^{A “For Better or Worse” Excerpt}

Marsha 2 /1944: Continuing….

Lakeside, Mic44gan

In the cove of summer cottages, three were owned by the sisters: Sadie, Ida and Rhea. One by the Wolfs, and the other four by people that became known to Marsha Goldman as uncles Gene, George, Adam and Noah, and aunts Riva, Ruth, Estelle and Minna..

Bringing most of what would initially be needed, some of the families had made the trip to Lakeside over the Memorial Day weekend for the explicit purpose of having the utilities turned on and the cottages cleaned and ready for occupancy once school ended in June.

As Harry Rafkin’s Cadillac pulled into the cove, the people that had arrived the day before or earlier that day came out of their cottages to greet the newcomers. A few of the summer friends had not seen or even spoken to each other since Labor Day the year before.

As the men unpacked the car, the women put the perishables into their refrigerators and the canned goods on the shelves. Beds were made with fresh, sweet smelling linens. The faucets to sinks and bathtubs were turned on as the water ran brown with rust for a minute or two, then clean and clear.

Although some of the people did not mind drinking it, the tap water did have a strong sulphur scent, so once unpacked, pulling an old, rusted wagon, the three men went across the highway to a nearby woods that had a swift running stream of sweet, cold water. On the wagon were four empty five ­gallon bottles for the water… along with a full bottle of mosquito repellent.

Some of the children were given money along with ration tickets and sent down the road to the Red­ Dot Grocery to buy milk and butter, where they were greeted warmly by Dorothy, the owner.

                                    ****

 WOOMPFF!

Twelve years later, though Marsha did not remember or realise why, when it happened to her husband it seemed vaguely familiar and for some unknown reason ‘very’ funny.

                                      ****

 WOOMPFF!

“Goddamnit!”

Laughing, “Stanley’s done it again!” Rhea said to Sadie.

In their kitchen, “Jesus Christ!” on his hands and knees, “I ‘hate it’ when that happens!”

In front of the water heater, Stanley Bernstein had—although since it had become a yearly, beginning of summer ritual, one would think Stanley ‘would’ learn after the first two times that he’d had part of his left eyebrow and all of the hair singed off his right arm—done it once again.

“Stanley,” Ida scolded, “if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a ‘thousand times’ light the match ‘before’ you turn the gas on. And if the match breaks or goes out, give it a chance to air out ‘before’ you try lighting it again!”

“That fu…” remembering there were children and ladies present, “...uh, ‘god­damned’ water heater gets me ‘every god­damned time’! So,” Stanley asked angrily, “do I have ‘any’ eyebrow left?”

Suppressing a giggle as she smoothed butter over her husband’s recently denuded arm. “Yes, Stanley,” Ida answered. “Uh, some of it… more or less.”

                                    ****

The delicious odor of barbecuing hamburgers and hot dogs wafting over the cove, the children sat on the grass or the wooden steps of the cottages re­acquainting themselves, getting caught up on ‘what’s new’ and what happened to whom over the past ten months as they’d waited for Uncle Harry to call…

“Hey, who’s ready for lunch?”

Being a butcher with his own shop, Harry Rafkin was able, at times, to sneak some meat products past the scrutiny of the war rationing inspectors. Harry rationalised his unpatriotic behaviour by sharing the meat with his close friends and relatives on special occasions.

The opening of summer was one of those special occasions.

Crowding around the brick barbecue in front of the Rafkin cottage—that Harry, with the help of Eli and Stan, had built last summer—the entire group joined in the feast.

Lunch over. Changing into their bathing suits, Leonora ‘Leni’ Field, the daughter of the family who owned the cottage directly across from the Goldman’s; Sharon Wolf; Marsha; and Maxine Bernstein, Marsha’s best friend and younger cousin—by four months—trudged down to the beach.

The girls walked along the dirt road, across the cracked asphalt of the ‘old highway’ then, rather than going the additional hundred yards to the public beach access, scrambling down the well ­beaten path of a fairly steep embankment…

There it is!

“Oh, God!”

