A FBOW excerpt in sequence:

Little Calliope

Seagate, New York

July 3, 1956

Poom! Poppoppoppoppop! Poom! Poom!

A soft, palatable breeze came from the ocean. The sky darkly overcast, though neither moon nor stars shone from above, the millions of lights from Coney Island’s boardwalk and elevated structures cast an eerie bank of fog shrouded light from the east.

Thinking the tenants might use the flat roof as a sun deck, the owners of the building had had the roof safety fenced with six foot high chain link and as the Tennenbaums owned a furniture factory, they’d also upholstered two groupings of chairs and sofas in waterproof material and put them onto the roof for use by the building’s tenants.

His back propped against the padded armrest reclining on a sofa with both legs spread forward, Marsha’s back against his chest with his arms about her waist, all four hands clasped on her lap, sitting cheek to cheek Marsha sat between his legs.

The sofa turned towards Coney Island and Brighton Beach where pre-Fourth of July revellers were firing sky rockets and firecrackers…

A thin stream of barely discernible silver light arched, wavered into the black sky and, ‘poom’, erupted in a flower of twinkling pinpoints of silver light.

Speaking softly in her ear. “You thought of any names yet? Anyone dead you’d like to name...” about to say ‘it’ “...the baby after?”

In the Jewish religion, newborns are often named after a deceased person giving the child their name in Hebrew or a reasonable facsimile of the name in English.

“No, no one I can think of.” Marsha answered. “How’s about you? Any dead aunts, uncles, friends?”

The only person Mitchell knew that had died was Frankie: ‘Frank Rizzo’, a childhood friend that had been killed in Korea but he didn’t think the name of an old Italian pal was quite what Marsha had in mind. “No,” he said. “Outside of an old pal of mine, I’m happy to say that everyone I know is still alive.”

Each savouring the comfort of the balmy night and the closeness of the other, other than the distant, poppoppoppoppop of firecrackers all was silent.

After a few minutes, “Well...” Mitchell said, breaking the silence, “...there is a name I’ve ‘always’ loved.”

The serious tone of his voice making her think, He’s kidding. “Yeah?” Turning her head to look at the shadow of his face in profile. “What name?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

It’s a gag. “Yeah, sure I won’t laugh! Wha’z’it?”

“It’s a name… Well, I’ve ‘always’ loved this name and thought I’d ‘really’ like to name a kid of mine some day.”

“Really, eh?”Turning her body, facing him. “So, h’vedy?” in her thick Yiddish dialect. “So tell me h’vedy, Mister La pish ky! Vhat’s dis ‘voonderful’ name you been tinkin’ bof hall your facockdidah life?”

Marsha’s ‘put on’ Yiddish dialect always causing him to laugh. Forcing it down. Giggling, “Calliope.”

“ ‘Calliope’?” Marsha questioned. “ ‘Calliope La pish ky’? What a name! Sounds like some kind’a venereal disease. What if it’s a boy?”

“Marcie,” he said seriously, “that’s the beauty of that name; it’s non-sexual and Calliope can be used for anyone.

“You know, if it were anyone but you, La pish ky, I’d say you have to be kidding! But a guy with a brother named ‘Morton Humphry’... ?”

Holding her face within both hands, moving it to his. “I love you, baby.”

“Really? Callio...”

His mood suddenly changing from frivolous to serious. His mouth cutting her words off as, his hand finding the bottom of the pullover blouse she was wearing…

One thing about smaller busted women: occasionally they can go without a bra and a guy, sometimes, somehow doesn’t notice. But when that guy was Mitchell Lipensky…

‘Always’ aware of Marsha’s closeness. ‘Always’ cognisant of Marsha’s sexual presence. In his reflective mood Mitchell Lipensky —somehow — hadn’t noticed and instead of feeling the slick confining bulb of material that usually encased Marsha’s breasts, the soft touch of bare warm flesh surprised him and the bare warm touch transmitting instantly from hand to upper brain to lower brain…

“Ummm, Marcie!” His sudden surge of passion arcing to Marsha, igniting hers, as…

‘Somehow’ not aware of the shifting of positions during the fervent kiss, Marsha found herself sweetly pressed beneath his body, as….

