Union Pier 1949

Chicago, Illinois

June 20, 1949

 “Normie, hi!”

“Mitch! Thought you’d be gone all weekend. When’d you get back?”

“Yesterday. They had a surprise birthday party for my uncle Al at his home an’ I went there right from the streetcar.”

“You said you’d call an’ tell me ’bout it! So? J’ya get laid?”

“Well, no, not exactly… Hold on.” Taking the phone with him, walking to the doorway, he looked to see if his mother was still in the kitchen, out of ear range. Coming back, he stretched the phone as far as the line allowed and sat on the windowsill overlooking the alley. “But I did get…” whispering, “a blow-job.”

“ ‘You got a blow job’!” Obviously no one was home at the Parminter house. “No Shit! ‘A blow job’!” This was legendary stuff. “Wow! How was it? Was she pretty? How’s she look?”

“Yeah, it was…” Actually, when he thought about it, the entire visit seemed more a dream than reality. “Like my dad said, it was a real learning experience, but I can’t talk about it right now. You know, big birds got big ears.”

“Your ma’s there, huh? So, she tell you?”

“Yeah, well, she ain’t in the room with me... Tell me ‘what’?”

“I ain’t supposed to say.”

“You ain’t supposed to say ‘wha’t? What’s goin’ on?”

“She don’t want me to say ‘cause she don’t want you to know till she finds out if one’s available.”

“She don’t want me to know ‘what’?” Mitchell insisted. “An’ if ‘what’s’ available’?”

“Okay,” hesitant, “but don’t say nothin’ ’bout it till she tells you, okay?”

“Yeah! ‘Okay’!”

“Okay…” Teasing him. “No, I better not.”

“Normie, I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me…” Lowering his voice, “What the hell you’re talkin’ ’bout!”

“Okay! But don’t tell your ma I tol’j’ya!”

“Okay, okay, I ‘won’t’ tell her! So tell me already!”

“Okay! Your ma asked my ma, an’ my ma wasn’t supposed to tell me but it slipped out an’ she did an’ I ain’t supposed to tell you, but I guess I’m gonna… You sure you wanna hear this, Mitch?”

“Norman, stop babbling an’ tell me what the hell you’re talkin’ ’bout!”

“Okay. You remember last August when we went to Union Pier?”

It had been miserably hot last August... “Yeah.” ...and he’d missed his friend terribly.

“Well, while you were visiting your ol’ pal Frankie an’ getting’ blow jobs all over the place, your ma called my ma an’ asked about it, an’ my ma slipped an’ told me your ma ‘did’ an’ I ain’t supposed to tell you!”

“Shit, Norman!” He looked to see if Myra had heard, but apparently she hadn’t. Lowering his voice, “Tell me already!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Anyway, she’s checkin’ to see if she can find a cottage, an’ if she can, you’n’Larry’n’your ma’ll stay an’ your dad’ll drive out on Friday an’ go back on Monday.”

“No…” catching himself, “...shit! That’ll be great! Hey, Norm, I just got an idea!”

Ever since he’d tried talking him into sneaking into the girl’s toilet at Hebrew school, Norman had been skeptical of Mitchell’s ideas. “Yeah,” he asked suspiciously, “what’s that?”

“You know the war surplus store over on Twelfth Street?”

“Sure.” Knowing what Mitchell was thinking, “Yeah, the…”

Whenever they went to a movie on Twelfth Street, if the store was open they would go in and look at the proprietor’s collection of antique and modern handguns, then, because most of the things in this store were of interest to teenage boys, browse around. The ‘ Twelfth Street War Surplus’ store was packed to over-flowing with war surplus from walkie-talkies to camouflaged pup tents and, hanging from wires in the ceiling, three different sizes of navy surplus, inflatable…

“…Life rafts!” Norman yelled in the phone.

“Yeah! Why don’t we go over later to see what one costs.”

“Good idea!” Then almost as an afterthought. “You got any money, Mitch?”

“No… Yeah, a couple’a bucks left from my trip.”

“Two bucks ain’t gonna buy much, Mitch.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Uh-oh! When Lipensky thinks, Parminter gets into trouble.”

“Nah, it ain’t nothin’ that’ll get you into trouble. You know how you’n’me worked out ass’s off so’s our moms could have Bar Mitzvahs?”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me, Norm, you get anything out of it? Did you even see one lousy cent out of all that Bar mitzvah gelt we got?”

“You kiddin’? No! I sure as hell didn’t!”

“Bet your ass you didn’t, an’ me neither! I bet, I just bet if we tell our dads—not our moms, but our dads—that you’n’me wanna go partners on a navy surplus raft, an’ when they come out for weekends they can use it to, uh, go fishin’.”

