A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “A Real

Family”

And this squirt’s my brother… Larry, meet Marcie.”

““Jeeze, Mitchie, how come you lied? She ain’t all ‘that’ ugly!”

“Well, Larry,” Marsha said, “You ain’t all ‘that’ ugly, either.”

Walter and Larry formed an immediate affection for this girl and the feeling was ‘completely’ reciprocated.

“Guess we’d better get going! My wife’s going to kill us as it is.” Checking for traffic, making a U-turn and driving west on Pratt Boulevard...

Glancing at Marsha in the rear-view mirror… She’s beautiful! Walter Lipensky sighed.

________________________________________________________

Chicago/Skokie, Illinois

June 18,1955

"A Real Family"

Walter&Myra

At age forty-nine, the younger years of his life seemed to be yesterday and Walter found it hard to realize that he was nearly fifty. When he allowed himself to think about it he became alarmed because each preceding year seemed to speed by faster than the year before… And he felt his life whirling away. As for his wife, Walter tried to remain in love with her but more often than not felt it a losing battle.

As for Myra, the years had not diminished her insecurity about her husband’s love for her. In addition she truly felt the boat was Walter’s first love. For this reason the boat continued to be the main source of her almost constant—in her husband’s and children’s opinion—unreasonable anger.

Throughout the winter months there would be a respite, of sorts. But in early March, when Walter began to spend more time in the back yard: sanding, scraping, painting and polishing, the harsh words would always develop into open warfare.

In early May Friendship’s trailer was attached to a neighbor’s truck and hauled to ‘Navy Pier’ where the boat was lifted off the trailer by a boat crane and lowered into Lake Michigan and the mast ‘stepped’.

Begging his wife to be a part of his life, ‘Honey’, Walter would plead, ‘it’s calm today. There’s almost no wind and it’ll be a smooth sail. ‘Please’ come with us’!

‘No’! Would most often come Myra’s reply. ‘You go without me! I’ll be just fine here, alone!

It had become a weekly ritual; Walter ‘always’ asked but— except on very rare occasions— Myra refused.

Larry was Walter’s first mate and he ‘always’, willingly went with his father.

Weather permitting Morton was asked to come along. Sometimes he would and sometimes he would not.

A part of Walter, though—an ever growing part of Walter—was secretly glad that Myra spent so little time on the boat because Friendship had become his domain where he could be ‘exactly’ what, and who he wanted to be: ‘Skipper’.

At the end of the season, in late September, the sails would be stripped, the mast lowered and lashed to the deck.

Hoisting Friendship out of Lake Michigan, the boat crane then lowered her onto the trailer to once again begin the yearly cycle.

The studio and boat were the major factors in Walter’s life.

Unfortunately, Myra was one of those people who refused to accept what she could not change. But because she worked with her husband at the studio, she did know that she was— at least— that much a part of his life.

But the ‘boat’!

‘Always’ demanding of his love, even were he to invest his time on and with the boat moderately—which Walter didn’t —the boat was something he wanted and she did not so Myra ‘hated’ it and participated with the boat less and less with each ensuing year…

And with each ensuing year the battle of the boat wore on… And on.

Walter well knew that Myra was jealous of the time he lavished on Friendship but, ‘Shit’ he rationalized, “if you’ve an investment like this, you’ve ‘got’ to keep it up!”

In reality, though, Friendship was more than just enjoyment and relaxation. Friendship was Walter Lipensky’s psychiatrist and lately— due to Myra’s constant haranguing— his mistress.

Despite a noticeable paunch, Walter was still a handsome man and there were a few women at the ‘club’ that he’d easily be able to have an ‘opportunity’ with. However another woman was an involvement he did ‘not’ want because he was sure the end result would be the loss of everything he’d worked for all of his life.

Also—though in a million years he would never admit it— Walter Lipensky was ‘truly’ afraid of Myra’s ability to, as she’d always told him, ‘ Know you better than you know yourself’.

****

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, looking at this lovely girl, Walter felt the soft pang of lost youth and the longing feeling in the pit of his stomach of wanting something…

Of wanting to be young and in love with a young woman again.