Lifting the blouse to Marsha’s neck— even in the darkness of the night— aided by the… ‘poom’... distant burst of a red, white and blue skyrocket, Mitchell saw the white of Marsha’s breasts against the tan of her chest and stomach and…

Both wearing old cur off Levi’s. Fumbling with Marsha’s all but impossible to unbutton—especially in this position— steel buttons…

“Mitchie, don’t...” said unconvincingly. “...someone may come up here.”

“Marcie, no one ‘ever’ comes up here! There’s ‘never’ anyone up here, even when the sun’s shining! Why in hell would anyone come up at night, at…” glancing at the luminous face of his watch, “...10:47?” As…

Sliding his hand beneath the band of her panties. Feeling the warmth of her stomach, the silky roughness of her hair, her soft/hard mound and the overlapping, fleshy furrow of her labia which, with the probing of his finger, did not remain overlapping very long, as…

Feeling his touch, there. “Yeah...” she murmured, “...who ever comes up here?” As...

Reaching to the fly of his jeans, Marsha found that, somehow ‘he’d’ unbuttoned his fly and as he sometimes went without underpants because, as he told her when she’d first asked, ‘Why aren’t you wearing underwear’?

‘Because...’ he’d answered, “...you never know when I might have to ‘whip it out ‘really’ fast’!”

His penis poking rigidly through the gaping fly, Mitchell was as surprised and thrilled at the unexpected feel of Marsha’s bare breasts as Marsha was surprised, thrilled and most of all amazed at her husband’s dexterity at ‘whipping it out’ and, “How’d you do that so fast?”

Mitchell Lipensky’s lower brain in full command, “Marcie, uh...” closing his eyes as her cool hand encircled his warm penis, “… ‘cause I’m faster than a speeding bullet.”

“Thought that was Superman.”

“Yeah? Ummm! Superman whips it out that fast, too?”

Working the buttons one handed…

The buttons to his wife’s shorts popped. Sitting up and grasping the waistbands of her jeans and underpants he attempted to pull both downward but, widening her thighs, stopping the downward slide of her ‘cut’off’s’ and underpants.

“But what if someone ‘does’ come up here?”

Shifting his body, “Marcie...” Mitchell answered again, “...I told you no one ‘ever’ comes up here! Come on, honey, give me a little help here!”

“Okay...” she said dubiously, “...but ‘you’ first.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, “I did.”

Marsha could not ‘could not’ understand how he’d dropped his shorts without her noticing and. “Mitch...” she asked in absolute wonderment, “...how the hell’d you do that?”

“For a guy that’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, anything’s possible!”

“Okay. But I’m telling you, Mitch, if anyone comes up here and catches us I’ll die… Then I’ll kill you!”

“Don’t worry about it!”

Holding the waistbands of her shorts and underpants with both hands— with the help of Marsha— as she lifted her buttocks and wiggled he was able to pull them down but hung up at the angle between crotch and knees the panties remained, which Marsha herself pulled down and off.

Uh oh.“Marcie, I don’t have a rubber.”

“It’s kind of immaterial now, don’t you think?” Thinking, I know I am, but If I’m not pregnant already this should really do it!

“Oh, yeah, I don’t need one, do I? God, I ‘hate’ those things!”

Feeling ‘him’ slide into her —by now — well lubricated vagina.

“Yeah, baby! Sure don’t have any trouble trouble keeping it up now.”

“Knew I shouldn’t have given you that bottle of ink.”

For Mitchell, though, there was a time for joking and a time for…

“Ummm, Marcie, I ‘love’ making love to you, but ‘especially’ love doing it without a… ummm, rubber.”

Maybe it was being outside making love beneath the open sky or possibly the excitement of knowing that at any moment someone might come to the roof and catch them both nude.

Or maybe— for Marsha — the knowledge that she was, or ‘would’ be fully impregnated.

Or, for him, Marsha’s, Oh, yes! wonderfully tight vagina and the feeling of being warmly, wetly, tightly encircled without a sensation dulling prophylactic gripping his penis.

But whatever….

Whatever the reason, Mitchell ejaculated within— at the most— two and a half minutes.

