“Nah, come on, I’ll help you pack.” Thinking they could have at least a bit of time here, where they would be alone, was the reason he’d chosen the semiprivate bedroom rather than the den.
“Please, baby! We left the apartment a mess,” she lied, “and mother would really be embarrassed if you saw it that way.”
“So, who’s going to tell her?”
“Mitchie, please!”
Recognizing the tone of her voice, “Okay, Marsha.” Too tired to argue, “I don’t know why,” disappointment sounding in his voice, stopping in the no parking zone directly in front of the building, “but if that’s what you want, then okay.”
When Marsha returned fifteen minutes later, she made two trips dragging her suitcases from the elevator in the lobby to the car herself because, his head reclining on the back of the seat, Mitchell was asleep.
________________________________________________________________________
Saturday August 25, 1956: Skokie, Illinois
Myra had been sitting at the front room window for the past forty minutes watching for the Ford convertible. When it turned the corner onto Lee Street, “They’re here!” she called to her husband and youngest son, who’d been allowed to stay up two hours past his bedtime to say hello to his older brother.
Opening the door, “Hi!” Marsha said, stepping onto the curb, into the arms of her mother-in-law.
This being the first time she’d seen her son and daughter-in-law since the day after their wedding, “Hello, pregnant lady,” Myra said, kissing Marsha. Turning to be embraced by her son, “And you, I still can’t believe it! A father!”
“To be! A father to be!” Kissing his mother, “Dad, hi!” shaking hands with his father, he turned to his seven and a half year old brother, who was standing shyly in the doorway. Even though he’d last seen Morton merely eight months ago, “Mortie? My God! I can’t believe it! Is that really you?” Attempting to hug him, “God, how you’ve grown!” Mitchell said honestly.
Taking a step backward, holding his hand forward, “I ain’t no kid no more, Mitchie.”
“Yeah? Okay, Mortie, you ain’t no kid no more.” Taking the hand, he did shake it, then, pulling the boy into his arms, “But I’m still a kid and I missed you and wanna hug you!”
“Come on, Mitchie,” smiling, “big guys don’t go ’round doin’ stuff like that!” Morton returned the hug.
“Come on inside.” Holding Marsha by the elbow, steering her into the house, Myra asked, “You kids hungry?”
Stepping through the doorway… “No, we ate at the wedding.” There was a rush of white and black, “Hi, baby!” Overwhelmed by a licking, overzealous adult Dalmatian, Hi, Cricket!” Petting the dog with one hand, Marsha attempted to hold her away from her dress with the other, but short, white hair immediately speckled the dark material.
Still outside, opening the trunk…”
“Just the small one, Mitchie!”
Taking the smallest of Marsha’s suitcases, following Walter into the house, “Where’s Larry?”
“At a friend’s. We called to tell him you and Marsha were going to spend the night here and he should be home any minute.”
Deserting Marsha, Cricket bounded into Mitchell and short, black hair immediately speckled the front of his white tunic and trousers. “Cricket! Hi, baby!” On his knees, kissing her cold, wet snout, rubbing the dog’s head fondly, “Larry’s still out at,”—glancing at his watch—“almost eleven, Dad? Jesus, at his age, if I was out to even nine…!”
“It’s summer and there’s no school, and so long as we know where he’s at, on weekends we let him stay out a bit later. Besides, it’s a little different here in Skokie than on the west side.”
The door bursting open, “Mitchie, Marcie, hi!”
“Hi’ya, kid!”
Going to his sister-in-law, kissing her and getting kissed in return, standing back, regarding Marsha in her maternity dress, turning to his brother, “Your wife’s getting fatter and you’re getting uglier!”
Coming warmly into each other’s arms, “I’m getting uglier?” Mitchell said. “You should talk!”
One month past his twelfth birthday, strongly built, nearly as tall as his older brother, Lawrence had straight, black hair, dark brown eyes and, of the three boys, most strongly resembled his father. Also large for his age, Morton had light brown hair, his mother’s grey eyes, and he, too, resembled his father. Mitchell, on the other hand, was a combination of both his mother and father, but more resembled Myra.
Were a stranger to look at the three handsome boys in a crowded room, there would not be the slightest doubt that they were brothers, or who their parents were.
Six feet tall, dark completed, his black hair beginning to pepper with grey, though now having a noticeable paunch, at age fifty one Walter Lipensky was still an unusually handsome man. Proud of his “working skipper” image, Walter did tend to be sloppy about his leisurely appearance and on days he did not work, let himself temporarily go to seed.
Whereas Myra had not gained any noticeable weight over the past few years, she hadn’t lost any either. Though not overly heavy for her height and bone structure, she could easily stand to lose twenty pounds. An attractive woman, Myra seldom wore makeup, nail polish or stylish clothing, or attempted to take advantage of the multitude of products devised to help women appear more alluring or feminine.