**** 

A brown Chevrolet was parked at the front curb.

“Looks like Ma and Pa are here.”

“Yeah, Larry, looks like.”

Pulling into the alley. Parking just past the front crosswalk. Leaving enough room for cars to pass between the Buick and his neighbor’s hedge.

Walter felt somewhat relieved because if the visit by Marsha did not blunt his wife’s anger at them coming home this late, he hoped the presence of her mother and father would.

Sitting on the sofa alongside her husband, “ ‘Mitchala’!” remaining seated. “Oy-yoy-yoy, Morris.” Jennie held her arms to her grandson. “Look at him, Morris. He’s so skinny!”

“Ma!” Bending. Putting his arms about her neck hugging his head to hers, Mitchell kissed his grandmother’s dry cheek. Straightening, he turned to his grandfather who was now standing.

He hadn’t seen his grandparents since his last leave and was shocked at the change just one year had made; not so much with Jennie, because in his eyes she’d always looked like an old lady, but in his grandfather.

Morris’s scraggly eyebrows shot off in all directions. The whites of his eyes were tinged with a slight yellow cast and the piercing grey, hawk-like corneas appeared to have a slight haze over them. The flesh beneath his chin hung lower than Mitchell remembered and— though still streaked with black— his hair was grayer and the stubble on his cheeks pure white.

Holding back tears, “Pa!” Mitchell embraced his grandfather.

Turning to Marsha, taking her hand. “Ma, Pa…” bringing his attention to Myra who was standing on the far side of the room, “...Mom, this is Marsha.”

Going to the old lady. “Hello.” Taking her hand Marsha held it for a moment. Turning to Morris who was still standing. “Hello,” she held her hand to him also. Then walking across the room, extended her hand.

In the ‘flash of a moment’. Both minds whirling. The two women scrutinized each other.

****

Sensing… something.

Glancing from Marsha to her son. Seeing the look on his face two thoughts— instantaneously—came to mind: This one is ‘it’! This one is going to be my daughter-in-law! Myra also wondered if maybe, ‘maybe’ she saw something in this young woman that she’d wanted— so it seemed— all of her life: a ‘daughter’.as...

This lady could be my mother-in-law. “Hello, Mrs. Lipensky. I’m glad to meet you.” Her heart warming even further, Marsha thought that maybe, ‘maybe’ she saw something in this woman that she’d always wanted: a ‘mother’.

****

Looking at the offered hand. Brushing it aside, hugging her, Myra put her arms about the girl. “Welcome to our home, Marsha.”

Lost a moment. Her arms hanging limply, Marsha hadn’t been in another woman’s embrace since… She didn’t know when.

Feeling a burning in her throat and a stinging in her eyes, fighting the urge to cry instead, returning the others embrace. “Thank you,” she said to Myra.

And, to God, Thank you! Who in Marsha’s mind had brought her to this miraculous time and place.

Hearing the back door open. “Don’t slam the…” Myra called over Marsha’s shoulder as the door slammed shut. “…door.”

Myra broke her embrace as Morton tramped through the kitchen into the living room with Cricket, who immediately ran to Marsha and sniffed her shoes.

“That’s ‘Mortie’! And the one with the spots is Cricket.”

And a dog, too. Stooping, petting Cricket while ooking at the six-year-old. “Hi, Mortie. My name’s Marcie.”

“Yeah, Marcie, hi!” Morton, as the rest of his family, had taken an immediate liking to Marsha.

“Hey, Mitch, seeing as you’re a guest here, I’ll give you a crack at the hot water first.

“Thanks, Larry.”

“Marcie, I’ve got to get out of these filthy clothes,” he said, holding the T-shirt away from his chest as though it smelled bad, which in fact it did. “You be okay here if I take off for a few minutes?”

“Sure! Why shouldn’t I?” Feeling the warmth of his family. For the first time in remembrance Marsha felt as though she were wanted, and oddly, since she had been in this house for no more than a few minutes, as though she belonged here, too.

“Maybe I can help your mother.” Turning to Myra, “Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Lipensky?”