And though — as usual — Marsha did not say or show any sign that she’d had an orgasm, considering the speed in which he had, Mitchell could only hope she had because, ‘Poom’! it was over in a spectacular flash of pulsating sexual delight…

...For Mitchell ‘and’ Marsha.

Sensing the flow of semen into her womb. “Mitchie?”

Still joined ‘joined’. Catching his breath. “Yeah, baby?”

“You know you were wrong...” breathing warmly into his ear, “... don’t you?”

“Huh?” Breathing warmly in her ear. “Wrong about what?”

“Someone ‘came’ on the roof after all.”

****

Quiet.

The tepid breeze fluttering the curtains behind their bed.

Both lying on their backs atop the summer quilt. He with his hands held beneath his head. She with her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He, nude. She, wearing but one of his T-shirts.

Unknown to the other, each thought the same thought…

The ‘unbelievable’. ‘inconceivable’ thought that ‘she’, Marsha, was pregnant and that ‘he’, Mitchell, was going to be a father.

Also thinking of the difference in their lives once he was off the ship. “Marcie?”

“Yeah, Mitch?”

“Your mother? I’ve asked before and you always say you’ll tell me some other time. Now’s some other time and I think it’s time I know. Why do you dislike her so much?”

Hesitating. Deciding. Thinking, Maybe it is time he knew,…

“My mother is a whore.”

“Huh?”

Softly spoken. Said so matte of factually….

“ ‘My mother is a whore’.”

Turning quickly, spilling her head onto the pillow. “Marsha, how can you say such a thing about your mother?”

“How?” Turning onto her side, facing him. Propping her head in her hand. “Because that’s ‘exactly’ what she is!” Adding vehemently, “A ‘whore’!”

“A ‘whore’?”

Speaking ‘actually’ or ‘figuratively’?

“A ‘whore’, Marcie. Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yeah, Mitchell...” Marsha said angrily, “... I ‘know’ what a whore is!”

Sitting up, facing Mitchell his T-shirt covering her crossed legs.

“And she’s more than ‘just’ that!”

As though coming from the rupture of an earthen dam, Marsha’s words flowing in a torrent of bitter anger...

“Until I told her that you and I were going to be married she was also the world’s very worst mother! Why do you think she insisted on making a big wedding?” Before Mitchell could respond. “ To make up for the guilt she felt for ‘always’ treating me like I wasn’t there!”

Speaking fiercely, quickly, as though wanting to… ‘Needing’ to get it out.

“All my life my mother treated me like I wasn’t there! Like she wished I’d have never been born and that ‘all’ she ever wanted was my brother!”

He had seen the two women together often enough to know there was…? There was ‘something’ wrong. That there was a strange kind of…? That there was a strange kind distance between them. A kind of a…? A kind of barely contained cold informal formality.

But the bitter coolness in his wife’s ridicules utterance — in Mitchell’s opinion— appeared to emanate more from the past emotional experience of the daughter than from— in Mitchell’s ‘limited’ opinion— the actual treatment of the mother and he felt the word ‘whore’ was used more as a metaphor than as an actual description of his mother-in-law.

Not wanting or looking for an argument, but the question and subject of his wife’s very apparent hatred of her mother finally in the open.

‘Needing’ clarification.

“But a ‘whore’, Marcie? A ‘prostitute’ ? A ‘real’ whore? A woman that goes out and screws guys for money?”

“Yeah, Mitchell, a ‘whore’!” Becoming angry. “A ‘real’ whore that goes out and… ‘fucks guys for money’!”

Hesitating. Swiping her forearm across her eyes removing the unwanted tears of anger.

“Where do you think these diamond rings came from?” To emphasise her words, holding her hand forward then lifting Mitchell’s. “You think daddy can afford rings like these? ‘Uncle Sid’s’ the jeweller! And just where do you think ‘all’ hat money came from to pay for that big wedding? The caterer? The ‘Palmer House’? The Rabbi?” About all of this the daughter had absolutely no idea, so offered no explanation.

“She saved it?” Asked weakly.

“Yeah, maybe she does has a secret cash box somewhere with the money coming from… Who the hell knows!”

“Okay...” conceding, “...I don’t have any idea where your mother’s money comes from! Why would I?”