“My Pa don’t fish.”

“Yeah, mine, too. But I bet if we tell ’em they can take the raft out an’ drop the anchor an’ have a beer an’ just snooze, you know, away from people…”

“Like nudnik [pesty] wives who always nudge ‘em to do stuff on their days off.”

“Yeah, just like!”

“Yeah! If we tell ’em we’ll be partners an’ it won’t cost ’em a penny, I’ll bet they’ll give us enough of…”

“Our ‘own’ money to pay for it.”

“Yeah! That’s what I think, too!”

Union Pier, Michigan

Slightly more than a hundred miles southeast of Chicago, Union Pier had been developed after the turn of the century as a ‘restricted’ summer vacation area for wealthy Chicagoan's trying to escape that city’s extreme humidity and high summer temperatures.

Affluent businessmen from the Gold Coast and South Shore would deposit their families in their mansions or costly hotel suites for the unbearably hot months of June, July, August and September. They would then commute by car or train on a daily or weekly basis arriving in Union Pier on Friday and returning to their offices or factories on Monday.

(Notation) The 18th amendment became law in 1920.

With prohibition the law of the land, Chicago bootleggers needed a safe port for the importation of illicit liquor from neighboring Canada.

Miles from Michigan City, Indiana, its largest neighboring city already boasting an existing pier and also having easily-bribed local officials, Union Pier became an excellent location for this illicit activity.

The area boomed… until the great depression of the late twenties forced most of the property into foreclosure.

Union Pier sat fallow until the late thirties into the forties and the advent of World War Two.

With the economy on a rapid upswing, big city speculators purchased most of the property for pennies on the dollar that were sold by bankers only too anxious to finally get these properties off their books.

The weathered, then shabby mansions were quickly converted to boarding hotels. Acres of previously well-manicured lawns and tree-covered lots were made into groves of cheaply constructed cottages and the area, once restricted to Jews, became the vacation place primarily for the financial lower and middle class Jews of Chicago, Benton Harbor, Detroit and as far away as Windsor, Canada.

The ‘Old Highway’ began at the recently widened New Highway just north of the ‘Union Pier Bowl’ and ran west for a quarter mile before angling northeast following the shoreline for better than three miles into neighboring Lakeside.

Once past the bowling alley there was a one-story, wood-frame building, the ‘Union Pier Business Center’, consisting of a grocery store; a gift, novelty and drug store; and a real estate office. Just beyond the business center was a narrow, rutted road that lead to the ‘Palladium’. Besides the bowling alley, the Palladiums rows of clanging pinball machines and its open dance floor was the only entertainment in town.

Another dirt road, angling to the north, went about a quarter mile from the Palladium to merge with the black-topped ‘Old Highway’ a half-mile north of the Old and New highway junction, actually making a quarter mile shortcut for anyone coming from Union Pier or Lakeside to shop at the business center, go to the Palladium or the bowling alley, or wait for the Greyhound bus that stopped in front of Union Pier Bowl.

Larger boarding hotels on the lake side, and tree-lined groves of cottages on the land side, followed one after the other on the old, two-lane highway.

With the exception of a few hardy gentile families, in winter the entire area was desolate and all but totally isolated.

****

Due to a last minute cancellation, Myra and Walter Lipensky were able to rent a cottage that was even closer to the Public Entrance to the beach than the Parminter cottage. ‘Public Entrance’ meaning a weed-choked, not-too-steeply sloped path that had been etched by years of usage out of the high sand, weed and tangled-bush embankment that follows the shoreline mile after mile.

Within a grove of twelve furnished cottages, the Lipensky cottage had a moderately large kitchen/living/dining room combination, two small bedrooms, a bathroom with a shower stall only, and a fully screed porch.

The furniture consisted of a scarred wooden table and six rickety, reed-covered chairs and a flaking set of mismatched, white wicker furniture consisting of a sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table. The burners of the stove and oven had to be lit with a match each time they were used. The once-white porcelain sink had been scrubbed gray by thousands of steel-wool pads. The old-fashioned, high-domed refrigerator had a wooden wedge shoved beneath one leg to keep it from rattling.

The bedrooms each had twin beds and badly marred cigarette-burned dressers. The fully-screened porch faced the road, and had roll-up, orange- and brown-stripped canvas curtains to help keep the wind and rain out and to assure privacy for anyone wanting to sleep outside.

Unless it became unseasonably cold, both Mitchell and then-five-year-old Lawrence planned on sleeping on roll-up cots outside.

