A FBOW excerpt in sequence: Sammy, Abbie & Secrets

Seagate, New York

July 1, 1956: Sammy and Abbie

It had become one of their comic rituals:

“Mitchie, I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sighing. Standing and pulling himself away from the Sunday afternoon showing of ‘The Million Dollar Movie’—‘King Kong,’ that Mitchell had seen—because he was an avid non-sports fan almost as many times as the dollars taken to make it. “So...” he asked, “...what are we having?”

Going along with their game, “Lamb chops,” Marsha answered.

“Oh.” Said in a flat tone of voice as going to the sink he tore a paper towel off the roll hanging above the dish-rack and, twisting it into a tight wick, looking at Marsha, “You ready?”

“Let me get the kids.” Grabbing Sammy and Abbie and opening the door to the hallway she stepping out of the apartment. “Yeah, we’re ready!”

Smiling. Enjoying their game, Mitchell opened the oven door and lit the paper towel wick from one of the gas jets on the stove then laid it on the gas hole in the oven and turned the knob…

* * * *

When Mitchell had been away on patrol almost lonelier than she’d ever been, Marsha felt the need to have some kind of a living creature with her. Something to say goodbye to when she left for work in the morning and something to say hello to when she came home in the evening and something to say good night to when she went to bed at night. So after work one evening she’d stopped of at a pet shop in Bensonhurst and purchased ‘Sammy’ to keep her company.

On a Saturday afternoon excursion to Long Island, spotting Abbie in the window of a bathroom accessory shop, “Marcie...” Mitchell had said, “… I’ve ‘always’ wanted screw on a bearskin rug!”

So they purchased ‘Abbie’ and brought him home.

Sammy was a parakeet and Abbie, a caricature of a bearskin rug made of pink chenille, which Marsha and Mitchell placed on the floor in front of the television.

* * * *

Shortly after moving into the apartment, Marsha had asked Mitchell to light the oven.

The burners of the stove had a common pilot light but the oven had to be lit by an outside flame.

Kneeling before the open oven, turning the gas on he struck a wooden match… But the matchstick broke so, reopening the box of ‘Blue Diamond Matches’, taking another match he slid the box of Blue Diamond Matches shut, struck the match and…

WOOMPFF!

There went all the hair on Mitchell’s hand, most of the hair on his arm and part of an eyebrow.

Once Marsha discovered there was no serious damage—not knowing why— there was something about this that struck a familiar, humorous cord and she had all she could do to keep from laughing as she rubbed butter over his hand, arm and what was left of his eyebrow.

Marsha then ‘refused’ to light the oven so whenever she needed it lit, ‘Mitchie’, she would say, ‘I’m starting dinner. You want to light the oven’?

With minimal enthusiasm, ‘Yeah’, Mitchell would reply, ‘I guess so’.

Then going to the oven—having learned— using a torch made of a piece of twisted paper towel, ‘You ready’? he would call to Marsha.

‘Let me get the kids’! she would answer.

Grabbing the birdcage off the dresser and Sammy off the floor, rushing out of the apartment into the hallway out of ‘explosion range’…

‘Yeah, we’re ready’!

In the seven months they’d been married, Mitchell had— playfully— tried to teach his wife two things: Early on Marsha had refused to swear and the most and the ‘very worst’ he could most usually get out of her was…

‘Kockie, doodie, pee-pee’.

Also, she would ‘never’ expel gas anywhere near him.

‘Marcie’, he’d told her, ‘think of it this way: if God didn’t want us to fart, he wouldn’t have given us assholes’.

Foomp!

“Kockie, doodie, pee-pee… fuck!”

Standing in the hallway with the birdcage with Sammy the parakeet in one hand, and Abbie in the other, Marsha would wait until she heard the soft ‘foomp’ of the oven igniting and Mitchell saying…

“Kockie, doodie, pee-pee… fuck!”

Then laughing, coming back into the apartment, ‘Okay, schmeckel’, she’d say, ‘get out of the damn kitchen while I make your fuckin’ dinner’!

