December 20, 1958 The Company Christmas Dinner: Marsha & Elizabeth Meet

Trying not to look for her, Mitchell had been looking for her.

 Now seeing Elizabeth, his breath catching, rather than the pride he should feel for showing the strength of character he had shown, feeling a sense of guilt over…?

Never guilty about whom he might fantasize over, whom was unobtainable, but when the unobtainable became obtainable and was as beautiful as Elizabeth Herzon… and was about to meet his wife?

Standing as she approached, “Elizabeth, hi!” he said, attempting to hide his nervousness, but the pitch of his voice a bit too high, speaking a bit too fast, “I’d like you to meet my wife… Marcie, this is Elizabeth.”

Thinking, My God! Marsha said, “Mitchie’s mentioned you”—not prone to giving complements such as this to strangers, especially to female strangers but surprised at Elizabeth’s appearance—“but didn’t tell me how pretty you are.”

Jealous of this woman’s marriage, hoping her tone of voice did not show the envy she had for her, “Thank you, Marsha,” Elizabeth replied, nodding to Mitchell as he pulled the chair out for her. “But he did,”returning the complement, doing all in her power to sound sincere, “tell me how pretty you are.”

“Thank you… You here alone?”

“Yes, but…” not wanting to admit to being alone, knowing Mitchell would know it was a lie, “my, uh,” glancing at him, bringing her attention back to Marsha, “fiancé is orthodox, you see, and refuses to go to company Christmas parties.”

Looking from Elizabeth to Mitchell, feeling something, sensing a…? sort of tension between her husband and this young woman. “You’re going to be married?”

Continuing the lie, “Yes. We haven’t set a date yet, but, uh, Howie’n’I’ll do it sometime next year.” Noticing Marsha’s eyes shift to her hand, she held it up. “We’re going out for New Year’s, and I think he’ll give me a ring then, as a kind of New Year’s present.”

“Oh! Well, I wish you good luck. We’ve been married three years now. Matter of fact, our anniversary was just yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Avoiding each other, not having spoken for the past five days, her eyes now on Mitchell, “I thought you mentioned that your anniversary was a couple of months ago.”

Possessively taking hold of her husband’s hand, “Yes, in October. But we were married twice, you know.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Just in case it didn’t take the first time?”

“No.” Tossing an innuendo that actually was as far from the truth as possible. “It took real good the first time, but Mitch was in the service then, and…”

“Oh? You never told me that,” Elizabeth said, looking at him.

Becoming more uncomfortable by the second, slowly turning the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, “We never talked about stuff like that.”

“Yeah, that’s true . What were you in?”

“In the service?”

“Yes!” Marsha said, for some reason becoming annoyed. “He was in the Coast Guard at the time and was stationed in New York…”

“Staten Island.”

Looking at her husband, “Excuse me, Staten Island,” then back at Elizabeth. “We weren’t sure if we’d have time enough for the blood tests and the three-day waiting period before our real wedding, the one in December, so we were married by a court judge in October. When we were sure he’d have enough leave time…” Hesitating, Marsha asked, “Are they still doing that? Making people wait three days before they can get married?”

Handed a glass of wine along with a “Merry Christmas” by Gene Tarnowski when she’d entered the room, sipping a bit before answering. “Howie and me, we haven’t gotten that far yet so I’m not too sure.”

Thinking, if she’s getting married, it’s strange she wouldn’t know this. “You converting?”

Taken back by Marsha’s question, “Huh?”

“You said your fiancé is an orthodox Jew.”

Still confused… realizing, “Oh, I’m Jewish.”

The moment she’d met her, Marsha had enviously noticed that besides being beautiful, Elizabeth’s hair was naturally blonde and her eyes naturally—naturally?—green.

“Funny,” Marsha said—saying what Mitchell had said when he’d met Ruby, which was the punch line of an old joke neither remembered—“you don’t look Jewish.”

Having heard it before, “Yeah, I know, but my mom’s Scandinavian.”

Well aware that in the Jewish religion you are what your mother is. “A Scandinavian Jew,” Marsha said, adding, “Don’t know why, but I never thought of Jews as coming from Scandinavia.”

“Sure we do!” Mitchell said. “Don’t you remember what the king of Denmark did when the Nazis made Jews there wear ‘Stars of David’ on their coats?”

The well publicized picture of the king of Denmark wearing a Star of David pinned to his coat, leading a mass of people, all of whom also wore Stars of David came to mind. “Oh, yes, now I do.” Pulling the threads of their conversation together, “Anyway,” Marsha continued, “we were married by a judge in October, then the rabbi in December.”