“Yeah!” Still doubting he believed her. Sorry that she allowed ‘it’ to come out on this night. Though knowing it ‘had’ to come out sometime and if not now, than when?

“Okay, Mitch! Here’s one ‘just for you’! One that’s ‘much’ closer than the rings and our wedding!”

Sitting up, reaching to the side, Mitchell turned the end-table lamp on.

“How’s about ‘before’?”

“Before, ‘what’?”

“Okay! Just where in the ‘hell’ do you think your transfer came from?”

Waiting for an answer, when none came…

“Tell me! Where do you think your transfer came from?”

“Uh?”

“Yeah, ‘uh’! Just how in the ‘hell’ do you think she was able to wrangle ‘that’?”

Recalling the telephone conversation earlier that evening, and the cold anger in Marsha’s voice when she’d said, ‘Yes, Mother, I ‘certainly’ remember ‘uncle Morrie’!

Naively asked, “Your uncle Morrie is your mother’s… uh…?” Not knowing the word for a man that frequented prostitutes. Although still ‘reluctant’ to think of, or even consider his mother-in-law as a prostitute.

“Morrie is ‘not’ an ‘uncle’! But to answer your question...” said sarcastically, “...mother’s been seeing ‘uncle’ Morrie ever since I was kid. He’s some kind of a politician and knows lots of people and mother must’a screwed the son-of-a bitch pretty damn good to get you your transfer.”

Both quiet... The thoughts of each far different than they’d been a short while before.

Mitchell trying to absorb and attempting to ‘believe’ what he’d just been told.

Marsha remembering…

Speaking softly...

“When I was a kid, mother would have ‘uncles’ come to our apartment and they’d give me money to get rid of me.” Agitated with the memory, straightening her back…

“ ‘Here, kid’, they’d say. ‘Here’s a quarter, go go get an ice cream cone’ ...‘Here’s a half buck, go get a soda’…. ‘Here’s a buck, go buy yourself a toy’,”

And when I got older… oh, say nine, ten years old, it was five, ten, or even twenty dollars to get rid of me and it ‘never’ mattered to mother if it was below zero or a hundred degrees outside… The ‘bastards’!”

Her voice rising. Alarmed, Mitchell took hold of her hands.

****

Before marriage— in spite of her circumstances, or possibly ‘because’ of her circumstances— basically a modest person, Marsha very quickly became aware of how much her husband enjoyed seeing her nude; ‘especially’ her breasts. Even though she often hid her feelings, the young wife took great pleasure in knowing her husband was looking at her and occasionally would go out of her way to tease him, to see how fast she could excite him but— unless intercourse was forthcoming—it would only be her breasts that would purposely be exposed, never her naked crotch.

So now…

****

Sitting cross-legged with his T-shirt bunched about her waist—within the dull light of one end-table lamp— the husband saw the dark triangle within his wife’s bare thighs and though he did feel a surge of heat, considering the seriousness of the ongoing conversation— feeling he was violating a trust, his eyes moved to her face.

“The bastards ‘always’ tried to get rid of me!” Marsha went on. “And when I was ten, ‘good old Morrie’ handed me ten bucks and told me to go out and buy myself a present. But I got stubborn and told him, ‘No’ and wouldn’t budge. So mother and ‘good old Morrie’ had to go someplace else.

Later, when she got home—for the first time ever, she beat me with a belt—the buckle end of the belt.” Stopping, catching her breath, Marsha again swiped her arm across her wet eyes.

“How’s about Roger? He knows, too?”

“Yeah, sure! He found out when he was a kid, too.”

“How’s about other people? Your aunts...uncles, uh, ‘real’ uncles?”

“Nobody ever said anything! At least not to me, about it. But I know that they know. As a matter of fact, when I was a kid I always thought they were mad at ‘me’ because my mother was whore.”

“As though it’s ‘your’ fault, huh? Your dad—how can he ‘not’ know?”

Thinking, I knew this would happen! Not wanting to discuss her father. “Mitchie, ‘pleas’! I do ‘not’ want to talk about daddy..”

“I can’t believe that in ‘all’ those years—your aunts, your brother, you—nobody’s ever said anything to your dad!”

