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Knowing his wife, knowing her moods well, knowing that her anger had passed, Thank you. Silently thanking God for small miracles, Walter obeyed.

Motioning to the chairs on either side of the picture window, “Sit down, why don’t you.” Myra said to the still-standing young woman. “Here, in my home, you be comfortable.”

“Yes,” sitting, “thank you.” Her senses reeling, Marsha had suddenly been made a part of a family. A family with grandparents. A family with brothers—two of them—that even spoke to her. And most of all, a family with a mother. A mother that had even prepared a meal. Looking at the overloaded table, thinking, This is just for a lox and bagel dinner? It looks more like Thanksgiving. Not sure if she quite knew how to handle the situation, she did know, however, that if she thought she loved Mitchell before—Holy cow, they even have a dog—she loved him all the more now.

________________________________________________________

Waiting, remembering the time it took for the hot water to get to the second floor… Finally, adjusting the temperature, aware that Larry and his father were waiting to shower, taking a “sea shower,” wetting, turning the water off, lathering, rinsing, Mitchell showered, shampooed and shaved. Finished, turning the water to cold, he stood in the spray until his scalp and skin tingled. Pulling the towel from the bar at the foot of the tub, he roughly dried his hair and body. Stepping from the tub he squeakily rubbed the towel over the steamed mirror, then brushed his hair, as, drifting up through the stairway… “My dad owns a small, uh, kind of a restaurant near the Stadium,” he heard Marsha say. And, Damn! Naked, his skin tingling from the cold water and brisk toweling, with the bathroom door open and Marsha just one short flight of stairs below, his mind as far from thoughts of sex as possible, Damn! he unknowingly had attained an erection. Looking at his penis in the mirror, You little pecker, he thought. Now, truly believing it, You really do have a mind of your own, don’t you!

In the bedroom, he put on Jockey shorts, Levis’. And, with but a fleeting thought of who it was that had given it to him, taking the cranberry colored cashmere sweater from its plastic bag, he pulled it over his head. Slipping his bare feet into a clean pair of canvas deck shoes, going back to the bathroom, looking in the mirror he bloused the sweater over his hips, then re-brushed his hair. Going downstairs, “Hi!” he said from the foot of the stairway. “So, you all acquainted now?”

Turning her attention from the conversation with Myra, looking at Mitchell, Marsha could not believe that anyone could shower, shave, and get dressed in that short a time, and look that perfect. His still-wet hair shone black. His light eyes and teeth were dazzling in contrast to his tan and a thatch of hair showed from the V of the sweater. But, as attractive as he was, what was even more important—and still, she could not believe that this was really happening—was that she was really here with Mitchell and his family, and especially that Mitchell had told her that he loved her. “Yeah, we’re all good friends now.” Moving aside, making room for him on the armless chair, patting the seat, “Come on.”

Sitting closely next to her, he draped his arm across Marsha’s shoulder. Putting her hand on Mitchell’s knee, he covered it with his.

As though she were incapable of answering, “So, Mitchala,” nodding her head towards Marsha, “she’s a Jewish girl?”

“Jennie,” Morris said, “she wears a Mogen David! Would a shiksa wear a Mogen David?”

“Oy…” Craning her head forward, squinting, Jennie looked at the small six-pointed gold star that hung from a fine chain about Marsha’s neck. “…so you’re right, Morris. So I’m sorry… ehh?” Forgetting her name, she looked to her grandson for help.

“Ma, her name’s Marsha.”

“Yes, Marsha. So, Marsha, your mother, she keeps kosher?”

“No, Bubby,” smiling outwardly, “my mother doesn’t keep kosher.” Frowning inwardly, My mother doesn’t keep anything.

“Bubby, ehh?” Jennie smiled. “If you eat here, that’s good. My daughter and her husband,” looking at Myra, scowling, “they don’t keep kosher, too.”

“So, Jennie, we don’t keep kosher either!”

“Morris, talk for yourself! You eat trayf—pork, shellfish—outside my house, it’s up to you. In my house we don’t eat trayf!”

“Yes, but Jennie,” Morris said patiently, “we also don’t got for—dairy and meat products—milichedig and flayshedig.

“So big deal! We use the same pots and pans and dishes.”

“And silverware! Don’t forget silverware!”

“So, okay already! So we don’t got special for milichedig or flayshedig. God’ll forgive me, but we got no trayf!”

Smiling, Morris winked at Marsha.

Enjoying the good-natured bickering, she giggled.

“Your papa,” Jennie asked, “he go to shul?”

“Yes. Sometimes on Friday, if he can, he goes to the synagogue.”

“That’s good.” Looking at Myra again. “Is good someone goes to shul!”

Morris had asked Walter on many occasions to go to the synagogue with him, and he’d been turned down on as many occasions.

“So, Ma, what can I do?” Myra said defensively. “He’d rather be on his fershtonkina boat than go to shul. Should I tie and drag him?”

“Hey, when’s chow?” Bare-footed, toweling his hair, Walter came from the bathroom wearing trousers and an undershirt. “I’m starving!”

“Don’t blame me—dinner’s been ready for hours!”

“Yeah, I know, honey.” Still placating his wife, going to her, putting his arms around her, he kissed her, this time lightly on the mouth. “And I am sorry we got in so late.”

