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The single flight of stairs led to a small landing, which led to a door that opened into a bright 14x16 living room. To the right of the living room was a 7x14 dining area. To the right of the dining area was a large, well lit kitchen with a brand new refrigerator and gas stove. The doorway leading to the apartment’s one—12x14—bedroom was adjacent the kitchen door. The bedroom had beige toned wall-to-wall carpeting, the kitchen a “cheery” kitchen type linoleum floor. The rest of the apartment’s high sheen, recently varnished hardwood floors were bare.
The 9x12 hooked rug would go in the living room and they’d assured Paul and Sophie that as soon as they could afford it, they’ll purchase another rug for the dining area. But first they’d need a bed, a dresser, a kitchen table and chairs and, because they only had the two milk china lamps, they would need another end table and lamp.
Thank God for EZ Credit…Yeah!
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Chicago, Illinois
June 23 Through Summer, 1957
Leaving Michael in the care of his grandmother for the very first time—to the absolute delight of Myra—as the apartment was on the way, having first taken Mitchell’s clothes from Skokie, by 11:40 a.m., after three trips to Pratt and back, Michael’s clothing, dresser and crib, along with much of Marsha’s clothing, had been moved.
Whereas most businesses were closed on Sundays, Polk Brothers was not.
Calling Rosalie—who was overjoyed to hear of their reconciliation—she told them that Marty was working that day.
Having discussed it in length during their back and forth trips, as the living room was not carpeted and as Mitchell remembered his early years living in the third floor apartment on Homan Avenue and the Kaplins—the Lipensky’s beleaguered downstairs neighbors, they of the broomstick pockmarked ceiling—and how the sound of their footsteps—no matter how careful they were—would transmit through the floor. Because the bedroom was carpeted and, though smaller than the living room/bedroom in either of their first two homes, they decided, at least until they could afford another rug, to consider the bedroom as their living room too. So now, rather than going to the expense of buying a box spring, frame and mattress, they would put their existing furniture in the bedroom and Michael’s crib and dresser in the dining area, with the two excessive feet in length of hooked rug rolled against the wall, so at least the floor of the baby’s room and theirs would be covered. As there were ceiling fixtures in the kitchen and dining area, all they had to purchase right away was a dresser and a kitchen table and chairs.
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After spending an hour with Marty, they purchased a pretty chrome and wood grained Formica topped table with four matching chrome and Naugahyde chairs along with a lo-boy dresser that Marsha and Mitchell agreed to split evenly: he was given the shallow top two drawers and she the three deep bottom drawers.
Whatever offseason clothing they could not hang in the—for once—abundant closet space of their new apartment, they would leave at the homes of their parents.
Spending $132.00, they added another $7.25 a month to their EZ Credit, making a total owed—including for a set of pots and pans—and to Polk Brothers of $37.98 a month, making their set monthly expenses, including their new rental, but excluding the cost of electricity, but including the two doctors and hospital, of $202.28 per month. This, coming out of $80.00 per week or, figuring four weeks to the month, approximately, $292.00, after taxes, per month.
This for two adults and one child.
Live on love!
Live on this much love?
Summer 1957
As miserable as it may be walking the streets of downtown Chicago in winter, so also is it in summer. Except in the “dog days” of summer the misery is on the far opposite end of the weather spectrum.
If not the wind, it is the humidity, and during June, July, August and most of September, the city that sits on the far western side of Lake Michigan has more than its share of both, for as the winds of winter will cut through layers of whatever clothing are worn, the winds of summer carry the blast of a furnace that even as it parches the flesh it covers the breadth of the city with a cloying, adhesive like moisture that burrows beneath the lightest, scantiest of garments.
As dank, heavy air lays over the city—as it does its populace—so also does much of the business of Chicago fall into a state of lethargy. And as the amount of business lessens, so also do tempers shorten.
For Mitchell Lipensky, the merciless dog days of this summer were spent in, once again, fruitless canvassing. And one’s family cannot live for long on past glories—especially short lived past glories, in addition to the too familiar rejections and old pressures, Mitchell found he had new pressures, and the fuse of his temper shortened.
For Marsha Lipensky, the dog days were spent in tending her home, her husband and her baby. But even with a window fan and multi windowed cross ventilation, away from the cooling, Atlantic breeze of her first home in Seagate, and the lower temperatures of her second home blocks from Lake Michigan, the heat of this summer was relentless and she also felt the old stress and the new stress, and the fuse of her temper shortened also.
