_______________________________________________________________________
“Look, if you want to come back, I’ll give you your knife.”
“Nah, it’s okay, Karen, you keep it.”
“Okay, if you’re sure, but I’ll tell you what; one of these days I am going to need pots’n’pans anyway, so maybe you can come back some other time and go through it with me again.”
“No!” He laughed dryly. “I don’t ever want to go through that again! And anyway, this isn’t the kind of work for a nice Jewish boy and I really don’t think I’ll be doing it anymore.”
“Well, okay, Mitch, if you’re sure… Look, I got to go now.”
“Yeah, me, too. So long, Karen. Oh,” he added, “good luck.”
That’s it, Mitchell thought as he drove home, no more of this pot and pan shit! I’m going to make up with Marsha, no matter what, then I’ll look for another job! And, God, please let us make up!
________________________________________________________________________
Chicago, Illinois
May 19, 1957
Arriving home, Mitchell found his wife and baby were not there, but his clothes were… in the middle of the floor.
Because they had but one closet, most of Mitchell’s offseason clothing was at the home of his parents. Now, his underwear, socks and jeans were in one carton and, because Marsha had never learned to iron, or just didn’t want to iron, all his shirts and wash pants that were in need of ironing were in a second carton and his hanging clothes, still on wire or wooden hangers, were laying across both cartons. On top of his other Robert Hall jacket there was a note:
I meant what I said. I want you out of here!
Staring at it, truly finding it hard to comprehend the implications of the one line note, taking a long moment for the simple meaning to sink in—as though it didn’t really mean what it said—he stared at the note until—his eyes watering—the letters began to shimmer. Then, feeling lost, for the second time since his quick withdrawal from the Rosenberg home he did not know what to do: should he cry with sadness or scream in anger. His throat thick, his eyes wet, turning in a tight circle Mitchell looked at his little home.
Above:
She’d been watching for her husband from her parent’s living room window. Seeing the blue Ford make a U-turn on Lakewood and park in the open spot to the right of the building’s entrance, Marsha’s heart began to pound and her wilful resolution, that had been fed and bolstered by her mother, began to dissolve.
Waiting:
Waiting for Mitchell to either come pounding on the door or call on the telephone. In either case, having no idea what she would do, what she would say, sitting stiffly on the sofa, waiting for the knock or call, holding her breath, reminding herself to breathe, Marsha waited.
Below:
Because it had been raining when Marsha left the apartment, both windows were shut and the pent-up heat caused Mitchell to sweat. As he sweat he felt the clammy moisture of his clothing that had been wet and body dried three times on this day and his flesh prickled and the level of his discomfort rose, along with his anger.
Above:
Startled when the phone did ring, bounding upward, pale, obviously distressed, when Rhea answered the phone Marsha stood slightly behind her.
As calmly as possible, “Mom,” he said, “is my wife there?”
“Yes, Mitchell, she is. But she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
We’re married, he thought. We have a child together! How can she not want to discus this? “What do you mean, my wife doesn’t want to talk to me, Rhea?”
“Just what I said, Mitchell!” The words, the tone of the words sounding so familiar, for a moment he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the mother or daughter.
“You hit my daughter, and she does not want to talk to you!”
Ashamed because he had slapped her, even if she did hit him first. Also because Marsha saw fit to tell her mother. “Okay, yeah, I did.” he said reluctantly, “and I’m really sorry, but she… Rhea?” Realizing she’d hung up, “God damn it!” He slammed the receiver onto the cradle and the angry tension of the week, along with the absolute frustration of this day and the total discomfort of that moment combined, overwhelming him with a wave of self righteous rage as, lifting the receiver, “Fuck you!” he yelled into the non-hearing phone, slammed it down, then, lifting it again, “And fuck your fuckin’ daughter!” He slammed the receiver down again. “God, I hate her!” Clenching his fists till his knuckles turned white, till he could feel his nails dig into his palms, “Okay, baby!” he said aloud. Thinking, If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get!
Carrying the cartons, he made two rapid trips to the elevator. Before beginning a third trip with an armful of his hanging clothes, stopping, he wrote a note under her note:
I meant what I said, I want you out of here!
Marsha, I hope you and that whore of a mother of yours
are happy together! FUCK YOU!
He put the note on the card table weighed down with the keys to the downstairs security door and the apartment, made a trip to the elevator with the first armful of clothes, laid them across the boxes, returned for the reminder, started out the door, was about to pull it shut and locked behind him, when… Thinking better of it, he went back inside, dropped his clothes onto the sofa, took the note off the card table, tore it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet, then wrote another note, that read:
Marsha, I hope you and your mother are happy together.
Above:
“What the hell’s the bastard doing?” Rhea said. “We packed everything! How long’s it take him to get the hell out?”
Below:
About to leave the apartment for the last time, hesitating, Mitchell came back in the room, laid his armful of clothes back onto the sofa, went to the crib, stared down for a number of seconds, then, lifting the cotton blanket, holding it to his face, he smelled the scents of baby lotion, talcum powder and… “Oh, Mikey!” …his baby.
