______________________________________________________________________

Walking on the outside, to the left of the buggy, Mitchell was quiet because, yes, the memories of the past were at play and he did feel that being on this road, the road he’d walked as a child…

Walking the Old Road of some of Mitchell’s yesterdays with his child ... his child called forth a nostalgic emotion that bordered on a soft, subliminal pain.

Lakeside/Union Pier, Michigan

July 4, 1958

Not realizing they were abreast the Lakeside Hotel until they were almost beyond it, his head turning to the left, Mitchell looked until they were past the once manicured, beautiful grounds. “Sometimes things really do go to hell, don’t they, Marsha?” he said sadly, more a reflection of the state of their marriage than the neglected grounds of an old hotel.

“Yes, that’s true ,” Marsha said, adding faintly, “but sometimes things can be fixed again,” referring only to the state of their marriage.

Looking to his right, he wondered if he’d truly heard Marsha’s words, and if he had, did they have the meaning he prayed they had? But…

Pushing the buggy, the set of her face giving nothing away, Marsha looked straight forward.

                                                                   ****

The summer town of Union Pier was crammed with people over this long Fourth of July weekend and the Palladium was jammed with adults and children only too happy to shove their nickels into the slots of pinball machines that were illicit in Illinois, but legal in the state of Michigan.

Leaving the buggy outside, with his wife at his side, Mitchell once again hoisted his son onto his shoulder.

Inside the Palladium, those adults that noticed Marsha and Mitchell stopped a second to look at the handsome couple, then turned their attention back to what they’d been doing with whomever they were with.

Standing taller, each proud to be seen with the other and the beautiful child they had created, waiting in line for seats at the crowded lunch counter, they enjoyed the intermingled, incomprehensible chatter of the horde of people, the din of dinging pinball machines and the raucous, blaring sounds of the jukebox, all of which were a well remembered part of the memory of this place—of this place where they’d first met those nine years ago. Also, it helped take their minds off themselves and their problem.

Seated, finally, with Michael on Mitchell’s lap, with hamburgers and Cokes before them, eating French fries from his father’s plate, probably “back­washing” more than he drank, every now and then the squirming child was given a drink straight from his father or mother’s bottle.

“Marcie…”

Warming to the degree of calling each other Mitchie or Marcie, outside of the momentary touch of his finger onto her chest, neither had yet to touch the other. Marsha still waited for him to make the first move and he, besides feeling he should still maintain his rapidly crumbling of façade of anger at least for a little longer—Mitchell was hesitant for fear of rejection. Besides, for just once he’d like her to, at least, apologize.

“…I’m curious about something.”

“Yeah…” Taking a bite, putting the burger onto the plate as she chewed—now that they had begun to address each other in a less formal, more affectionate way, as though the name of the other was the bit that would bore the hole that would begin the process of crumbling the dike of their separation, each using it whenever possible—“…what’s that, Mitchie?”

“Marcie, how come you never got hold of, uh, Mister Berman to have him send me a letter or something?”

“No need to, Mitchie.” In retrospect, Marsha didn’t know how to explain her irrational reaction to his getting drunk, once. “You started sending me money almost right away. Besides, I didn’t see any reason to build up a bigger bill till I knew what was happening with us. How come you didn’t have…uh?”

“Hoffman,” Mitchell said, giving Michael—who turned his head to the right when his mother spoke and upward when his father spoke—another slurp of Coke.

“Yeah, Hoffman.” Putting a french fry in her mouth, “How come you didn’t have him send me a letter or something.”

“Well, Marcie, I…”—Mitchell didn’t want to say, “I never stopped hoping you’d change your mind and come back,” or “I never stopped loving you,” he said. “I didn’t want to spend more on lawyers till I knew what your plans were. So I thought I’d wait to see what you planned on doing first…”

                                                                      ****

“I can’t believe it, Marcie! In all these years it’s like nothing’s changed here.”

With the exception of going in the opposite direction on the other side of the road—also, their time at the Palladium diminishing the tension—all was as it was an hour ago: Marsha pushing the buggy; Mitchell walking to her left and Michael, still sitting up, watched the passing scenery.

“I guess so, Mitchie,” thinking of the Lakeside Hotel, “except everything’s getting older.”

“Hey!” Passing it on the way to town, Mitchell had been in such deep thought over Marsha’s observation about “things can be fixed again,” that he hadn’t recognized it. “That’s where we used to stay,” adding, “when I met you.”

“Yup, that’s it, alright.”

Marsha remembered the cottage only too well because, after that first night—remembering their kiss, her first real kiss—passing the cottage on her way to Union Pier, on so many occasions she would see Mitchell through the screened porch and had wanted to knock on the door to say that she wasn’t angry at him any more for dropping her as ungraciously as he had after she had been forced to admit that she was not quite thirteen years old. But of course, even then Marsha, being Marsha, never did.