“Please, Mitch!” In a threatening tone of voice, “Leave my father out of it for now.”

Not understanding why. Thinking that Marsha had a special—dark— reason for not wanting to discuss Eli… However catching her tone and feeling Marsha’s pain when mentioning her father.

“Okay! I won’t ask about your father. But can we talk about your brother?”

“When I was just a kid… I think it started when I was five years old Roger was ‘terrible’ to me when we were younger! He used to beat me up all the time and told me that if I ‘ever’ said anything to daddy he’d ‘really’ beat me up and then mother and daddy would ‘have’ to get a divorce! I didn’t even know what divorce meant then. And if they got a divorce, it would be ‘all’ my fault and ‘everyone’ would hate me and they’d give me away to gypsies.” Sighing, holding back tears…

“And then Roger told me that I’d never see my ‘daddy’ again!” Hiding her face in her hands. “And that…” beginning to cry, “…and that I’d ‘always’ be alone…” sobbing, barely able to get the words out, “…all by myself.”

Never able to watch anyone cry without having to fight to keep from joining them, ‘especially’ someone that he loved as much as he loved Marsha…

His tears coming also. “Honey, ‘no’!” Putting his arms about Marsha. Holding her closely. “No, Marcie, don’t cry. You’ll ‘never’ be alone! You’ll ‘always’ have me and…” Patting her stomach. Giggling through his tears, “little Calliope.”

“Yeah.” Uncovering her face, “ ‘Calliope Lipensky’.” She smiled. “Jesus, Mitchell, you really know how to make a guy feel swell.”

I’m not going to talk about it, but your father, baby?” Taking her hand. “You ‘really’ don’t think your dad knows about your mother?”

“ ‘No’!” said defensively. “If daddy knew, he’d beat the crap out of her!” But really, Marsha knew no matter what, Eli would never hurt his wife.

Mitchell could not help but think that, After all these years Eli ‘must’ know something about his wife! Marsha must be kidding herself if she thinks her father doesn’t.

But not wanting to dispute Marsha, especially about this, ‘especially’ regarding her father. wisely letting the subject drop. “Okay, honey, if that’s what you think.” Having no idea what else to say, turning the light off he lay back.

“You remember when we first met?”

“In Union Pier? Sure!”

“Yes… I was alone then.”

“What do you mean you were alone? Shelly was with you.”

“Yeah, ‘she’ was. But my mother sure as hell wasn’t!”

“I didn’t know anything about your mother, but Shelly was with you when we met and Norman and me walked you girls home.”

“No! Norman walked Shelly home.” Relaxed now, Marsha lay back also. “You let me go home by myself.”

“Hey, hold on! If I remember right, you called me a ‘jerk’ and ran away.”

“Actually, I called you a ‘big’ jerk, because you were!”

“How was I to know that anyone that looked as good as you was twelve year old ‘jail bait’?”

“Tough poop!” On her side, facing him, “You should have kept your mouth shut, walked me home first ‘then’ dropped me.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He was pretty sure she was joking, but he’d learned the best way to avoid an argument with Marsha was to agree with her because— as so often happened between them— arguments started with only a joking or unthoughtful word.

Unfortunately, at times Mitchell seemed to have a penchant for unthoughtful words. Then, in his opinion, ‘mountains were made out of molehills’ because, in his opinion, Marsha had a distorted perception of how a husband should react to his wife.

So now he did not pursue that long ago night and just dropped it. Which was advice he often gave himself. Sadly, though, it was advice that he would think of, consider what he was about to say, consider dropping it… then, more often than not, say it anyway.

As for Marsha Lipensky...

Though she absolutely ‘despised’ the way her mother treated her father. Because she ‘knew’ her father did love her mother, Marsha, subconsciously—because throughout her life that was the way she had ‘always’ seen Eli react to Rhea—Marsha equated subservience with love and expected her husband to be more attentive and more attuned to her wishes and her way of thinking, and readily became angry when he was not.

It did not occur to her nor did she keep track of it but— if she had Marsha probably would have realised that there was a time each month when her patience with Mitchell was less and her anger more. Which often became cause for an argument…

As for Marsha Goldman

 Next FBOW Excerpt in Sequence: Marsha Goldman/ Retro 5