_______________________________________________________________________

Stopping him, Mitchie…” holding his head,

Positive she was going to stop him, “Marcie, please…”

“My nipples are very sensitive, so, not too hard, please.”

Knowing he had permission, “Yeah, baby,” he lowered her pajamas to beneath her ankles and over her feet. Although well aware this was strictly for Marsha, knowing this was not a night for intercourse, having the need to be nude with his wife, Mitchell removed his pajamas, too.

On this night, at this time, his lips and tongue mere inches from his unborn child, on this night, at this time, this, to Mitchell Lipensky was beyond sex… this, now, was spiritual. However…

As always, the taste of his wife was as honey upon his lips.

________________________________________________________________________

Lincolnwood, Illinois

March 19, 1957: Before

“God­damned fuckin’ cunt!” Yelling angrily, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, “Who the fuck the fuckin’ bitch think she’s bull-shittin’?” Narrowly missing the rear fender of a Cadillac waiting to make a left turn, jerking the wheel sharply, swerving into the right lane, “Use your fuckin’ turn signal, asshole,” he yelled through the window as, pressing his foot to the accelerator of the Chicago Fastener Corp. half ­ton pickup, Randall Detwiler caught up with the north­bound vehicles in the early evening traffic on McCormick Boulevard. Then, easing up on the pedal, he impatiently tailgated the Plymouth in front of him.

Stopped in traffic, waiting for the light to change, “You know, I’m kind of glad your mom invited us for dinner tonight,” she said. “This might very well be the last time I’ll be getting out for a while.”

“Kind’a thought you’d feel better once you got out.” The light changing from red to green, making a right turn onto McCormick, “So,” Mitchell asked, “you think Greenblatt’s right?”

“About tomorrow? I don’t know. You know, when a doctor gives a due date it’s only an educated guess.”

Anxious to get back to the plant to punch out so he could have it out with his girlfriend, the instant the light at the Touhy Avenue intersection changed, shifting gears, Detwiler popped the clutch and, gunning the motor, sped around the Plymouth into the left lane, then, to get past an older Pontiac, shooting back to the right lane, he drove within feet of a beat up, gray Dodge.

Two car lengths ahead, glancing in the rear view mirror, Mitchell saw the in­ and ­out swerving motion of the cream ­colored pickup, but did not notice that the light on Howard Street had changed from green to red until he was almost into the pedestrian lane. In a spontaneous motion, slamming his foot onto the break pedal, he threw his arm across Marsha’s chest, bracing her for the hard stop, as…

Ruben Hernandez, following too close to the car before him, also stamped his foot onto the break pedal, stopping the rusted, pitted, bumper of his ’48 Dodge inches from the shining chrome bumper of the navy ­blue ’52 Ford convertible, as…

“Fuck!” Detwiler had time enough only to notice a plastic, grass skirted, swaying kewpie doll held onto the rear window of the Dodge by a suction cup, before…

Even though Mitchell Lipensky and Ruben Hernandez each had a foot firmly planted on their brake pedal…

“Fuck!” With a shattering of headlights and taillights, the ricocheting motion propelled the Dodge forward, smashing into the Ford, pushing it about three feet beyond the white pedestrian line.

“Fuck!” Mitchell felt his body snap forward and back along with a strong pushing pressure on his outstretched arm as Marsha, also, jerked forward then back.

Looking at her, rubbing his elbow, “You okay, Marcie?”

“Yes.” Luckily, at the moment of impact she had been sitting with both arms cradling her stomach, supporting it. “I think so.”

All three driver ­side doors opened simultaneously as traffic on both sides of McCormick came to a crawl as the vehicles behind the three ­car pile­up attempted to merge into the left lane. South­bound traffic slowed as those drivers rubbernecked in order to see what had happened in the north­bound lanes.

“Why’d’ya have’ta stop so fast?”

