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“The rite of circumcision has been enjoined upon us as a sign of our covenant with God,” Rabbi Kay said in English as, dipping a strip of sterile gauze into a goblet of kosher sacramental wine, he placed it between Michael’s lips.
Tasting the sweet wine, Michael greedily gummed and drew on the saturated gauze and, the few drops of alcohol immediately numbing him…
Kay placed a small, stainless steel clamp onto the baby’s penis between the foreskin and glans, shut it tight, then…
Mitchell, along with most of the men, closed their eyes, as…
…With one precise cut, the Mohel removed the foreskin.
“Mazel tov!”
Only then did Mitchell open his eyes.
“Mazel tov!”
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Chicago, Illinois
April 5, 1957
Knocking on the window, “Hi, Mikey!” His hair and outer clothing wet from having to run the distance from the space he found at the far end of the parking lot to the entrance of the hospital in this evening’s thunderstorm.
In a bathrobe and pink, fuzzy slippers, Marsha stood alongside her husband.
Knocking again, “Hi, baby!” But Michael, oblivious to the gesticulations of his parents on the other side of the nursery window, stared incomprehensibly at some point above the crib. “Mikey!” Smacking his lips twice, “Miiikey!”
“Mitchie, he’s a baby, not a dog!” Tapping the fingernails of her right hand onto the glass, making a sharp, staccato clicking sound. “Mikey, baby, it’s your mommy!”
“And”—smack, smack, smack—“your daddy!”
Wanting to! Aching to! Actually sensing a dull, sensory pain for want of holding her son. “Twelve days!” Marsha said sadly. “I cannot believe I haven’t touched my baby in twelve days.”
“You said Silverman told you maybe we’ll be able to get out of here tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but he said that the day before also.”
Standing closely side by side, his arm around her upper waist, “Jesus, Marcie,” he said as he cupped his hand over the material of the bathrobe, over a freely hanging breast, “I miss you! I can’t wait till you’re out of here!”
“You can’t wait? How do you think I feel?” Moving his hand, Marsha placed it lower on her waist. “But you do know, don’t you, that we can’t do ‘it’ for at least another two weeks.”
“It?” Knowing what she meant by “it.” “What do you mean by ‘it’?” he asked in what he hoped would come across as a joking tone of voice. “We can’t do what for at least another two weeks?”
Annoyed, “Sex!” she said. “We can’t have sex for another two weeks.”
Not actually keeping count, the last time they’d had sex, of sorts, was on March second—34 days before. Having, at least the normal sexual appetite of a healthy, near twenty-three year old male, 34 days is a long time to go without sex and, actually, on March second sex consisted not in the culmination of intercourse, but more so “one way oral,” which—loving to do that to Marsha—had been just fine with Mitchell.
“Sex, Marcie? What’s sex,” said in his joking, annoying tone of voice. “It’s been so long since we’ve screwed, I’ve forgotten!”
Having been in the auto accident, the pain—if ever there had been pain—had magnified in her mind and, having what she considered a hard delivery, then the emergency surgery and subsequent hemorrhage, Marsha felt Mitchell hadn’t been attentive enough, nor—though he was still working a second, part time job—spent enough time at the hospital with her and that all he was ever interested in was sex.
“It’s like a bicycle, Mitchell,” said in non-joking tone of voice. “Once you learn how to do it…”
Learn how to do it? Feeling this a dig at the quality of his love making—which, though she hadn’t intended it as such, to Mitchell it was a dig—looking at her, his eyes narrowed.
“…you do not forget!” Marsha tapped on the window. “Bye, Mikey!” Taking his elbow, “Come on, Mitch, my stitches are starting to draw.”
“Bye, Mikey!” Mitchell knocked on the window again and, smacking one last time, turned away from the nursery. Walking slowly, his arm about her waist, helping her walk they began the journey back to Marsha’s room four stories above Maternity.
The Second Hole: A Very Deep Hole
April 6, 1957
Because he was a good salesman, and Mister Bornstein liked him, Mitchell was able to retain his part time job at Marshall Field & Company long after the end of the 1956 Christmas season.
Supposed to be at Fields by nine on Saturday mornings, Mitchell had told Bornstein that if his wife and baby were to leave the hospital on this day he would be coming to work late.
****
Doctor Silverman on his seven-thirty rounds…
****
Calling immediately, “Yes!” Marsha said excitedly. “He just left and said I can go home today, and that when you come for us, you should go to the office first and check us out.”
