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Christmas in Evanston Part 2 & 3

“Mitchie, where are you going… Walt, where’s he going?”

Turning to his wife, motioning over his shoulder with his head, “Shhh… He wants to meet that girl.”

Looking at the two women on the other side of the counter, Myra felt a pang of jealousy for the older woman’s beauty and obvious wealth. “She’s beautiful,” she said, referring to the older woman.

“Don’t watch him; it’ll make him nervous.”

Looking at the woman another moment, listening to Walter, Myra turned away.

Oh, yeah, as though anything could make him more nervous, Mitchell stood between, and a pace behind, the two women. Wanting his mezzuza to be in plain sight, he’d spread his collar, giving the girl and himself that much, at least, that they had in common. His heart pounding, “Excuse me.” his voice, oddly though, was unwavering.

The women and the girl turned towards each other, and the voice behind them.

Quite often distance will help people appear to look prettier or handsomer, but upon coming closer the illusion frequently changes; blemishes and facial lines appear, eyes become shadowed and light-colored hair will sometimes show roots of black… But it was not that way with these two. The older woman did wear makeup, but as a complement, not as a cover-up. And the girl… Oh, God! From across the counter she’d appeared to be beautiful, but now, standing near her, looking at the girl from a scant three feet away…

Mitchell’s thumping heart jumping from his chest to his throat, moisture erupted on his forehead and his armpits. He looked from the girl to the woman and back at the girl…

As, waiting for Mitchell to say something, they looked back at him.

To him it seemed forever, but in fact it was no more than three or four seconds until, somehow, someway, the words and accompanying gestures materialized.

Knowing in order to meet the girl—at least in a place such as this and in a way such as this—he must first gain the good will of the mother, forcing his eyes from the girl’s—Oh, God, they’re beautiful—eyes and, looking directly into the same light brown eyes of the mother, praying it was his best, all-time, prize winning smile, “Excuse me Ma’am. My name’s Mitchell Lipensky and I’m here with my mother and father…” He’d been told, at least a million times, that it was not polite to point, so rather, as though presenting royalty, he extended his right arm, palm upward towards Myra and Walter.

Turning their heads in unison, the women looked across the counter.

On the other side of the counter, Walter and Myra were doing their best to appear nonchalant, but when they saw their son’s “presenting gesture,” not quite sure what to do, smiling, nodding their heads, turning to each other, they went back to their non-existent conversation.

“We live in Skokie and came here, uh, to Evanston to go shopping.” Doing his best to look and sound sincere, which he most positively was, “So please, Ma’am, I hope you don’t think that I go around doing this all the time because as a matter of fact I’ve never done anything like this before!” Stopping, he caught his breath. “But your daughter…” turning from the woman he looked at the girl, got lost in her beauty and for a moment his mind went blank and his mouth went slack, and, Ulp, swallowing audibly, he turned back to the woman, “Uh, your daughter…” Oh, my God! What if it’s not her daughter and I’m insulting her? “Uh, unless she’s, uh, your sister?” Trying to make amends, just in case.

“No,” the woman couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s now bumbling effort, “she is my daughter.”

A relieved, muttered, “Whew,” caused both the mother and daughter to smile.

“She’s… Your daughter is, uh…” Looking into the girl’s brown eyes, “You’re beautiful.”

Looking into the boy’s green eyes, So are you, Mitchell, the girl thought, so are you. Cocking her head, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Who’s he remind me of? she wondered.

Pulling his eyes from the face of the girl, turning back to her mother, “I know this isn’t right, uh, the way I’m doing this, but there isn’t anyone here to introduce your daughter and me… uh, your daughter and I, uh, me…”

Smiling a sparkling white, perfect-toothed smile, “Either way,” the woman said. “Either Me or I seems to be the correct way to say it.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Anyway, you’ve got to think that I’m some kind of a jerk, but I’m not, I’m really a nice guy who’s out with his mother and father, and would a bad guy ever be out shopping with his mother and father?” Speaking quickly, answering his own question, “No! Of course a bad guy wouldn’t be out shopping with his mother and father! So please…” catching his breath, looking from the woman to the girl, “please let me have your phone number.” To the mother, “You don’t even have to give me your address or tell me your last name. Just let me have the phone number so I can talk to her.” To the girl, “And then, if you decide that you don’t want to see me or talk to me again, I’ll throw it away and never bother you again.” Taking a deep breath, he studied the girl’s face, then turned to her mother. “I promise,” holding his right hand up, “that if your daughter doesn’t want me to call again after we talk on the phone, just once, then I’ll never bother her again!”