August 3, 1949/Peace

With the orange, five-man war surplus, rubber and canvas raft perched atop their heads, looking much like a four-legged caterpillar, the boys made their way across the Old Highway, turned right and... “Ow!” ...stepping on unseen rocks, stones... “Ouch!” ...and occasional bottle caps, went forty yards to the path leading down to the beach.

“Ohh!” Fighting gravity...“Jeeze!”...hanging onto the quarter-inch line that ran around the circumference of the raft... “Oh!” ...as sharp-leafed weeds cut at their toes and legs… “Shit!”

“Aie!” Running across the scorching sand as the wind tugged at the top-heavy, inflatable raft.

“Ahh!”

“Ahh!” Splashing into the cool lapping water, the raft, with its two metal oars held snugly under the compartmental, middle air-filled seat, was lifted off their heads in unison and flipped, landing right side up in the water of Lake Michigan.

****

It was 10:45 a.m., and the start of the third day of the anxiously awaited Lipensky/Parminter vacation.

His nose red and peeling, wearing a blue, boxer-style bathing suit, Norman’s shoulders and back were burnt from the two previous days of continuous, unaccustomed sunshine on his light-complected skin.

Mitchell wore a yellow, brief-type bathing suit that showed in deep contrast to his already well-tanned body.

The boys had spent the first two days on the raft they’d bought with $17.50 each, coming from their Bar Mitzvah money that finally, with the help of their fathers, they were able to wheedle out of their tight-fisted mothers.

Sitting canoe style, one boy on either side of the raft with their outboard legs dangling in the warm water, they’d explored, paddling to the south, staying in water no deeper than needed to clear the oars so they might better find what they were so hungrily searching for…

What else? Girls!

Paddling till they’d spotted what looked like unaccompanied girls of their approximate age, they rowed ashore, pulled the raft onto the beach and, nonchalantly—so they thought—ambled toward their female prey, who were unaware—so they thought—of their approach.

Mitchell was far the better looking of the two, but still shy, found it hard to get a conversation started with an unknown girl. Norman, on the other hand, was clever and glib and more easily able to break the ice.

Going south the first two days, the boys had gone ashore nineteen times and the girls had been either too young, too old, or not pretty enough and besides, the scene changed constantly and just because their ‘dream boats’ weren’t there on the outgoing trip did not mean they wouldn’t be on the beach when they rowed back in a few hours; so why tie yourself down with anything less than what you really want? Which was, what else, but a long-legged, big-busted ‘Miss Jewish America of 1949’… Or a fairly reasonable facsimile.

On this day, their third in Union Pier, they planned to explore north, towards the unknown.

Taking his glasses off, Norman put them into one of the provision pockets stitched onto the raft and snapped the pocket shut. Thinking he looked better without glasses during these expeditions— although a strain on his eyes— he preferred not wearing them just in case he should meet a girl he’d like to impress.

In daylight, without glasses Norman’s eyes were a striking light gray, and in just the two days he’d been in the sun, the sun had bleached his hair from dark blonde to a kind of streaky platinum.

****

The mothers had been sitting on lawn chairs outside the Lipensky cottage when the boys had returned the previous evening.

Carrying the raft, their heads had been hidden and when they’d dropped it on the grass, “Vey-is-mere...” [roughly, ‘Oh, my God’] “...they look like ‘goys’...” [Gentile boys] “...Your Mitchell looks like a ‘shvartzer’...,” [Negro] Ida laughed. ...“And my Norman looks like a ‘Swede’.”

****

If they should meet girls, the boys did not want to be taken for ‘shaygets’ [gentiles] and shunned. So to be on the safe side Mitchell, as always, wore his mezzuza and Norman, who rarely wore any type of jewelry due to his delicate skin, had a silver chain with a Star of David about his neck.

Pulling the raft out of the water, the boys swam for a few minutes to cool off then dragged the raft back into the water and jumped aboard.

Peace

Straddling the tubular, semi-hard rubberized canvas, Norman sat on the starboard side and Mitchell port. Their outboard legs dangled in the water while their inboard legs, stretcuing forward, rested on the raft. In the direction they traveled, at that time of day the sun was behind them, shining pleasantly on their backs.

Paddling leisurely, the boys enjoyed the heat of the sun and the gentle bobbing motion of the raft on the water.

Mitchell felt the heat on his back and the right side of his face. He looked at the dark-brown skin of his thigh, still glistening with water, and at his stomach, darker where the wet flesh creased horizontally along either side of his navel, and at his upper arms. As the oar dipped in the water and was drawn back his biceps swelled and contracted with each pull and release.