Go to the office and check us out. Even though Bruce Berman—Rhea’s, and now Marsha’s and Mitchell’s attorney—had told him what to say, the eight words raised the hackles of financial fear in Mitchell Lipensky’s mind… Yet, at the same time, they were the words he had so desperately wanted to hear. Thinking, my family’s coming home! “Yeah, baby, I’ll be right over!”
Thinking they might be coming home, he had vacuumed the carpet, dusted the furniture, hung all of his clothes in the closet, and washed, dried and put away all the dishes. This morning, as Mitchell closed the sofa bed, he looked about the one room apartment to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything and that it would be neat and clean when Marsha and his son came home.
Son! Even then, two weeks after the birth of Michael, Mitchell still could not get used to the fact that he was really someone’s “Daddy.”
The crib, baby dresser and bassinet from Marsha’s family, and the layette, from Myra and Walter, had all been delivered the day after Marsha had, prematurely, due to the accident, been admitted to the hospital, and were in the dining area. Rhea’s card table and two folding chairs sat in the living room, and though the room was extremely crowded, considering all they had, it really didn’t look all that bad.
Outside, yesterday’s storm had blown over and the crystal clear, deep blue sky was speckled with drifts of startling white clouds. The balmy breeze touched Mitchell Lipensky’s soul with a palpitating caress that brought forth the soft, sad recollection of youth and innocence and the Latin word Aprilis—to open; to begin life anew—denoted the aura of this beautifully mellow spring day made all the more beautiful and all the more mellow because he was on his way to bring his wife and baby home,
Aware that he would have to put it up for the ride home, deciding to lower the top anyway, walking around the car to settle the folds of canvas into the well, fleeting changing his mood, Mitchell could not help but see the crunched trunk, that between visits to the hospital and working two jobs he hadn’t had time enough to bring to the insurance company for appraisal then to a body shop for repair.
****
“Good morning. I’d like to check my wife and baby out of here, please.”
“Right there, sir, to Admitting.” The attractive, middle aged woman sitting behind the Information desk pointed to an office on the far side of the marble floored lobby.
“I go to Admitting to get discharged?”
”Yes, sir.”
****
“Hi! I’d like to check my wife and baby out of here, please.”
Turning from the typewriter, “Name?” the elderly, stern appearing woman asked in a nononsense tone of voice.
Thinking, no sense trying to warm her up, “Lipensky.”
Thumbing through a stack of manila folders, “Marsha?”
“Yes, ma’am, and, uh, my son, too.”
“That’ll be…emmm, Michael?”
Surprised, and worried because of two separate files, “Yes, ma’am.”
Taking both files, swiveling her chair to the short side of the L-shaped desk, opening one file, clickclickclickclick, her fingers whirling, the woman began a seemingly never ending, machine gun like tattoo on the keys of an adding machine, till…
Finally stopping, ripping the long ribbon of paper from the machine, folding it in thirds, putting it on the file jacket, opening the second file, clickclickclickclick, the woman began calculating those costs also as, all the while, sitting, biting his lower lip in horrific anticipation, Mitchell watched the narrow strip of paper snake out of the damnable machine…
Till at last, turning back to the long side of the L-shaped desk, the woman opened the top drawer, removed a form, spun it through the platen of the typewriter, opened Marsha’s file—noting there was no insurance—typed, glanced at the adding machine tape then typed again… Ripping the form from the machine, inserting another like form, she repeated the entire process with the second file…
Turning back to the adding machine, totaling the figures of both files, ripping the small slip of paper off, rotating her chair, “Mister Lipensky,” she said, “the total combined billing for both your wife and child, after outside financial participation, comes to…
Taking a deep relieved breath, thinking, So the Coast Guard is paying after all.
“…$2,977.13.”
“Huh! Ulp!” audibly swallowing. “How much did you say?”
Looking at the curled, two inch wide strip of paper, “$2,977.13,” the woman said in a flat tone of voice.
“How much did, uh, the government pay for this?”
Consulting both files, totaling the figures in her head, “For Mrs. Lipensky and the baby: $260.44, leaving a balance of…”
Cutting her off, “That’s all they paid?”
“Yes, Mister Lipensky, that’s all they paid!” Knowing there was a problem here, leaning back, staring at the young man, “How do you intend to pay the balance?”
“I… I don’t understand. How can it be so much?”
Consulting Marsha’s file, “Your wife was admitted on the nineteenth…”
“Yeah, someone crashed into us and we went to Emergency. Then the doctor thought, because she was about due anyway, she’d better stay,” he said, as though by explaining it would make a difference. “But she didn’t have the baby till almost four days later. Then the day after Michael was born she had an emergency operation and they had to take her appendix out, and the doctor wouldn’t let her go home till today,” adding, “and she didn’t want the baby to go home without her!”
