Looking up from her dish of broiled chicken, boiled red potatoes and string beans, “Wow,” Mina said, “who’s that?”
“Anyone call for the Navy, Tilly? Who’s that?”
Looking up from her dish of overdone roast beef, boiled red potatoes and string beans, “Don’t know, Gert,” Tilly said. “But he can sure park his shoes under my bed… anytime!”
“Talk about good looking sailors, Bertha!”
Looking up from her dish of broiled white fish, boiled red potatoes and string beans, “Hanna, who the hell’s talking about good looking sailors?” Turning in her seat, looking to where her friend was staring, “Good God! Who’s that? He must be lost!”
Though late summer, other than the wedding party—wearing formal gowns and tuxedos—most of the men attending this semiformal dinner were dressed in dark suits, and—his summer whites making his tan even darker and his eyes even greener—the sailor standing in the doorway appeared as a shining beacon on a dark night.
Looking into the crowded ballroom, knowing he was being stared at, as usually happened, shyness overtaking him, though not noticed beneath his tan, blushing deeply, Mitchell fought the urge to look down to be sure he’d buttoned his fly.
Thinking a sailor off the street was attempting to crash his niece’s wedding, in a none too friendly tone of voice, “Excuse me!” Approaching, a short, rotund man wearing a tuxedo asked, “May I help you, young man?”
Answering politely, “Yes, Sir. My wife’s here with her family.”
Disbelieving, “Oh,” the man asked, “and what’s their name?”
“Goldman. Eli and Rhea Goldman.”
Now recognizing him, “Oh, yes!” A smile coming to the man’s face, “You’re Marsha’s husband, uh…?”
“Mitchell.”
“Yes, Mitchell.” Holding his hand forward. “We met at your wedding, but you were in a different kind of uniform then.”
Shaking the man’s hand, “Yes, one like yours… Sorry, you’re…?”
“Harry Galbin! I’m Rosalie’s uncle Harry.”
“Oh, yes! Sorry not to recognize you, Sir, but there were so many people there, and I had had a few drinks.”
“Don’t apologize, son, that’s how I feel tonight… Come on, I’ll take you to your family’s table.”
“Please, don’t bother…”
Driving almost sixteen hours—fifteen after dropping an hour and adjusting his watch from New York to Chicago time—his thoughts, other than what he was going to say, had constantly been on how he was going to approach Marsha. In his mind’s eye he’d seen her surprised, very surprised and, hopefully, happy, very happy reaction to his being here. And now, if he walked across this huge, crowded room in the escort of Harry Galbin, thinking he’d be even more conspicuous than he already was…
“I drove in to surprise Marsha and no one knows I’m here, so if you’d just point me in the right direction.”
“Sure.” Scanning the room, having some idea where “friends and family of friends” were sitting, pointing, “Should be about there.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Harry.”
Smiling, shaking the man’s hand again, “Thanks, Harry.”
The hair on the back of his neck prickling, weaving around tables and people, crossing the room, feeling all eyes were on him, a number of women, especially, in his estimation, old women made blatant eye contact and, not knowing if he knew, or should know them, nodding hello. Smiling, passing their tables, Mitchell muttered, “Hello.”
“Harry,” tugging at his sleeve, “who is that young man?”
On his way back to his table, looking at the blue haired woman, “Rosalie’s friend’s husband—and he’s too young for you, Estelle!”
“Harry,” Estelle groaned, “lately even God’s too young for me!”
Finally! Breathing a sigh of relief, There they are. Having no idea though how Marsha was going to react to his being there, his forehead prickling with sweat, his heart pounding…
At a round table, in deep conversation, Maxine Bernstein, her parents, Stanley and Ida, along with another couple faced him. Rhea, Eli and Marsha had their backs to him. As he approached, looking up, her eyes widened in surprise, but when Mitchell held his finger to his lips, Maxine looked away.
Momentarily unnoticed by the others at the table, coming closer, looking at the back of his wife: Wearing a dress he did not recognize, Marsha’s long, lustrous black hair fell over her shoulders in tight curls. Able to see over her shoulder, Mitchell could see she hadn’t eaten and even now was distractedly moving the string beans in and out of a heap with her fork. Kneeling behind the chair, bringing his mouth to her ear, not touching, “I love you,” he whispered.
Hesitating, not sure she’d heard what she thought and hoped she had heard, Marsha sat stock still, then, turning, their eyes coming into contact, “Mitchie!” Pushing the chair back, standing so suddenly that were he not there the chair would have toppled over. “Mitchie! Oh, my God!” Tears coming to her eyes…
Tears coming to both their eyes, they embraced.
“Marcie, I love you! I’m sorry,” he said into her ear, “I’m so sorry I said all those dumb things!”
“Oh, God, I love you, Mitchie! Me, too! I’m sorry, too!”
“Hey, you two…”
A moment into their ardent kiss, Mitchell felt a tugging on the bottom of his tunic.
“…better break it up,” Rhea said. “Everyone’s watching.”
Reluctantly releasing his wife, standing back, he saw Marsha in a maternity dress for the first time.