The water was a dusky, greenish-blue. The sand at water’s edge dark-brown, and higher, away from the lapping water, a light, golden-beige. The shrubbery on the embankment was brilliant green. The sky, radiant blue and the clouds as white and feathery as tufts of pure white cotton.

The oar in his hands cut through the water as though moving by its own volition.

Breathing through his nostrils, Mitchell Lipensky sensed the aroma of sand of water, and the green growth.

The gentle onshore breeze skimmed warm water from the surface of the lake bringing it inshore… to him.

Mesmerized by the all-enveloping beauty. The totality of what he felt, saw and sensed seemed too beautiful to be real and Mitchell felt as though he were living in a surrealistic dream.

Parting his lips, breathing through his mouth, he drew the sun-warmed, sea-cooled air deeply into his lungs.

He felt the hot sun and the tepid water.

He saw the sky, clouds, sand and shrubbery.

He sensed the sweet odors of life about him and felt…?

What?

Closing his eyes, the motion of the raft tranquilized him.

The tepid water caressed him..

The soft air kissed him...

And…

Mitchell Lipensky had no way of knowing, but that very minute—that very moment—was ‘the pinnacle’ and at no time in his life would he feel what he felt as strongly as at that exact time…

He knew nothing of death. Those he loved were all alive.

He knew nothing of the pain of lost love.

He knew not of debt.

The war was a memory.

His country… America was a peace.

He’d made no mistakes… No mistakes of consequence.

His parents were together. His family intact.

There was nothing he needed—really needed—that he didn’t have.

The roads to his life were fully open.

Mitchell Lipensky looked about the beautiful world that encompassed him and felt the wonder of his strength.

The wonder of his youth.

Mitchell pulled the oar through the water and felt the miracle that, possibly, might be felt only by the very young, or the very innocent.

‘Peace’.

Union Pier, Michigan

August 5, 1949

Marsha

Skirting the remnants of puddles left on the Old Highway by a fast moving summer storm, the boys heard the jumble of noise long before reaching the dirt road turnoff to the Palladium. Coming closer, the sounds became more distinct: kids calling, laughter, the raucous clanging of pinball machines, Rosemary Clooney blaring through the juke box, “Come on’a ma house, ma house’a come on…”

 ****

…The fifth steel ball rolled through the spring barrier, hit a rubber guard, bounced off, hit another guard, rolled into a hole, was ejected and rolled striking the left flipper where Mitchell pushed the button, moving the flipper, hitting the ball, sending it careening across the board where it was hit by the flipper on the right, rolled into another hole and was pushed out to continue its journey down the angled plane as numbers flashed and changed with lightning speed on the gaudy glass display—12,300, 12,500, 12,700—and rolled into the corral alongside its four gleaming quadruplets.

“Norm,” looking around, “see anything interesting?”

Nodding his head to the right, “Yeah,” Norman said, “there’s a couple that look pretty good.”

Mitchell looked over his shoulder at two girls playing the ‘Captain Kidd’ machine. “Yeah, they do! We wanna meet ’em?”

“I think it’s about time we met ‘someone’! Come on.”

Walking towards the girls with Mitchell following a step behind. Not wanting to interfere with their game, standing a foot or two from the machine, “Hi!” Norman said.

“Hi!” The girl waiting her turn to play smiled.

The girl was about five-five, had short, frizzy, reddish hair and a brace of freckles that ran across her nose onto her red, sunburned cheeks. She had a cute, elfin face and was wearing a white, short-sleeved man’s shirt, blue jeans cut off at the knees, and sandals.

Dong! Dong! Dong!...Racking up points—33,500, 38,000, 42,000—the steel ball sat in the hole for what seemed a very long time before it was poked out. The game display showed seven games.

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this!”

Glancing at Mitchell, the girl smiled, then returned her concentration to the rolling silver ball.

“Shhh,” bringing her hand conspiratorially to the side of her mouth, the first girl whispered, “It’s broken, and we’ve been here for an hour and a half.”

“All for a nickel?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “all for a nickel.”

“I’m Norm, and this is Mitch.”

“Hi, Norm, Mitch.” Looking from Norman to Mitchell and back to Norman. “I’m Shelly and this is…”

The fifth ball rolled into the pen. The machine went dark a moment, then lit up again and the number in the game display changed from seven to ten.

Turning from the pinball machine, she looked at Mitchell.

The girl was tall and thin. She had a sharp widow’s peak and short, tightly curled black hair. Darkly tanned, her complexion was perfectly smooth. Her eyes were dark brown and, having a slightly long nose, reminding Mitchell of a picture he’d seen of a Sabra, a native-born Israeli, her face Semantically beautiful. With the exception of bobby socks and penny loafers, she wore a matching outfit to Shelly’s.

