B.O.W. 79
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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.
Lakeside, Michigan
July 4, 1958
Forcing his eyes upward, to Marsha’s face, he saw—which he liked—that she’d gained a few pounds since he’d last seen her and her face—without a hint of makeup—without a doubt was the most beautiful face he’d seen since last he’d seen her, and, Oh, my God! he thought, “she’s so beautiful!
The husband and wife stood just three wooden steps apart: he looking into Marsha’s dark brown eyes, made all the darker by the tan of her face; she, looking into Mitchell’s green eyes, made all the greener by the tan of his face… And if each but knew the others thoughts, not a moment more would have passed before they were in each others arms, but…
Wishing she’d had time to put at least some makeup on. Wishing she were wearing something a bit more enticing than shorts and an old T-shirt.—unaware that there was no clothing or makeup made that could possibly have made her more alluring to her husband than as she already was—taking a deep breath, forcing her voice to sound almost disinterested, “You have any trouble finding the cottage?”
Taking a deep breath, “No, Marsha,” attempting to sound almost disinterested, “your brother gave me directions. It wasn’t a problem.”
“So, you’d like to see your son?”
In the heat of seeing Marsha, he’d forgotten Michael. “Yes! Of course! Wait a minute,” going to the car, “I’ve got something for him.” Popping the trunk, taking the teddy bear, “Okay!” he followed his wife into the cottage.
“Mikey,” she said softly to the baby, who’d fallen asleep on the padded floor of the playpen, “your daddy’s here… Mikey.”
Sleeping on his back, his arms and legs spread from side to side, in the eyes of his father the only thing missing was a halo. “Mikey…”
Waking, taking hold of the wooden rail, he pulled himself to his feet.
“God! He’s grown so much! Hi, Mikey.” Mitchell said, holding the stuffed animal forward. “I’ve brought you something.”
Not fully awake, taking the teddy bear, Michael looked at it, then, with bewilderment, at the man standing above him… Remembering the man that had held him and flubbed warm air onto his neck, and lain on the floor and bounced him on his stomach, Michael’s eyes crinkled, his mouth opened, showing many more teeth then when he’d last been with this man and, his arms held forward, “Dada!” he laughed his baby laugh.
“Oh, God!” Unable to hold back, sweeping his son into his arms, hugging him emotively, kissing him repeatedly, not caring if Marsha did see, tears running from his eyes, “Oh, Mikey,” Mitchell’s voice cracking, barely able to speak, “I’ve missed you so much! I love you so much!”
Hearing, seeing, sensing the depth of her husband’s emotions, Marsha ached to put her arms about him, to say to him, “Shhh, Mitchie. It’s alright, baby, we’re all together again.” But, as always, there was that something in Marsha, so she didn’t.
However, noticing the ripple of Mitchell’s newfound muscles as he lifted Michael from the crib, once again feeling a flush of heat. Knowing, for sure, that she would make the first move if he didn’t, but not wanting to be the one that did make the first move, thinking that, maybe, it would be advisable if they left the cottage, at least for the time being, at least until she was able to get Michael to take another nap. “Mikey and I usually go to the beach about now, and he wants to show his daddy how good a swimmer he is,” lightly pinching the flesh beneath his chin, “don’t you, Mikey?”
Addressing Mitchell, “What if I get I get into my bathing suit while you two get reacquainted.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Sitting on the sofa, bouncing Michael on his knee, “When you’re done I’ll get into mine.” Looking about the room, “No wonder I didn’t see any of our stuff at your mother’s; you’ve got it all our here.”
“Yeah, most of it.” Going to the dresser on the far side of the room, opening the bottom drawer, she removed what she believed to be her most flattering, two piece bathing suit. “And so long as I knew we were going to spend about five months here, and so long as I had to move the stuff anyway…”
“Had to move it?”
Knowing he was right, ignoring the tone of voice, “I thought why pay for storage and that Mikey’n’me might as well be comfortable.”
Marsha considered going into the bathroom to change, but getting an idea—and leaving the bathroom door open would be too obvious—so instead went into one of the bedrooms and, though, she could not be seen, at least from where he was sitting, purposely leaving the door open, If he comes in here, Marsha thought, and wants to start something, well, then, that’s okay with me.