“Can you ‘believe’ it?”

“We’re back! We’re ‘really’ back!”

The beach!

Savouring the moment, the girls stood in the hot sand shading their eyes against the million pinpoints of the sun’s glare upon the rippling water… Then, feeling the burning sand on the soles of their, as yet untoughened feet, they dashed to the dark sand at water’s edge and the lapping coolness of of the water of Lake Michigan.

Looking for the familiar faces of summers past, the four girls trudged through sand and shallow water to their longstanding, special place behind the Red Dot Grocery, halfway between the water’s edge and the tall embankment.

                                       ****

To Marsha’s longstanding, special place where— almost to the day — fourteen years into the future Marsha and her thirteen month old baby would be accosted by the deviate, Gordon ‘Nate’ Nathason.

                                       ****

Running as far toward the misty horizon as the eye will allow, the crooked shoreline followed a slight curve in both directions. Looking to the south towards Union Pier, rising eerily out of sand and water— like the broken ribs of a beached, long dead prehistoric monster— were the hazy remnants of the old, burnt pier that, so rumour had it, was the result of a 1920’s gun battle between federal agents and a gang of Al Capon’s bootleggers.

Walking in the opposite direction, the girls passed a group of teenage boys who were—what else?—looking for girls. But passing ‘this’ group of spindly legged, flat chested girls, the boys did not venture so much as a cursory backward glance… ‘this’ year.

Approaching ‘heir spot’, the girls saw that there were adults with young children, some kids about their age that they didn’t know, and…

“Hey!” Starting to run, “Hey, look!” her blanket and towel trailing behind, “ ‘Shelly’!” Small geysers of hot sand thrown up by the motion of her feet stinging the backs of her calves, “ ‘Shelly, hi’!”

Hearing her name called, a plump, sunburned girl with frizzy red hair looked up. Shading her eyes with the palm of her hand... “ ‘Marcie’!” bounding off her blanket. Running to each other, the two girls embraced for a moment then, in a high pitched, animated conversation, walked back to Shelly’s blanket.

Over the entire beach, blankets were spread on patches of sand that became each person’s, or group’s, territory, ‘their’ private spot. And unless some adult or another kid unknowingly trespassed, that was precisely where that person or group could be found on ‘any’ beach day.

For Marcie Goldman and friends, their summer vacation of 1944 had officially begun.

                                     ****

But then, on Sunday evening…

“Don’t look so sad! Mother and I’ll be back on Friday. I’ll see you Friday evening! Okay?” Tilting her head upward, “Okay, baby?” Kissing her forehead, Eli got into the back seat.

Hugging Roger, Rhea kissed her son’s cheek.

Turning away as Marsha approached, leaving the girl standing awkwardly by herself as, stepping into the car, Rhea sat alongside her husband then slamming the door shut, leaning her head through the window ‘mother’ blew a kiss to her daughter. “Bye, Marsha!”

Starting the car, Harry Rafkin reversed to the right, put his arm out the window waving to his family one last time, shifted to first then stepped lightly on the accelerator.

As the Cadillac pulled out of the cove and turned to the left, poking her head through the window again, “Bye, kids, I’ll see you on Friday!” Rhea threw a kiss in the general direction of her two children.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Roger turned away and letting the screen door slam shut, walked into the cottage.

Wisps of brown dust thrown by the car’s wheels still floating on air, looking at the spot where the car had been, Marsha listened to the lowering pitch of the sound of the car’s motor. As the car’s gears went from low to high, the sound became faint… then disappeared.

Slamming screen doors reverberated as children and ‘their’ mothers went into cottages together.

She was… Marsha once again was alone.

Five months from her eighth birthday, Marsha Goldman was tall for her age; tall and thin. Showing little muscle tone, Marsha’s calves, thighs, buttocks and stomach were straight, starting and ending with only the slightest protuberance. Marsha had short­-cut, tightly curled dark brown hair and brown expressive eyes. Her mouth was small and her nose— a gift from her father—had a slight hook and was, for a child a bit longer than best suited for her oval shaped face—a gift from her mother —Marsha had a smooth, olive complexion that, even with but one weekend in the sun was showing the beginnings of a deep, golden tan.