But they’d only been married for seven months and he’d teaching her lots’a other real neat stuff.

As for farting, Marsha still refused to fart in his company— although living in a one room apartment?

Seagate, New York

July 3, 1956

“ ‘God, Mitchell’! I’m on the toilet! Can’t ‘you’ get the phone?”

“Sorry, Marcie, I was, uh, busy.”

“Yeah, I know!” she said through the closed door. “The Mickey Mouse Club! Get the phone!”

“Okay, already!” Answering on the fifth ring, “Hello.”

“Mitchell, you’ve a ‘one room’ apartment! What takes so long to answer the phone?”

“Sorry, Mom. Marcie’s on the…”

The phone hanging on the wall directly opposite the bathroom door…

“ ‘Jesus’!” Marsha yelled, trying to suppress laughter. “You going to tell the ‘whole world’ I’m on the toilet?”

“It ain’t the whole world, it’s your mother… Mom, she’s, uh...” smiling, “...on the toilet… And I was a little busy.”

“Yes, Mitchell, I know,” Rhea said teasingly. “Marsha told me how her big, strong sailor rushes home to watch The ‘Mickey, Mouse Clu’b.”

Laughing, “Yeah, I do!” Thinking, Jeeze, A guy can’t even watch the fuckin’ Mickey Mouse Club anymore!

“Well, tell your wife to get off off the toilet!”

“Here...” holding the phone against the door, “...you tell her!”

“Marsha...” Rhea yelled from better than nine hundred miles away, “...get off the damn toiled, I’ve got some news for you kids.”

“ ‘Good God’...” Through the closed door Mitchell could hear the squeak of the roller as his wife pulled toilet paper from it, “… can’t a guy even take a... uh, poop around her!”

****

It had been almost two weeks since the clandestine conversation with Rhea and since then he’d been fending off an almost constant barrage of questions from Marsha about the secret he and her mother shared.

For a guy with the reputation of ‘never’ being able to keep a secret, it hadn’t been easy because on three separate occasions Marsha had rolled onto him and tickled him to death… But he still didn’t tell.

Once the outside doorknob fell off and the handle shaft pulled through and he was stuck inside the toilet and she wouldn’t let him out till he told...But he didn't, and eventually Marsha let him out… Actually because she’d been laughing so hard she had a bit of a ‘leakage’ problem.

And once and — ‘oh, yeah’, that had been the toughest—during sex he had been poised to ‘enter’— Mitchell Lipensky’s erection problem ‘absolutely’ no longer a problem— he had been poised to ‘enter’ when twisting to the side, rolling him off and squeezing her thighs together Marsha warned, “You’d ‘better’ tell!” And Mitchell began to laugh so hard his erection reversed and he farted and ended up rushing to the toilet to have a bowel movement…

But, for some unknown reason he never told.

***

“Mom, does this have something to do with what you told me about, uh, you know?”

“You’ll know in a minute. Now I want to talk to my daughter!”

Thinking, Shit! Why’d she tell me what she told me when she didn’t want me to say nothin’ to no one and now, when it’s okay to say something to someone, she still don’t want to tell me anything!

“Yeah, okay!” he said. “She’ll be, uh, off in a minute.” Laughing, “Marcie...” Mitchell purposely said loud enough for anyone passing in the hallway to hear, “...get your butt off the toilet! Your mother wants to talk to you!”

“Mitchell...” came the voice from the other side of the door, “...I’m going to ‘kill’ you!” But really, Marsha was laughing, too. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”

Hearing the toilet paper roller squeak twice more in its bracket, then the sound of flushing. “She’ll be right out… So, how’s Dad?”

“He’s fine, Mitchell… Don’t you ever have anything to say to me but. ‘how’s Dad’?’”

“Yeah, sure I do!” Thinking a moment, “How’s you?”

The bathroom door opening...

Relieved, he handed the phone to Marsha who, grabbing it from his hand while comically curling her upper lip in an exaggerated scowl.

