__________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________
Forced to bury the ongoing stomach churning emotion he felt as, utterly depressed over the fear of losing Elizabeth now that she was a single woman and, having no idea how to proceed, the spark that had reignited his love of Marsha had dimmed and the small niceties that had always been the earmark of the personality of Mitchell Lipensky towards his wife had diminished also, along with his concern over Marsha’s anger.
You want to be mad? he thought. Well, screw you! So be mad!
Nor did he show concern for her moods or the days spent within the anger of his wife. As a matter of fact Mitchell rather looked forward to Marsha’s anger because at those times he no longer had the need to pretend what he felt for her, which, once again, was nothing.
_______________________________________________________________________
Des Plaines, Illinois
November 14, 1963
“Lizzy, I love you!”
3:47 a.m.
Her cramps coming on…
“Lizzy, I love you!”
…Unable to sleep, her eyes snapping open, staring into the darkness.
“Lizzy, I love you!”
The sound of his own voice awakening him, his eyes snapping open, staring into the darkness, Did I really say that? he thought, or did I just dream I said that?
Laying perfectly still, listening for the sleeping sound of his wife’s breathing. But, outside of his beating heart, that sounded as a drum in his chest, he heard nothing.
Laying perfectly still, no longer hearing the sleeping sound of her husband’s breathing, now putting one and one together, now able to “put her finger on it,” “Mitchell.”
The sound of his name coming from the lips of his wife now sounding as a rifle shot in the silent room.
“Mitchell.”
Pretending not to hear, pretending sleep…
“I know you’re awake.” Hesitating a moment, bluntly asked, “Have you been seeing Elizabeth?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t pretend! I know you’re awake and I want to know! Have you been seeing Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth? Marsha, no!”
“Do you love her? I heard you! Don’t lie to me!” Not wanting to wake the children, attempting to keep her voice down. “You said you love her! Have you been seeing her? Do you love her?”
“In my sleep?” Trying to stay calm. “You heard me say something in my sleep and you’re mad at that?”
“Yes.” Turning the lamp on, “You said, ‘Lizzy, I love you!’ And now it makes sense.”
Blinking his eyes at the sudden brightness. “Because I said something in my sleep, now ‘what makes sense’?”
“The way you’ve been treating me.”
“The way I’ve been treating you? What way have I been treating you?”
“Like you don’t give a damn, Mitchell! You don’t touch me anymore! You don’t talk to me anymore!” Remaining uncharacteristically calm, especially under these circumstances. Leaning over him, staring into his eyes, “I know when you’re lying to me and I want to know: have you been seeing Elizabeth?”
All of this time, since his first liaison with Elizabeth, Mitchell had been concerned because he was afraid his secret would be discovered by some outside source, or there would be a telltale sign on his person. But his mouth? From his own mouth… While asleep? Okay, he thought, now’s the time. If I want out of this marriage, now’s the time. His stomach tightening, however, “No!” he said emphatically. “I have not been seeing Elizabeth!”
Snarling, “I don’t believe you! I know when you’re lying and you’re lying now! Aren’t you?”
Silence…
Staring at him, “Answer me, damn it!”
His eyes downcast, Mitchell said nothing.
Getting up, “The kids don’t have to hear this!” Marsha went into the hallway and closed the children’s bedroom doors. Returning, she closed their door also.
Wanting an answer! “Have you been seeing that fat ass bitch?” Demanding an answer, she slapped him. “You want a divorce?”
Not expecting the slap, the direct question, however, throwing him, thinking, Do I want a divorce? Do I want to live away from my children? Rubbing his cheek, “I don’t know what I want,” he answered.
“Well I know what I want!”
Needing time to think away from Marsha’s direct gaze, moving to the far side he sat on the edge of the mattress.
“I want you out of here!”
Turning, he looked at her. “What?”
“I said, I want you out of here!”
“This is my house, too, you can’t…”
“Yeah, I can! You hate me and, umm…” thinking a moment, “I’m afraid of you and I want you out of this house!”
“ ‘You’re afraid of me’?” Looking skyward, “Oh, I get it. Here we go again, huh Marsha?”
Mimicking, “Yeah, ‘here we go again’!”
“And I don’t hate you and you know goddamned well that I’d never hurt you!”
“You’ve hit me before and you do hate me and I… To tell the truth, Mitchell…” Her lip curling, bringing forward her, by now, very familiar show of disgust, “…I hate you, too! And I’m glad this happened so I can be rid of you.”
“You really mean that, huh? You’re really throwing me out, again?”