“…Marsha.” Shelly said. “Marcy, this is Norm and Mitch.”

“Hi!” She glanced at Norman, then quickly back to Mitchell.

The two looked at each other for one, two, three long moments then, “You guys want to play a game?” she asked.

“Nah,” Mitchell said. “It’s okay; you keep playing.”

Marsha stepped aside. “Come on, I’m getting tired of winning anyway.” Tugging on Mitchell’s arm, she urged him to the front of the machine. “Go on, play! You can’t lose.”

“Well,” he said reluctantly. “Okay, but I’m not so hot at pinball.”

“Haven’t seen you guys before, “Shelly said, looking at Norman. “When’d you get here?”

“On the first. We’ve been here since Monday, three days now. How’s ’bout you? When’d you get here?”

“Actually, we came out over Memorial Day to get the cottages cleaned and the electricity and gas turned on, then went back to Chicago and came back here after school let out.”

“You guys own your own cottages and you come here all summer! Wow! No wonder you’re so good at pinball.” Mitchell said jokingly.

“Yeah,” Marsha replied, “so long’s the machine’s broken.”

“When it’s cold or rainy,” Shelly said, “it really gets boring here, and by the time summer’s over I’m just as glad to go home.”

Frowning, “Not me! I love it here! Labor Day is the worst day of the year for me. And I don’t even like the Fourth of July too much because from then I can start counting the days till summer’s over.”

Feeling much the same, glad to have at least that much in common with Marsha, “Yeah, me, too.”

Remembering last summer, thinking he felt pretty much the same as Shelly. “I was here last year,” Norman said, “but this is Mitch’s first time.”

****

Stretching, “I’m getting tired of this.” Marsha yawned. “It’s no fun if you know you’re always going to win. Let’s go over to the bowling alley and see who’s around.”

Nodding her agreement, “Yeah,” Shelly concurred. “This is getting boring.”

Thinking the girls intended to leave without them, the smiles left the boy’s faces but noticing, taking Norman’s hand, “You guys come on with us.” Shelly led him across the dance floor.

Reaching over the Captain Kidd machine, “You, too!”

Feeling a mental jolt, Marsha’s hand closed around his.

Once outside, Marsha reluctantly opened her hand and Mitchell’s hand, reluctantly, fell to his side.

The air was balmy and the sky clear, and the rutted dirt road well lit by brilliant moonlight and millions of shining stars.

Alone for the moment, neither knew what to say.

Looking for conversation. “Where do you and Norman live?”

Knowing what she meant, glancing at Marsha over his shoulder, “On the west side.”

“The ‘west side’!” Marsha said facetiously.

There was a kind of class rivalry between the Jews living on Chicago’s west side and the generally more affluent north-siders. More than just slightly intimidated by the fact that Marsha’s parents could afford to own their own cottage, becoming defensive, “ ‘Yeah’,” Mitchell said rather gruffly, “on the west side!”

“Oh, Mitch, no!” Taking his hand, “I’m just teasing.”

Happy for the opportunity to hold her hand again, ashamed because he’d jumped at her. “I know that.”

“In a pawn shop, round the corner, in Pittsburgh Penn-syl-vania!” Music from the jukebox in the ‘Bowl Bar’ could be heard before they came off the connector road.

In a vain effort to get beyond the invisible barrier and into the enticing light inside, smaller flying bugs and giant gypsy moths fluttered and slammed onto the double screen doors that opened into the ‘Union Pier Bowl’.

The boys, bravely, for the girls, brushed the bugs off one of the doors and held it open.

Inside, the thunderous sounds of heavy balls rolling across varnished hardwood and the loud clatter of falling pins joined with the music from the bar, the laughter, the talking, and the shrieks of people to make a cacophony of sound.

Intimidated by this older crowd, the boys tried to hold back as Marsha and, “Come on, Norm!” Shelly attempted to lead them down an aisle to where a group of teenage boys were bowling.

“Yeah, Mitch,” Marsha added. “No one’s gonna to bite you.”

Proud of the two guys they’d picked up in the Palladium, unknown to either Norman or Mitchell, they had been spotted the moment they’d walked through the door when Shelly had said, ‘Dibbies on the blonde’! Which made Marsha happy because the sight of Mitchell—not that she felt she’d ever really meet him—had taken her breath away.

Reluctantly allowing themselves to be led down the aisle, the boys stood behind the girls as Marsha, “Roger,” tapped the shoulder of one of the boys sitting on the scorekeeper’s double bench.