Oh, God! His throat constricted, “I love you, Mikey.” His shoulders heaving, “I’m so sorry, my baby!” Mitchell Lipensky cried.
Above:
Now afraid he was going to come upstairs, Marsha nervously looked from the door to out the window to the street below, then over her shoulder again to the door.
Below:
Sighing deeply, forcing himself under control, he wiped his eyes, blew his nose and, “Mom, it’s me,” made a phone call. “I, uh… You mind if I come home for a while?”
“Mitchell, what’s wrong?”
“Marsha and me…” hesitating, barely able to say the words, “I, uh, I guess we’re going to…” forcing back a sob, “get a divorce.”
There was a pause on the line, then, “I’ll pay for the lawyer!”
****
Watching, waiting until she saw the car drive away and was sure her husband was really gonee Marsha Lipensky then took her baby and went downstairs.
The Chasm
May 19 through June 20, 1957
The imaginary chasm of a hundred miles that had separated the husband from the wife the night before, on this night felt as distant as the Atlantic to the Pacific. Though Mitchell was actually less than a half hour’s drive fromMarsha, both felt the void of transcendental distance. As though on the arms of a scale, their anger and hatred sat uponone arm, and their love and loneliness on the other. One would outweigh the other, but in a moment’s breath, the arms would reverse.
Were each left to their own devices, the wife and husband would nd a way to force the significance of their love to outweigh the consequence of their anger, However…
The hatred and anger arm had additional weights: “unwanted advice” and “fanning the flame.”
Advice was given freely and the flame fanned constantly.
“After all, Mitchell, how much can a person take?”
“Marsha, you should have done this a long time ago.”
“The bitch doesn’t know the meaning of respect.”
“The bastard can’t even earn a decent living.”
“Who’s ever heard of a Jewish wife that refuses to iron?”
“Who’s ever heard of a Jewish husband that beats his wife?”
“Yes, Mitchell, believe me, we miss the baby, too! But thanks to your wife, we don’t know him; and what we don’t know, we can’t miss all that badly. Don’t worry, Mitchell, you’ll get over it, too!”
“He’s got to support you and Michael, Marsha! And when the lawyer gets through with the bastard, he’ll wish he was dead!”
“Don’t worry, Mitchell, anyone as good looking as you’ll have girls crawling out of the woodwork. And when you’re ready, say in a couple of years, you’ll find another wife, and you’ll have other kids, too. You sure as hell don’t need her!”
Not sure if he really wanted to find another wife, trying to sound convincing, “Yeah, sure, Dad!” Mitchell said, thinking, But, oh, my God, I miss Mikey!
“As soon as you’re legally separated, I’ll watch Mikey and you’ll start dating again. Don’t worry, Marsha, a girl as pretty as you’ll find another husband; you don’t need him!”
Not sure if she really wanted to find another husband, trying to sound convincing, “You’re so right, Mother!”
****
But a week away from Mitchell found Marsha thinking, Mayby
Mikey needs his daddy!
However…Hearing the “advice givers” and “flame fanners,” because the two felt maybe they really should, the husband and wife further hardened each against the other.
Marsha had her prideful stubbornness to harden her, to keep her from softening and Mitchell his… what? Distance?
****
“Marsha, the bastard hardly sent enough for you to get by on! Give up the apartment! Move in here, with daddy and me!”
“But the furniture, Mother! What’ll I do with our… with my furniture?”
In the deep place: beyond the stubbornness and pride, hatred and anger, Marsha had the pinpoint, common sense thought that, Maybe, if Mitchell has someplace to come back to, maybe…?
“Why be alone, Marsha? Put what you don’t need in storage, move in with us, and that way you’ll have more money to live on and daddy and I’ll be here to help out… all the time!”
Remembering her childhood: Remembering the quarters, then, as she became older, the dollars given to her by her mother’s “friends” to get rid of her, to send her into winter’s cold or summer’s heat while her mother carried on her affairs. Remembering the maternal indifference shown to her for her entire life. Wondering, Why now? Why does mother want me around now, with my own child yet? To make up for the past? To show the world what a good mother she really is?
Why?
Why? Maybe because…
Since his marriage, her son, Roger—the only child Rhea had ever wanted, the child Rhea did not want to abort—had become totally ambivalent towards his mother. So now, with another male child, with her grandson, maybe, Rhea thought, if she lavished enough love and attention on Michael he might be the one to care for her in her old age. And also, possibly, because of the hatred she felt for Mitchell, because…?
Why?
Mitchell treated Rhea and Eli with complete respect.
Because he wasn’t what Rhea considered to be a good provider? Because he’d slapped her daughter?
No! Rhea hated her son-in-law because… Actually, if pushed for an answer, Rhea did not know why she hated Mitchell.
Oh, yes, Marsha had pride and stubbornness and her mother to hold her hand.
Mitchell… Mitchell had his ever vacillating anger and distance and, afraid to speak to and certainly afraid of seeing Marsha or, most certainly his baby for fear of “falling apart.”
Two weeks away from Marsha—though he had sent one check—he’d made no direct contact, but did have a secret channel for information.