“Mother, hi!”

“Marsha, I’ve…”

“Yes, Mother...” Marsha said, “…don’t worry about my husband! Later on they’re coming with a big net to take him away. He’s an ‘idiot’!”

Leaning against the bathroom door jamb, Mitchell stuck his tongue out at her.

Repeating patiently, “Marsha, I’ve got some good news for you!”

“This anything to do with the secret between you and the ‘idiot,’ Mother?”

“ ‘Secret’? I didn’t have any secret with ‘the idiot’.”

“Okay, mother...” Pulling a chair from beneath the table and sitting. “...you tell me your news first then...” gesturing for Mitchell’s hand, “...I’ve got some good news, too!” Looking at him, Marsha saw Mitchell’s eyebrows knit in question.

“Marsha, you remember ‘Uncle Morrie’?”

The smile leaving Marsha’s face. Her voice now having a chill to it. “Yes, Mother...” she said sarcastically. “...I ‘certainly’ remember’ ‘Uncle Morrie’!”

Hearing the change in the tone of her voice. Putting his hand beneath her chin tilting her head upward. “What’s wrong?” Mitchell whispered.

Recognising the icy tone of her daughter’s voice. “ ‘Marsha’,” Rhea said irately as attempting to hide her guilt. Trying — as always — to cover her guilt with a facade of anger.

Rhea did feel guilt! At least as much guilt as she’d allow herself to feel. But yet unwilling to admit to it ‘all’... not even to herself.

“ ‘Morrie Jacobson’...” she said angrily , “...did something for you, ‘and’ your husband that no one else that I know of could ‘possibly’ have done! Now, do you want to come off your high horse and listen? Or should I hang up and call Morrie and tell him to forget it?” Though Rhea might feel remorse, she sure didn’t show remorse.

“No, Mother, I’m…” starting to say ‘sorry’, but really wasn’t. “...No, Mother, tell me now, please.”

Trying to recapture the positive feeling she’d had a minute ago. “Okay.” Rhea said, “Morrie does ‘things’ for a lot of the politicians around town and has some big connections… Well, he got to Senator Dirksen’s press secretary and told him about Mitchell…”

Now having some idea of what her mother had been up to and not putting it past her, cutting Rhea off... “Told him ‘what’ about Mitchell?” she asked excitedly.

“About ‘me’?” Poking himself in the chest with his thumb. “What about me?”

“Shhh!” Shushing him, Marsha said nothing.

“And…” Rhea went on. “Are you sitting, Marsha?”

Having some idea, her stomach jumping. “Yes, Mother, I’m sitting.”

If built of shale, one thin layer in the mountain of Rhea’s guilt might well have been removed as…

...“Mitchell should be getting orders by Friday, he’s being transferred to an office job in the city.”

Quiet a moment, letting it sink in. “Mother! ‘Really’? You did ‘that’?”

“No, Marsha,” she said as sarcastically as her daughter had a minute ago. “ ‘Uncle Morrie’ did that!”

Mitchell had thought about it ever since Rhea had told him that, ‘maybe’, it ‘might’ happen.

“What’s happening?” But because ‘really’ it seemed too good to be true . “What the ‘hell’s’ happening?” He never really thought it would happen. “Will you ‘please’ tell me what’s happening?”

“Mitchie, mother’s got a… uh, friend,”—Oh, God, this is too good to be true —that’s been able to get you transferred to an office job!”

Wondering, Who the hell’s she know?

“She pulled it off!” Again wondering, What the hell kind of pull does she have? “Your mother ‘really’ pulled it off! Jesus, that’s ‘great’ I can’t believe it! ‘S and Q’!”

“ ‘S and Q’? What’s ‘S and Q,’ Mitchell?”

“ ‘Sustenance and quarters’!” Seeing she still didn’t understand “Marcie, they’ll pay me extra for living off the ship—for an apartment and food.” Reaching for the phone, “Let me talk to your mother!”

