_____________________________________________________________________
THE MIDNIGHT SKULKER 5
Chicago, Illinois
February 28, 1974
Breath coming in thick plumes of vapor, walking as quickly as possible from the O’Hare Air-Field parking lot, Mitchell held the large suitcase an inch or two above the ground in one hand with a smaller case tucked beneath his other arm. Marsha carried a smaller suitcase in one hand and her overloaded purse in the other. Their jackets, zipped and buttoned from hem to throat, willowed in the howling wind.
Thank God! Pushing through the revolving door from the outside world of bone chilling, face numbing, squalling wind to the comparatively quiet warmth of the United Airlines Terminal.
Going to the ticket counter with the shortest line, they stood behind a family of a man, a woman and three children that appeared as though they were from India, until…
“Hi,” he said, “Mister and Mrs. Lipensky.”
Looking through her booking sheets: “Mister and Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky,” the agent confirmed, “two round trip fairs from Chicago to San Diego, California.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“That’s one-forty each; that’ll be two hundred-eighty dollars, please.”
“That’s total for both of us, both ways?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Writing the check, tearing it from the checkbook, “There you are.” Mitchell handed it to the ticket agent.
“May I see some identification, please?”
Opening his wallet, Mitchell showed his driver’s license.
“Thank you… This is your luggage?”
“Yes, Ma’am”
Motioning to a stainless steel opening with a rolling conveyer belt about three feet behind. “Slide them through and we’ll get them onto the right plane for you.” Taking three red tickets with elastic strings attached, she bound a ticket to each handle and, tearing the stubs off, the agent stapled them onto their outbound boarding passes. Handing the three passes to Mitchell, “Have a good flight,” she said. “And thank you for flying ‘United’.”
****
Walking the narrow isle, finding two seats on the port side midway between the wing and the aft section of the Boeing 707, offering Marsha the window seat, “No,” she said, “I’m not opening my eyes until we’re in the air, and then I might not.”
Knowing Marsha’s fear of flying… and his also, to a bit more than a slight extent, attempting to lighten the situation, “ ‘Might not’ what?” he asked.
“Open my eyes till we’re back on the ground. So you may as well take the window.”
This would make the eighth time that Mitchell had flown: Once to Chicago and back when he was stationed at, “U.S.C.G. Rockaway Life Boat Station” in Far Rockaway, New York; then two times back and forth while aboard the, “CGC Halfmoon” berthed in Staten Island, New York; then once more, one way, when he and Marsha and were married. All of the past seven flights had been aboard propeller driven aircraft making this the first time he would fly aboard a jet propelled craft.
Marsha had flown once in her life and that was in August of 1956 when, into their eighth month of marriage, after an argument that began over a kidney infection….
Waiting for the cabin to pressurize – causing his ears to slightly plug— and the surge of power he always sensed as the engines came to life, leaning closer, whispering directly into her ear, “Marcie, I love you.” Taking hold of his wife’s hand Mitchell remembered another time…
Lightly kissing his cheek, “Mitchie, I love you, too.” Marsha also remembered another time…
A very sad time.
New York, New York
August 21, 1956
A stifling, cloudless day.
Although he had given plenty of time to get to La Guardia, traffic and vapor-locked cars slowing travel to a crawl, Marsha’s silent fidgeting told Mitchell that she was becoming nervous about the time.
Since leaving for the airport he’d tried to instigate conversation a number of times, but all of his attempts had been met with cold silence. “You don’t have to worry,” he said, trying again, “we’ve plenty of time.” Although, to be honest, he’d be delighted if she did miss her flight.
Since their altercation the night before, Mitchell had been repentant and remorseful. But now, with his wife about to leave without giving him even a hint as to when she planned on returning—or even if she was planning to return—becoming angry again, “Look, I am going to say it one more time then I’m not going to say it again… Marsha, I love you more than anything in this world, and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am about this whole thing. I’m sorry if I didn’t want you to go to Chicago but we’ve only been married eight months and I still think of us as newlyweds and… Okay, so I’m a selfish…” about to say son-of-a-bitch, but thinking better of it, “…jerk for not wanting to be without you.” But…
Glancing at him, Marsha remained silent.