Surprised she went into a bedroom and not the bathroom. Further surprised she’d left the door open, but still unable to read women—his wife in particular—though sorely tempted to get up and, kind of, nonchalantly roam the room to where he might be able to, kind of, catch a glimpse of Marsha naked, but he would be embarrassed if he did and she saw him and, knowing how well she—so she always said—knew him, Marsha would know he did it on purpose, which, of course he would have! But not wanting to be the one that made the first move, “Must have cost a fortune to move out and get our stuff here.”
“Actually, it didn’t cost anything.” Sitting on the bed wholly nude, stalling, hoping he’d come to the door. “Good ol’ Morrie… You remember good ol’ Morrie?”
“Yeah, I remember Morrie.”
“He sent the movers, so it didn’t cost anything.”
The temptation becoming too much, standing, holding Michael between his legs, acting as a kind of rudder, unaware he was able to toddle on his own, Mitchell steered the baby towards the bedroom just as… his breath catching once again…
Coming out of the bedroom, “Okay, Mitchell, your turn.” Taking Michael, “Come on, baby, let’s get you into your bathing suit.”
Never having seen Marsha in a two piece bathing suit: the color accentuating the depth of her tan; far from being a bikini, the bottom high waisted enough to hide the appendectomy scar; supporting her breasts, the halter top allowed as much cleavage to be seen as could legally show.
Unwitting staring, feeling his heat rising, actually fighting the temptation to lick his lips, knowing he had to do something, turning away, “Uh,” he said over his shoulder, on the way to the car to get his canvas bag, “you, ah, find someplace for me to stay tonight?”
Putting her son into the playpen, catching her husband’s reaction, well aware of his reaction, smiling, removing Michael’s clothes, waiting until Mitchell came back before answering, “I looked,” she lied, “but because it’s the Fourth everything’s booked, so…”
Yeah!
“I guess,” she said in a purposely unconcerned tone, “if you want, you can sleep in there,” motioning to the room she used to change into her bathing suit, the bedroom of her parents, the one with the double bed.
If I want? Going into the bedroom, leaving the door open too, “Yeah,” he said in an indifferent tone, “it’s okay, I guess.” As all the while thinking, Yeah! And if I have anything to say about it, you’ll be in here with me.
Dropping his bag on the bed, it took no more than two minutes for Mitchell to change into his bathing suit.
Packing the diaper bag, Marsha put ice, a bottle of juice for Michael and two bottles of Coke into the smaller, waterproof bag. “You hungry?”
“No,” he said just over her shoulder, startling her because she’d been so deep in thought about the possibilities of today—and tonight—that she hadn’t heard him come from the bedroom.
“Jesus, Mitchie… ‘Mitchell’, you scared the hell out of me!”
“Sorry.” Catching the slip of her tongue, which actually was Marsha’s first sign of affection. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Lifting Michael from the playpen, she set him on the floor, where he toddled to Mitchell.
Surprised, scooping him up to his shoulder, “He walks?”
“Not all the way to the beach, but, yeah, all over the place.” She slipped the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Standing back, Marsha took in the figure of her husband in a bathing suit: He’d always had strong thighs and calves and although never fat, since leaving the Halfmoon, except for the period of their last separation, he had become increasingly more and more…? “fleshy.” His buttocks now were smaller and tighter and his back more muscular than she’d ever seen.
Coming abreast, she looked to her side: his chest was hard and his stomach concave. His arms, held upward and backward with his fingers interlocked behind Michael’s back supporting him, fairly rippled with muscle. Mitchell’s lower body, while tan, was many shades lighter then his torso.
The effect in whole was so startling and foreign to Marsha that, once again, she looked at his face to be sure this was really her husband.
Yes! Of course it was the face of Mitchell Lipensky. But his near blonde, sun bleached crew cut hair and loss of weight had changed it from, as her mother-in-law liked to say, ‘a handsome face in a pretty way’ to a handsomely rugged face. The totality of her husband’s appearance literally taking Marsha’s breath away, she fought the urge to place her hand onto the swollen bicep of his arm to feel its hardness… Indeed, the thought of touching, of caressing Mitchell’s muscle excited Marsha almost beyond comprehension. Looking downward, to her left, she noted the cylindrical bulge of his penis beneath the bathing suit and, a flush of heat assailing her, Marsha’s mind shifted to the passionate, masturbatory dream of ten nights ago, and she realized that her dream was here, truly here, walking beside her.
“Mitchell…” Thinking, Okay, so I’ll make the first move. “ ‘Mitchie’, I’ve got to ask! Are you going to a gym? You lifting weights? What have you been doing with yourself to look this way?”