****
In the den, getting caught up for the past twenty minutes, “Mom, Dad,” yawing, “I’ve been up since four this morning and driven almost a thousand miles and I’m pooped.” Fighting to keep his eyes open, “I’ve got to get some sleep!”
“How’s about breakfast?” Looking at Mitchell because Myra knew Marsha would not eat lox, “We had lox and bagels tonight, but if you’d like some tomorrow…”
When Mitchell had first brought Marsha to meet his family, it had been for dinner on a Saturday, and for dinner on Saturday the Lipenskys always had lox and bagels. Jennie, Myra’s mother, wanted to know if Marsha was really a Jewish girl because, “So, nu, Mitchella,” Jennie had asked, “what kind of a ‘Yiddisha maidel’ (Jewish girl) doesn’t eat lox and bagels?”
“There’s lox in the freezer and we’ve always got bagels, tomatoes, onions and cream cheese.” Turning to Marsha, “And for you, if you want, I’ll make French toast and bacon.”
“I’d love lox, Mom, but then I’ll drink too much coffee and water and have to stop on the road every fifteen minutes to pish.” Answering for his wife and himself, “No, French toast sounds fine.”
****
On their sides lying closely together on the single bed, attempting to unbutton Marsha’s pajama top, “Mitchie,” holding the sides closed with both hands, “we can’t,” she whispered. “The boys’ll hear.”
Whispering back, “No, baby, we won’t do anything.” Unable to unbutton it, reaching beneath, he held a warm breast. “Ummm, God, Marcie, it feels so nice holding you again.”
“I know, Mitchie, but we can’t do anything… Besides, you said you were pooped.”
“Ummm, yeah, baby, I know, but just hold me.” Straining forward, nudging her thigh with his magically popped out of his pajamas penis, “We won’t do anything! Just hold me, please!”
“I know you, Mitchie! We won’t do anything, huh? Yeah, sure!”
“No, really! We won’t do anything! Just hold me, baby.”
Against her better judgment, but really wanting to, loving the feel of him in her hand, her passion rising…
“Mmmm…” Kissing, tongues touched.
“Marcie, I love you! God, how I love you…” Moving his hand beneath the elastic band of her bottoms, Oh, God, her warm belly and pubic hair causing his penis to twitch. “And,” said passionately, “I want to feel me in you!”
Wanting to, really wanting to, but clamping her thighs tightly, “We can’t do it now! You promised!”
“Well, I didn’t exactly promise.” One hand beneath her bottoms, one hand under her top, “But, yeah,” he said begrudgingly, “I’ll admit I did say we won’t do it… uh, all the way. But, honey, just let me do this,” tugging lightly on her top, “and we won’t go any further.” Still feeling resistance, “I promise!”
“You promise?”
“Yeah, baby, I promise!”
I know him… Knowing him. “I know you, Mitchie…”
“Baby…”
“Okay, already.”
Allowed to, now unbuttoning… nestling his face between Marsha’s breasts, closing his eyes, smelling the mild fragrance of her flesh, along with the residual scent of White Shoulders, feeling the soft, enveloping warmth on either side of his face… Something happened that Mitchell would not—not in a million years—believe could possibly, or would ever happen while in this position…
Marsha felt the hardness within her hand go limp as, lying still, feeling his warm breath upon her chest, “Mitchie?” she whispered softly. “Mitchie?”
“Hey,” came Larry’s muted voice through the tunnel of the closet, “if you two don’t get started doin’ somethin’ interestin’ pretty soon, I’m gonna go to sleep.”
Not answering, smiling, Marsha eased Mitchell’s head off her chest, then turning onto her side, nestling her rounded buttocks into the crook of her husband’s thighs and crotch, feeling more at ease and comfortable than she’d felt since Sunday, since before she became ill with the kidney infection and certainly since before she left her husband… Marsha, too, fell asleep.
Sunday, August 26, 1956: Skokie, Illinois
“What the h…”
A writhing blur of white and black energy bounding onto the bed pushed between the two… between the now one sleeping person.
Awaken with a start, “What the h…” on the outside, almost shoved off the bed, attempting to hang onto the pillow, but having no substance, the pillow, coming off the bed with him, Mitchell fell onto the linoleum floor with a room shaking thud.
Looking over the side of the bed, hesitating but a moment, Cricket bounded onto Mitchell’s stomach.
“You…” realizing what had awoken him and shoved him off the bed, laughing so hard he could hardly get the words out, “…rotten dog!”
Awake now also, flinging herself off the bed, onto her husband and dog-in-law. “What did you call me?” Tickling him, “A rotten dog?”