“Hey, pal,” Mitchell said, looking at his crunched trunk, “the light changed colors; that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“God damn­-it!” Knowing he was to blame, and because this was his second accident within a month, also knowing that most probably this was going to cost him his job, trying to transfer culpability, “Why’d’ya stop so fuckin’ fast?”

“Don’t blame me, man!” Hernandez pointed to Mitchell. “He stopped first!”

“Hey, I was going the limit and the light changed! You shouldn’t have been following so close!”

“Mitchell, come here!”

Leaving Detwiler and Hernandez to argue between themselves, going to the car, he looked inside.

Pointing to her stomach, “I can’t see past this.” Leaning back, Marsha motioned to the crotch of her light­ colored maternity slacks. “You see any blood?”

“Blood?” Alarmed, he looked between her thighs. There was a small, wet spot: the normal seepage of a pregnant woman?—so Marsha had told him on another occasion. “It’s a little damp; it’s hard to tell, but it doesn’t look like blood.”

“Thank God!” Reaching to him, “Help me out of here, will you, Mitchie.” Supporting herself by the right rear fender, waddling rearward, Marsha looked at the damage.

Having three children of his own, Ruben Hernandez recognized the “any time now” degree of this woman’s pregnancy. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” Ruben muttered under his breath, and silently prayed he had done no damage to this woman or her unborn child, as…

“Oh, fuck!” Randall Detwiler said aloud, having some good idea of his, or rather Chicago Fastener Corp’s, possible liability.

“Marcie, come on.” Holding her elbow, steering her back to the seat, “You ought to be sitting.”

“Yeah.” Holding one hand beneath her stomach and the other against her lower back, “My back’s starting to hurt,” said loud enough for all within range to hear.

Not knowing if her back really did hurt or if she recognized a possible insurance claim, or quite possibly both, staring at her, looking for some sign of whether or not something was really wrong, “Marcie, do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes. But I think we’d better wait for the police.”

This, telling him nothing. “Okay,” pointing to Howard Street, “I’ll find a phone and call Greenblatt to see if he wants to see you now… When the cops come, tell them where I went and that I’ll be right back.”

                                           ****

“Officer, we were stopped.” Jerking his thumb in the direction of Hernandez, “And he was, too, when he,” pointing at the cream ­colored pickup, “hit him, and he,” pointing to Hernandez, “ploughed into us. And now my wife is spotting and her back hurts, and her doctor wants to see her at the hospital.”

Just over the Chicago line, it was a Skokie squad car that had responded to the accident. Finishing his report quickly, handing Mitchell his driver’s license, going to the passenger side, looking through the open window, “You sure you don’t want an ambulance, Mrs. Lipensky? Or for us to get you to Weiss in the squad car?”

Not sure if there would be a charge for the ambulance, and really not wanting to be separated from Mitchell right then. “No, officer.” Forcing a smile through seemingly obvious pain. “If you’re done now and we can go, I’d like to get to the hospital.”

“Okay, Ma’am, if that’s what you want.” Turning to Mitchell, “Tell your insurance company the report’ll be filed in Skokie.” Looking at Marsha again, “And good luck to you, and your baby.”

“You say you called your folks when you called Greenblatt?”

“Yeah! I told my mother why worry Rhea until we know if there is a problem, and that we’d call her, and your mother from the hospital.”

                                          **** 

Lewis A. Weiss Memorial Hospital was approximately six miles southeast of Skokie.

Knowing the neighborhood, avoiding rush hour traffic by taking side streets, Marsha and Mitchell arrived at the emergency entrance at 6:17. It took another hour until they were assured that, regarding the baby, everything was okay. However, diagnosing the pain in her back would take X-­rays that, because of the imminent birth of the baby, the attendant was hesitant to do.

Due to indications that Marsha might be just hours away from going into labor, Doctor Greenblatt suggested she remain in the hospital overnight.

                                         **** 

Marsha did not go into labor within hours.

But because it looked as though she might go into labor at any moment, Marsha Lipensky remained in the hospital the next day, too.

But she didn’t go into labor that day… Or the next… Or even the next.