“And, okay, I can see how you’d be unhappy about going to Public Health, but we both know that’s only a matter of time. And, yeah…” trying to lighten the situation, “I know it’s your ‘box’ ‘Dennis the Menace’ is looking up, or down, and I’m sorry for that, too. But I didn’t tell you to get pregnant now!” Adding quickly, “Not that I’m unhappy about it! I love our baby and I want you here with me so I can watch the two of you grow, together. I’m sorry for everything that happened yesterday, but you shouldn’t have called my mother a bitch!”
“Yeah? Why not? You called my mother a whore!”
Surprised to hear her speak, taking a long moment to respond. “I’d have never known about your mother if you hadn’t told me! It was you that told me she was a… excuse me, but you said she was a whore.”
“You wanted me to tell you about her, Mitchell, but she’s my mother and, if I want, I can call her a whore, but not you!”
“Okay, you’re right, Marsha!” Relieved that she’d spoken to him, willing to do anything, to say anything to make amends so he would know, at least, if she was planning to come back.
But…
Opening her purse, taking their savings passbook and check book out, putting both into the glove compartment, “You take these,” she said with finality—twisting the knife, enjoying twisting the knife—I won’t need them anymore!”
“I wrote a check to United for the flight today and another for fifty dollars that…” stopping, weighing, deciding to twist the knife once more, “…I’ll cash when I get home. You…”—normally she would have said “we”—“don’t get paid till the end of the week and…” twist, “you don’t have enough in your account to cover my fifty bucks, so you’d better get over to the savings and loan later and take some money out and get it into…” twist, “your account.”
He did feel Marsha’s knife twist, and did pick up on the fact that she no longer considered them as “we,” and that she no longer considered what they had as “ours.”
Even with the delay in traffic, they arrived forty minutes before United flight 347 boarded.
The flight confirmed and Marsha’s two large suitcases rolling along the conveyer belt, sitting side by side, but seemingly a mile apart, waiting for the call to board. “Would you like a magazine or anything?”
Silence.
Although she had spoken to him in the car, Mitchell felt it was only because she had to. Knowing now every second was bringing him closer to the moment his wife, along with the growing baby in her womb, would board the plane and fly out of his life for… God only knows how long, he thought. And maybe, biting his lower lip, fighting tears, forever.
It’s enough already! Marsha thought. Don’t leave him here alone without knowing whether I’m coming back or not… But she said nothing.
A plane taxiing closer to the waiting room exit stopped. A portable stairway pushed to its open hatch by a ground crew.
“United flight 374 to Chicago now boarding for departure!”
Oh, God! Concentrating, once again biting his lip, standing, he walked alongside Marsha to the door of the passageway.
Approaching the doorway, suddenly realizing the threshold she was about to walk through, inwardly panicking, Marsha’s mind flashed back to those loveless years before Mitchell; to the way he had looked the evening he’d walked into Askanaz. And she remembered the absolute joy she had felt at that moment, at knowing she had found him again. And now… What? That she was purposely losing him. That she, herself, was throwing Mitchell away. Marsha did remember those loveless years before she found him and he found her. Marsha remembered, and she felt the love she knew he had for her and in this moment of panic Marsha thought, Good Lord, what am I doing? What am I doing?
But her body remained rigid. Her face remained straight forward. Her demeanour remained coldly distant.
“Marcie!” Pulling her to the side of the doorway, his arms about her, holding her tightly Mitchell pressed his lips to hers, but…
Marsha’s lips remained tightly closed and though his tongue forced its way through, it could not find a kink in her tightly clenched teeth.
Loosening his hold, “I love you, baby!” he said as once again his eyes became glassy with barely restrained tears. “My God, we love each other! This is so stupid! I’m sorry for everything I said and did yesterday! Please, Marcie, say you’re coming back!”
But…
Through this outpouring of emotion, her arms hanging limply at her sides, “People are looking at us!” Marsha said, “I’d better go.”