“Don’t be so formal, Marsha! We’re ‘not’ that way around here. Call me ‘Myra’, or better still, ‘Mom’.”

Mom? She wants me to call her ‘Mom’!

Anyone else might have passed it off as ‘being pushy’ or attempting to be overly friendly. But, Yeah, Marsha thought, I can do that. Not comfortable, though, calling this lady that she’d just met ‘Mom’, and feeling ‘Myra’ would be disrespectful, “Thank you,” she said.

Gesturing towards the fully-set table. “There’s nothing left to do now, Marsha, but thank's for offering.”

Now, though, glaring at Walter, her voice hardening. “We expected you home hours ago and...” breaking with the Sunday-morning tradition, the Lipensky’s now had their lox and bagels for dinner on Saturday. “...everything’s out but the smoked-fish, lox and cream cheese.”

The dining area being to the right of the front door, Marsha had noticed the set table when she’d entered the house. Now, ‘Fish’? ‘Lox’? Marsha thought, Uh, oh!

Coming to his wife and kissing her on the cheek. “Sorry,” Walter said apologetically, “we ran out of wind. What the hell could I do?”

Trying to retain her facade of anger however having heard this excuse ‘many’ times before. “Yes, I ‘know’!” Dismissing her husband with a steely kind of ‘I’ll talk to you later’ look, Myra added, “Go on! You get cleaned up, too!”

Knowing his wife. Well knowing her moods. Knowing her anger had passed, Thank you. Silently thanking God for small miracles, Walter obeyed.

Motioning to the chairs on either side of the picture window. “Sit down, why don’t you.” Myra said to the still-standing young woman. “Here, in my home, you be comfortable.”

“Yes,” sitting, “thank you… Myra”

Her senses reeling, Marsha had suddenly been made a part of a family. A family with grandparents. A family with brothers—two of them—that even spoke to her. And most of all, a family with a mother. A mother that had even prepared a meal.

Looking at the overloaded table, thinking, This is just for a lox and bagel dinner? It looks more like Thanksgiving. Not sure if she quite knew how to handle the situation, she did know, however, if she thought she loved Mitchell before—Holy cow, they even have a dog—she loved him all the more now.

****

Waiting, remembering the time it took for the hot water to get to the second floor…Finally. Adjusting the temperature, aware that Larry and his father were waiting to shower also. Taking a ‘sea shower’: wetting, turning the water off, lathering, rinsing, Mitchell showered, shampooed and shaved. Finished. Turning the water to cold, he stood in the spray until his scalp and skin tingled. Pulling the towel from the bar at the foot of the tub he roughly dried his hair and body. Stepping from the tub he squeakily rubbed the towel over the steamed mirror, then brushed his hair as, drifting up through the stairway…

.“My dad owns a small, uh, kind of a restaurant near the Stadium,” he heard Marsha say. And, Damn! Naked, his skin tingling from the cold water and brisk toweling, with the bathroom door open and Marsha just one short flight of stairs below, his mind as far from thoughts of sex as possible, Damn! he unknowingly had attained an erection. Looking at his penis in the mirror, You little pecker, he thought. Now, ‘truly’ believing, You really do have a mind of your own, don’t you!

In the bedroom he put on Jockey shorts, Levis and with but a ‘fleeting’ thought of who had given it to him. Taking the cranberry colored cashmere sweater from its plastic bag, he pulled it over his head. Slipping his bare feet into a clean pair of canvas deck shoes... Going back to the bathroom and looking in the mirror he bloused the sweater over his hips then re-brushed his hair….

Downstairs. “Hi.” he said from the bottom step. “Everyone getting along okay?”

Turning her attention from the conversation with Myra. Looking at Mitchell, Marsha could not believe that anyone could shower, shave, and get dressed in that short a time, and look that perfect.

His still-wet hair shone black. His light eyes and teeth were dazzling in contrast to his dark tan and a thatch of hair showed from the ‘V’ of the sweater.

But as attractive as he was, what was even more important—and still, she could not believe that this was really happening—was that she was ‘really’ here with Mitchell and his family and ‘especially’ that Mitchell had told her that he loved her.