Returning the kiss, “I’m sure you are!” Myra said sarcastically, pushing him away. “And get dressed, we’ve got company!”

Marsha was unable to tell if she was angry, or playing with him.

“Company?” Looking about, “Who’s company?”

“Marsha!” Going along with him, pointing to her, “Your son brought a girl home… Remember?”

“You’re not company, are you?”

“Well, Mister Lipensky, I sure don’t feel like company.”

Truly, she didn’t. Marsha felt more at home here, in the half hour she’d been in this house, then she often did in the homes of her aunts.

“Marsha, call me Skipper.”

“Skipper?”

“Yes, please. Coming from you, ‘mister’ makes me feel old.”

“Go on,” turning away, “go put shoes and a shirt on!” Scowling at Walter’s request, thinking it ridiculous, going into the kitchen, Myra returned a few seconds later with the lox platter.

                                                                **** 

“You don’t like lox?” Jennie asked, looking at Marsha, who had made a cream cheese, tomato, cucumber and bagel sandwich.

“No, I don’t care for any kind of fish.” Said as kindly as she could say, “I never eat fish.”

“You don’t like lox!” The old lady giggled. “Mitchala, you sure she’s a Jewish girl?”

“I like lox!” Morton piped up and chomped down on the thick sandwich forcing the gloppy contents to ooze out the other side.

“When I was a kid,” stopping, Mitchell chewed and swallowed his mouthful, “my folks sent me to military school,” looking at Marsha, “and one of the things I remembered missing the most was our Sunday morning brunches and lox and bagels.”

“Go on, Mitchie,” sitting to the right of Marsha, leaning forward, Larry looked at his brother, “tell ’em what you told me you used to eat when you got hungry at night.”

Laughing, “No!” remembering the real reason for the toothpaste raids, “I won’t tell, ever!” But knew he would… somewhat.

Putting her sandwich down, “I don’t think I’ve heard this story. Come on, Mitchell,” Myra said, “tell us! What did you eat at night when you got hungry?”

Whining playfully, “Aw, Mom, do I gotta?”

“Yeah,” Larry said, “you gotta!”

“I…” Beginning to laugh his infectious laugh, in moments, even though they had no idea why, Mitchell had everyone laughing along with him, even Jennie, who was giggling into the napkin she held to her mouth. “I used to eat…” barely able to get the word out, “t-toothpaste.”

“Toothpaste? You say you used to eat toothpaste?”

“Well, yeah, Dad,” pretending seriousness, “I got hungry!” as though that explained it. “And you know how I get when I get h…” Unable to continue, refireing everyone’s laughter, he broke up again.

“Yeah, Mitchie,” catching his breath, “we know how you get when you get hungry. You’ll eat anything that don’t eat you first!”

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you, Lawrence! I’ve seen you go through the refrigerator like a tornado.” Laughing again, “And it wasn’t only toothpaste,” he gasped, “toothpowder, too.”

Tears running down her cheeks, “Toothpowder, too?” Marsha asked.

“Well, yeah!” Choking back laughter, “How long can man live on toothpaste alone?” Wiping his eyes with the napkin, “I’d go to the head…” looking at Marsha, “the toilet, at night and swipe everyone’s tooth, uh, teeth cleaning stuff, but mostly I liked that cinnamony red stuff in bottles… Teel.”

Howling from his place at the head of the table, “I remember now!” Walter said. “Every time you wrote, you told us to send you another can of powder, and I remember I told mom that you… Oh, God! That you had to be eating the stuff!”

“The other boys, Mitchell, they never found out on you?”

“No, Pa. I’d only take a little from each of ’em at a time.”

“Mitchala, it’s not nice to steal from your friends.”

“I know, Ma, but if you’re hungry, you’re hungry.”

“Every night?” Myra asked. “You did this every night?”

“Sure, every night! I got hungry every night!” Laughter bursting from him, tears coming to his eyes again, “It’s my fault they don’t serve cookies and milk after taps?”

                                                                   **** 

Parked about a half-mile from the house, under a huge oak tree at the dark end of an unfinished street, Marsha moved his left hand from her breast, and holding it, put it on her hip… then, a few minutes later, his right hand.

It wasn’t that the love he felt for Marsha was less than the love he had felt for Susan, or that his respect for Marsha was any less than that of Susan, it was just that when he was with Susan he was a boy of seventeen, and at seventeen, maybe, a boy was supposed to treat the girl he loved differently. But now, two months from his twenty-first birthday he was no longer a boy, he had become a man and, maybe, this was what a man was supposed to do, and besides, Oh, God, he thought, I want to! So he attempted to hold Marsha’s breast again… And again a minute or two later, but….

Moving his hand, “Mitchie,” pulling her lips from his, “you’ve got more hands than a, uh…” searching for a word, “centipede!”

“Yeah!” He chuckled, and tried again, but…

Moving his hand, “You’d better be a good boy,” she said, “or I’m going to tell your bubby.”

“God, Marcie, I knew it was a mistake introducing you to my family. Pl-ease,” he cried in mock horror, “don’t tell my bubby!” As, nestling his mouth on the soft, warm flesh under her chin, kissing it, he nipped at her neck.

Skokie, Illinois

June 18,1955

Lox&Bagels