THE MIDNIGHT SKULKER 2
Schaumburg, Illinois
February 5, 1974: 8:14 p.m.
Coming into the family room, “Hey, kids,” I turned the TV off. “Mom and I want to talk to you about something.”
“Aw, come on, dad, we’re watching ‘Bonanza’!”
“Sorry, Mikey.”
“Move it!” Scooting Sabra, our female Great Dane off the sofa, I made room for myself between the boys as Marsha wedged herself between the girls on the other side of the “L” shaped Danish modern sofas.
“I didn’t do it!”
One of those kids that seemingly always finds ways to get into trouble, “‘You didn’t do’ what, Sammy?”
Tossing a hand-full of popcorn onto the floor for Sabra to vacuum up, “Nothin’, I didn’t do nothin’.”
Staring at my youngest son, wondering, what he do now? I said, “we wanted to talk to all you kids, not just you,” tapping Samuel on the shoulder. “So why’d you think I was going to bawl you out for something? What did you do now?”
“Nothin’.” Looking away, reaching across me, taking another hand full of popcorn from the bowl on his brother’s lap, “Nothin’, I didn’t do nothin’.” Shoving the popcorn into his mouth, “What do you’n’mom wann’a talk ‘bout?”
Knowing her son, knowing he did something, “Your father and me,” a hand on each of her girl’s knees, “and you guys, too…”
“We’re moving to California.”
Four voices in unison: “Huh?” The kids looked to their father.
****
A few words about the family:
Married to Mitchell in December of 1955, now into their nineteenth year of marriage, at age thirty-eight, Marsha Lipensky was tall—5 foot, 7½ inches tall—and thin, weighing one hundred, thirty pounds. Her black hair, bound close to her scalp, accentuated her sharp widow’s peak. Dark complexioned, Marsha had an oval shaped face with a slightly long nose and almond shaped, dark brown eyes producing, if not a stunningly lovely face by “movie star” standards, than certainly a classically beautiful, Semitic appearance.
At age forty, Mitchell Lipensky was six feet tall, weighed one hundred, eighty-eight pounds, had straight, dark brown hair with, coincidently, a widow’s peak. He had a roundish face with green eyes and thick—tending to be scraggly—brows. Mitchell had a well-shaped nose, and he, too, was dark complexioned.
Heads would turn to look at either Marsha or Mitchell because they were both strikingly good looking people, and their children, reflecting the looks of their parents, Michael, Ellie, Samuel and Sharon were considered as beautiful.
Michael (Mikie) Lipensky, Born in…
Actually conceived in Seagate, New York on June 20, 1956, Michael was conceived because, his father to be, being a very obedient husband, when in the ‘heat of things’ said, “Marcie, I’d better get a rubber.” When – because Marsha wanted four children before the age of thirty and figuring that this was as good a time as any to start – when Marsha said, “No, Mitchie, don’t move!” Being a very obedient husband he didn’t, at least no more than a quickly repetitive six inches.
Three months from his seventeenth birthday, Michael Lipensky was Born in Chicago, Illinois on May 23, 1957.
The conception and birth of “Ellie”, Marsha and Mitchell’s second child…
The reason for, and time of Ellie’s conception was for a far different reason:
Peoria, Illinois
July 14, 1959: 7:22 a.m.
“Hello.”
“Mitch, it’s Roger.”
Pouring a cup of coffee, “Hi!” putting the pot on the stove, glancing at the clock, “what’s up?”
Speaking in a strangely flat voice, “Is my sister, uh, is Marsha around?”
“Yeah, she’s still in the bathroom.” Never receiving telephone calls from Roger, “Is something wrong?”
The line silent a number of seconds, “Yeah,” Roger finally said. “Tell my sister that dad had a, uh, accident and that you guys should come on home.”
“An accident? Yeah, sure, Roge. How is he? A car accident?”
“No…” The line silent again… “he got shot.”