If she were alone there’d be no question; certainly she’d give him her phone number, but, “Mom,” she asked, “what do you think?”

Looking at Mitchell, He’s well dressed, she thought. Well, as well dressed as most of the kids now’a’days, and his parents are well dressed, looking at Walter and Myra—who were now watching the unfolding drama with rapt attention—and the father’s good looking, could even be a doctor or a lawyer, and the boy is certainly handsome enough. Well… turning to her daughter, “Susan…”

Susan!

“… if you want to…”

Oh, God! Her name’s Susan!

“….give, uh…?”

“Mitchell,” Susan said quickly, a bit louder than necessary.

Both Mitchell and her mother looked at her, and she blushed.

“Yes, ‘Mitchell.’ If you want to give Mitchell our phone number, it’s all right with me.”

I’m going to get it! He couldn’t believe it. I’m going to get, oh, God, Susan’s phone number.

Reaching into her purse, Susan rummaged a moment, found a pencil and a blue envelope, tore the flap off the envelope, swiveled to the counter, wrote on the flap, swiveled back and handed it to him.

Looking at it, Susan Friedman… She’s even given me her last name. Sh 3-5758. Mitchell recognized the Sheldrake exchange as a north side number. He’d been afraid that she might be a rich girl from Evanston, Wilmette, or someplace along the wealthy north shore, and now felt that she and he were on somewhat equal ground.

“Thank you, Susan.” Turning to Mrs. Friedman, “Thank you, Ma’am.” He folded the flap in half, put it into his shirt pocket, patted it once and, “When’s a good time to call you? Uh, later today or this evening?”

Looking at her mother, “We should be home five, five-thirty?”

Shrugging her shoulders, “Yes, about then.”

“Okay, Susan.” God, what a beautiful name! “I’ll call about then.” Looking at Mrs. Friedman, “You won’t be sorry.”

“I know, Mitchell. Go on, your sundae is melting.”

He looked at Susan, turned away, and as he walked back to his stool, his eyes rolling upward, Thank you, God. Thank you!

“Got her number, eh.”

“Yes. Oh, God, Dad, yes, I got her number.”

Clasping his son’s shoulder, “Good for you.”

The unaccustomed praise from his father warmed Mitchell almost—not quite, but almost—as much as knowing that he was going to know Susan, and whenever he looked across the counter, which was almost constantly, it seemed to him that Susan was looking at him also, and their eyes touched, and held until she, or he, averted them.

Outside again, the first signs that the snow was beginning to stick was evidenced by the semicircles of slush left by automobile wiper blades.

Christmas in Evanston Part 3

December 8, 1951

Skokie/Chicago, Illinois

Home again, the afternoon went so slowly. The minute hand crawled, and the hour hand, God! The hour hand didn’t move at all.

3:22… 3:41… 4:01… 4:18… 4:31… 4:49… 5:00… 5:16…

He’d told himself, I’m not going to call before 6:00.

5:20… Oh, come on, already! 5:28… 5:35… Shit, what’s twenty-five lousy minutes? His hand shaking, he dialed: S-H-3-5-7-5-8. The phone rang once… twice… and ri… into the third ring.

Susan had been sitting on the sofa with her legs folded under her with a book on her lap that had been opened to page 123 for the last half-hour. The phone, on a long cord, was on the cushion beside her…

4:47… 4:53… 5:14… 5:21… 5:29…

She had been eagerly, oh, yeah, awaiting the call.

5:31… 5:35… and when the phone did, finally, ring, it startled her. Ringing once… twice, she’d told herself that, I’m not going to answer it in less than four rings! But upon the third, ri…, her heart pounding, “Hello.”

“Susan?” His heart pounding. “Is this Susan?”

Oh, God, his voice sounds so nice! “Yes,” doing her best to sound indifferent, “this is Susan. Who’s calling, please?”

His heart dropping to his stomach, But, of course; anyone could be calling. “Susan, hi! It’s Mitchell.”

“Mitchell? Mitchell, who?”

Dropping even further, his heart is stopped from oozing out of his rectum only by his belt. “Lipensky. Susan, it’s Mitch Lipensky. You remember? I met you today, in Evanston.”

“Oh, yes, that Mitchell.”

That Mitchell? “Susan, please,” trying his new warm-’em-up line, “don’t call me that.”