Introductions and small talk through, an uneasy quietness fell over the table.

Sitting across from her, Mitchell did his best to look anyplace but at Elizabeth.

Sitting alongside her husband, looking steadily at the face of the young woman on the other side of the table, the shadow of a dark thought began to form in Marsha’s mind.

As for Elizabeth: her gaze lingering on the face of the young man that sat across from her a little longer than necessary, then sensing Marsha’s eyes on her, Elizabeth’s eyes shifted to those of the young man’s wife, then to the wine glass before her and the quietness became even more pronounced.

Until…

“Mitchie, they’re playing a slow one.” Standing, she pulled him to his feet. “Come on, baby!” Marsha said a bit more emphatically than necessary, “let’s dance!” Possessively linking her arm through his, nodding at Elizabeth, she led him from the table.

As the husband and wife walked from the table, as much as knowing Marsha had Mitchell and she didn’t, Elizabeth also knew she was an ex-fat girl, that she would always be an ex-fat girl and that for the rest of her life every day would mean another day’s struggle for her to remain an ex-fat girl. Subconsciously turning the stem of the wine glass between her fingers, Barbara enviously, so enviously, looked at the trim, slim backside of the young man’s wife. 

                                                                               ****

As a teenager, although a number of girls had attempted to teach Mitchell Lipensky how to dance, because, first of all, he truly had no developed sense of rhythm, and secondly—which was really first—because the mere proximity of a girl’s body that close to his would always bring about a physiological reaction that the girl, in most instances, would pretend not to notice and, though most times was flattering to the girl, the often noticeable, instant physiological reaction—except on a few occasions when he grew older—was always embarrassing to him.

                                                                                  ****

Knowing she could do it to him so easily! Knowing that sometimes just the light touch of a finger moving along the soft underside of his bare arm, that often the mere brush of her lips over his, and most certainly the press of her body against his would always bring about an erection, tightening her arm about his waist, moving her pelvis against his, she expected to feel it… but didn’t.                                                                              

“Mitchie,” tilting her head back, looking at him, “how come you didn’t tell me how pretty she is?”

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think it was all that important.”

Wanting to ask, ‘Did you ever go out with her’? But knowing that since working at Transco he had never spent an evening or day, when he wasn’t working, away from the apartment. Except, she thought, on that Saturday when he said they were taking inventory. Marsha wanted to ask, ‘Were you really at the plant taking inventory last week’? But of course he would say ‘yes’. So instead, “She likes you,” Marsha said.

Knowing full well who she meant. “Who likes me?”

“Your friend. Elizabeth likes you, I think a lot.”

Trying to sound flattered—which he truly was—“Really?” he questioned, looking directly into Marsha’s eyes. “If she does, she’s never gone out of her way to show it.”

Looking into her husband’s eyes, knowing she would know if he was lying. Knowing him, as she’d told him on numerous occasions, better than he knew himself, studying his face, Marsha decided he was telling the truth. so…

Tightening her arm again, “Mitchie,” purposely rubbing her lower body against his, moving the side of her face to the side of his face, “I love you.” she whispered in his ear and was rewarded with…

Feeling his wife’s breasts against his chest and the swaying, rubbing motion of her pelvis against his, “I love you, too, Marcie.”

Now, Oh, yeah, now it was there. So ‘there’ that he had to walk closely behind his wife on their way back to the table.

Cutting into her choice of dinner: steak, “So where’re you going?” Marsha asked. “Where’s the company sending you?”

Eating one pea at a time, “ ‘My territory’?” Looking up from her plate, “The Loop.”

‘The Loop’? Taking Marsha a moment to realize that Elizabeth was speaking of downtown Chicago. “They’re giving you the ‘Loop’?”

“Not the whole Loop!” Her fork spearing a minute piece of broiled trout, “Just a small part of it.”

She’s getting the Loop… ‘part of the Loop’, Marsha thought. And they’re sending us to God-damned Peoria! “That’s pretty lucky!” she said.

“Yeah. Well, you know they’d been advertising for a female salesman, and when I applied for the job they asked if I’d be willing to relocate and I told them I wouldn’t, and I guess so long as I’m their first female salesman they’d rather keep an eye on me anyway, so I’ll be working with Bill Krupper, till…”

“I worked construction with Bill’s son, Earl,” Mitchell interjected. “Earl is the one that suggested I apply for a job here and Bill’ll be retiring in a year or two.”