During and After

 March 23 through April 6, 1957

“Oh God, Mitchie!” Clenching her jaw against the pain of the contraction, “It hurts so bad.” When the pain passed, “What time’s it?” she asked for the fifth time in as many contractions.

Holding her hand, wiping her forehead with a damp washcloth, glancing at his watch, “8:32.” Getting the early morning call, Mitchell had arrived at the hospital about two hours earlier.

The contractions had now dropped from five to three minutes apart.

“Whew!” Taking a deep breath, forcing a smile, “Know what?”

“No, honey,” lifting her hand to his lips, “what?”

“I don’t like this no more. Tell ’em I wanna… emmm! Tell ’em I wanna go home.” Like the stretching of a rubber band, the cramping sensation once again tightening within her lower abdomen, “Oh, God!” Biting her lip, “Bad!” Screwing her eyes shut, the veins in her neck and forehead standing in embossed relief against her pale, damp flesh, “This one’s so bad!”

Feeling a stinging in his eyes for his wife’s pain, “Honey, it was closer this time. What do you want me to do? Should I get a nurse?”

Breathing rapidly through pursed lips, “Yeah, Mitchie, go get ’em and tell ’em I changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind?”

“Yeah! Natural childbirth! Tell ’em screw natural childbirth! Tell ’em I wanna be knocked out!”

Remembering the conversations with her aunts, cousin and Rosalie, Mitchell could not tell if she was serious. “You don’t want to be awake?” Wanting no mistake in this, “You really want me to tell Greenblatt that you do not want to be awake when you deliver?”

No response for a moment, then, as the squeezing lessened and the pain lessened, “No,” Marsha whispered, “I guess not.”

“No? You guess not what, Marcie? That you don’t want to be awake, or you do want to be awake?”

“Yes!” Her fingers tightening around Mitchell’s, “Oh, God! Oh, my God!”

                                            ****

“Marsha!”

Feeling her shoulder being shaken.

“Marsha!”

Opening her eyes, she saw the bright glare of a powerful overhead light. Squinting, Marsha looked from the light to the white ­gowned, masked figure standing alongside the gurney, or whatever she was laying on, thinking, If it’s Mitchell, he’s shrunk. “Huh?”

“Marsha, it’s Doctor Greenblatt. Do you want me to put you to sleep or do you want a saddle block? Mitchell said you didn’t know and you’ve got to let me know, now!”

Coming out of the light anesthetic, feeling another sharp contraction, grimacing in pain, “Yes, yes, yes!” She said, emphatically moving her head from side to side negatively.

“Marsha, do you want to be awake or asleep?”

“Asleep, Doc!” said without hesitation. “I want to be asleep!”

                                           ****

Oh, God!

Cradled in her arms, the nurse held the baby tilted upward so he could see its little, red face.

“Oh, God!” he said aloud, thinking… Actually what he thought was not so much a thought as a deeply felt sensation that even the thought that he, Mitchell Lipensky was a father was… incomprehensible. Tapping on the window, “Hi, my baby,” he said as, feeling foolish, he glanced to his left, at an elderly couple, obviously grandparents, kootchie­-kooing to a newborn grandson or granddaughter from the nursery window.

Turning away, the nurse began to lay the baby into a basinet, but, tapping on the window, he motioned to her by holding a finger forward, mouthing, “One more minute, please.”

Simply put, the reality of this would not sink in, and once again Mitchell Lipensky wondered, How can this really be? The idea of him being a father, a “daddy,” was about the same as the concept of pushing a feather through a rock: Impossible!

Holding the baby forward a minute longer, the nurse then lay him onto his back in the bassinet, and still he stood, looking at this little person that was his baby, his child. Mitchell’s heart swelled with joy and pride, and the sweet strain forced a tightening in his chest and throat, and tears came to his eyes as, pressing his forehead onto the window, covering the sides of his face with his hands so no one would hear his whispering or see his tears, “I love you, my baby,” Mitchell whispered. “Your daddy… Oh, God, Your daddy loves you so much!”