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Her eyes tightly shut, with one hard, final upward pelvic motion, Elizabeth stopped all movement.

And other than the hard, spasmodic pulsing, so did Mitchell.

Opening her eyes, “Mitchie, I love you.”

Opening his eyes, expecting brown eyes, looking into the green eyes of this woman that…

Shaking his head, bringing himself back to reality, “I love you, Lizzie.”

During moments of release, as a sexual orgasm will momentarily relieve the pain of a headache or sore tooth, immediately after, so then does the pain return.

On this day, however, his mind in turmoil, there was not even a momentary release of pain for Mitchell Lipensky.

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Chicago, Illinois

 Friday, November 22, 1963

It Was a Sunny Day…

Elizabeth having three appointments on this cold, damply overcast, gloomy Friday, and as Mitchell had none and was extremely nervous over his appointment with the lawyer, each had taken their own transportation downtown.

                                                                ****

Running a few minutes late, at 12:06, “Mister Leonard can see you now.”

Elizabeth waited in the reception room as…

Address, phone numbers, names, ages and preliminary information written onto the yellow pad:

“When did Mrs Lipensky cause you to leave your home?”

“The first time?”

“Yes, the first time.”

“Uh,” thinking, “1957, sometime in May, I came home from work and all my stuff was packed in cardboard boxes in the middle of the room with a note telling me to get out.”

“To your knowledge, Mister Lipensky, there was no reason for this?”

The manner in which the question was put causing him to think for a moment. “We just had the baby, uh, Michael, and we’d been arguing about money and things were rough, but no, sir! No real reason. Nothing that we couldn’t work out.”

“Did you strike her?” Writing on the yellow legal pad. “Have you ever struck your wife?”

Remembering the slap in Seagate and the retaliatory slap on this occasion; passing on the Seagate slap. “On the night before this…”

“The night before?” The attorney questioned. “In May of ’57, the night before your wife told you to leave your domicile?”

“Domicile?”

“Your home.”

“On the night before, Marsha, uh, my wife left me the note telling me to get out?”

“Yes.”

On the night before, when the baby woke for his feeding, I told her I’d do it, uh, take care of Michael and she became hysterical and she, uh, hit me, twice, and I slapped her back.”

“You say,” writing on the pad, “your wife struck you first?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Was her hand closed? When your wife struck you was it with a fist?”

“Yes, sir, twice.”

“And you slapped her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your hand was open?”

“Yes, sir. She punched me and I slapped her back.”

“Afterwards? After you slapped your wife?”

“She calmed down and I thought it best to just leave her alone and went back to bed.”

“You had no further words that night?”

“No, sir.”

“There was no further physical contact that night?”

“No, sir.”

“The next day?”

“I had a part time job and left the apartment very early, before she woke up because I wanted Marsha… I hoped that by the time I got home that afternoon she’d have calmed down.”

“And…”

“When I got home she wasn’t there and all my stuff was packed in cardboard cartons and there was a note… A terrible note telling me to get out.”

“Did you try speaking to her?”

“Yes. Her mother lives in the same building and I went there but she, Marsha’s mother, wouldn’t let me in to talk to my wife.”

“How far did this separation go?”

“In ’57?”

“Yes.”

“We were in court for a, uh, preliminary legal separation.”

“And you reconciled at that time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Remembering with a bit of a jolt, Marsha in the arms of another man. “The judge, he talked to Marsha’n’me in private and we changed our minds and left together.”

“And there was a second separation? When?”

“Yes, sir. When I came home from work in, uh, late in April in 1958…”

Holding his hand up, consulting the yellow pad. “This was less than a year later?”

“Yes, sir. When I got home all of our furniture and everything had been moved out of the apartment and she, uh, Marsha had disappeared with my son and no one that knew us would tell me where they’d gone.”

“Did anything happen the night before to cause this? Did you have words with your wife the night before?”

“Marsha went to a movie with her cousin and a friend and… We were having some problems again and I had a little too much to drink.”

“You were drinking that night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you drink much, Mister Lipensky?”

“No, sir. Not at all! Well, socially now and then.”

“You were drunk when she returned home?”

“Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I was in the bathroom puking when she got home.”

“Did you and your wife have words then?”

No, not really. She refused to sleep in the same bed with me so she slept, uh, someplace else.”

“The next morning, did you have words then?”

“No, sir… I wasn’t feeling very well then and thought it best if I just left.”

“Later that day, when you returned home, everything was moved out of your home. Your things? Did she leave your property?”

“Only my clothes and some…”

His eyes shifting from the pad, the attorney looked at Mitchell, “Some what?”

Remembering that sad day, a lump of bitterness coming to his throat, “Whatever was mine in the dresser she dumped on the floor and what was hanging of mine she left hanging. And I had a… Before I left the service, uh, the Coast Guard, I bought a large box of rubbers, uh, prophylactics and she dumped them all over the floor.”

“And the reason for this? For her abandoning you….”

For her abandoning you. Seeing the possibility of a defence of sorts, remembering Marsha’s desertion grounds that first time, thinking, Marsha deserted me!

“…You have any idea why she did that?”

“No, sir! I don’t know of any reason for her to do this.”

“And when you came home from work the next day,” writing, “the furniture, your wife, your son, everything was gone.”

“Yes, sir. I’d even bought some flowers… You know, to try to make up. But when I got home I found my clothes, and all my other stuff and the rubbers thrown all over the floor.”

“How long until you saw your wife and,” looking at the pad, “Michael again?”

His stomach quaking, “Two and a half months.”

“And all this time you had no idea where they, your wife and son were.”

“I thought they might have been in the country.”

“The country?”

“In Michigan.” Feeling ill. “Lakeside.”

Nodding his head, “And were they?”

His mind in turmoil. Away from his children for five days now. Missing his children, I love Liz, he thought, but the thought of divorce, the actual thought of divorce and the thought that he would not be living with his children. And yes! But I love Liz! But the thought of Marsha in the arms of another man!

Here, now, actually speaking to a lawyer! Actually about to proceed with a divorce! Actually about to be away from his children! But I love Liz! What do I care about Marsha? She hates me!

“Mister Lipensky?”

Attempting to focus his attention, “Yes, sir.”

“I asked if your wife and Michael were in Lakeside.”

“As it turned out, yes, sir. But I had no idea how to find them and no one would tell me for sure.”

“That doesn’t matter. Your wife abducted your son…”

Abducted your son! Kidnapped your son!

“…and took him across a state line… Out of Illinois, through a bit of Indiana and into Michigan. Across three state lines, as a matter of fact.”

In a bit of a daze, “Did you say that Marsha kidnapped Michael?”

Noticing the questioning tone of Mitchell’s voice, “Mister Lipensky, we’re trying to set a pattern of your wife’s behavior towards you. So, yes! She can’t do that: take your child without your permission and just disappear. That’s kidnapping! And then she removed your possessions from your domicile without your permission; that’s theft.”

A blank expression on his face, What do I care about Marsha? She hates me! Overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. I love Elizabeth—but my kids!

The intercom on his desk buzzing. As though asking for one minute, holding a finger forward, “Yes, Ida?” Looking at Mitchell, “This’ll take a couple of minutes, but I’ve got to take this call.”

“That’s okay…” Mitchell said… What do I do? I love Elizabeth! But my kids! “I’ve got to use the bathroom anyway.” What do I do? Marsha in the arms of another man!

Nodding his head, Leonard motioned for Mitchell to go ahead.

His mind in a state of turmoil, coming from the attorney’s office, hesitating a moment, looking at Elizabeth, “I need the toilet,” he said, thinking, What do I do? Rushing from the room. I love her! But my kids!

Going into the hallway, catching a down heading elevator as the door was about to glide shut. “Lobby,” he said impatiently to the elevator operator.