Passing slowly, putting his hand onto the buggy handle, Mitchell stopped momentarily to see if he could see through the screened porch and open door, and if he could, half expected to see Lawrence, at six years of age, sitting at the table eating a bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes and his mother, on the old, flaking wicker sofa reading a book.

His hand remaining on the buggy handle, about three inches to the left of Marsha’s hand, they went on.

Shining over their shoulders, the sun cast a gleaming star of reflected light onto the buggy’s chrome plated handle. Unaware they were, both sets of eyes were drawn to the dazzling spot of light emanating from between the tip of the little finger of Mitchell and that of Marsha.

Walking on, approaching the southern boundary of the Lakeside Hotel, the star of light all but gone because, without noticeable movement, the fingers of Marsha and Mitchell had stretched inward, to the point of light…

Now, the very tips of their fingers touched and that quarter inch of flesh transmitted a shock of spiritual power that transcended pride and stubbornness, anger, hurt and fear of rejection and, as a shock of electricity might cause one to unwittingly fling their arms about themselves, suddenly…

Marsha and Mitchell found themselves in the arms of each other with their lips on the lips of the other and the breath of each, again, became the breath of both… of one.

The leaning fence splintered and no longer whitewashed.

The lawn overgrown, weeds choking what flowers there were.

Though it was mid­day.

Their eyes closed, both again see the flickering silver light of fireflies in the eyes of the other.

I love you! I love you! Oh, God, how I love you!

The thought of each the unspoken words of both.

The hold of their lips breaking, taking a deep breath, “Mitchie,” reluctant to release, to be released, “I’m so glad you’re here, honey!” Meaning in her arms, as well as there. “So glad!”

“Me, too, baby!” Holding her, squeezing his wife as though were he to let go she would disappear again. “Oh, God but it’s good to hold you again! To feel you next to me again! I missed you so much! I love you so much!”

Turning to see, the few people walking on either side of the Old Road slowed to look at the two standing on the cracked driveway of the Lakeside Hotel passionately kissing as the toddler in the buggy looked on.

Forcing her lips from his, “Mitchie,” looking about, seeing people looking at them, “we’d better get home before Mikey starts to get restless, and so”—which is what she really meant—“we can have some privacy.”

“Yeah,” standing back, glancing downward, “I’ve a little pal here that’s starting to get kind’a restless, too.”

Following his eyes, “Yeah, Mitchie,” arching her hips forward, provocatively rubbing against him, “and I’ve got a little gal here that’s kind’a just dying to say hello.”

Oh, yeah!

The implication of her words causing another twitch, “Yeah, baby, let’s go home.”

                                                                      ****

Playfully lifting him from the buggy as one would a sack of potatoes, flinging his son over his shoulder, Mitchell carried the laughing boy up the three steps and into the cottage. Dropping him onto the sofa, lifting Michael’s shirt, “Bubububububu!” blowing flubbering air onto his bare stomach caused the boy to grasp at his fathers short cut hair and laugh even harder. “You do wanna take a nap, bubububububu, don’t you!”

“Mitchie,” standing back, enjoying the play between father and son, “he’ll be fine. Just put him in the playpen and if Lucy’s on…”

“’Ucy! ’Ucy!”

“…he won’t make a peep.”

“That’s what you taught my son? ‘’Ucy, ’Ucy’?”

“Nah!” Going to the refrigerator, taking the milk, “he also says ‘ka­ka’ and ‘pee­pee.’” Filling a bottle, she put on a nipple and gave it to Michael.

“’Ucy, ka­ka and pee­pee. Great!” Mitchell put him into the playpen.

Kneeling before the television, he turned it on. “Only three channels, eh? Uh ­oh! No ’Ucy.”

“That’s okay, Mitchie, Woody Woodpecker’ll do just fine.”

“Talk about peckers.” He turned, but she’d left the room, and…

                                                                   ****

Daily life with Mitchell: When life’s day-to-day problems overtook Marsha, when, due to his capabilities he was unable, or—especially regarding his mother, in her opinion—unwilling to bring about a solution to those problems, her patience and passion became nonexistent and Marsha forgot those things that caused her love of him and she became, minimally, caustic, and her desire—besides the fact that so often—too often—she really was exhausted and really didn’t feel well—her desire for sex dwindled to nothing so when, occasionally, she did submit to her husband’s urging, Marsha’s lovemaking was by rote and wholly uninspired. Which Mitchell was very well aware of, but considered the problem to be his inability to satisfy his wife.