Sustenance and quarters, she thought, handing the phone to him. That’ll help solve the money problem.

“Mom, ‘thank you’! I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this! If you give me, uh, the name of the guy that did this for us…”

“Morrie… Morris Jacobson,” Rhea said.

Repeating, “ ‘Morris Jacobson’. I’ll call, or write to thank him.”

“That would be nice, Mitchell…”

Knowing there was ‘no way’ that Morrie wanted to be linked to Mitchell and ‘especially’ to his mother-in-law.

“…but I’ve already thanked him for you and Marsha.” — Oh, yeah, she sure did!— “Put my daughter on again, will you.”

“Yeah, Mom, sure. And thanks again!”

“Hi, Mother.”

“You said you had something you wanted to tell me, Marsha?”

Marsha had wanted, very badly, to tell her mother. But now?

Even though Rhea had done this great favour for Mitchell and herself, the mere mention of Morris Jacobson’s name or the thought of ‘any’ of Marsha’s so called, ‘uncles’ had opened a floodgate of bitter memories.

What Marsha had wanted to say—what she’d wanted to share with her mother—she no longer wanted to share, at least not at that time, not right then.

“No, Mother,” Marsha said. “I’m so excited about this, what I wanted to tell you isn’t all that important compared to this,”—Oh, yes it was—“so I’ll tell you some other time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, Mother. Say hello to daddy for me and, uh…” finding it hard to mention Morrie’s name—for whatever reason— in the same breath as her father. “…thank Morrie for us.” Although she knew Morrie ‘had’ been thanked and ‘how’ he’d been thanked…

Well, in Morrie’s case, Marsha just thought she knew how he had been thanked.

“Bye, Mother.”

“Bye, Marsha.”

“Oh, baby!...”

“Mitchie, I wanted to…”

“...I can’t believe it! I’m off the ship!”

“Mitchie…”

Remembering. “Oh, there goes our honeymoon in Bermuda… Sorry, honey.””

“Mitchell… ‘Seriously’.”

His smile fading, “What’s wrong?”

“Mitchie...” taking his hand, leading him to the sofa, “...I’ve something important to tell you.”

Sitting apart from him. Not knowing… Having no idea what his reaction might be. Wanting to see his face. Wanting to see his reaction.

“I’ve always been pretty regular…”

Alarmed by her demeanour, “ ‘Regular’?”

“My period. My periods have always been between the 25th and 28th of each month…”

Not realising what she was trying to say, or its importance. “Yeah...” he interrupted, “...except when we got married, huh!”

A bit annoyed at the interruption. “Well, yeah, that’s right.” she said. “Now please, Mitch, let me finish!” Placing his hand on her stomach. Softening the tone of her voice. “A few weeks ago, when we came back from the fireworks and took a shower together… Remember?”

“Sure!” he said, nodding his head. “Yeah!” He sure did remember and was looking forward to doing that again ‘real’ soon!

“Well, Mitchie, we didn’t use a rubber, and…”

“Marcie?” Beginning to understand what she was trying to tell him. “ ‘Once’! One time without a rubber and you’re, uh…”

“ ‘Pregnant’, Mitchie.” Watching his face, seeing his mouth drop open. “Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I think… No, I ‘know’ I’m pregnant!”

The wife and husband’s unblinking eyes locked.

Mitchell’s hand on her stomach had been still. But now, moving in a circular motion, lowering his eyes, watching his hand which seemed to be moving by its own volition.

“Marcie… I don’t know what to say.” Quiet a moment. “You, uh… You want a baby, now?”

“Oh, ‘yes’!” Said emphatically, “I want a baby so badly I can’t even tell you how much!”

At that moment, “But, Marcie...” his thoughts shooting off in different directions, “...how’ll we live?” Looking about the one room apartment. “Where’ll we live? How will we be able to afford a baby without you working?” In near panic... “My God, there’s so much we’ll need for it!”

“Mitchie...” placing her finger over his lips, “...shhh, Mitchie.”

