Chicago, Illinois
May 12 to July 3, 1958
“’Ay, Lippy!”
Tickled whenever one of the guys called him the well remembered, “Lippy.”
Looking to the roof, shading his eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun, “Yeah, Harry?”
“Gi’me a box’a twelve penny, will ya? An’ haul s’more’a them two-by’s up here, will ya?”
“Yeah! Be right up!”
Never, not in a million years, would he have thought he’d be happy doing what he was doing right then. But the work of a shlepper didn’t require much thought and if there was one thing Mitchell did not want to do at that time, it was to think. If a carpenter called for nails, he shlepped. If a carpenter called for 2X4’s, he would hoist three, or recently four onto his shoulder and shlep. Knowing what was expected of him and doing it. To work till he could barely stand, then go home—to Skokie—and sleep sounder than he’d ever slept in his life, was exactly what he wanted. And that was exactly what, in his new career as a shlepper, he was doing. And, of course completely unaware, outside of missing his son, Mitchell was going through this separation in far better shape than his wife… Except for weekends, when he had time and the energy to think, when he missed and ached for Marsha, too.
Lakeside, Michigan
Marsha stood by the foggy window as the force of the pounding rain distorted the by then all too familiar view of the seven boarded up cottages.
Pulling the two sides of the wool cardigan tighter, she looked over her shoulder, to the napkin holder on the table where there were three postal money orders for thirty dollars each that Mitchell, by way of Rhea, had begun to send weekly the week after she’d left… Without, she thought, so much as a word telling me he even misses me. “Or, you, Mikey!” she said aloud to her son, who was standing in the playpen. Sighing, Marsha brought her absent gaze to the quickly running rivulets that had been etched by years of rain in the soil of the horseshoe shaped cove.
Chicago, Illinois
“’Ay, Lippy!”
On his knees, absorbed in the task of pulling nails from a stack of 4x8 plywood concrete forms that had been pulled off the west end pylons the day before. Standing, “Yeah, Tony?” he pressed his fists into the small of his back.
“Here.” Handing him a five dollar bill. “Tell the guys the break’s on me today, and you, too.”
“Yeah, sure, thanks.” Taking the money, he ripped the corrugated flap off a carton of 16d nails, then going from man to man, who, in this day’s downpour—which was a continuation of yesterday’s downpour—were all working in the shelter of the partially roofed structure. Taking their orders for coffee and sweet rolls, he zipped his jacket, pulled the collar up and because this too was the work of a shlepper, Mitchell ran through the rain to the coffee shop on Devon Avenue.
Lakeside, Michigan
Marsha turned from one to the other of the three television channels she was able to receive. Finding nothing of the remotest interest, leaving it on for the noise, going to the stove she stood with her hands extended to the heat.
Michael asleep in his crib, she considered reading the science fiction paperback she’d bought at Red Dot earlier when she ran out between breaks in the rain to cash one of Mitchell’s money orders to buy some groceries, but mainly to get her baby and herself out of “this damned cottage” for a few minutes.
Feeling too restless to settle down and read, back at the window, standing, staring vacantly at nothing, her hand absently found its way through the part of her pajama top and her fingers touched her bare breast. Then, slowly, a finger traced the orb of her left nipple, and her mind drifted to someplace else, to someplace warmer, to someplace less lonely… For only a minute, though, because waking from his nap, Michael began to cry and, “Yeah, Mikey,” sighing, Marsha went to the crib.
Chicago, Illinois
Friday, May 23, 1958
Mitchell began work at 7:00, had an hour for lunch and, unless going into overtime—which had happened only once in the four weeks he’d been a shlepper, when the last truck came late and the crew stayed an extra two hours to shlep concrete, which, by the way, he shlepped in a large wheelbarrow—he was usually home by 4:15, well ahead of his parents, sometimes before his brothers. This day, the start of the three day Memorial Day weekend, was one of those days.
Coming from the shower, he dried himself, wiped the steam from the mirror then, studying his reflection, brushed his hair. Standing back, he tried to see the rest of his body in the cabinet mirror, but could not, and so long as he was still alone, Mitchell went into the bedroom he shared with Morton, took a pair of cut off jeans from one of his assigned drawers and, still nude, went downstairs to the full length mirror in his parents’ room.