Through the dog days of this summer, “things” once again began to revert to normal… to life as before… to how things were.
Understanding and communication—or the lack of communication and understanding—along with sex and money—or the lack of money and sex—vied for the flame that most often reignited the shortened fuse of their anger.
Money: Even thought Mitchell’s draw against commission had been raised to $85.00 a week, the old bills, the added expense of the apartment plus the purchases added to their EZ Credit had effectively dissipated that small addition of funds.
Also, the words spoken by both Myra and Rhea: “I’ll pay for the lawyer!” seemed to be words neither mother had issued seriously because both forgot their vow, or perhaps they had meant it only, if, indeed, the two young people did divorce. So now, even though Bruce Berman had reduced his bill to $250.00 and told them, “I’ll take it from the accident settlement.” While Donald Hoffman, too, reduced his bill to a like amount, he had no pending legal settlement to take it from, so now Mitchell agreed to pay $10.00 per month to his lawyer with the promise of payment in full at the time of settlement, taking a $212.00 monthly bite out of his $305.00 “take home.”
Rhea helped by taking her daughter grocery shopping twice a month and by slipping Marsha a twenty dollar bill every now and then. Myra helped by an open invitation for dinner, and there was always a “Care package” to be taken home.
Mitchell did look! But as it was summer, because the kids were out of school, and because business was extremely slow that summer, whatever part time jobs there were, the kids seemed to have.
“Last summer!” Mitchell said to Marsha. “One year! Jesus! Was it really only a year ago that I loved summer? That I couldn’t wait for summer? That I lived for summer?”
When one goes really fast from adolescent to adult, from single to married with a child, priorities change… really fast!
“Screw summer! I can’t wait till summer’s over!”
Since the birth of Michael, Marsha appeared to have a lowered level of energy, and by midmorning often felt a fatigue that carried through until she was able to take a nap, and once again expected her husband to help more than he did, especially with the baby.
Okay, yes, he knew he very possibly should help Marsha more, but as the “man,” as the person that earned the living—be that as it was—Mitchell still felt that he left home five mornings a week to fight traffic, the heat, and a “bunch’a’jerks who almost always say no!” And seeing as he had a wife that did nothing but talk on the phone, play with the baby and—considering Marsha’s tiredness as laziness—take an afternoon nap, all he really should have to do once he returned home was to play with his son and enjoy the benefits of his labor.
Understanding? Communication? This summer, so it seemed, the two could not handle even the simplest of disagreements without saying hurtful words to each other.
A few months from her twenty-first birthday, as Marsha had had a baby, an emergency appendectomy, a uterine hemorrhage and a prolonged stay at the hospital about five months earlier, no one was suggesting—especially since they did not have insurance or the money to pay for—further medical testing, but fatigue was an early, ongoing symptom, and it would be years and hundreds of arguments pertaining to her “laziness” before Marsha Lipensky would be diagnosed as diabetic.
Because of Marsha’s vow to be all to her child that her mother had not been to her, all of Marsha’s motherly instincts came to bear and she instinctively became a mother in the most complete sense of the word.
Actually, Mitchell thought Marsha was a wonderful mother. Also, after a bit of a shaky start, she had become a really good cook.
Recalling a lifetime of verbally abusive arguments between his mother and father, he also made a vow to never argue with his wife… or as little as possible. But Mitchell Lipensky’s foot still seemed to be in his mouth more often than not, and Marsha still seemed to spend more time being angry than not.
He thought he knew what role a man should play in a marriage.
She, on the other hand, wouldn’t let him play the role his way because she had a far different idea of what a real man should be. Which, in her opinion—omitting, of course, that her father was a cuckold—was what her father was. Which, most certainly, was not what her husband was! Of that Marsha was very sure… in her opinion.
With the exception of the first few visits—after Marsha and Mitchell had patched their relationship—for reasons known only to Marsha, she had, once again, refused to address Myra as Mom, so within a few more visits Marsha had, once again, felt Myra’s coolness. Also, because of the hints he had, again, begun to drop, Marsha knew her mother-in-law was putting the “Mom” pressure on Mitchell and she could not understand why he wouldn’t stand up to his mother and tell her to lay off!