“Oh, yes! I am! Again! And maybe the third time’ll be the charm and I’ll be rid of you, really!”
“Yeah, Marsha, this is the third time you’re doing this, you know: wrecking our marriage.”
“Me?” said indignantly. “I’m wrecking our marriage?”
Cowardice? Fear of the agony of going through a divorce? Fear of losing his life with his children? What he’d wanted—to spend his life with Elizabeth—now within reach. Now wanting to hold his life together, grasping at straws, “Yes! Let’s talk to someone to see if we can find a way to…”
“To what, Mitchell? Talk to who?”
“A rabbi! Someone…”
“We don’t have a rabbi! And to talk to someone so you can tell them what a shitty wife I am?”
“No, Marsha. To see if we can…”
“Mitchell,”—said through clenched teeth—“I don’t know how to say this so your stupid brain will understand, but I hate you!” Her voice lowering, “I hate you with all of my heart and I want you out of my life and out of my house!”
Staring at her, “You really mean that!”
“Yeah, I do!” Her voice rising once again, “I really do mean it! Tell me,” Marsha asked, “when were you fucking her? When you were supposed to be working?”
Silence…
“You know,” lowering her voice, “one call and I could get both of you fired! But I’m not going to call Transco because I don’t want you to lose your job because you’re going to need money…”
“Marsha…”
“…to support us—the kids and me—and, although I don’t really give a damn, for wherever you plan on living.”
“The kids…”
“I want you to take whatever you’ll need for a few days and get out of here, now!”
“What’ll we tell the kids?”
Still speaking in a somewhat calm tone. “Me, not we! Tomorrow morning I’ll tell them that you and me are not going to live together anymore and that you’ll…” hesitating, fighting tears, “still be their daddy and that you’ll see them in a few days.”
“Where am I supposed to go now?” Glancing at the clock, “It’s four in the morning.”
“I don’t care!” Her voice rising, “Go to your parents!” Her voice lowering again, “Go to that whore! Just get out!”
Waiting for him to move… When he didn’t, going from the bed to the walk in closet, taking a large suitcase from behind a row of hanging clothing. “Go live with Elizabeth!” Slapping the suitcase onto the bed, she opened it.
Going to his dresser, pulling the top drawer open, grabbing handfuls of underpants, T-shirts and socks, she threw them into the suitcase. “Take whatever the hell you think you’ll need for a few days and you can come back on Saturday, if you want, so you can see the kids and take whatever else you’ll need.”
His wife’s making mountains out of mole-hills temperament always a mystery to Mitchell, but now actually a bit dumbfounded at her somewhat calm attitude.
Thinking it best to leave before hysteria, and possibly another, so he guiltily thought, deserved slap that he might physically respond to… which was something he certainly did not want to do.
Dressing, “Okay,” he said, “I’ll leave now because I don’t want to bother the kids. But you be sure to tell them that this has nothing to do with them, please.”
“Don’t you tell me what to tell my children! I know this is going to hurt them, and you should know me well enough to know that I’m not going say anything to hurt them any more than you have.”
This day being Monday, knowing he had an appointment with a major customer later that morning and knowing he had to, at least, see the customer.
Selling envelopes, or anything on this day, was the very last thing he wanted to do.
Laying a pair of dress slacks as neatly as possible onto the mound of his underwear and socks, he added a pair of chinos.
Tempted to say, “You walked out on me three times, so I guess it’s my turn now,” but knowing how fast Marsha’s fragile façade of calmness could shatter, he wisely thought, Better not. Laying a dress shirt and tie along with two sport shirts and the dress shoes he worked in, then going into the bathroom he took his razor and toothbrush.
“When I come back on Saturday, we’ll go to the store. Anything you need now?”
“Just leave some money! If I need anything,” she said harshly, “I’ll go to the store with Paulette or Eileen.”
Marsha sitting on the edge of the bed, Mitchell standing alongside, “I want a divorce!”
“You mean that, Marsha? You really want a divorce?”
“Oh, yeah! I do!”
He stared at her until, feeling tears welling in his eyes, folding the sports jacket over his arm, lifting the suitcase he opened their bedroom door quietly. Tempted to look in at his children, but afraid of awakening them—walking down the five steps, going into the kitchen he put some cash onto the counter.
Hearing him, Mercy came up from her bed in the family room.
Stooping, taking her muzzle in both hands, “I love you, my puppy.” Choking up, he pressed the Dalmatian’s head to the side of his face.
Going to the hall closet, putting a winter jacket on and taking his overcoat, opening the front door quietly, Mitchell Lipensky left what had been his home.