Annoyed at the interruption, going on, Elizabeth said, “Bill’s one of the older guys and he’s starting to have a hard time covering it all, so I’ll be working with him, and when he retires they’ll split his territory, maybe even into thirds, and I’ll get part of it.”

Yeah, Marsha thought, along with hundreds of accounts. “Like I said, that’s pretty damn lucky!”

Marsha had something Elizabeth was jealous of: Mitchell. And now knowing she had something Marsha was jealous of, “Yeah,” Elizabeth said nonchalantly, eating a piece of steamed carrot, “guess it is.”

And, Marsha thought, pretty god-damned unfair!

Seeing the look on Marsha’s face, Tough shit! Elizabeth thought.

Noting that throughout dinner Elizabeth had done little more than pick at her food, the meal finished, the small band had once again began to play.

Marsha was surprised none of the men in the crowded ballroom had come to the trainees’ table to ask for a dance. Not that they did not want to because there was hardly a man there that wouldn’t give a month’s pay to go to bed with the beautiful, aloof, Elizabeth Herzon, but rather than face the inquisition of their wives or girlfriends once they returned to their tables, outside of the Chicago people coming to their table to give ‘Season’s Greetings’ and to meet Marsha, along with the out of town salesmen coming to personally meet both trainees and apologize for the harsh wording of some of their queries, no one had asked Elizabeth to dance.

“Mitchie,” Marsha sadistically suggested, “why don’t you ask if Elizabeth would like to dance?”

“We don’t have to be so formal, Marsha. Call me Lizzie if you’d like.”

“Okay, I will, ‘Lizzie’, and, if you’d like, you can call me Marcie.”

Having a perverse desire to see her husband’s reaction while holding this young woman, and being held by her. “Go on, Mitchell, dance with ‘Lizzie’!”

Uncomfortably catching the catty back and forth undertone of the two women, looking at Marsha, having some idea why she was suggesting he dance with Elizabeth, and knowing what would most likely… what would happen if he did dance with her, “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Mitchie, go on! She’s dying to dance!”

Turning to Elizabeth, “You don’t,” he asked almost pleadingly, “want to dance, do you?”

“Yes.” Surprising him—more so, shocking him—looking directly at Marsha, “If it’s okay with your wife, I’d love to have a dance.”

“It’s my idea, ‘Lizzie’. So sure it’s okay!”

“I’m a lousy dancer!” Not wanting to do this in the worst way. “ I promise, I’ll step on your feet.”

Well remembering the quick hug and kiss on inventory day and so well remembering Mitchell’s instantaneous  reaction to the nearness of her body. “Come on! I watched you two before and you’re not all that bad.”

Eyes rolling upward, as though praying for help, “Okay,” Mitchell said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Don’t worry about it.” She started to stand but, standing first, moving around the table, pulling the chair out for her, his hand onto her elbow, Mitchell led her onto the dance floor.

Seeing only her front side as Elizabeth approached the table, of course noticing her figure, however concentrating more on her face, hair and eyes than the rest of her body, now seeing her back side, her thirty-eight-inch hips—which to most men in the room, her husband included, was hardly a deterrent—seeing Elizabeth through the eyes of a perpetually thin, more than slightly jealous woman, She’s got a big ass! Marsha thought smugly.

Knowing, well knowing, what would happen if he stood too close, trying not to, his hand on her soft, well-rounded hip—so unlike Marsha, who had but the slightest definition—he felt the movement of Elizabeth’s body beneath the material of her dress, and even though he did attempt to arch backward, Oh, God, he did feel, could hardly help but feel the brush of Elizabeth’s breasts against his chest and, Uh-oh!

“She’s very pretty,”—being an ex-fat girl, throughout the evening Elizabeth had looked at Marsha through the eyes of, in her mind, a perpetually fat girl and, truly envious— “and so thin!” Elizabeth said, adding, “your wife… Marsha, does she have to work very hard at staying thin?”

Thinking, How the hell am I going to go back to the table with a boner? Looking over Elizabeth’s shoulder, looking anyplace but at her face. Concentrating, Go away! Go away! Trying to will his erection away—which had never worked in the past—he wanted to close his eyes so he’d be able to concentrate all the harder, but thought if he did close his eyes it would appear that he was enjoying this dance more than he wanted it to appear that he was enjoying this dance, which actually, Mitchell wasn’t. No, he was not! Not at all! 

         To be continued