Unfortunately, many things having reverted to how they were before, Mitchell was still intimated by his parents because they were his parents, and his employer. Besides, he still could not understand nor condone—having seen nothing but kindness coming from his parents—Marsha’s reason for no longer addressing his mother.
Also, there was…
Sex: Growing from a child to a woman with a mother such as Rhea, Marsha Goldman had thought of sex in basically negative connotations. Not realizing that Rhea had sex with men other than her husband for what it gave to her rather than for what it did for her, it wasn’t until Marsha was near sixteen before she was able to put two and two together: the apartment near the beach, furs, jewelry—all things her father, no matter how hard he worked, could not afford. With the realization that her mother had sex with other men for “things” rather than a physical need, Marsha no longer thought of her as a whore that saw men because she wanted sex, but more so a whore that did those things with men for what it would bring to her. In Marsha Goldman’s mind, love and sex became two separate entities that did not overlap.
Love is clean, good, wholesome.
Sex is? Something else.
As most progeny cannot imagine their parents in carnal situations—for Marsha at least until the time a few months back when she had heard her parents making love—Marsha could not ever envision her loving daddy doing “it” with her uncaring, most almost always, verbally abusive mother.
This is not to say that Marsha was repulsed by the thought of sex. To the contrary, when she and Mitchell fell in love she had been as eager to explore his body as she was to have him explore hers: to see and touch his private places as she was to have him see and touch her private places. And when they did, the sight of, and touches of both hers and his did certainly excite her.
When they were finally married, in the eyes of God, after her—brought on by the excitement of the wedding—premature menstrual period ended, Marsha had anticipated… had anxiously looked forward to the moment when the force of her husband’s thrust would break her hymen and she would no longer be a virgin and, for this, Marsha had worked herself into a highly intensified state of expectation.
However, Mitchell’s body—actually his lower brain, the brain in his penis—betrayed him, then became stubborn and by the time they were—almost a week later—able to have intercourse the tension over his lack of “erectile control” had eroded the anticipatory exhilaration of the first time for Marsha and the excitement never quite returned to that same degree.
Even though she knew—although, really, who’s fault was it?—Mitchell’s failure at being able to maintain an erection during those first few critical days was not his fault but seemed to be something he had no control over, even so Marsha subliminally did blame him and did feel betrayed because she had lost her moment—the moment she had abstractly thought of from the time she knew Mitchell was going to be her husband.
Other than “make up” times, as a kind of ongoing subconscious punishment, Marsha very rarely instigated sex, and even when they did have intercourse, she would do nothing—by sound or movement—to let Mitchell know that she was enjoying what they were doing.
Once again, this was not to say that she did not have passionate urges beyond occasional instances—such as coming together after major arguments or their breakup—because yes, she did! But those urges were usually brought about because she’d been playing with him, teasing him, trying to see how hot she could make him. Then she would occasionally get swept into the comet’s tail of Mitchell’s passion and this brought rise to her own prurient desires.
Even then, though, during those highly infrequent instances of consummate passion, simply said, Marsha would not permit herself to let go. Marsha would not allow the total of her desire to surface or show.
What is sexual passion, then, without movement, labored breathing or an occasional moan?
Becoming sexually inquisitive when he was nine, Mitchell, so it seemed, had lived his entire life with a “boner” and because of this, intercourse to him became as revered a thought as being allowed to touch the hem of God’s robe… and just as remote.
Of course he’d had opportunities throughout his teen years, but somehow the final outcome of each sexual encounter, the moment of insertion, would elude him—most often because of his own doing—and through the years he had seriously begun to think, God doesn’t want me to ever get fucked!
Then, even after he was married, even after all physical obstacles were removed, even after his new wife’s period had ended, even when he was primed, poised and ready… Ready? Good God, was he ready! But even then, even then, with the woman he’d married, the woman he loved, the woman that often excited him beyond comprehension… Once again God jerked out the carpet, once again God pulled the carrot and left him dangling, literally dangling, and the boy that was then the semblance of a man, that had always had a “boner”… lost what he’d always had.
In those first days of their marriage it wasn’t as though it wouldn’t come back. Oh, yes! It did come back, all the time. But then Marsha and he would try again, and again it would stand around till its little black eye came within close sight of where it wanted to be—then the little pecker would crawl back into its hole and leave Mitchell, once again, literally, dangling. And he could not understand, Why’s this happening to me?
And each time it happened, in his eyes and mind he’d felt more and more diminished as a man, and knew his manhood certainly had to be diminished in the eyes and mind of his beautiful new bride.
How in the world does a healthy, robust man of twenty-one explain to his new wife what he himself does not understand? What excuse does he make to a virgin that had waited all her life for carnal contact? What does he say to a young woman who, by every indication, was looking forward to intercourse, maybe even as much as he?
What?
What in the hell was he supposed to say: “My dick’s being a real bad boy!”?
The only thing he could do was to become angry. Yeah! But at what? At whom? Yeah! That’s it! Real smart, pal! Get angry at the innocent party here. Yeah! And he did! Mitchell irrationally became angry at Marsha.
Even without money problems and parental interference, what a way to start a marriage!
Mitchell loved closeness. He loved the touch of Marsha’s lips on his lips. He loved the feel of Marsha’s nude body next to his nude body and the soft, warm push of her breasts against his chest. He loved the taste of her flesh on his tongue. And he loved… Oh, God, how he loved, the wonder, the absolute soul encompassing wonder when he inserted his penis into the warm, so tight vagina of Marsha, when a physical extension of himself became a part of her… a spiritual part of Marsha. And at those moments Mitchell Lipensky felt as close to heaven as he thought he could possibly be and still be allowed life and breath.
For the past thirteen years, since January 17, 1944, when Mitchell had received sexual misinformation from an older boy, and later that night had his first nocturnal emission and subsequently became “the toothpaste thief,” he’d lived with a mental image of girls, and later, women.
Now, the woman was no longer a masturbatory phantom but the living, physical embodiment of a woman.
Being with Marsha, sleeping with Marsha, knowing that but inches away were the breasts and vagina of a woman—not the breasts and vagina of a phantom, but the breasts and vagina of a real live woman—and he wanted to make love to her! He wanted the sensation of being within her body, of actually being within her body! To be home within the body of Marsha! To become one with the entity that at times he believed…—for how else could all this have come about? How else could each have remained virginally intact for the years between finding and losing, and finding and losing each other again? For how else could this beautiful person, who gave him so much, who, at the times of their physical love made him feel so good that he believed—Mitchell Lipensky actually believed that Marsha was a gift from God.
When arguing, no matter who was at fault, it was always Mitchell that attempted the make up.
As always, Marsha wouldn’t, and between days and nights of anger and tiredness, stomach aches, headaches, cramps and remaining in the bathroom until he was asleep and, too often: “Not tonight, Mitchie, I just don’t feel like it.” Then throw into the mix an unknown, non treated, debilitating disease and occasionally the heretofore unheard of, unnamed, premenstrual syndrome.
With these acts and excuses—in the summer of 1957—Mitchell found he was as desperate for what he’d always wanted as before marrying; maybe even more so because before marrying, the love and warmth and comfort wasn’t there, but now it was there! She was there! Now Marsha was but a short, so often untouchable distance away.
In a way he could not understand or put into words, Mitchell Lipensky felt sadder and lonelier at this time then before he and Marsha married.
Yes, Marsha wanted her husband to be the ideal man of her dreams. But, of course, the man of Marsha’s dreams was far more than Mitchell—or most men—could ever be… But yet, every now and then he did surprise her.
Yes, Mitchell wanted his wife to be the sexual woman of his dreams. But, of course, the woman of Mitchell’s dreams was far more than Marsha—or most women—could ever be… But yet, every now and then she would surprise him, too.
Whether “given to each other by God” or not, Mitchell, as well as and especially Marsha, knew the other was not the husband—or wife—the other had dreamt of, or expected them to be.
Okay, so they’re not the husband or wife of their ideal, utopian dreams. But yes each was adult enough to realize their commitment to the other, and now to their child.
Okay, maybe, their idea of the perfect husband or wife was not altogether realistic, and accepting that Marsha and Mitchell did love each other, maybe time would even out the rough edges of their marriage… Maybe.
And so, in the hot, humid summer of 1957, two thirds of the way through the second year of their marriage, life, for Marsha, Mitchell and Michael Lipensky did, bumpily, go on.