“ ‘Shot’?”
“Yeah, look…” Obviously not wanting to talk of this, hesitating again, “I can’t talk anymore. You guys just come on home as soon as you can! Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. We’ll be there at about,” looking at the clock, judging how long it will take them to get ready to leave, “twelve, twelve thirty, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, okay. See you then,” Roger said and then hung up.
Putting the phone on the cradle, trying to think how to tell Marsha. As he walked to the stairs, she was coming down.
“Who was that? Who’d call at this time?” Marsha asked. “A customer?”
“No, your brother, and he…”
“My brother called?”
“Yeah, And he said that we should come there now because…”
“Now? He wants us to come to Chicago, now? Why?”
“He said there was some kind of an accident, and…”
“An accident?”
“Yes.” Thinking if he remained calm, hopefully she would too. “He said that…”
“What kind of accident? Who…”
“I don’t know how it happened, Marcie, but…”
“Mitchell, an accident with who? Who got hurt?”
“Marcie, it was your dad. He…”
All vestige of calmness gone, “Daddy!” Her voice catching, “What happened to daddy?”
“Your brother… Roger said that… That your dad, uh…”
Rushing to the phone, about to grab it, it rang. “Yes!”
“Marsha…”
“Aunt Ida, what’s wrong?”
“We didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but thinking about it we thought it best to let you know because…”
In panic, “ ‘Let me know’ what?”
“We didn’t want the three of you rushing home and getting into an accident yourselves, but…”
“Aunt Ida, please!” Her voice rising, “What happened to daddy?”
“This morning, before he opened, some bum, some dirty, goddamned bum came into the store, and… The bastard shot your father!”
“Daddy? ‘Shot’?” Not allowing herself to think it, “How… How is he?”
Struggling to find words, the line was silent a moment. “That’s why there’s no need to rush here,” Ida said. “Marcie, Eli… Your father’s dead.”
July 24, 1959
Emotionally drained from the horror of last week’s endless drive from Peoria to Chicago, and the funeral, then the Shiva—the seven days of mourning for the dead, beginning immediately after the funeral in the home of the deceased—since leaving the home of, now, only her mother, though he had made an attempt at small talk, Marsha, with Michael cradled in her arms, asleep, had not responded, and receiving no response, Mitchell, too, had lapsed into a depressed silence.
Breaking the silence, “You do know they liked him! The cops really liked daddy and they always told him: ‘Eli, don’t threaten those bastards! Just kill ’em, then give us a call and we’ll send a wagon and cart ’em away with no questions asked.’”
Mitchell remembered hearing someone at the funeral or Shiva say that, possibly even one of the many policemen that had come to offer their condolences.
Hugging her son, “Oh, God!”
Wanting to offer solace. Desperately wanting to say something, anything to console her, but not knowing what to say, he squeezed her knee.
“And they let him go!” Now railing against the police, “The goddamned cops find the son-of-a-bitch running around waving a gun saying, ‘I just shot a man!’ And because the goddamned Urban League (the forerunner of the N.A.A.C.P.) said it wasn’t his gun, and that he shot daddy in self-defence they let him go! God-damn-it!”
Lapsing into silence again…
“I want a baby!”
“Huh?” So far out of context, “What did you say?”
“I want to give daddy a name! I want to become pregnant!”
Knowing he could barely afford the family he had. Also knowing that in the Jewish religion the soul of a departed person cannot rest—so he’d been told—until that person is “given a name.” And because Mitchell was well aware of Marsha’s love of her father, and well aware of her stubborn determination, also because he truly liked his father-in-law, also, due to the reason Marsha had for wanting to become pregnant, at that time it was but a fleeting thought: because it was so much fun trying…
“Sure, honey,” he said. “If that’s what you want, it’s fine with me.”
****
Giving a ‘name’ to Eli, Ellie was born in Peoria, Illinois on April 25, 1960
