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Word for word Mitchell had thought about what he would say when he saw Marsha and how she might respond and what he would say when she did respond. Indeed, he’d always—word for word—thought about what he would say to Marsha, then, when it was time to say what he wanted to say he either forgot what he wanted to say, or changed his mind, or did say it, and because his words either came out wrong or—in Marsha’s feminine logic—what he said was misconstrue d to mean something altogether different than what he’d meant to say and, as so often happened, Mitchell would be sorry he said it.
“Shit!” Getting out of bed, dressing quietly, he went downstairs and, for the second time since coming home yesterday, washed the car.
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Lakeside, Michigan. Skokie, Illinois
July 4, 5 and 6, 1958
Awakening early, even before her son, Marsha remained in bed watching the shadows of trees and raspberry bushes as, darkening, they stippled the walls and ceiling in the cottage of her parents.
Since receiving the letter seven days ago she’d been a nervous wreck, because, as noncommittal as her letter, Mitchell’s was, at the very least, just as noncommittal and maybe even more so because, First of all, she thought for minimally the millionth time since receiving it, I would have come as quickly as possible, not almost two weeks later! And she further thought, I said I missed him and he didn’t! Well, he did say “Mikey, I can’t wait to see you,” so maybe I wouldn’t get the idea that he even wants to see me. And he also said he’s not going to sleep here! Well, that’s not exactly what he said, but how he said it puts it on me to make the choice whether or not he is going to sleep here… with me. What if, really, he doesn’t want to sleep here… with me anymore? What if he found a girlfriend? What if he really doesn’t love me anymore and he gets here and asks for a divorce? What if he can’t forgive me for what I did? Oh, God!
Having lots of time to think, she’d spent lots of time thinking of the day she’d moved from the apartment, and of the two movers with guns and, with fear, what might have happened if Mitchell had come home then. And, with embarrassment, outside of spite, having absolutely no idea why, Why in the hell did I go back upstairs and dump his rubbers all over the floor?
“Shit!” Anxious to get this day started, no matter what it might bring, but also because, awake now, Michael was standing in his crib with a sopping diaper, so, throwing the blanket off, Marsha got out of bed.
Skokie, Illinois
After showering, Which should I wear? Because he didn’t want to appear to be too obvious, this was the third time he’d changed shirts. Going back to his original thought, because he didn’t want to appear too obvious by wearing a yellow shirt that he knew she knew was his favorite color, especially as darkly tanned as he was, and also because he didn’t want to appear to be anxious to please her because he knew she liked the way he looked when he was as darkly tanned as he was, and wore a yellow shirt.
Deciding, dressing, Mitchell wore a pair of his most washed out appearing new Levi’s, and, for the second time, put on the shortsleeved, powder blue shirt that accentuated his tan almost as well as yellow—and his eyes even more so—and his old deck shoes, without socks.
Rather than folding and wrinkling the two other shirts he planned on taking—including the yellow shirt—he hung both on cardboard covered pants hangers along with a fresh pair of Levi’s on one hanger and chino slacks on the other. Into his old canvas bag went two pairs of Jockey shorts, two T-shirts, two pairs of socks, one pair of denim shorts and his bathing suit. But no pajamas because, if things went right, he wouldn’t need pajamas, and if they didn’t, he’d sleep in his underwear.
****
Having heard her son moving about, Myra remained in bed until he finished with the car then, when he went upstairs to shower, shave, dress and pack, she got out of bed to make breakfast.
****
Hoping to be on his way before his parents got up to give him another lecture, Mitchell planned on stopping some where for breakfast and to kill some time, but, the odor of brewing coffee wafting up the stairs, sighing, realizing he would not be able to just leave, putting his shaving kit—containing a bottle of Old Spice after shave lotion that he knew Marsha liked—into the canvas bag, glancing at Morton, who was still asleep, zipping the bag, laying a light weight poplin jacket over his arm then lifting the two hangers from the doorknob, about to go downstairs, remembering, thinking, God willing, went to his box of things that was shoved against the closet wall. Rummaging about he came up with three… No, he thought. Maybe, hopefully, God willing I’ll need at least six! Remembering, a slight flush of anger covering him, digging deeply into the box again he took another three of the 72 rediwet, foilpac prophylactics that Marsha had scattered about on the day she moved out.
“Hi, Mom, be right back!”
A beautiful morning, he’d lowered the top after washing the car.
Opening the trunk, he put the canvas bag next to the the teddy bear he had bought for Michael, and carefully placed the hangers on top.
Going in the house, he found a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee on the table. Four sausages sizzled in one frying pan while Myra fried two eggs in another.
“Mitchie,” scooping the sausage, she put them on a platter, then the eggs, “we know how much you’ve missed Marsha and Michael, and know how important this is to you…”
Oh, shit, he thought, here it comes!
“…but we—your father and I—really feel it would be best if before you go to bed with her…”
“Mom! I don’t know if she even wants to go to bed with me!”
“She has a baby! Women with babies don’t find men standing around waiting for them that are only too happy to support them! So chances are you’re right about her letter, and all I’m… All your father and I’m saying is to talk to her before the two of you jump into bed.”
“Mom,” he said emphatically, “I have thought about what I want to say to Marsha and have every intention of saying it!” He had also thought about what he wanted to say to his mother. “But you know how god-damned stubborn she is, and I’m going to tell you…” Pulling his thoughts together, taking some egg, chewing a moment, he washed it down with juice. “What I plan on talking to Marsha about is only going to be about her’n’me. And whether or not she ever calls you mom is going to be strictly up to her. And when ever she’s ready to be part of this family again, she will!” No longer being an employee of his parents giving Mitchell a bit more courage, “And I am not going to make those conditions for the two of us getting together again because there’s Michael to think of and he’s more important than whether or not his mother calls you mom. I really hope you don’t keep making this a big thing between you and Marsha!”
