________________________________________________________________________
“Do you have any reason to think he is fooling around with any of them?”
Her mother having planted that seed in her daughter’s mind, too, “No, I don’t,” Marsha said. “But who knows?”
“Marsha, just because his job causes him to be with women,” thinking specifically of her mother and himself, “it doesn’t mean he’s fooling around with them.”
“Okay,” begrudgingly, “maybe not.” Now harshly, “But I didn’t feel good and he refused to help me with the baby! And all he ever wants from me…” looking to her lap again, “is, uh, for us to make love,” she said softly. “And I can’t do it!” Her voice rising, “I won’t live like this any more! Yes, Mister Berman,” she said emphatically, “I do want a divorce!”
Divorce, huh? Berman thought. What you need is a spanking. “Well, in the state of Illinois,” he said, “there are only two grounds for divorce: physical cruelty, and so long as you’ve ruled out anything physical, we’ll have to go with…”
________________________________________________________________________
May 30, 1957
“Desertion! What do you mean, desertion?”
Early into the second week of their separation, Mitchell had received a letter from Marsha’s lawyer—the same lawyer that was handling their accident claim—informing him that he was liable for all of Marsha’s bills. He’d already sent her a money order, through his lawyer, for thirty of his weekly $80.00 pay check—before tax—along with a terse note informing her that he’d quit his job at Sierra Marketing and that, “Of course I’m still responsible for the purchase of my samples, and if you will send our monthly statements to me, I will pay our bills.”
By the end of the second week… “Desertion! What do you mean, desertion?”
“Abandonment! The grounds are abandonment!”
Thinking, Sounds about the same to me. Switching the phone to the other ear, “Okay, abandonment! But I don’t understand, Mister Hoffman. I didn’t desert… abandon them! I’m here if they need me!” Stuffing what was left of the fried egg sandwich that Myra had made for his lunch—that suddenly tasted rancid—back into the brown paper bag. “And I didn’t abandon them! She threw me out!”
Donald Hoffman was also eating lunch at his desk. “Look,” he said kindly, while spearing a wedge of tomato with his fork, “Illinois has only two bases for divorce: physical cruelty and abandonment. And so long as you didn’t beat her, she’s got to have something to run with, so it’s abandonment. And after all, you did leave your martial domicile!”
Though he did not remember meeting him, Mitchell was sure he’d been introduced to his family’s attorney at his wedding. In an effort to save money, most of their conversations had been by phone.
“Leave it? When I got home that day all of my stuff was packed in boxes and left in the middle of the floor with a note telling me to get the hell out!”
“Doesn’t matter, Mitchell. You left your marital domicile!”
Bruce Berman and Don Hoffman knew each other. As a matter of fact they and their wives had shared the same “friends of family” table at the wedding of Marsha and Mitchell.
Recognizing the indecisiveness of their respective young clients, during one of their conversations both attorneys agreed that it was the influence of the mothers that had orchestrated the events that led to the separation of these two “likable kids.”
Sighing, “Okay.” Mitchell asked, “What’s next?”
“The preliminary hearing is scheduled for…” ruffling through the pages of his appointment book, “three p.m., Friday, June, twenty-first.”
Through this and other conversations with his lawyer, right up to the time he’d discovered that Marsha had moved into the home of her parents, he had felt there was hope for them.
****
On the night of June twentieth, feeling the hopelessness and finality of the situation like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, thinking, At least they’ll set some sort of a schedule for me to see Mikey, Mitchell Lipensky attempted to sleep. As on the other side of the east coast to west coast chasm—less than a half hour away—so, too, did Marsha Lipensky.
The Lawyers
June 21, 1957
Nervously waiting for this time all day, at 1:10, p.m., Marsha Lipensky put on her new, cream colored chemise, then slipped her feet into “Peds” and a pair of beige flats. In the bathroom, she applied eyeliner and lipstick, then studied her face in the mirror.
Weather permitting, she had spent her days wheeling Michael in his buggy, walking the twisting sidewalk that followed the Lake Michigan shoreline until she became tired, then would either sit on a park bench or spread the light blanket she carried in the buggy on the grass verge, change and feed Mikey and, while resting, eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she usually made for herself while reflecting on the sad state of her life and marriage. After sitting awhile, she would begin the long walk home… to the home of her parents.