“No!” Laughing harder, tightening his sphincter against a full bladder, trying, but not too hard, to get away from Cricket’s lapping tongue and Marsha’s tickling fingers, “I didn’t call you a rotten dog! I called this rotten dog a rotten dog.”
Awakened by the noise, running through the closet into the front bedroom, “Cricket, you weren’t supposed to go in there!” Seeing his brother and Marsha awake, on the floor, wrestling with each other and the playful Dalmatian, the narrow space between the two beds becoming a conglomeration of arms and legs, Morton, of course, jumped into the melee.
Feeling a hand grab a breast over her pajamas, “Mitchie,” Marsha said playfully, “stop!”
“Huh? Stop what? I ain’t doin’ nothin’!”
“Yeah, sure!” But looking, discovering it wasn’t her husband’s hand, “Mortie!” Laughing so hard she could barely get the words out, “Mitchie, your baby brother’s feeling me up.”
“Hmm, wonder where he got that from?”
Moving and holding Morton’s hand, “Yeah, I wonder!”
But the little boy must have liked what he felt, because, attempting to hold her other breast with his other hand, “Morton,” laughing again, “stop that!”
“Yeah, Mortie, it ain’t nice to feel up my… Phaghtt!” He pretended to spit as Cricket poked her tongue into his mouth.
“Hey, what’s all the noise up here?” An apron over her slacks, standing in the doorway, always enjoying the sight of her boys roughhousing, smiling, “Come on, get dressed.”
Disentangling himself, holding the fly of his pajamas shut, and his not entirely urine induced erection down, Mitchell sat up as, hanging onto both of Morton’s hands, Marsha looked at her mother-in-law.
“You wanted to start early today, so I called Ma and Pa and told them you were here and that they should come over for breakfast, and they’ll be here any minute.”
“Great, Mom, I wanted to see them anyway… Dad up yet?”
“No, but I’m going to wake him now… Morton, get your brother up and let these two get dressed!”
“I’m up! I’m up!” Larry called from the back bedroom. “Who could sleep with all the noise in this crazy house?”
“What’s for chow, Mom?” Mitchell asked. “It smells great!”
“French toast you can get any time,” Myra said, looking at Marsha, “so I decided to make fried motzie and bacon.”
Although often having fried matzos with ham, bacon or pork sausage in this house, it had become kind of a standing joke between Mitchell and his mother. “Fried motzie and bacon, Mom? Sounds kind’a…”
Having had this meal here before, aware of the interplay, “Sacrilegious.” Marsha, jokingly, finished her husband’s sentence.
Always feeling slightly guilty at serving a pork product with matzo, “Yeah, well,” Myra said, “your father-in-law likes it that way.”
“Hey, fried motzie and bacon sounds just great to me, but Ma’ll have a conniption.”
“She always does,” Myra said, “but Pa loves it, and God…” jerking her thumb upward, “hasn’t struck the house with lightening yet.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “Yet!”
The Walter Lipenskys had never kept kosher. As a matter of fact their apartment on the west side of Chicago and their home in Skokie has been the “free zone” for any relative or friend with a kosher zealot for a mate who might be in need of a pork fix.
****
“Ma,” coming through the doorway, Jennie crinkled her nose at the odor of fried bacon, but before she could say anything to her daughter, taking his grandmother into his arms, hugging the frail old lady, “I’m so glad Marsha and me are able to see you before we go back.”
Although Jennie Barrish, at age seventy-eight, suffered the same ailments most older women experienced, she had always been, at least in her family’s opinion, somewhat of a hypochondriac and through the years had complained of “not feeling so well” so often her family always had a problem deciphering the truth from the imaginary. But all agreed that at her age now, if Jennie even thought she “doesn’t feel so well,” then most probably she didn’t.
“So, nu, Mitchella, would I miss seeing you and your wife?”
Turning from her grandson, Jennie was immediately taken into the arms of Marsha. “Bubby,” said sincerely, “it’s so nice to see you again!”
“Me, too, mein kind.” Pressing the flat of her hand onto Marsha’s stomach, who on this day was wearing one of Mitchell’s old shirts that hung loosely over the waist of her unbuttoned blue jeans. “And to me,” looking at her closely, “you don’t look so pregnant.”
“I’m only first going into my third month, Bubby.”
“Pa!”
Two years older than his wife, Morris Barrish had always been a robust, handsome man. Now his eyebrows were long and scraggly. The whites of his eyes were tinged with a slight yellow cast, and a barely noticeable haze covered their gray, once hawklike corneas. The stubble of his beard pure white, the flesh beneath his chin hung looser than Mitchell remembered.
Perpetually a symbol of love and strength, looking at his grandfather, now more than ever, the young man was sadly reminded of the old man’s age. As the two men clasped each other in warm greeting, Mitchell forced himself to hold back tears.