“Yes, of course! We’re all good friends now.” Moving aside. Making room for him on the armless chair she patted the seat. “Come on.”

Sitting closely alongside, he draped his arm across Marsha’s shoulder.

Putting her hand on Mitchell’s knee, he covered it with his.

As though she were incapable of answering. “So, Mitchala,” nodding her head towards Marsha. “She’s a Jewish girl?”

“Jennie,” Morris said, “she wears a ‘Mogen David’. Would a shiksa wear a Mogen David?”

“Oy…” Craning her head forward, squinting, Jennie looked at the small six-pointed gold star that hung from a fine chain about Marsha’s neck. “…so you’re right, Morris. So I’m sorry… ehh?” Forgetting her name, the old lady looked to her grandson for help.

“Ma, her name’s Marsha.”

“Yes, ‘Marsha’. So, Marsha, your mother, she keeps kosher?”

“No, Bubby,” smiling outwardly, “my mother doesn’t keep kosher.” Frowning inwardly, My mother doesn’t keep anything.

“ ‘Bubby’, ehh?” Jennie smiled. “If you eat here, that’s good. My daughter and her husband,” looking at Myra, scowling, “they don’t keep kosher, too.”

“So, Jennie, we don’t keep kosher either!”

“Morris, talk for yourself! You eat trayf...”—pork, shellfish—“...outside my house, it’s up to you. In my house we don’t eat trayf!”

“Yes, but Jennie,” Morris said patiently, “we also don’t got for...”—dairy and meat products—“… ‘milichedig’ and ‘flayshedig’.

“So ‘big deal’! We use the same pots and pans and dishes.”

“And ‘silverware’! Don’t forget silverware!”

“So, okay already!” Feigning anger. “So we don’t got special for milichedig or flayshedig. God’ll forgive me, but we got no trayf!”

Smiling, Morris winked at Marsha.

Enjoying the good-natured bickering, she giggled.

“Your papa,” Jennie asked, “he go to shul?”

“Yes. Sometimes on Friday, if he can, he goes to the synagogue.”

“That’s good.” Looking at Myra again. “Is good ‘someone’ goes to ‘shul’!”

Morris had asked Walter on many occasions to go to the synagogue with him, and he’d been turned down on as many occasions.

“So, Ma, what can I do?” Myra said defensively. “He’d rather be on his fershtonkina boat than go to shul. Should I tie and drag him?”

“Hey, when’s chow?” Bare-footed, toweling his hair, Walter came from the bathroom wearing trousers and an undershirt. “I’m starving!”

“Don’t blame me—dinner’s been ready for hours!”

“Yeah, I know, honey.” Still placating his wife. Going to her, putting his arms around her he kissed her lightly on the mouth. “And I ‘am’ sorry we got in so late.”

Returning the quick kiss. “ ‘I’m sure you are’!” Myra said sarcastically, pushing him away. “And get dressed, we’ve got company!”

Marsha was unable to tell if Myra was angry or playing with him.

“ ‘Company’?” Looking about, “Who’s company?”

“ ‘Marsha’!” Going along with him. “Your son brought a girl home… Remember?”

“You’re not ‘company’, are you?”

“Well, Mister Lipensky, I sure don’t feel like company.”

Truly, she didn’t. Marsha felt more at home here in the half hour she’d been in this house then she often did in the homes of her aunts.

“Marsha, call me ‘Skipper’.”

“ ‘Skipper’?”

“Yes, please. Coming from you, ‘mister’ makes me feel old.”

“Go on! Go put shoes and a shirt on!” Scowling at Walter’s request, thinking it ridiculous. Going into the kitchen, Myra returned a few seconds later with the lox platter.

**** 

“You don’t like lox?” Jennie asked, looking at Marsha who had made a cream cheese, tomato, cucumber and bagel sandwich.

“No, I don’t care for ‘any’ kind of fish.” Said as kindly as she could say, “I ‘never’ eat fish.”

“You don’t like lox!” The old lady giggled. “Mitchala, you sure she’s a Jewish girl?”