Sighing. Fighting tears. Turning from the lost sight and sound of the automobile. Slowly walking up the three wooden steps and also letting the screen door slam shut, Marsha went through the screened porch into the cottage.

At the kitchen sink, Roger was spreading thick layers of jelly and peanut butter onto two slices of Silvercup bread.

Scrapping a straight backed wooden chair across the linoleum covered floor, sitting at the red and white checkered  oilcloth covered table, Marsha waited as her brother poured a glass of milk, put the milk and jelly back into the refrigerator and slammed the door shut with his behind before sitting across from his sister.

“Roge, why’s mother hate me so much?” Her left elbow on the table, her chin resting in the palm of her hand Marsha looked intently at her brother awaiting his answer.

Biting into the gloppy sandwich. Deliberately chewing noisily and slowly, Roger washed it down with a large gulp of milk before answering. “She doesn’t hate you, Marsha. Mother ‘loooves’ you!” he said sarcastically.

The sarcasm lost on his sister. “How can you say that, Roge? She ‘hates’ me! The only time she ever even talks to me is when she’s hollering, and she ‘never’ touches me or kisses me or nothing!”

“Oh, yeah! How’s ’bout ‘just’ last night, then?”

Marsha thought back.

They had dinner at the Rafkin’s. Afterwards the families had sat in the living room talking, Uncle Stan on the sofa and, leaning against the sofa, Aunt Ida on the carpeted floor between his legs. Stan and Ida’s daughter, ‘Maxine’, was sitting between her mother’s outstretched legs as Ida brushed her daughter’s long, light ­blonde hair.

On the floor also, her back against the easy chair her husband sat on, smoking, Rhea held a large glass ashtray on her lap.

Lying on her stomach on the floor alongside her mother, suddenly, for one fleeting, joyful moment, Marsha felt the touch of her mother’s hand in her hair… Then, Roger coming in the room, as though caught in the act of doing something to be ashamed of... As though caught within the embrace of one of her lovers, Rhea hastily jerked her hand away. It had happened so quickly that Marsha was not sure it had really happened at all, and if it did, if Roger had even seen it.

“You mean in Aunt Sadie’s living room?”

“Yeah! She was touchin’ you then!”

“How can you say that, Roge? She was ‘only’ trying to show Aunt Sadie and Aunt Ida that ‘once in a while even she can be a mother, too’. And it’s the ‘only’ time that I can remember her ‘ever’ touching me without pulling my hair or hitting me or pinching me!”

“Look, I don’t wanna talk ’bout this no more an’—actually Roger was glad when his parents left them alone, because then he was able to eat what he wanted and was able to come and go as he wanted… and was able to do ‘whatever’ he wanted to his sister—I gotta get goin’!” Standing, leaving his glass, dish, and napkin on the table, jerking his thumb in the direction of the sink and open bottle of peanut butter that he’d left, “I’m gonna meet the guys over at the Palladium, so how’s ’bout cleanin’ this up for me!” Spoken not as a question, but a demand.

“Roge, wait!” Marsha hesitated, considered, then, “I wanna ask you somethin’ ‘bout somethin’.”

“Yeah, okay, but,” looking at his watch, “make it fast!”

Marsha had wanted to talk to her brother about this for some time, but had been afraid. Hesitating again, wondering if she should say anything at all.

“So?”

“Roge…” faltering, “you know mother, uh, mother sometimes does bad things with other men…”

In the past thinking she ‘had’ to know. Nonetheless embarrassed that his sister ‘did’ know. Embarrassed that ‘anyone’ knew about his mother—and ‘his’ sexual fantasy—Roger simultaneously seized the back of a chair with one hand and flung it across the kitchen as he slapped her face with his other hand causing the frightened girl’s head to fall from the palm of her hand.

Twisting his fingers tightly in Marsha’s hair, Roger jerked upward then pushed downward, smashing his seven­ year ­old sister’s forehead hard onto the table.