He stopped speaking.

“First off, forget ‘everything’ else: the money, where and how we’ll live. First off, Mitch, ‘first thing’…do ‘you’ want a baby? Do you want to be a daddy?”

Throughout his life— whenever he’d been in love— Mitchell had loved wholeheartedly! ‘Always’ feeling as though there was not enough room in his heart to contain the emotions he felt.

The loneliest times of his life… The ‘worst’ times of his life had been when he’d had no one to love.

Now, ‘Do I want a baby’? he thought. Do I want to be—the thought incomprehensible, the thought actually inconceivable— ‘a daddy’? Do I want a part of Marsha and me to love? To ‘always’, no matter what, to ‘always’ love! Do I want, oh, God, to be a daddy?

“Oh, God...” he said, “… ‘yes’!” Tears coming to his eyes. “Yes, Marcie, I do!” Hugging her, “I do! I love you!”

Waiting, ‘hoping’ for this response. “I love you, too!” Relieved, “Mitchie, I love you ‘so ’ much!”

Marsha and Mitchell kissed and…

Though their tongues touched, this kiss, oddly, was not sensual, this kiss was…? Spiritual.

Both sensed this and though not prone to easy tears, Marsha’s tears came also..

But their kiss, no matter how spiritual— because Marsha and Mitchell were human after all— soon became sensual and in a rather short while— the sofa bed opened. All clothing discarded. Marsha lay on her back with Mitchell on his stomach at a right angle and. scooting lower on the bed, his tongue fondled Marsha’s navel a moment... then stopping he lay the side of his face flat upon her stomach and did not move.

Taking a few seconds to realise what he was doing. Entwining the fingers of one hand in his hair and placing her other hand flat onto his back— feeling the motion of his heart, as…

Inches away, Mitchell saw the rise of Marsha’s mound. The black of her hair. The slim roundness of her thighs, her long legs and thin feet, and…

Usually, by now his head along with his mouth and tongue would be attempting to move downward while Marsha, depending on whether she was fresh out of a shower or bath and whether she wanted him to do ‘that’ now, would either be allowing him to go further or stopping the downward movement of his head along with his mouth and tongue, but no matter because…

Lying still, hearing the soft, fluid sounds of his wife’s stomach, Mitchell thought of what, even at that moment, was growing within… was growing within this beloved stomach that the side of his face now rested upon.

* * *

Throughout his life, since Mitchell had become old enough to realise, his penis had always been the most self serving member of his body. A source of most often frustration and ‘most’ often self gained pleasure. The fluid that ‘most’ pleasurably came from within was the result of that enjoyable, albeit, most often self gained pleasure and was, since he was old enough to know, of ‘course’ he’d known that that fluid was one of the major components that formed human life, but…

To ‘do’ it!

To ‘really…

To ‘actually’ make a baby with ‘his’ penis with ‘his’ fluid?

Now— lying as he was with his cheek in the soft hollow of his wife’s stomach and to ‘know’! To ‘know’ that ‘he’ had done it! That ‘he’ and serving penis had ‘actually’ made a baby was…

That ‘he’ had actually made a baby was—truly, it always is—nothing short of a miracle, and…

Mitchell felt such an overflowing of love for that which he had: For that whom he now lay next to... For that which was not yet born that once again his sentiments became too much to contain and—the many times throughout his life when his emotions had opened the valves to his heart and eyes he’d felt less than manly, now—fighting a sob. His heart lurching. Biting his lip against the stinging behind his eyes and the pain within his throat, but…

With Marsha’s hand flat upon his back, feeling the catch within his chest, “Shhh.” Marsha whispered to her husband. “Shhh, my baby.”

Of all of God’s miracles…

Of ‘all’ of God’s miracles, to Mitchell Lipensky, one synonymous with the other, ‘woman-kind and love’ above all else is the most wondrous.

****

As for Marsha Goldman Lipensky…

Next FBOW excerpt in Sequence: Marsha & Retro 4