Dropping his arms, Mitchell stood aside as…
Turning away, without a backward glance Marsha walked through the passageway, across the short distance to the portable stairway, up the steps, and disappeared through the plane’s hatch.
Finding a window seat just forward the wing, she sat down as… Closing her eyes, Marsha felt an urgent tugging in her mind and heart and knew… Marsha knew what she should really do.
There’s still time she thought. There is still time! Just stand up and get off the plane! Her knees tensed in preparation of standing, as…
Waiting, watching, praying to see his wife come down the staircase, but…
Mitchell saw the portable staircase being rolled from the plane, and…
Moving from the terminal, the plane taxied to the distant end of the runway, hesitated two minutes, then, a flume of exhaust bellowing from each of its four engines, the propellers, one after the other, spun to life, blurred as their speed increased, then became invisible.
Hardly hearing the roar of the motors inside the pressurized cabin, besides the sad realization that now it was really too late, that now she was really leaving her husband behind, because now was the first time she had ever flown—further feeling a sense of doom because Marsha knew she should not be on this plane—when, feeling the plane shudder as it strained to go forward, her hands became wet and her heart thumped in fear as, slowly, then faster… faster, the patched cracks in the concrete and the weedy grass alongside the runway became a blur and, without realizing, for only a few moments, though, the wheels were an inch, a foot, a yard off the ground.
Again wiping her hands on the sides of her skirt, the sweat of fear prickling her scalp, resting her head against the back of the seat, closing her eyes Marsha attempted to concentrate on anything other than where she was: Mitchell… And she realized for the first time that, although he’d started the argument, the reason she was here was as much her fault as his—maybe even more so because she knew she did not want to go home… No, she thought, I am leaving my home! Further, I don’t want to go to Chicago without Mitchell… But yet did want to go. True, she did feel it important to be seen by Doctor Schaffer, but, really, that was a rationalization because what Marsha really wanted was to go to her best friend’s wedding wearing a maternity dress… But to go to Rosalie’s wedding at what cost? Leaving Mitchell? Yesterday she was subconsciously torn between doing what she wanted and what she thought she should do. She needed some impetus, some catalyst to move her in one direction or the other. Then, the direction she desperately wanted to be moved was to the west, to Chicago. But now? Though she would never admit it, especially to Mitchell, Marsha realized that it had been she, as much as he that had carried the argument forward.
Though she had started to, she hadn’t told Mitchell her mother was going to reimburse them for the airline fare and that the only reason she’d purchased a one-way ticket rather than a round-trip was because they didn’t have enough money in their checking account to cover the round-trip fare. But there wasn’t and she didn’t, so Mitchell had assumed that she was not coming back and she went along with it.
Now, here she was, in the air, and…
There he was, on the ground, watching, as United flight 374 gained altitude in the cloudless sky. Watching, as the plane banked to the west. Watching, as the plane became little more than a shiny, reflecting silver speck… Watching, as the plane carrying his wife and unborn child disappeared from sight.
Sighing again, wiping his eyes again, drawing his stomach in tightly, steeling himself against the long, now very lonely walk, attempting to avert his face from approaching people, he rushed through the huge terminal.
Fuck it! Mitchell thought as he hurried through the parking lot to find their… his? car. And fuck her and fuck the fuckin’ horse she rode in on! If that’s what she wants then fuck her and fuck it! Swiping his hand across his eyes, What the hell am I, a fuckin’ baby? God damn it! I’m through with this bullshit crying! Looking about the parking lot, seeing no one within hearing range, “Fuck her!” he yelled angrily.
But when he opened the door to the car, the pent-up heat, radiating the subdued scent of Marsha’s perfume, ‘White Shoulders’, causing his resolution to crumble, Mitchell Lipensky cried.
Chicago, Illinois
February 28, 1974
Anticipating the pressurizing of the cabin – that always caused his ears to slightly plug—and the surge of power he sensed as the engines came to life, taking hold of his wife’s hand, “Marsha,” whispering directly into her ear, “I love you.”
“Mitchie,” kissing his cheek, “ I love you, too.”
The hissing sound as the cabin began to pressurize…
The surge of power as the four jet engines came to life…
©September 21, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman
