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

Abducted 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 behaviour 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.

______________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

 Friday, November 22, 1963

It Was a Sunny Day… 

Looking at his watch: 12:28.

Glancing at the swirling acclimation of snow outside, rushing to the phone booth he’d seen when he entered the lobby to meet Elizabeth. Dropping a dime in the slot, dialing…

It was a sunny day…

A forgotten cup of tea on the oversized, Formica topped coffee table, folding clothing, Marsha was paying scant attention to “As The World Turns” when the phone rang. Rising wearily, going to the phone on the wall, “Hello.”

“Marsha.”

Unable to sleep more than a few minutes at a time, her attitude constantly swaying from anger to sadness to loneliness to fear of the future—to mostly loneliness and fear of the future—unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time since that morning five days ago.

Now being the first time she’d hear from Mitchell since he left. “What do you want, Mitchell?”

It was a sunny day…

Noting the tired, uncaring tone of her voice, “Marsha…”

Her eyes listlessly shifting to the television…

“We’ll see a marriage counselor, if you’d like…”

It was a sunny day in…

“But would you… Can I come…”

It was a sunny day in…

“Oh, my God!”

Thinking she was speaking to him, “I miss you and the kids, and I’ll do…”

“Oh, my God, Mitchell!”

The tone of her voice now of horrid amazement…

It was a sunny day in Dallas, Texas…

“Marsha, what’s…?”

“The president!”

“Kennedy? What?”

Other than the distant, muffled sound of television…

The line silent…

“Marsha, what?”

“Just now, in Dallas, President Kennedy…” Her voice rising, “He was shot! Oh, my God!”

“Jesus! Is he dead?”

“Don’t know yet.” Stretching the line, taking the receiver with her, “Mitchell, wait.” Turning the volume up…

“Here,” the announcer said, “is a bulletin from CBS News.”

“In Dallas, Texas,” Walter Cronkite announced, “three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by the shooting.

“More details just arrived. These details about the same as previously: President Kennedy shot just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas. Mrs Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mister Kennedy, she called, ‘Oh, no!’ as the motorcade sped on.

“United Press says that the wounds for President Kennedy perhaps could be fatal.

“Repeating a bulletin from CBS, President Kennedy has been shot by a would be assassin in Dallas, Texas.

“Stay tuned to CBS news for…”

In tears now. “Oh, my God!”

“Please, Marsha, can I come home?”

The line silent… Silent….

“Marsha?”

Silence.

.

.

“Yes, Mitchell, come home.”

                                                             For better or worse.

 Till death do we part.

                                                            Epilogue (Prospective)

Ventura County, California: Spring, 2024

Witnessing a sense of déjà vu, stepping back from the curb, the old man turned to look at the young woman and young man one last time.

But the convertible was gone.

Sighing, knowing he hadn’t really seen what he thought he had seen, reluctantly passing it off as the wandering imagination of an old man, continuing his walk, slowly making his way to the corner, turning right he walked the half block to the entrance of the modernistic, high rise Facilitated Apartments for the Elderly.

Still shaken by the illusion of himself and his long gone first wife—the illusion of his wife and himself in their early twenties continuing to cause a tightening in his throat and a stinging behind his eyes—opting to walk the four wide steps rather than using the slightly upward angled ramp, the pneumatic hiss proceeding the opening of the stainless steel and plate glass door, the old man entered into the climate controlled building.

Expecting to see his wife, straightening his back, the old man forced his body into more of an upright position. Hoping to see her, running his fingers through his rather scraggily hair, bringing it off his forehead, he looked about the chair and sofa appointed vestibule, and was not disappointed because…

Watching for him, seeing her husband, the petite lady sat upright in the wing chair she had been sitting in for the past half ­hour waiting for him to return.

Their eyes touched and held for the time it took him to shuffle across the low pile, carpeted lobby.

Nodding his head downward, “‘Afternoon, Bonnie.” Nodding his head upward, “You want to go up?”

Smiling, “Of course,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Offering his free hand, steadying his position with the cane he held in his other hand, the old man helped the lady onto her feet.

Draping her hand through his arm, walking closely side by side, the two slowly moved across the length of the large room.

It took no more than fifteen seconds for the imitation ­wood ­panelled elevator door to slide open.

Offering her first entry, he then stepped behind the old lady, between her back and the rear wall of the elevator. Backing into him, pressing her back against the old man’s front, arching her body slightly, the old lady pressed her buttocks into the old man’s lower abdomen and moved, oh, ever so slowly, ever so slightly from side to side.

Closing his eyes to the sensation of this very humanistic touch, to the sensation of this very humanistic sexual touch, nuzzling the side of her neck, kissing the lobe of her ear, the old man’s hand moved through the seams of the front of the old lady’s buttoned housedress, where he held a moderately small but, oh, so soft, so warm, breast within the palm of his hand.

Closing her eyes to the sensation of this very humanistic touch, to the sensation of this very humanistic, definitely sexual touch, continuing with what had by then become their ritual, “Know what?” Bonnie asked. Then answering her own question, “I can’t wait to get you naked in my bed.”

Always thrilled by…

Always loving the feel of the warm softness of a woman’s breast, of the warm softness of this woman’s breast, sensing an, albeit slight, but yet awakening of his penis, now whispering directly into her ear, “Me, too, Bonnie,” he replied. “I can’t wait to get into bed with you naked, too.”

Being a lifetime, major subscriber to the roughly ­thought theory that the day a man no longer looks at women, or desires women, on that day, at that time the man begins to die.

So…

Looking upward, I’m still alive! Mitchell Lipensky thought. I’m still alive.

                                                       "Becoming" Prologue

                                                              Chicago, Illinois: Spring, 1939

 The lady and boy stood at the curb.

Watching the stoplight across the wide, busy street, the lady looked forward, waiting for the light to turn to green.

The five-year-old boy at her side looked to his left, watching the light across the smaller street, waiting for it to turn to red.

The lights changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.

Automobiles stopped on either side of the wide street.

From the little boy’s perspective, looking much like a red monster, its steel wheels squealing in steel tracks, a streetcar halted its rattling forward motion and seemed to be straining to begin moving again.

Tightening her grip on the boy’s hand, the woman and child started across the wide street.

On the other side of the street a man carefully stepped off the curb to begin his journey in the opposite direction.

Scraggly gray hair hung over his age‑splotched forehead and he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane that he held tightly in his gnarled hand.

Crossing paths, the fog‑cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the little boy and held for the seconds it took to pass.

Passing, the little boy turned his head, watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his mother’s hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?”

“What man?” Turning, the woman looked at the slowly receding figure. “Oh. Nothing, baby, he’s just an old man.”

Watching another moment, “Will daddy be an old man someday?”.

“Why yes, baby. I hope so.”

“And will you be old someday, too, Mommy?”

“Yes, Mitchie. God willing. Unless something bad happens, I’ll be an old lady someday.”

“And me too, Mommy, I’ll be old, too?”

“Yes, baby, someday.”

His throat tightening, his eyes stinging, the boy began to cry.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Reaching into her purse, removing a handkerchief, she wiped away his tears.

“I don’t want to be old, Mommy!”

Stooping, “Shhh,” hugging her son to her chest, “don’t worry, Mitchie. You’ve a whole lifetime ’till you’ll be an old man.”

Standing, taking hold of her son’s hand, the two began to walk again.

The boy looked over his shoulder at him one last time, but the old man had disappeared from sight.