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As for Marsha Lipensky...
With Mitchell earning a decent living.
With her in-laws friendly enough but at arms’ length.
Marsha’s diabetes still an unknown disorder and her postpartum depression a thing of the past and although still inexplicably unreasonably fatigued and irritable at certain times of the month, Mitchell’s equivocal attitude occasionally fired her need for him.
Bewildered but not bothered by the fact that her husband rarely pestered her for sex anymore, Marsha’s passion revived, somewhat, and she, more or less, began to enjoy the intimate feel of her husband within her body. So Marsha Lipensky, once again, felt herself falling in love with her husband.
Oddly, his love of Elizabeth Herzon became the spark that reignited Mitchell’s love of his wife. And, somewhat, the love of his wife for him and, going from famine to feast, Mitchell Lipensky truly enjoyed the subdued love of his wife and sexual attention of both Elizabeth and Marsha.
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Des Plaines, Illinois
September 3, 1963
“Marsha.”
“Morning, Mother.”
“I’ve some bad news.”
“Bad news?” Alarmed, putting her cup of tea onto the counter, “What bad news?”
“Doc Schaffer died.”
“My God! When?”
“Some time last night. Laurette…”
“Schaffer’s receptionist?”
“Yes. Laurette called Aunt Ida and she just called me.”
“My God, Mother, he’s been my doctor since…”
Remembering how she’d tried talking Schaffer into aborting Marsha… “Since before you were born,” Rhea said. “But he was in his late seventies and was probably pretty close to retiring anyway.”
“He was really a good doctor, and a nice man.” Thoughtful a moment. “Guess I’d better look for a new doctor, then.”
“Why don’t you talk to Maxine?”
“Nah, why drive all the way into Chicago? I’ll talk to some of my neighbors to see who they like and find someone out this way.”
September 25, 1963
Rarely in the living room, but on this day she was there, waiting for him, “Mitchie.”
This day being the last Wednesday of the month.
****
This day, the day of “being” with Elizabeth, knowing that he wouldn’t be with her for another month, always feeling a mix of terrible sadness at having to say goodbye, always feeling a sense of guilt for being with Elizabeth, and always especially feeling a sense of fear for the possibility that there was some telltale sign that he had been with Elizabeth.
****
Coming through the door…
“Mitchie.”
“Yeah,” speaking a nonchalantly as possible, “hi, baby!”
Said softly, “I want to talk to you.”
Uh oh.
“I heard from Doc Berger today.”
Relieved, but yet… “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know why Schaffer didn’t catch it, but…”
Becoming alarmed, sitting on the sofa alongside, taking Marsha’s hand, “What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“He found out why I’m always so tired: I’m diabetic.”
“Diabetic?”
“Yeah, I’ve got diabetes. You know what that is?”
“I think… Well, I’m not sure.”
“Apparently my body doesn’t make enough insulin.”
“Insulin?”
“Yeah, that’s…” Thinking a moment, trying to remember what Berger had told her, “Insulin is a, uh… hormone that’s needed to convert sugar and, uh, other food into what my body needs.”
“Diabetes. That’s when you’ve got to take a shot?”
“Yes, eventually, but for now he’s starting me out with some pills.”
“And this is why you’re always…” Careful here, “uh, sometimes so cranky and tired?”
“That’s what Berger said. He said I’ve got low blood sugar and that’s why I’m always so tired and feel so bad. The pills should help, but if not, I’ll have to start giving myself…” inwardly shuddering, “shots.”
“You’d be able to do that?” Putting his arms about Marsha, about to hug her, but fearful of being too close and possibly having her smell something of Elizabeth, backing away a bit, “You’d be able to do that? To give yourself a needle?”
“I don’t know. I may need you to help me then.”
“Jesus, Marsha, I even get sick watching you put your earrings in.”
September 29 through November 12, 1963
The prescribed medication seemingly having worked because, indeed, Marsha did feel a bit more energetic and a bit less irritable.
However, sensing something amiss regarding the affection and attention usually bestowed upon her by her husband, actually, at times—although it could be her imagination—he seemed to ignore her.
Also, as a “cuddly” kind of person, usually—when not angry at each other—Mitchell would often take hold of her hand while in the car or when they were sitting side by side, but lately hadn’t, and Marsha sensed that something was not quite right, that something had initially changed in their relationship. But unable to put her finger on it, and never one to subscribe to the theory that “one can attract more bees with honey than vinegar,” more energy or not, a bit less irritable or not, Marsha’s general temperament hadn’t changed—especially around “that” time of month—and with each real or imagined slight her anger would flare and, as in the past, days might pass before she would allow a softening of her attitude, along with her anger. So Marsha also began to lose the revived passion that she had felt early last summer, the passion that had caused her to occasionally be the instigator of sex.
And, very much out of character, Mitchell really didn’t seem to care.
Having to hide it.
Forced to bury the ongoing stomach churning emotion he felt as, utterly depressed over the fear of losing Elizabeth now that she was a single woman and, having no idea how to proceed, the spark that had reignited his love of Marsha had dimmed and the small niceties that had always been the earmark of the personality of Mitchell Lipensky towards his wife had diminished also, along with his concern over Marsha’s anger.
You want to be mad? he thought. Well, screw you! So be mad!
Nor did he show concern for her moods or the days spent within the anger of his wife. As a matter of fact Mitchell rather looked forward to Marsha’s anger because at those times he no longer had the need to pretend what he felt for her, which, once again, was nothing.
November 14, 1963
“Lizzy, I love you!”
3:47 a.m.
Her cramps coming on…
“Lizzy, I love you!”
…Unable to sleep, her eyes snapping open, staring into the darkness.