Before this job, he had spent less time in the sun last summer than any other time in his adult life and now, as though his flesh craved the darkening rays, weather permitting, working bare-chested eight hours a day, five days a week, his face, neck and upper body were darker than they’d been in years. His body below his belt, though, was starkly white by comparison and his pubic area showed as a black triangle against the white of his lower stomach and thighs.
Turning to the side, “Jesus, Krist!” For the first time since his boot camp days in the Coast Guard, his stomach was concave. Turning straight forward, flexing an arm, “Holy shit!” he said aloud, thinking, I’ve even got a muscle!
As he looked at, and appreciated the reflection of his new self in the full length mirror, his penis, jerking upward—for no apparent reason—began to inflate. Always having a mind of its own, so Mitchell had always thought, often, very often erecting at the slightest, or for absolutely no provocation. As he stood nude before the mirror in the bedroom of his parents with a full blown boner, compelled, though, really wanting to, touching himself, his fingers tightening around it…
There was a rattling at the front door.
“Oh, shit!”
The front door bursting open, “Mitchie, hi!” Morton stormed into the house, as…
Stuffing “it” between his thighs, with his calves at outer angles Mitchell hopped as he pulled the cut offs over one foot than the other, then tried to pull them up and over his buttocks, and… Just as his baby brother came into the room. “Uh, hi, Mortie.” he succeeded.
“Hi’ya, Mitchie. What’ch’ya doin’ in mom’s room?”
Lakeside, Michigan
For Marsha Goldman the Memorial Day weekend had always been the most wonderful weekend of the year. Memorial Day was the herald of summer. Memorial Day was the harbinger of the end of school. Memorial Day was the forerunner of vacation, of freedom, of leaving the city and going to the country, of going to the paradise known as Lakeside, of being closer to those she loved the most—if not her mother and father, than all the others Marsha held dear. And if even here she was ostracized by her aunts, she was not by the others of the cove.
If there is good and bad, sweet and bitter, up and down, heaven and hell, then Labor Day, the last holiday of summer was the herald of bad, the harbinger of bitter, the forerunner of down because Labor Day announced it was time to leave this paradise known as Lakeside; it was time to return to the city and school and the hell of never knowing when she might be given a quarter, a half dollar, a dollar to go downstairs and leave mother and her “friend” alone.
Labor Day was the nethermost spectrum of young Marsha Goldman’s life. With this so, then the first holiday of summer, Memorial Day, was the absolute pinnacle. For on the Saturday of that weekend the families of the cove would make the drive from Chicago to Lakeside with their cars loaded with the things of summer. Once there, they would sweep, scrub, turn the mattresses, stock the shelves, and be sure the gas and electricity was restored because when school let out three weeks later…
****
On the Saturday of this Memorial Day weekend, Marsha Lipensky waited for those of the cove she thought would come.
Waiting, she sat upon a step to the cottage with Michael asleep in his buggy.
She waited with Michael crawling, tottering, and falling onto the sandy, patchy grass.
She waited from ten in the morning till four thirty in the afternoon.
Marsha was aware that her parents, aunts and the lifelong friends of the family, the Davis’ would not be coming this summer because their children were grown and for the most part married and whatever younger children there might be would still be too young to enjoy the country.
Also, Marsha did not take into consideration that with the improvements of window air conditioning and television, the heat of the city and boredom of summer was not as it had been early on. But still, the Goldman’, Rafkin’, Burnstein’ and Davis’ accounted for only four of the eight families and surely two or three of the others would show up!
With the passage of years, people who at one time thought their lives would always include the acquaintances of yesterday, occasionally will lose the thread of that something in common that had bound them together, then, in time, all contact would be lost.
As for the four other cove families, they, too, had televisions and air conditioners and adult children. Also, one family whose finances had slipped downward, allowed their property to be taken by the state of Michigan in lieu of property tax owed, so…
Marsha Lipensky waited all day Saturday, but none of the families of the cove came.