She’d been listening patiently, “Nonetheless,” the woman said, “your wife was admitted on March nineteenth and today is the sixth of April and that’s eighteen days. Then there was the operating room and the anaesthesiologist and the added nursing and medication, for both your wife and baby, and she did have a private room for all but the first four days…”
“Private room?” Before being rushed into Surgery, Marsha had been in a semiprivate room, but because she didn’t have a roommate those first days, Mitchell thought nothing of the fact that after being transferred to the seventh floor she was in a single bed room, so he never questioned it.
Remembering that Marsha had said she wished she had a roommate to talk to before Michael had been born and, knowing their financial condition, he was sure she wouldn’t ask for a private room… and, I sure as hell didn’t! “I never ordered a private room! Who ordered a private room?”
Ruffling some papers in the thicker of the two files, “The room was ordered by a Mrs. Goldman.”
Taken back, “My, mother-in-law ordered a private room?” Angry because Rhea had done this without consulting her daughter or him, knowing Marsha would have refused if asked. Staring out the window—at the suddenly not so beautiful day—then, not knowing what to do, asked, “We’re not being charged for today, are we?”
“For whatever medication your wife or the baby had this morning, yes, but for the room,” glancing at a clock on the wall, “no, not yet.”
At the most, they had thought, maybe, if the government paid for the delivery and normal time in the hospital, the most they would owe—considering they did not expect Marsha to be hospitalized early, nor an emergency appendectomy that kept her in the hospital even longer, and the cost of a private room—they expected to owe the hospital, maybe, a hundred to, on the outside, two hundred dollars.
“How much did you say we owe?”
“$2,977.13, after,” she said wearily, “outside financial participation.”
His mind muddled at the thought of this—for a young, struggling family in 1957—astronomical sum of money.
Taking his check book from his pocket, nervously tapping it on the palm of his hand, trying to remember something Bruce Berman had told him to say in the event the hospital bill was excessive… Remembering, “Oh, yes! My lawyer told me to tell you that we’ve filed a lawsuit against the company that owns the truck that hit us…”
Unfortunately, as the striking vehicle, the lawsuit was filed against Vincent Salazar, who carried the absolute minimum in liability insurance, whereas, fortunately for Salazar, his “accident chaser” lawyer had filed a claim against Chicago Fastener Corp., which carried the maximum in liability insurance.
“…and he told me to ask you if the hospital would work with us on a, uh, lien?”
“Mister Lipensky, lawsuits such as these sometimes take years to settle, and the policy here at Weiss, if the patient cannot pay in full at the time of discharge, is to, in fact, file a lien on the future collection of these funds, and at the same time,”—seeing as there were no longer debtor’s prisons, really, what else could she do but—“set up some sort of payment schedule… How much can you pay at this time, and what can you manage monthly?”
Never surpassing his draw, Mitchell’s take home from the studio was still $62.50 a week and, depending on commission, before tax, between $20.00 and $25.00 a week from his part time job.
“Uh,” opening the check book, studying the $207.29 balance, “the figure you gave me, it’s just for the hospital, isn’t it? It doesn’t cover the doctor that operated on my wife, does it, Miss… uh?”
“Mrs,” the woman said. “Mrs. Young!”
Between Lewis A. Weiss Memorial and Edgewater hospitals, Mrs. Edwin Young had been in Admitting for twelve years. Often feeling compassion for the people that sat on the opposite side of her desk, she’d found the only way for her to do her job effectively was to feign a hard attitude. But she did like, and feel empathy for this well mannered young man.
“No, Mister Lipensky,” she said in a slightly modified tone of voice, “the bill does not include Doctor…” glancing at Marsha’s file, “Silverman.”
Looking at her, “Mrs. Young, we thought the government would pay much more than they did. As a matter of fact, we thought they would pay the whole thing; I mean for the delivery and the normal time she would have spent here, and because she was due and Doctor Greenblatt told her to stay, we were hoping they would pay for the days before we had the baby also. But that other stuff—the operation and private room, and for all those extra days after her surgery for her and the baby—I’m not prepared to…” Sighing, Mitchell’s eyes meeting those of Mrs. Young, “I just don’t have that kind of money.”
“What can you pay, Mister Lipensky?”
“I can give you two hundred now and about…” expecting an argument, “$25.00 a month.” He was surprised when…
“That’ll be fine, Mister Lipensky.” Reaching into her desk, removing a form, spinning it into the typewriter, “If you’ll just sign this lien authorization,” Mrs. Young said as she typed, “you’ll be able to take your wife and baby home.”