Looking over his shoulder, “Oh, hi, Marsha,” nodding his head, “Shelly,” the boy turned forward again, watching as a teammate visually lined up the pins, took three steps, and forcefully released the ball.

“Roger,” tapping his shoulder again, “I want you to meet Mitchell… Mitchie, this is my brother, Roger.”

The older boy turned back and with a surly look, “Yeah, hi.” imperceptibly nodded his head and was about to turn away again when Mitchell held his right hand forward. Roger looked from the hand to his sister, back at the hand and, as though it were an effort, reached forward, took the offered hand lightly, dutifully pumped it twice, released it and turned away.

“Come on, let’s watch awhile.” Marsha asked. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Mitchell noncommittally shrugged his shoulders.

“Nah,” Norman said, “if you wanna watch a while, it’s okay with us.”

Taking seats three rows back, the four watched the boys bowl, but what Mitchell really wanted to do was to get out of the bowling alley and suggest they take a walk along the beach where, maybe, ‘one thing might lead to another’. But was reluctant to ask the girls to leave because they might not want to and he didn’t want to put himself and Norman into a position where they may have to leave without them, so said nothing.

A few minutes passed when, nudging Mitchell with her elbow. “You enjoying this?”

“To be honest, no! Watching other people do athletic stuff bores me silly.”

“Yeah, me, too. You guys want to get out of here?”

“Yeah!” Shelly and Norman nodded in agreement.

“Okay, let’s go back and see who’s at the Palladium now.”

“Roge!” Marsha called to her brother, but ignoring her, “ ‘Roger’,” she called again, louder, “we’re leaving now!”

Turning, a definite scowl on his face, looking at Mitchell as though warning him to keep his hands off his sister. “Okay,” he said. Looking at his sister, “But don’t fool around too long!” His eyes shifting back to Mitchell held their threatening gaze for a couple of seconds then, dismissing them completely, the older boy turned back to his score keeping.

****

Outside, back on the road to the Palladium. “God, the way he treats me!” Marsha said angrily. “He makes me so darned mad!”

Though he’d formed an instant dislike for Roger, “Your brother’s only trying to defend you,” Mitchell said, coming to his defense. “He doesn’t know me from Adam, and for all he knows I’m some kind of a mad rapist.”

“He ignores me all the time! At home he never even looks at me. The only time he ever acts like I’m even alive is when I’m with my friends, and then he embarrasses me by treating me like I’m some kind of a baby!”

“I guess big brothers are supposed to act like jerks when they see their sisters out with guys they don’t know.”

****

Other than nodding their hellos to a few minor acquaintances, the girls saw no one they really knew and the boys saw no one they’d rather know.

After watching a group of boys rack up games on the Captain Kidd machine, which became boring very quickly, the four left the Palladium.

Standing outside, reluctant to say goodbye and not quite knowing how to proceed. “It’s turned into a real nice night and I know you don’t really know us,” Mitchell said timidly, “but why don’t we, uh, go down to the beach?”

“To watch the submarine races, huh? “Marsha smiled, looked at Shelly and a silent message passed between the girls. “I don’t think going to the beach is such a good idea. Like you said, Mitch, we don’t really know you guys.”

“Yeah, but tell you what,” Shelly added, “it’s kind’a far, but if you want, you guys can walk us home.”

The boys looked at each other and they, too, sent a silent message.

“Sure, we want to know where you two live anyway.”

Walking on the land side of the Old Highway, the raucous sounds of the Palladium soon faded and the only sounds the four heard were those of their gravely footsteps, each others voices and the steady hum of cicadas. Every now and then the headlights of an approaching car would waver in the distance throwing long and short shadows as it traversed the dips in the road, the light becoming stronger and brighter until it fully lit the asphalt for the moment it took the car to pass, then once again the two couples were left to walk in the moonlit darkness.

Shelly and Norman were a distance ahead and when the headlights brightened the road Mitchell could see they were holding hands.

“Marcie, where do you live? In Chicago, I mean.”

“By Humboldt Park, over near Armitage and Humboldt.”

He wasn’t too sure where that was, but his grandparents, his father’s mother and father lived near Humboldt Park and though it was much nicer than his neighborhood, it was a far cry from ‘ritzy’ and he felt better knowing that Marsha was not that far socially above him.

 ****

“Here’s where I live.”

Stopping, they could see through the screened porch and open doorway. Lawrence was at the table eating something and Myra, reclining on the wicker sofa, was reading a book.

Sounding strange, Marsha asked, “That’s your mom?”

“Yes,” looking at her, “and that’s my brother… Your mother, uh…” Not quite sure how to ask, “she’s okay, isn’t she? She’s not…”

“Oh, ‘yes’!” Understanding his concern, “My mother’s okay, it’s just that she…” Marsha’s voice trailed off.

Sensing she wanted to change the subject. “You got any other brothers or sisters, besides, uh…?”

“Roger… No, only him, and I think he’s all there was ever supposed to be. ‘Only him’,” she said quietly, under her breath as though speaking to herself.

Marsha sounded so sad that without thinking Mitchell took hold of her hand, and they began to walk again.

As cars approached from behind, they would move onto the soft shoulder until the vehicle sped by, then went back to walk on the asphalt lip of the Old Highway.

Reaching the stately ‘Lakeside Hotel’, they stopped at the whitewashed, split rail fence to look, and to listen.

Appearing as fireflies, thousands of tiny, winking lights had been wound through the limbs and around the trunks of the old oak trees that lined both sides of the long hotel driveway. Soft music, played by the live band on the hotel patio, wafted softly over the fairyland-like grounds. The scent of pine mingled with the sweet odor of blooming lilac bushes.

Listening... The flickering light reflecting in the liquid pools of her dark brown eyes. “Oh, Mitchie,” cocking her head, squeezing his hand. “it’s so beautiful!”

“Marsha,” feeling a catch in his heart, tentatively putting his arm across her shoulders, “you’re beautiful.” Finding it hard to speak yet, oddly, “ ‘So beautiful’!” the words came without thought.

The words ‘So beautiful’ inscribed in her heart, Marsha moved deeper, closer into the hollow of Mitchell’s shoulder.

Marsha’s face turned to Mitchell’s face and the brushing, light touch of their lips generated a sweet mental shock that passed from one to the other. Parting a fraction, their lips touched again. Softly. Warmly. Devoid of passion yet lovingly, and Marsha felt the thrill of this, her ‘first’ kiss as it traversed body and soul… Their closed eyes opened, and in the semi-darkness of this starlit, moonlit night each looked wondrously at the flickering fireflies in the dark pools of the eyes of the other.

“Mitchie.” Bewildered by the emotion she felt, Marsha forced her mouth from his. “God, Mitchie,” catching her breath, “we just met each other!”

Having no response, wanting more than anything to kiss Marsha again. Unaware of her desire to be kissed again, Mitchell’s heart was thumping so wildly he was sure she would hear and hearing the words, taking the words ‘we just met each other’ as a reprimand for kissing her this soon after first meeting, reluctantly taking his arm from about her shoulders. Hesitating. Looking. Listening for another moment or two, the two turned from the overwhelming beauty of this place and the firefly-lit night and continued walking.

Norman and Shelly so far ahead they were out of sight.

Walking without speaking. At a complete loss for words. Finally, finding his voice, “Where do you live? Here, in the country, I mean.”

“Yes, I know. In Lakeside.”

Summoning the courage, taking hold of her hand. “I’m glad it’s so far away.”

“No, it’s not really all that far.” Tightening her fingers about his. “Not when you get used to it.”

“You come into town every night?”

“No, not every night. You?”

“Well, yeah. What else is there to do here at night?”

“Outside of picking up girls, nothing, I guess.”

“Jeeze, Marcie..” Attempting to make a joke of it. “...Normie’n’me don’t do that all the time.” Although that was exactly what they’d tried to do each night, and for that matter, each day since arriving in Union Pier. “It’s just that you’n’Shelly looked so cute Normie’n’me, we just kind’a…”

Thinking, I have to be so careful about what I say, “I know, Mitch. I’m just kidding.”

Walking hand in hand, both were quiet a few minutes.

“What’s your dad do?”

“Daddy and Mother have a small package-liquor store on Division Street. What’s yours do?”

“He’s a photographer.”

“A ‘photographer’! No kidding!”

“Yeah. The studio’s on Kedzie. He used to do portraits, but all the parents wanted their daughters to look like ‘Shirley Temple’ and they were driving him nuts, so he switched to commercial photography and now, instead’a kids, the studio’s usually full’a coffins.”

Looking at him questioningly. “ ‘Coffins’?”

“Yeah. This company that makes them, they’re my dad’s best customer and the place is almost always loaded with ’em.”

Wishing he’d put his arm around her again and ‘maybe’ kiss her again. “You and Norman go to school together?”

“Yeah.” Trying to work up the nerve to put his arm around her and ‘maybe’ kiss her again,

“We’re...”— going to be — ‘‘...sophomores at Harrison,” he said. “How’s about you?”