Not sure which he enjoyed most: the weight of his son on his shoulder or the looks of his wife. Glancing to his right, “What way?”
“What way? You’ve lost so much weight! And, when’d that happen? A crew cut! And your body and arms are so…”
“Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “I don’t work for my folks anymore.” Causing Michael to squeal, he bounced ahead a few steps.
Catching up, “What?”
“I have a new job. I don’t work for my folks anymore and haven’t…” looking at her, “since the day after you walked out on me.”
Marsha didn’t seem to notice the sharply spoken words, or if she did, ignored them because no matter what happened between them, Mitchell’s income affected her and her son. “Huh?” the statement “I don’t work for my folks anymore” taking precedence over all else. Stepping in front of him, “Wait a minute!” Putting a hand onto his chest, stopping him. “What do you mean, you don’t work for your folks anymore? Where are you working, then?”
“Look, Marsha,”—swinging Michael off his shoulder, he set the boy onto his feet, where, held steady by his father’s hands, standing between his mother and father, the little boy looked upward, from one face to the other as they spoke—“when you walked out on me,” he repeated rather harshly, “I couldn’t stand the thought of going through another day of people saying ‘no’ to me, so I talked to Sheldon, my uncle…”
“Yeah, I know who Sheldon is! So?”
“I asked Shel if I could go to work for him and he gave me a job as a…” starting to say shlepper, but the word shlepper having a kind of comical connotation, and at that moment Mitchell felt anything but comical. Also, he wanted Marsha to realize just how much her leaving had turned his life upside down. “I’ve been a common laborer ever since…” wanting to rub it in, possibly daring her to say something, “you walked out on me.” Releasing Michael, holding both hands forward, palms upward, “That’s how I got these…”
Not having held hands, she hadn’t felt them, but now, adding one more thing to the list of what she’d never seen on her husband, Marsha saw calluses on the palms and pads of his fingers.
His eyes hard, he stared into the eyes of his wife. When she didn’t respond…
“And this.” Flexing his right arm, the muscle rose sharply.
Taking hold of the tottering little boy, Mitchell swung him back onto his shoulder. “And right now I’m making more money than I’ve ever made, and…” Unsure of Marsha’s reaction to the fact that her husband now did menial labor, the dream of the woman in the yellow slack suit coming to mind, his face now inches from hers, “I’ll find another selling job,”—omitting that he’d already applied for and had been interviewed for the trainee job at Transco—“whenever I’m ready,” he said rather belligerently. “Okay!”
Rarely at a loss for words, at that moment all Marsha could say was, “If you’re making a living, sure, okay!” But standing close enough to feel the heat of Mitchell’s breath, wanting, Oh, God! fighting to hold herself back, Marsha wanted the feel of his mouth on hers.
Having more to say, but believing this was neither the time nor the place, Mitchell began to walk again.
Watching his back a second, rushing forward, feeling complete again, feeling pride again, Marsha Lipensky walked alongside her husband.
On the Old Road, almost to the beach access, “Mitch…” Okay, so she’d called him Mitchie—once—twice—now it was his turn to give something back and as he hadn’t, and as she usually called him Mitchell when angry or serious, Mitch seemed a reasonable compromise. “…there’s something I need for Mikey, so before we get to the beach I’d like to stop at the store a minute.”
Looking up the road, he saw the blacktopped swath in the shrubbery of the Red Dot parking lot.
“Sure.” Nodding his head towards the store, “That’s where you want to go?”
“Yes, we need some, uh, sunscreen for Mikey.”
****
Behind the counter, Dorothy looked up when the screen door opened.
“Dottie, hi!” Walking from the door to the counter, a sense of possessiveness overtaking her, having an all but uncontrollable urge to link her arm through his, “I’d like you to meet Mitchell,” adding, pridefully, “my husband.”
“Really!” Hearing snatches of conversation when Marsha had called her mother, knowing she was estranged from her husband, the older woman hadn’t asked many questions. Now, genuinely pleased at seeing these two together, coming from behind the counter, offering her hand, “Mitchell, I’m so glad to meet you! I’m Dotty.”
“Hi, Dottie.” Taking her hand, “I’m glad to meet you, too.”
“Dottie, I just wanted you to meet Mitchie…”
‘Mitchie’ Mitchell thought, she called me Mitchie.