But away from Mitchell for any duration of time—particularly at the termination of their separations—the things she loved about him took precedence over the things that aggravated her, then she remembered exactly why she did love Mitchell and the level of her desire escalated and once together—though, unfortunately for him, never shown outwardly—Marsha’s need… her quiet, unemotional passion for Mitchell—was almost limitless. And now, because of the new Mitchell, the leaner, more muscular Mitchell with his sun bleached, near blond short cut hair, Marsha’s quiet need was not quite as quiet. Matter of fact, since he’d arrived about two and a half hours earlier she’d barely been able to keep her eyes off of him. And since their first kiss on the Old Road she’d barely been able to keep her hands off of him, so…

                                                                    ****

Simultaneously, on her way to the bedroom, kicking her moccasins off, lowering her shorts along with her undies, stepping out of both, not bothering to unbutton, she’d pulled the blouse over her head.

Following Marsha into the bedroom, finding her all but nude with both hands behind her back unclasping her bra, the thought that Marsha was instigating sex, along with, of course, the wholly unexpected sight of a fully nude…

Seeing the look, knowing how he loved seeing her nude, becoming even more aroused, slowly unhooking the clasp, letting the ends of the straps fall, holding the cups against both breasts…

Always! No matter how angry he may have been at his wife for whatever reason, the sight of Marsha nude had always dissipated that anger.

In her arsenal of feminine weapons, Marsha Lipensky knew the sight of her nude, and/or the hint, or the withholding, of sex was her equivalent of the atomic bomb.

“Marsha,” coming closer…

Marsha Lipensky, was indeed a lovely young woman. Truth be known, though, free of clothing, she was thin, bordering on skinny. Her legs were long and, though shapely they too were thin. Marsha had no noticeable hips, small, very tight buttocks and, never considered as perky, since having Michael, her, to say the least, moderately sized, breasts did have a noticeable droop. But, to Mitchell…

“My God,” his hands going about her waist, “you’re so beautiful!”

When he would say those words—because he’d said them so often—Marsha would think he was not being altogether sincere because, after all, she knew what her body looked like, so how could anyone—no matter how horny—really think that she was God’s gift to him. So she’d thought the words “You’re so beautiful” were said more for effect than in absolute honesty. But hearing…

“You’re so beautiful!”

Knowing the words were heartfelt, warming Marsha more than she already was, letting the bra fall to the floor.

The mid­afternoon sun coming through the gauzy curtains lit the room with a soft, wavering light.

Standing a foot apart, looking from her face to her breasts, the thought that he was with Marsha again, that he was looking at Marsha, nude, again, filled his mind and heart. Overwhelmed with the beauty of, yes, God’s gift to him, hugging her, feeling the heat of Marsha’s breasts through the shirt he wore, dropping to his knees, putting his face into the black, downy cleft of Marsha’s thighs…

The reverence of the moment—for the moment keeping him from attaining an erection—kneeling before her, sensing the moisture of Marsha’s vagina along with the slightly sea tang scent of her rapidly heightening need…

As these sensations filled his mind, reverence became passion as, holding her cool buttocks within the palms of his hands, pressing her forward, pushing her harder onto his face…

“Mitchie, honey,” urging him upward, “let’s lay down.”

“Yeah, baby.” Standing, pulling the shirt over his head, watching as Marsha backed onto the bed and laid down. Looking at her watching him, popping the top button, Mitchell pushed his shorts, along with his underpants to the floor.

Actually, before she’d met Mitchell, when Marsha would fantasize about a boy or, as she grew older, a man, the man would always be muscular; not just everyday muscular, but weight­lifter type muscular. Though far from weight­lifter type muscular, when she had seen him in a bathing suit earlier she’d very much admired the vastly slimmed down and muscled up body of her husband.

Now though…

Seeing Mitchell wholly nude: the tapering of his waist and the hardness of his thighs seemed to accentuate the size of his turgid penis and, to Marsha, the man before her was her husband and, really, was all she desired. Yet, in a way, the naked man before her was a different man and the two and a half months of loneliness, of agonizing over the decisions she’d made along with the very possible fear that they may never be together again were behind her because…

As Mitchell, scant moments earlier had found it difficult to believe that Marsha was really here, standing fully nude before him…

So then did Marsha have the same surrealistic sensation and to be sure now was not a continuation of that bothersome, but so sweet orgasmic dream she’d had those ten nights ago, reaching to him… Closing her fingers about…

Closing his eyes to the feel of her touch…

If one were to heft a piece of lead the size of a marble, one fleetingly might wonder of physical weight to size.

So then did Marsha wonder of the cylinder of flesh she held within her hand: it was hard, yet soft; it was…? Hot? Cold? Actually cool, yet the cool heat that emanated from the penis of her husband erotically seared the epidermis of Marsha’s flesh to spiritually enter her blood, causing it to flow through the veins that channelled from hand to heart to brain to cause an urge such as she’d never had before.

At that moment she wanted… actually wanted to…

She had certainly been given plenty of hints and, once in a while in a joking/serious way Mitchell would outright ask if she would please…? But Marsha’s joking/serious answer had always been, “Nice Jewish girls don’t go ’round giving their husbands blow jobs!” So she never did. But now…

Whereas love between two people, physical or otherwise, is truly a matter of what one might give rather than what one might take…