Skokie, Illinois
On Saturday, in celebration of his new muscles and newly concave stomach, and because his pants were falling off, Mitchell purchased three shirts and also two pair of Levi’s…
When it came to haircuts, Mitchell Lipensky was definitely a creature of habit.
After moving from Chicago’s west side—other than his years away in the Coast Guard—Melvin Hurbly was only the second barber in Mitchell’s life to cut his ultra straight hair, and his response to Melvin’s perfunctory question had always been, “Like always, Mel.” Which meant, “As short as possible but long enough so it’ll lay right.”
However, on this day: “How’ll you have it, Mitch?”
“Know what I’d like today, Mel?”
Standing behind the swivelling barber’s chair, pinning the green smock on, “Huh?” Surprised, Melvin Hurbly looked at the young man’s reflection in the mirror. “What's that, Mitch?”
“Mel. I’d like a crew cut.”
****
Home again, taking a shower, then studying only his face in the mirror above the sink, Holy cow! he thought, does that ever look weird!
If, as his mother always said—which rankled the hell out of him—“My Mitchell is good looking in a pretty way,” slimmed down with a crew cut, his good looks could almost be categorized as rugged… in a pretty sort of way.
****
On Sunday it stormed on both sides of Lake Michigan.
****
Lakeside, Michigan
Marsha had thought, at the worst she could hold out until Memorial Day when whoever was coming would come, then, knowing it would be just a few weeks until she’d have the company of old friends—even if just a few old friends—she would be able to hang on till they came for the summer.
Talking aloud to herself, “Good God!” Standing at the open door, feeling the mist of rain, “Doesn’t it ever stop raining in this goddamned place?”
She’d been forcing the thought down, but allowing it to surface, Marsha realized this paradise that she so loved as a child, without friends and family, was just a place. A place that could be lonelier than the city where, at least, she’d have a warm, dry home, transportation, a telephone, a television with more than three squiggly channels and—Marsha had thought about this, a lot—a husband.
Okay, she thought, so maybe they’ll come later, or maybe just for July and August. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see. Or maybe I’ll start seeing who else is around. Maybe I ought to go out and try to meet some new people, make some new friends.
When Marsha had made what she now knew was an irrational move, she’d been extremely angry at Mitchell. Now, though, other than the problem with his parents and the fact that he—other than the time of the argument when he and his father nearly came to blows in the kitchen in Skokie—still refused to stand up to his parents, she could not remember why she was all that angry. And, she thought, my being here has nothing to do with him getting drunk. Even Max—her cousin—complains about her husband! And even if she won’t say exactly what it is Ray insists she do to him, I know what she does and know Mitchell would like me to do that to him, too, but he’d never force me! And Rosalie’s got problems with Marty’s mother, too. So everyone’s got problems! Having an epiphany, Marsha wondered, So why am I here?
Whatever the reason, when she made the decision to leave the one thing Marsha did know was that under no circumstances would she live with her mother again, so she’d thought of Lakeside.
By refusing to let Mitchell know where she and Michael were—which she also now knew was an irrational decision—she thought being alone in Lakeside would give her time to think, to sort things out in her mind and, as an afterthought, to give Mitchell time, no matter how hard, to find a way to find her, then—as childish as it was—to come and get her… And of course she would refuse to go back, at least until the end of summer and that way she would be able to relive the best times of her life, only then she’d be the adult with a child and it would be her husband rushing to Lakeside on Friday afternoons and going back to work on Monday mornings.
But as weeks passed and Mitchell did not rush to her, her twice a week conversations with her mother usually went like: “Have you heard from Mitchell, Mother?” And Rhea’s answer was as always: “No, Marsha. Outside of the money orders that come without a word, or the one time he came here, or when he talked to your brother, no one’s heard from him.”
Each time Marsha questioned her mother she became angrier at her husband for not caring enough to find a way to find her and his son, or, at the very least, to keep hounding the family until someone broke and told him where they were, and by this time Marsha’s stubborn nature had kicked into overdrive making her more determined than ever to stick it out till either Mitchell did come for her, or summer ended when she’ll have to make another decision. But at this time?
Screw him! If the son of a bitch doesn’t care enough to find Mikey and me, than just screw him!