“Don’t’ch’ya ‘ever’, ‘ever’ say that to me…” Twisting her hair in his fist so Marsha’s neck wrenched and her face turned upward. “…or ‘anyone’! ‘Ever’! ‘Don’t’ch’ya ever’!” Yanking her hair, the upward pressure pulling Marsha’s eyes open, forcing her off the chair onto her feet. “If you ‘ever tell anyone’, maybe dad’ll kill her…” Shaking her head by her hair. His spittle spraying her face. “Or maybe they’ll get a divorce like Myron’s ma’n’pa; an’ if they do you’n’me’ll be alone an’ I’ll give you away to gypsies an’ you’ll ‘never see no one you know again’!” Aware of Marsha’s love for their father, Roger added, “An’ especially you’ll never, ‘never’ get to see your daddy again ’cause he’ll hate you for tellin’! An’ it’ll all be your fault! ‘Hear me’?” Shaking her head by her hair. “You ‘understand’ what I’m tellin’ you? You ‘understand’?”

In pain, “ ‘Yes’!” Terrified, she tried to nod her head but her hair held so tightly she could barely move it. “Roger, please! You’re hurting me! ‘Please’ let me go! I ‘promise’” Crying. “ ‘I won’t say anything to anyone’! Please let me go! ‘Please’!”

Breathing harshly, Roger opened his fist and Marsha slumped onto the chair.

“ ‘Just youremember’!” Holding his clenched fist under her nose, “ ‘Don’t’ch’ya tell no one! Never’!

Crying tears of sadness, pain, and fear. “Roger, I’ve known ‘bout mother and other men since I was little and I ‘never’ told ‘no one’ and I’d ‘never’ tell daddy ’cause it would make him feel ‘so bad’ knowing mother doesn’t love him.”

“Well, it don’t mean she don’t love him, it just means she’s…” Having no idea how to explain his thoughts regarding their mother, Roger stopped speaking.

Going into the bedroom he shared with his sister he returned a moment later with his White Sox jacket. “Look, I ‘don’t’ wanna talk ’bout this no more, an’ I’m late now an’ goin’ an’ ‘don’t’ know when I’ll be back.” Starting out the cottage door, turning back and once again making a fist, “ ‘If you ever say a word’…”

Her eyes focused on the menacing fist, Marsha said nothing, but the fear on her face telling Roger all he had to know. Turning away, his heavy footsteps echoing in the cinder block raised cottage. Stomping outside, Roger angrily slammed the screen door behind him.

Sitting perfectly still, trying to overcome the outburst of her brother’s anger and the fear he’d instilled in her.

Although her eyes were focused on some distant point far beyond the closed screen door, the peripheral vision of Marsha’s mind saw ‘only’ the absolute emptiness of the small cottage.

In a while she rose from the table, went to the refrigerator, took the jelly and milk out and made a thinly spread peanut butter and jelly sandwich, placed it on a paper towel and poured half a glass of milk and—having been warned, knowing how fast ants can come from nowhere—put the milk, jelly and peanut butter away. Marsha then cleared her brother’s glass from the table, washed and dried it then washed the table, sink and counter with a soapy dishcloth.

Finished in the kitchen, Marsha turned the radio on and went to the screened porch where she sat on a canvas lawn chair with the sandwich perched on her lap that she picked at with her fingertips.

‘Amos’n’Andy’ was on the radio.

Sitting in the, by then semi­darkness of the screened porch, looking directly across the cove through the screened porch of the Field cottage, Marsha did not notice nor hear ‘Amos’n’Andy.’ What she did hear and see though was laughter, and Marsha watched enviously as Leni and her mother sat at the table in their brightly lit kitchen playing checkers.

We will leave Marsha Goldman now to be reacquainted in neighbouring Union Pier, Michigan five years later on

August 5, 1949…. Chapter : “Peace/Meeting Girls”

                              ****

In the meantime let us return to Evansville, Wisconsin and Mitchell Lipensky chapter: “Mitchell 2/Boy Talk”

                                          January 14, 1944