________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, October 23, 1962, 6:30 a.m.
“Mitchie, come and get us. I want to go home!”
“Baby, you’re supposed to be in the hospital for five days and it’s only been…”
“I don’t care!” Verging on hysteria, “If we’re having an atomic war I want to be home!” Shouting into the phone, “Come and get us!”
“Sure, baby. I’ll drop the kids at my mom’s and we’ll get you checked out of there.”
“Hurry, Mitchie! I want to be with my kids.”
______________________________________________________________________
On October 22, 1962, after reviewing newly acquired intelligence, President John F. Kennedy informed the world that the Soviet Union was building secret missile bases in Cuba, a mere 90 miles off the shores of Florida.
After weighing such options as an armed invasion of Cuba and air strikes against the missiles, Kennedy decided on a less dangerous response. In addition to demanding that Russian Premier Nikita S. Khrushchev remove all the missile bases and their deadly contents, Kennedy ordered a naval quarantine, a blockade of Cuba in order to prevent Russian ships from bringing additional missiles or construction materials to the island.
In response to the American naval blockade, Premier Khrushchev authorized his Soviet field commanders in Cuba to launch their tactical nuclear weapons if invaded by U.S. forces.
Deadlocked in this manner, the two leaders of the world's greatest nuclear superpowers stared at each other for seven days…
Until Khrushchev blinked.
On October 28, 1962 thinking better of prolonging his challenge to the United States, the Russian Premier conceded to President Kennedy’s demands by ordering all Soviet supply ships away from Cuban waters and agreeing to remove the missiles from Cuba's mainland.
After several days of teetering on the brink of nuclear holocaust, the world breathed a sigh of relief.
December 24 through December 28, 1962
Christmas Eve
Des Plaines, Illinois
Having absolutely no religious significance, looking at Christmas as strictly a family holiday, there was a mountain of gifts alongside the living room wall.
Thanksgivings spent at the home of Walter and Myra. Having the children, the Lipensky type Christmases were spent at the home of Mitchell and Marsha.
Her postnatal problem was nonexistent after the birth of her daughter. Now, after the birth of her third child, possibly triggered by the fear of an atomic war and the extinction of the human race, Marsha’s postnatal depression was in full swing. Feeling low, miserable and tearful for no apparent reason, becoming irritable for no apparent reason, becoming angry over trivial things, this along with the unrecognized symptoms of diabetes…
****
“Mitchell,” slamming her fist on the table, “leave me alone!”
****
Shrugging his hands off her shoulder, “Let go of me!”
****
Slamming the door to the dishwasher, “I need more help!”
“I help clean the house!” Actually, since living at 9116 Balcony Place he’d taken over the washing, waxing and buffer polishing of all the floors. Also, weather permitting, on Sundays Mitchell would take Michael, Ellie and Mercy for a short hike in a nearby forest preserve. “I help with the kids all the time!” His hands held forward in supplication, “Marsha, what else am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” Truly baffled at her weariness, “Just leave me alone!”
****
This year opening gifts on Christmas Eve, planning on dinner first, the roast in the oven, the table set, waiting for Myra, Walter and Rhea, having no idea why, but well sensing Marsha’s seething anger…
“Did I say something?” Rethinking what he may have said to annoy her. “Did I do something?” Wondering, “Marsha, why are you mad at me?”
“’Cause you’re an asshole.”
“Gee, Marsha,” Mitchell said facetiously, “why don’t you tell me what you really think of me?”
A look he’d never forget! Words he’d never forget!
“What I think of you?” Her lip curled in disgust, a look of absolute scorn on her face, “Mitchell,” Marsha said contemptuously, “you don’t want to know what I really think of you!”
Taken back by the hatred in her voice, Marsha hates me! Terribly saddened by this, having no response, in any case having no time for a response because…
The front door opening, “Merry Christmas!” Myra said as she and Rhea, each carrying a box of gifts, entered the house followed by Walter carrying a carton of gifts.
Marsha’s mood suddenly shifting, for some reason no longer angry, unaware why she had been angry…
Michael, Ellie, the four adults and a thoroughly confused, deeply depressed Mitchell had a mixed up, Jewish family type Christmas.
Chicago, Illinois
December 28, 1962
Elizabeth
Vapor streaming from mouth and nostrils: “It was a blustery day.” Thinking of the opening words of a “Winnie the Pooh” story that he’d recently read to Mikey and Ellie, Yeah, and fuckin’ cold, too, Pooh!
Huddling his head lower into the upturned collar of his overcoat, digging his free hand deeper into his pocket. Glad he was through, but yet wondering why he’d made even two appointments for that day.
****
In the fifteen months since he’d been back she had seen Mitchell four times: twice at Transco’s semi-annual sales meetings and twice on the street, where once she had turned away and the other had actually ducked into a doorway. But now, tired of hiding, “Mitchell!”
Hearing his name called, reluctantly pulling his head from his collar, turning, he looked about.
“Mitch! Mitchell!”
Downtown traffic sparse on this last Friday of the year, looking to the other side of Wabash Avenue, his heart quickening, My God!
Waving, “Mitchell!” Waiting for the light to change, she was there.
In the fifteen months since returning to Transco, as he’d walked the streets of his territory, Mitchell had constantly been on the watch for her, yet hoped he would not see her. Now, the moment he’d wanted… yet dreaded.