Having what might be considered "tunnelvision", “So, in other words you’re not going to discuss anything!”
“Mom, I love you, but that’s the way it’s going to be!” Standing, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
Stalling on the toilet, his mind elsewhere, Mitchell tried to read the newspaper.
Lakeside, Michigan
Glancing at the clock: 6:45. Marsha cleaned and dressed Michael.
Glancing at the clock: 7:05. She fed Michael as, glancing at the clock, 7:12, as glancing at the clock, she grew increasingly apprehensive over seeing her husband and what his attitude towards her might be. Glancing at the clock: 7:35. For breakfast Marsha had a cup of tea.
Glancing at the clock… “For God’s sake!” she said aloud, thinking, He said he’d be here about eleven! “Will you relax!” she said aloud to herself, but Michael, standing in the playpen watching television, said… “’Ucy!”
“Yes, Lucy,” Marsha said, glancing at the clock.
7:45: Through Skokie. 7:58: Into Chicago. 8:20: Onto the Outer Drive. 8:37: Onto Lake Shore Drive.
Lakeside, Michigan
8:53: Marsha made and closed the sofa bed. 9:05: She vacuumed the carpet, ran the dust mop over the linoleum floors and dusted the furniture. 9:30: She attempted to watch television, but could not. She tried to read again, but could not.
9:25: Out of Illinois, into Indiana, through Hammond and Gary.
With each moment, with each rotation of the wheels his exhalation, along with his fear, increased.
Lakeside, Michigan
9:58: Marsha went into the bathroom, let the water run to get hot, removed her pajamas and stepped into the shower.
9:58: Michigan City, Indiana. A sound from the past, remembering, the wheels hummed going over the “singing bridge,” and Mitchell’s heart began to beat even faster.
Lakeside, Michigan
10:11: Stepping from the shower, Marsha dried herself and, still nude, cleaned the bathroom as she tried to make the monumental decision of: What should I wear?
10:15: New Buffalo, Michigan. Only eight miles to Union Pier. Raising his eyes from the whitelined, blacktopped highway before him to the sparkling clear, deep blue sky above him, “Oh, God,” he said aloud, “let her still love me!”
10:24: Union Pier, Michigan. His head turned as the bowling alley, the Old Road cutoff, and the Union Pier Business Center sped by.
10:27: The twin water towers rushed by and suddenly, “There’s the road!” Approaching too quickly, but as there was no oncoming traffic the wheels of the Ford squealed as he made a sharp left and, still coming too fast, suddenly the dirt road was to his right and making another sharp turn there’s the second cottage, and…
10:28: What to wear still undecided, wearing only shorts and a loosely hanging Tshirt of Mitchell’s, that she’d taken by accident, brushing her hair, Marsha stepped into the sunshine, as…
10:29: Barreling into the cove the brakes locked and amidst flying pebbles and dust the Ford fishtailed to a stop as…
“Oh, God!” Startled, the Ford’s explosive entrance caused Marsha to stand stock still with the brush to her hair and her mouth open.
Oh, God! He’d planned on driving in slowly, nonchalantly. He had planned to appear aloof. But…
Oh, God! There she is!
If Marsha wasn’t there, just twelve feet away, staring at him through the now dust covered wind shield, he would follow his all but uncontrollable urge to fold his arms across the steering wheel and hide his face. But instead, taking a deep breath, Mitchell opened the door, stepped out and, his hand raised in greeting, sheepishly said, “Hi!”
“Hi.” she returned, then… Slipping out, “Mitchell?”
Marsha’s greeting came poised as a question because—though she knew it was her husband—standing barely twelve feet away, it was Mitchell and it wasn’t Mitchell because he’d lost at least twenty pounds in the near eleven weeks since she’d last seen him. And although she’d certainly seen him deeply tanned, he had never, not even on the Halfmoon where he’d spent quite a bit of time working outside, had he been this tan. And his hair! She had never seen Mitchell wear his hair any way other than the way he’d always worn his hair, and now the sunbleached crew cut gave him a burnished, rugged look. Thinking, Our separation sure doesn’t seem to have hurt him very much. Now noticing something that had always been wholly foreign on the body of Mitchell Lipensky: the bulge of muscles.
Having something akin to a hormonal epiphany, sensing a moistening in her vagina and the tightening of her nipples, and, Oh, yeah! Marsha Lipensky liked the way her husband looked… A whole lot!
As for Mitchell…
Taking the few steps from the car to the stairs of the cottage, for the few seconds it took from the car to the steps, his eyes were riveted to the face and body of his wife.
Having, really, not much else to do but tend her baby, eat and spend time in the sun, fresh from a shower, void of makeup, looking fresh as an ad for tanning lotion, Marsha’s tan, also, was deeper then than he’d ever seen.
Considering himself expert in these matters, noting she was not wearing a brassiere, he saw the natural form of her breasts and, for the split second it took him to notice—embarrassingly, he achieved a pressing erection that he hoped his wife did not notice—because, embossed upon the thin, still slightly damp material of his old T-shirt, he also saw the very sharply defined protrusions of Marsha’s suddenly erect nipples. Also, his eyes traversing their length, her long, dark, slender legs… Those long, dark, slender legs that seemed to go on forever where in his mind’s eye he pictured the juncture of Marsha’s naked thighs and at that moment Mitchell Lipensky would have given his life to have his face and lips there.