“I like lox!” Morton piped up and chomped down on the thick sandwich forcing the gloppy contents to ooze out the other side.

“When I was a kid,” stopping, Mitchell chewed and swallowed his mouthful, “my folks sent me to military school,” looking at Marsha, “and one of the things I remembered missing the most was our Sunday morning brunches and lox and bagels.”

“Go on, Mitchie!” Sitting to the right of Marsha, leaning forward Larry looked at his brother. “Tell ’em what you told me you used to eat when you got hungry at night.”

Laughing. “No!” Remembering the ‘real’ reason for the toothpaste raids. “I won’t tell, ‘ever’!” But knew he would… somewhat.

Putting her sandwich down. “I don’t think I’ve heard this story. Come on, Mitchell,” Myra said, “tell us! What did you eat at night when you got hungry?”

“Aw, Mom...” whining playfully, “... do I gotta?”

“Yeah,” Larry said. “You ‘gotta’!”

“I…” Beginning to laugh his infectious laughter, in moments— even though they had no idea why— Mitchell had everyone laughing along with him, even Jennie who was giggling into the napkin she held to her mouth. “I used to eat…” barely able to get the word out, “...t-toothpaste.”

“ ‘Toothpaste’? You say you used to eat toothpaste?”

“Well, yeah, Dad.” Pretending seriousness. “I got ‘hungry’!” As though that explained it. “And you know how I get when I get h…” Unable to continue. Refireing everyone’s laughter he broke up again.

“Yeah, Mitchie...” catching his breath, “...we know how you get when you get hungry. You’ll eat anything that don’t eat you first!”

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you, ‘Lawrence’! I’ve seen you go through the refrigerator like a tornado.”

Laughing again. “And it wasn’t ‘only’ toothpaste!” he gasped, “Tooth-powder, too.”

Tears running down her cheeks, “Tooth-powder, too?” Marsha questioned..

“Well, ‘yeah’!” Choking back laughter. “How long can man live on toothpaste alone?”

Wiping his eyes with the napkin. “When I was sure everyone was asleep, I’d go to the head…” looking at Marsha, “...the toilet at night and swipe everyone’s tooth, uh, teeth cleaning stuff.” Thinking a moment. “Bit mostly I liked that cinnamony red stuff in bottles… ‘Teel’.”

Howling from his place at the head of the table. “I remember now!” Walter said. “Every time you wrote, you told us to send you another can of powder and I remember I told mom that you… Oh, God! That you ‘had’ to be eating the stuff!”

“The other boys, Mitchell, they never found out on you?”

“No, Pa. I’d only take a little from each of ‘em at a time.”

“Mitchala, it’s not nice to steal from your friends.”

“I know, Ma, but if you’re hungry, you’re hungry.”

“Every night?” Myra asked. “You did this ‘every night’?”

“Sure, every night! I got hungry every night!” Laughter bursting from him, tears coming to his eyes again, “It’s my fault they don’t serve cookies and milk after taps?”

**** 

Parked about a half-mile from the house under a huge oak tree at the dark end of an unfinished street, Marsha moved his left hand from her breast, and holding it, put it on her hip… Then, a few minutes later, his right hand.

It wasn’t that the love he felt for Marsha was less than the love he had felt for Susan, or that his respect for Marsha was any less than that of Susan. It was just that when he was with Susan he was a boy of seventeen and at seventeen, maybe, a boy was supposed to treat the girl he loved differently. But now, two months from his twenty-first birthday he was no longer a boy, he had become a man and, maybe, this was what a man was supposed to do. Besides, Oh, God, he thought, I want to! So he attempted to hold Marsha’s breast again…

And again a minute or two later, but….

Moving his hand, “Mitchie,” pulling her lips from his, “you’ve got more hands than a, uh…” searching for a word, “ ‘centipede’!”

“Yeah!” He chuckled, and tried again, but…

Moving his hand. “You’d better be a good boy,” she said, “or I’m going to tell your bubby.”

“God, Marcie, I ‘knew’ it was a mistake introducing you to my family. ‘Pl-ease’,” he cried in mock horror, “don’t tell my bubby!”

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Meeting Rhea”