Marsha had three reasons for these long, solitary walks: always a sun worshipper, the walks gave her an excuse to be outside; the exercise helped her to sleep at night because, worrying about the divorce, wondering if it was really the right thing to do, she found it hard to sleep; and, also, Marsha was always desperate to be out of the home of her parents, and especially away from her mother.
Though well tanned from the hours upon hours she’d spent in the sun, standing before the mirror, in Marsha’s opinion she looked drawn and haggard. Actually, her evaluation was pretty much correct.
“Mother,” coming from the bathroom, “do I look okay?”
Barely glancing at her, “You look fine…What time you supposed to be there?”
“Three. I’ve plenty of time!…You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“I’ve taken care of babies before, Marsha! Remember?”
****
That morning Mitchell made his fifth call back on a preeminent, prospective account where he was given his largest order to date for a series of full color photographs of plastic injection presses to be taken at five different locations. Elated over the order—but apprehensive about today’s court appearance and especially in regard to seeing Marsha—he returned to the studio to give his parents the good news. Then, driving to Skokie he took a shower, shaved and, while standing before the mirror brushing his hair, looking at his reflection…
****
The five weeks of separation had, of course, caused untold stress, but had temporarily relieved the financial pressure because with Michael and Marsha at her parents’ and he at his, the cost of adult food had been eliminated. And, no longer having to pay the rental on the apartment, Mitchell found it easier to handle the ongoing bills that Marsha had forwarded to him en masse. Also, as though God were compensating him for the potential loss of his wife and child, in those five weeks some of his persistence had paid off and, in addition to this day’s major account, he’d opened two more lesser accounts. Also, Walter and Myra, seeing their son’s distress—maybe, in some way feeling bad, or guilty—decided to call his draw a wash and had given him another five dollar a week raise, bringing his take home to approximately $73.00 per week.
With the financial strain lessened a bit, at least for the moment, and with prospects at the studio heightened, mentally exhausted, Mitchell had decided to temporally forgo the search for a part time job and, being a sun worshipper also, besides spending time in the open convertible he also spent time laying outside.
****
…Looking at his deeply tanned face and upper torso in the mirror, unlike Marsha—who thought she looked drawn and haggard—needing all the confidence he could muster on this day, Damn, he thought, I’m looking pretty good!
****
Marsha left the apartment at 1:40, walked to Sheridan Road, and took the southbound bus to Devon Avenue, where she walked the half block to the ‘El’ station. She then took the Loop elevated to Randolph Street, walked the two blocks to LaSalle Street and the County building.
Each second bringing her closer to the time, each step bringing her closer to the place, Marsha’s unbending resolve began to bend, and, If only he’d…? If only I’d…?
Compromises for her heretofore uncompromising reasoning coming to mind, Marsha became fearful because of what she knew was about to happen! And because she was about to see Mitchell and because truly, she did not know what her reaction would be when she did see him, beads of sweat prickled her hairline and the palms of her hands became damp.
Arriving at the courthouse twenty minutes early, expecting to bump into her husband at any minute, Marsha breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator door opened and she stepped inside. Coming off the elevator on the fifth floor, looking about the crowded, dingy hall, still not seeing Mitchell, looking for the courtroom, she walked first in one direction, than the other. Finding room 508—somewhat reminding her of the Public Health waiting room in New York City—Marsha sat uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench outside the courtroom, apprehensively waiting, watching for her lawyer… and her husband.
****
Strangely, because he’d been dreading this day, this time, as though it were his execution day, now that it was here, though, glad to get it over with, Mitchell resigned himself to the fact that, If this is what Marsha wants, really wants, then, okay! Fine! Fuck it! And if she wants me out of her life, then fuck her, too! But, he’d thought, I’m going to make damned sure she knows what she’s throwing away!
Mitchell wore dark brown slacks and, because it was his favorite color—especially when he had a tan—a yellow sport shirt, his new white poplin jacket and brown penny loafers.
Leaving the house at 1:45, it took a few minutes short of an hour to get downtown, where he parked the car in the lot across the street from the County building.
Even though he’d conditioned himself into thinking, Fuck it, waiting for the elevator, searching his jacket, then his pants’ pockets, finding the letter from Don Hoffman, glancing at it, expecting to bump into his wife at any moment, as the door opened, breathing a sigh of relief he stepped inside. Glancing at the elevator operator, “Five, please.”
Coming off the elevator, turning right, he began to walk, and…
She saw him… Oh, my God!
He saw her… Oh, my God!