Changing the subject. “Do you work after school?” she asked.

“Yeah, little stuff. I deliver this once a week newspaper and do some deliveries for Sam, uh, the grocer, but I’m going to find a real job when school starts again.”

“Can’t you work for your dad, at the studio?”

“I do sometimes, to clean up the place. But him’n’me don’t always get along so great… How’s ‘bout you?”

“No, I don’t have to work.” Her voice taking that odd inflection again. “Mother gives me plenty… of money.”

“No, I don’t mean ‘do you work’ What I mean is, what school do you go to? Are you a ‘freshie’?”

“Uh,” hesitating, “no, I’m not a freshie.”

He’d thought she was probably fourteen and a freshman in high school. “You’re not going into your second year, too, are you?”

“Well, no…” Knowing she had to tell him if she wanted to see him again, and she did want to see him again! Hesitating, Marsha took a few more steps before saying, “I’m still in grammar school.”

“Huh?” Looking at her, “Marcie,” he asked, “how old are you?”

Hesitating again, “Uh, twelve… but I’ll be thirteen in just two months!”

Although he was twenty-one days from his fifteenth birthday, Mitchell considered himself to be fifteen, and the fact that Marsha was not yet thirteen, even though her birthday was ‘only ‘two months away, still made her ‘only’ twelve years old.

As people become older, the difference between their ages shrink. If one is forty, fifty, or older, two years, five years, or even ten years is not that great a difference, but the difference between thirteen and fifteen— ‘almost’ thirteen and ‘almost’ fifteen—at least in the mind of this ‘almost’ ffifteen-year-old boy—is the difference between a man and a child.

“Uh,” dropping her hand, “you’re ‘only’ twelve years old!”

“No! I’m not ‘only’ twelve years old!” she answered angrily. “I told you, I’m ‘almost’ thirteen!”

 “Yeah!” Mitchell snapped back. “And that still makes you ‘just’ twelve! Jesus!” Forgetting he’d always been bigger than any of his friends until recently, when they’d begun to catch up. “What the hell do they feed you guys on the north side?”

“Chopped liver and motzie!” Poking him in the chest. “The same stuff they feed you guys on the west side, you big jerk! Look, I live real close by here and you don’t have to walk this ‘baby’ home!”

A bit sorry for his outburst. “Nah, it’s okay, I don’t mind walking you all the way.”

“Well I ‘do’ mind!” She began to run. “And I ‘don’t’ want you to!”

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”

“Yeah, I do!”

“Hey, Marcie,” he called, “tell Norman I’ll wait for him here.”

“Hey, Mitchell!” She called back, “Drop dead, you ‘big jerk’!”

Spotting a boulder next to a picket fence, he sat down. Twelve years old! He still couldn’t believe it and visualizing how beautiful Marsha had looked with the fireflies reflected in her eyes, Only twelve years old! Touching his finger to his lips. Remembering the feel of their kiss. Sensing…? Sensing the weight of loneliness in his stomach, Mitchell felt as though he’d lost something he’d just found. As though he had lost ‘something’ that could, possibly, be very important in his life.

****

Whistling.

Hearing whistling, he pulled himself up and wearily walked until he saw the approaching shadow of his friend. “Hey, Normie!”

“Mitchie!” Running, Norman stopped when they came abreast.

“What happened? I thought you two were getting along great, then she came running home all by herself and told me to tell you that ‘you’re a big jerk’, and that I should tell you that she said for you to ‘drop dead’. What happened? You try to feel her up, or somethin’?”

“No, I ‘didn’t’ try to feel her up!”

“So? Don’t keep me in suspense, what happened?”

“Normie, did you know they’re ‘only’ twelve?”

“Shelly shaid she’s shirteen… Uh,” speaking slowly, “Shelly-said-she’s-thirteen.”

Stifling laughter. “Maybe Shelly’s thirteen, but Marsha’s ‘only’ twelve.”

“Too young, huh?”

“For me, yeah.”

Sighing. “Yeah, me, too, I guess. Anyway, they live too far away.”

Passing the Lakeside Hotel, Mitchell saw that nothing had changed.

The firefly lights still twinkled and music still mingled with the sweet aroma of pine and lilac…

But yet, ‘everything’ seemed to be different… to be less beautiful than it had.

When they reached the Lipensky cottage, “See you in the morning, Mitch!” Running again, Norman waved over his shoulder.

Watching till he was out of sight, Mitchell walked up the flagstone path.

  End: Union Pier 1949

 Next “Becoming” Excerpt, in sequence: Winter 1949:The Hawker