Biting, “What shouldn’t I call you?”

“Mitchell. Don’t call me Mitchell.”

“Why not, it’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Sure, but Mitchell sounds so formal. Please, call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie.”

Wanting to sound aloof, but unable to, “Okay, then you don’t call me that either.”

“What shouldn’t I call you?”

“Susan. Don’t call me Susan.”

Smiling, going with it, “Why not, it’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but Susan sounds so formal. Call me Sue, or when you get to know me better… if you ever call me Suzie, I’ll kill you!”

“ ‘When you get to know me better,’ huh?” he repeated, understanding, possibly for the first time in his life, what a girl really, maybe, means when she says something: She wants us to know each other! “Know what?”

Blushing because he’d caught what she hadn’t planned on throwing, “What?” Susan asked.

“Susan has always been one of my all-time favorite names.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, come on.”

“Yeah, it’s true . I’ve always loved the name Susan because every Susan I’ve ever known has been beautiful… except for you.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah; you’re unbelievably beautiful! You do know, don’t you, that you look like Elizabeth Taylor?”

Susan was well aware of her looks. As a matter of fact, much like Mitchell, the way she looked also made her feel self-conscious and shy, and this, to those that did not know her, also came across as conceit—which to some extent it was—and with a girl, if you’re too good-looking guys will often feel intimidated or not good enough or they will assume that the girl is “taken” and stay away. So Susan Friedman did not have as many dates, and was not as not popular as one Mitchell Lipensky might think. Besides, this girl, and her mother and father were very particular when it came to what boy she dated, or what boy she was seen with. But so far the boy on the other side of the telephone line—omitting the unconventional way they had met—did meet Susan’s lofty criteria.

“Well, yes,” Susan said softly, attempting to sound honest but still modest in answering Mitchell’s extremely complimentary question, and now—though she had been searching her mind since first seeing him on the other side of the counter—she suddenly realized whom Mitchell reminded her of. “And do you know you look like John Derek?”

In the past he’d been compared to Tyrone Power, and recently to… “John Derek?” he said, not attempting, in the least, to sound modest. “The guy in the movie Knock On Any Door who said, “‘Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse’?” Flattered she’d noticed, “Me, look like John Derek? Nah!”

“Where do you go to school, Mitchell, uh, Mitchie.”

Mitchie! “Niles. I’ll be graduating in the spring. You?”

“Senn. I’m a junior. Are there many Jewish kids in Niles?”

On the one hand, thinking, She’s a junior, perfect! On the other hand, Mitchell had always felt—and was fairly correct in his thinking—that the most beautiful girls on the north side went to Senn High School, and the richest and most conceited.

“Yeah, lot’s of ’em. Actually, besides me, I think there’s only one other.”

“In the whole school?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Susan,” Mrs. Friedman called from the kitchen, “dinner’s ready.”

“Mitchie,” truly not wanting to end this conversation without a date to meet being set, “dinner’s ready and I’ve got to go.”

The very last thing he wanted to say at that moment was goodbye, so, “Hey,” he said hopefully, “you busy tonight?”

The question came so fast and was so unexpected that Susan didn’t have time to think the boy/girl thing. Besides, she didn’t want to think the boy/girl thing, “No,” so answered honestly.

Yea! “Great! Listen, Sue, you don’t have to give me an answer right now, but what if I come by tonight, say at about, oh, eight, and we go someplace for dessert.” At the least it would give him an opportunity to call back, and at the best she’d go. “I know you don’t know me,” thinking of Sandra’s parents, “so we won’t drive. I’ll leave the car by your house and we’ll walk. There’s got to be someplace within walking where we can get hot chocolate or coffee and pie or cake, where we can just sit and get to know each other… And Sue, I really want to get to know you. So if your answer is going to be yes don’t eat dessert and I’ll call you back at… what say I call you back around seven and then you can tell me yes or no. But I’m warning you that if you say no I’m going to kill myself, really! So please don’t say no! Please say yes! So I’ll…” not wanting to give Susan a chance to say no, speaking rapidly, he did not allow her the opportunity to say a word—although if he had allowed her a word, the word would have been yes—“talk to you,” glancing at his watch, “in about an hour. Bye.” Pressing the button, breaking the connection, looking at the ceiling, “Oh, God,” he whispered, “please, please let her say yes!”

                                                                To Be Continued

©December 9, 2012 / Mark M Lichterman

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