Walking: 522… 520… 518…
She felt the prickling sensation on her head as, again, droplets of perspiration pushed their way through the pores of her scalp. As…
Walking: 516… 514… 512…
Feeling the thumping of his heart, wiping his suddenly wet palms on the sides of his slacks. As…
Tempted to look away, to pretend she didn’t see him, Marsha forced herself to look directly at him. As…
510…
Through layers of tan, the shock of seeing each other once again turned her complexion to… khaki? and his… auburn? And…
Thinking, Fuck it! Looking directly at her, smiling a smile that could successfully adorn a toothpaste ad, coming abreast, “Hi’ya, sweetie!” he said facetiously. And…
In the eye locked seconds it took him to come alongside, Marsha noted that he’d lost a few pounds, which she liked. And his tan, made even richer by his blush, brought out the green of his eyes and the white of his teeth and, Damn! she thought, whys he always got to look like a goddamned movie star?
And though his appearance and the smugly spoken “Hi’ya, sweetie!” bugged the shit out of her, she did feel a thawing in her heart. But…
As always, Marsha had her unbending stubbornness and she couldn’t… just couldn’t give in! So, dredging up the remembrance of her anger, she forced an exaggerated “You’re a maggot and you disgust me” lip curling kind of snarl to form on the right side of her mouth. That…
Apprehensive, to say the least, about seeing his wife—and for the reason they were there—as he approached his smile had been forced, but in the eye locked seconds it took for him to come abreast and pass, Marsha’s snarl was so absurdly overstated that he couldn’t help but smile in earnest. And…
Doing all she could do to “stay tough,” Mitchell’s smile completely disarmed Marsha. As…
Passing, he stood about six feet beyond her on the other side of the hall staring at her in profile, thinking…
Marsha could sense that he was looking at her and, Oh, God, how she wanted to turn her head to the left and stare back at him. But with an extreme show of self control, Marsha Lipensky looked straight forward.
Staring at her in profile, She’s skinnier than ever, he thought, and, to him, then, wanting to hate the very sight of her, Marsha’s nose appeared longer and the flesh tone of her face looked to be more green than tan. Yes! He had been concerned about what his reaction might be when he saw her, but now thinking, She looks really shitty! For the first time since their separation Mitchell truly believed he did hate her, thinking, So far as I’m concerned she can go drop dead! They won’t keep me from seeing my kid! Fuck her! Other men get divorced and they see their kids and I will, too! Fuck her! Who the hell needs that ugly, skinny bitch? Working himself into a hateful anger, he considered calling her name, and telling her to “Go fuck yourself!”
However, looking beyond Marsha, approaching, he saw both attorneys, his and hers, together… together? Stepping across the hall, he stood a pace to the left of Marsha.
“Hi, kids!”
As Hoffman and Mitchell shook hands, “You may not remember,” Berman said, “but Don and I sat at the same table at your wedding.
Although remembering that Berman and Hoffman sat at the same table while attending their wedding, however, now seeing them together both Marsha and Mitchell felt something akin to betrayal.
Glancing at his watch, “The judge’ll be hearing your separation petition in about fifteen minutes,” Hoffman said, “and we’d like to talk to him before we get started, so why don’t you kids relax out here a minute and we’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, sure.” Mitchell went back to his place on the opposite wall and Marsha once again stared into space.
****
Opening the door, Berman motioned them to come inside.
Marsha and Mitchell found seats on opposite sides of the small courtroom.
Mitchell had been to traffic court on two occasions. She, though, had never been to court and was surprised and embarrassed to see that there were fifteen or twenty scattered spectators that would be hearing their motion for separation and, possibly the reasons for separation, that, with each passing day somehow seemed to be less and less important.
“The court will stand,” the bailiff said. “The Honorable Charles A. Bankston presiding.”
The judge, taking his seat at the bench…
“The court may be seated.”
“Lipensky versus Lipensky!”
Oh, God!
Oh, God!
Rising, going beyond the banister, sitting on either side of their respective attorneys, the two took seats behind a long table.
The judge, a tall, slender, white haired man in his early sixties, seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time studying the file before him… until, “You two!” pointing first at Marsha than Mitchell, “come with me!” Standing, Bankston came from behind the bench and, with a flurry of his black robe, went through a doorway into his chambers.
The two looked at each other, then their attorneys, who nodded their heads affirmatively. Rising, they apprehensively walked to the front of the room and, Mitchell allowing Marsha first entry, through the doorway into the judge’s chamber.
Sitting behind a desk, “You, here!” The judge motioned to Marsha by crooking his finger, waited for her to come forward, then, “There!” Pointing, he positioned her at a place just to the left center of the desk. “You!” Crooking his finger at Mitchell, “There!” he positioned him at a place just to the right center of his desk.
Now, using the forefingers of both hands—glancing at each other, Marsha and Mitchell, haltingly moved—“Closer!” Bankston said, forcing a thin smile, “I don’t want to get a crick in my neck talking to you two.”
Standing side by side, their arms and hands but an inch apart, as in a field of radiated energy, as though touched by static electricity, the ions of each were felt by the other, and both foreheads prickled with sweat.
“Lipensky,” directing his gaze to Marsha, “you’re here to petition this court for a legal separation, are you?”
“Yes, sir!” Marsha said emphatically. “I am!”
“And you?” Bankston asked, looking at Mitchell.
“Yes, sir,” said no less emphatically.
“You are, huh?” Turning his attention to the array of smoking paraphernalia on the desk, taking his time—letting the two stand closely apart—the judge selected a pipe from the rack, rooted the bowl with a tool, then opened the lid of the humidor and, taking a pinch of tobacco, stuffed and tamped it into the bowl of the pipe, struck a wooden match and sucked the tobacco to life.
Looking at Marsha and Mitchell through the haze of aromatic smoke, “Young man,” he said, “here in court, in this room you must answer honestly! So let me ask you just one question!” Stopping, sitting back in his overstuffed, leather wing chair, taking another deep draw on the pipe, tilting his head back, exhaling, he watched the gray smoke swirl over his head. His eyes coming forward again, he forcibly asked, “Do you want to see your wife in the arms of another man?”
“No!” Shocking himself with the vehemence of his soul felt answer. “I do not!”
Her body stiffening, Marsha’s head snapped to the right.
“And you,” pointing the stem of his pipe at Marsha, “do you want to see your husband in the arms of another woman?”
No less shocked, “No, sir! I don’t!”
One arm lifting upward, the weight of their inadvertent, honest answers moved the other arm of the scale downward, and suddenly each felt the substance of their love. Their two hands came together, their ten fingers entwined and the touch of each to the other was as soft as fresh fallen snow, as solid as a rock of granite.
“Okay, then, I want you to stop wasting the court’s time!” Bankston said, feigning anger. “I want you to get the hell out of my courtroom and I never want to see you here again! Understand?”
Mere seconds ago each had felt but loathing for the other. Now, both hearts swelled to near breaking with renewed love.
“Do you understand me, Lipensky?”
Not sure which Lipensky the judge was referring to, utterly confused by the rollercoaster ride from the pit of their hatred to the peak of their love, barely able to pull their thoughts together, let alone speak them. Motioning his head backward, “Uh, what’ll we tell our…”
“You don’t have to tell them anything. I’ll let ’em know you’ve changed your minds. You don’t even have to go back in there.” Pointing a thumb over his shoulder, to another doorway. “This’ll get you kids out’a here the back way.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Mrs. Lipensky… Marsha, you can thank those two in there,” nodding towards the courtroom. “But not now. Go on, kids, get out!”
Anxious to be alone, hand in hand they started to the door.
“Oh, yes, one thing more!”
The door open, stopping, the two looked at Bankston.
“Among other things, wearing this robe, being a judge, gives me the obligation to give advice, so I’m going to do it. I know it’s going to be tough, but you kids have got to live your own lives! So when they, your parents… whoever starts making you nuts, you tell ’em the judge told you to tell them to go to hell, and it’s up to you two to do what you know is right, not what they think is right! Go on now, beat it!”
In the empty passageway, the door closed behind them.
Instantly in each others arms, their lips pressed together, unwilling… unable to break the magnetic hold of their kiss, I love you! Their commingled thoughts, though unspoken, were heard… were felt by the other, I love you! The silent words transmitting from mind to mind, from soul to soul… I love you! I love you!
“Marsha,” moving his mouth from her mouth, “I love you! Oh, my God, Marsha, I love you!”
He looked at her, Oh, God, beautiful face and into her beautiful dark eyes and, having to prove that this was real, that Marsha was really here, really in his arms, sensing the feel of her heart against his chest, holding her tighter…
Feeling the beat of her husband’s heart against her breast, tears coming to her eyes, “Mitchie, I love you, too!”
