A FBOW excerpt in sequence: A much Worse Day
“What’s wrong? You ‘sure’ everything’s okay with her and the baby?”
“Yeah, sure! It’s nothing like that, Rube. I’ll tell you…”
“You two have a fight or something?”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “or something.”
“Oh! Well, take it easy, Mitch. These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s ‘that’ bad?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I told you, don’t worry!” Ruby said positively. “She’ll be back!”
“You think so?” he asked hopefully.
“Yeah, of ‘course’! When did you ever hear of a pregnant woman deserting a sailor?”
****
In bed that night—the chasm of silence as wide as the Grand Canyon—Prematurely lonely, and remorseful and apologetic, unable to sleep, Mitchell did little more than toss and turn throughout the endless night.
Seagate/ New York, New York
August 21, 1956
—
“Can I help you pack?”
Silence.
****
A stifling, cloudless day. Although he had given plenty of time to get to La Guardia, traffic and vapor locked cars slowing travel to a crawl, Marsha’s silent fidgeting told Mitchell that she was becoming nervous about the time.
Since leaving for the airport he’d tried to instigate conversation a number of times but all of his attempts had been met with cold silence.
“You don’t have to worry...” he said, trying again, “...we’ve plenty of time.” Although, to be honest, he’d be delighted if she did miss her flight. But…
Silence.
Since their altercation the night before, Mitchell had been repentant and remorseful. But now, with his wife about to leave without giving him even a hint as to when she planned on returning—or even if she was planning to return—becoming angry again, “Look, I am going to say it one more time then I’m not going to say it again… Marsha, I love you more than anything in this world and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am about this whole thing. I’m sorry if I didn’t want you to go to Chicago now and... ” still unable to believe that he’d actually slapped her “...especially for… you know. But we’ve only been married eight months and I still think of us as newlyweds and… Okay, so I’m a selfish…” about to say son-of-a-bitch, but thinking better of it, “…jerk for not wanting to be without you.” But…
Glancing at him, Marsha remained silent.
“And, okay, I can see how you’d be unhappy about going to Public Health, but we both know that’s only a matter of time. And, yeah…” trying to lighten the situation, “...I know it’s your ‘box’ ‘Dennis the Menace’ is looking up, or down, and I’m sorry for that, too. But I didn’t tell you to get pregnant now!” Adding quickly, “Not that I’m unhappy about it! I ‘love’ our baby and I want you here with me so I can watch the two of you grow, together. I’m sorry for ‘everything’ that happened yesterday! And most of all, Marsha, I’m ‘so sorry’ I slapped you. There is no excuse for that… But you shouldn’t have called my mother a bitch!”
“Yeah? Why not? You called my mother a whore!”
Surprised to hear her speak. Taking a long moment to respond. “I’d have never known about your mother if you hadn’t told me.”
“You wanted me to tell you about her, Mitchell...”—repeating what she’d said the night before — “... but she’s ‘my’ mother and if I want ‘I’ can call her a whore, but ‘not’ you!”
“Okay, you’re right, Marsha!” Relieved that she’d spoken to him. Willing to say anything to make amends so he would know, at least, if she was planning to come back. But…
Opening her purse, taking their savings passbook and check-book out and putting both into the glove compartment “You take these...” she said with finality—twisting the knife, enjoying twisting the knife—“...I won’t be needing them anymore!”
Mitchell had, jokingly—kind of jokingly—not been allowed to write a check since they had received three ‘NFS’s’ two months ago ‘just’ because, ‘one time’ he wrote a check and added rather than deducted.
“I wrote a check to ‘United’ for the flight today and another for fifty dollars that…” Stopping. Weighing. Deciding to twist the knife again, “…I’ll cash when I get home. ‘You’…”—normally she would have said ‘we’—“...don’t get paid till the end of the week and…” twist, “...you don’t have enough in ‘your’ account to cover my fifty bucks, so you’d better get over to the savings and loan later and take some money out and get it into…” twist, “… ‘your’ account.”
He ‘did’ feel Marsha’s knife twist, and ‘did’ pick up on the fact that she no longer considered them as ‘we’ and that she no longer considered what they had as ‘ours’.
****
Even with the delay in traffic, they arrived forty minutes before United Flight 347 boarded.
The flight confirmed and Marsha’s two large suitcases rolling along the convener belt. Sitting side by side—but a mile apart— waiting for the call to board.
“Would you like a magazine or anything?”
Silence.
Although she had spoken to him in the car, Mitchell felt it was only because she had to.
Knowing every second was bringing him closer to the moment his wife —along with the growing baby in her womb— would board the plane and fly out of his life for… God only knows how long, he thought. And maybe, biting his lower lip, fighting tears, forever. As...
It’s enough already! Marsha thought. Don’t leave him here alone without knowing whether I’m coming back or not…
But Marsha said nothing.
A plane taxiing closer to the waiting room exit stopped. A portable stairway pushed to its open hatch by a ground crew and, those people aboard departed.
“ United flight 374 to Chicago now boarding for departure!”
Oh, God! Two minds thought.
Concentrating. Once again biting his lip as, standing he walked alongside Marsha to the door of the passageway.
Approaching the doorway, suddenly realising the threshold she was about to walk through. Inwardly panicking…
Marsha’s mind flashed back to those loveless years before Mitchell; to the way he had looked the evening he’d walked into Askanaz. And she remembered the absolute joy she had felt at that moment, at knowing she had found him again. And now… What? That she was purposely losing him.
That she herself was throwing Mitchell away.
Marsha ‘did’ remember those loveless years before she found him and he found her. Marsha ‘remembered’ and she felt the love she knew he had for her and in this moment of panic Marsha thought, Good Lord, what am I doing? What am I doing?…
June 16,1955
Chicago, Illinois
Arriving minutes apart, the girls waited twenty minutes before being seated.
In a booth on the east wall towards the back of the restaurant sitting across from each other, Shelly faced towards the front.
A waitress standing alongside their booth, Marsha ordered hot brisket on a kaiser roll and a Coke. Shelly, pastrami on rye and a Coke. As usual the girls shared an order of French fries.
Arriving at the Parminter apartment at seven, Mitchell had spent a few minutes with Frank and Ida getting caught up on family matters.
Leaving the apartment at seven-fifteen and driving to Morris Avenue, Mitchell searched awhile before finding a place to park in this congested neighborhood.
It was a bit past eight when standing in line, they were waiting to give their names to the hostess…
****
Their ‘Cokes’ having been brought. Awaiting their sandwiches and fries. “Hey,”, the straw dropping into her Coke “dibbies on the blonde guy!”
Turning in the booth. Looking over her shoulder…
Deeply tanned from the spring patrol and hours of shirtless work parties in the hot, Atlantic sun, he wore a white sport shirt opened three buttons down, worn Levi’s, and his old, white-buck shoes.
…Mitchell! Snapping her body forward.
Knowing her friend appreciated a good-looking boy as much as she, “Marcie, what’s wrong?”
“Shelly, you ‘don’t’ recognize them?”
“Why...” Looking at the two young men giving a name to the hostess, Shelly’s forehead furled in thought, “...should I?”
“Think!”
“You know I’d never forget any guys that look that good!”
“Oh, yeah? Remember the ‘Palladium’?”
“The Palladium?” Shelly questioned. “In ‘Union Pier’?”
“Yes. About, uh,” thinking, “six years ago.”
“Yeah!” Dawning on her. “Sure! The dark guy’s the guy that thought you were too young for him… uh?”
“ ‘Mitchell’.”
“Yeah, Mitchell. And the other guy’s… ‘Norman’!”
“You got it!” Looking over her shoulder again. “You want me to see if they’d like to sit with us?”
“Marcie, you know I’ve ‘always’ had a thing for blonde guys! And somehow I get the impression that ‘you’ sure want ‘em to sit with us… Sure! Go on. See if they want to.”
Standing within the mob of people inside the open door. Craning his neck to see if there was anyone that he recognized…
Traversing the large room slowly, 'Marsha'! His pulse quickening, Mitchell’s eyes stopped at the right side of the restaurant when he saw a tall, familiar-looking girl stand up, step out of the booth and begin to weave her way between the scattered tables towards the front of the delicatessen.
“So, see anyone we know?”
“Yeah…” Approaching. Fastening and holding, Marsha’s dark-brown eyes meeting Mitchell’s green eyes. “...we do.”
Looking across the room, Norman watched the tall, slender girl as she made her way towards them. “We know her, don’t we!”
“Oh, yeah, we do.”
Having to turn sideways to avoid an anxious customer...“Mitchell.”
Jostled by the crowd. Eyes locked. Neither smiling. The young man and woman stood a yard apart.
Swallowing, “Marsha...” Holding his hand forward. “...Hi.”
Looking down. Realizing he wanted to take her hand… Wanted to, ‘Yes!’ ’hold her hand. Moving her hand to his hand…
Touching.
Mitchell’s hand closed about Marsha’s hand and— the handshake no longer merely a handshake— Their fingers twining about each other’s… The threads of what they’d lost on that dark road on their walk from Union Pier to Lakeside six years earlier were picked up and began to tighten about their hearts as…
August 21,1956
New York, New York
Marsha ‘remembered’ and she felt the love she ‘knew’ he had for her and in this moment of panic Marsha thought, Good Lord, what am I doing? What am I doing? However...
Her body remained rigid. Her face remained straight forward. Her demeanour remained coldly distant.
“Marcie!” Pulling her to the side of the doorway, his arms about her holding her tightly Mitchell pressed his lips to hers, but…
Marsha’s lips remained tightly closed and though his tongue forced its way through, it could not find a kink in her tightly clenched teeth.
Loosening his hold, “I love you, baby!” he said as once again his eyes became glassy with barely restrained tears. “My God, we love each other! This is so stupid! I’m sorry for everything I said and did yesterday! ‘Please’, Marcie, say you’re coming back!” But…
Through this outpouring of emotion, her arms hanging limply at her sides. “People are looking at us!” Marsha said, “I’d better go.”
Dropping his arms, Mitchell stood aside as…
Turning away. Without a backward glance Marsha walked through the passageway, across the short distance to the portable stairway, up the steps and disappeared through the plane’s hatch.
Going to the window, his hands pressed against the glass his forehead pressed against his hands, he looked at the long row of portholes. Not knowing if she was even sitting on that side, focusing his attention on the porthole just aft the wing. “God,” he prayed softly, his lips moving—because, since a child Mitchell had believed that God might hear his prayer ‘only’ if said aloud—but aware there were people nearby, saying his prayer loud enough only for his mind to hear. “God, please, ‘please’ let Marsha change her mind. ‘Please’ let her get off the plane before it takes off… Please, God, ‘please’!” Closing his eyes. Thinking. Hoping. Praying that when he opened them again he’d see his wife coming down the stairs, and again, as a child thought, I’ll count to ten, open my eyes and she’ll be there. As this was not a prayer, mentally: One… two…he counted slowly as…
Walking in a stooped position, looking through a porthole… bulkhead… porthole… bulkhead, finding a window seat just forward the wing, Marsha sat down as…
Three… four…
She saw him standing at the window resting his head against the glass seemingly looking directly at her, but really…
Five… six…
He could not see her.
Closing her eyes, Marsha felt an urgent tugging in her mind and heart and knew… Marsha ‘knew’ what she should do.
Seven… Counting even slower, eight… as...
There’s still time Marsha thought. There is still time! Just stand up and get off the plane! Her knees tensed in preparation of standing, as…
Nine… Slowing further. Reluctant to think…ten.
Opening his eyes, he saw the portable staircase being rolled away from the plane, and…
Marsha was nowhere in sight.
Moving from the terminal, the plane taxied to the distant end of the runway. Hesitated for two minutes then, a flume of exhaust bellowing from each of its four engines, the propellers, one after the other spun to life, blurred as their speed increased, then became invisible.
Hardly hearing the roar of the motors inside the pressurised cabin. Besides the sad realisation that now it was ‘really’ too late. That now she was ‘really’ leaving her husband behind. Also...
Because now was the first time she had ‘ever’ flown—further feeling a sense of doom because Marsha ‘knew’ she should ‘not’ be on this plane and— when feeling the plane shudder as it strained to go forward, her hands became wet and her heart thumped in fear as slowly, then faster… faster. The patched cracks in the concrete and the weedy grass alongside the runway became a blur and without realising— for only a few moments, though— the wheels were an inch, a foot, a yard off the ground.
The steeply angled flight rose over hangers, planes, and the commercial structures that dotted the fringe of LaGuardia. Then over houses and yards. As the plane rose higher it banked to the west and reflecting off the millions of windows of the skyscrapers of New York City, the brilliant morning sun moved from port to starboard.
Again wiping her hands on the sides of her skirt, the sweat of fear prickling her scalp she rested her head against the back of the seat. Closing her eyes, Marsha attempted to concentrate on anything other than where she was: Mitchell… And she realised for the first time that— although he’d started the argument— the reason she was here was as much her fault as his; maybe even more so because she knew that deep down she did mot want to go home… No, she thought, I am leaving my home! Further; I don’t want to go to Chicago without Mitchell…
But yet ‘did’ want to go.
True, she did feel it important to be seen by Doctor Schaffer, but really knew this was a rationalisation because what Marsha ‘really’ wanted was to go to Rosalie’s wedding wearing a maternity dress…
But to go to Rosalie’s wedding at what cost? Leaving Mitchell?
Yesterday she was subconsciously torn between doing what she ‘wanted’ and what she thought she ‘should’ do and needed some impetus, some catalyst to move her in one direction or the other.
Yesterday the direction she desperately wanted to be moved to was to the west, to Chicago. But now?
Though she would ‘never’ admit it, especially to Mitchell, Marsha realised that it had been she as much as he that had carried the argument forward.
As for the slap?
Knowing her husband, Marsha knew he was a peaceful person that— with the possible exception of her father— was as incapable of physical violence as anyone she had ever known. Also...
Now realising that ‘needing’ a reason to accept her mother’s offer to do what ‘she’ wanted to do, it was ‘she’ that had motivated the slap from her husband. Also...
Though she had started to, she hadn’t told Mitchell her mother was going to reimburse them for the airline fare and that the ‘only’ reason she’d purchased a one way ticket rather than ‘round trip’ was because they didn’t have enough money in their checking account to cover the round trip fare. But there wasn’t and she didn’t so Mitchell had assumed that she was ‘not’ coming back and she went along with it. And...
Here she was, in the air and…
There he was, on the ground watching as United Flight 374 gained altitude in the cloudless sky. Watching, as they banked to the west. Watching, as the plane became little more than a shiny, reflecting silver speck…
Watching, as the plane carrying his wife and unborn child disappeared from sight.
Sighing again. Wiping his eyes again. Drawing his stomach in tightly steeling himself against the long, now very lonely walk as— attempting to avert his face from approaching people— he rushed through the huge terminal.
Fuck it! Mitchell thought as he hurried through the parking lot to their… ‘his’ car. And fuck her and fuck the fuckin’ horse she rode in on! If that’s what she wants then fuck her and fuck it!
Swiping his hand across his eyes. What the hell am I, a fuckin’ baby? God damn it! I’m through with this bullshit crying! Looking about the parking lot, seeing no one within hearing range. “ ‘Fuck her’!” he yelled angrily. But...
When he opened the door to the car, the pent-up heat radiating the subdued scent of Marsha’s perfume, ‘White Shoulders’, causing his resolution to crumble…
Mitchell Lipensky cried.
****
Finding a parking space behind the building, he climbed the rusted fire escape to the third floor.
As usual the radio was blaring so Ruby might hear his classical music above the clacking din of the Addressograph machine.
Tapping him on the shoulder…
“Mitch! Jesus, you scared the shit out’a’me!”
“Sorry, Rube, but you’ve got that so loud.”
“Yeah, classical music has a way of dropping way down then crescendo...” Looking at Mitchell a moment, Ruby stood and turned the radio off..
“You look like shit. What happened?”
Wearing Coast Guard issue white slacks and a T shirt, after being stuck in traffic on this hot, humid day, the slacks and shirt were sweat stained, smudged with dirt and badly wrinkled. Well tanned, Mitchell’s face appeared sallow, his eyes red and his hair, which was always perfectly combed, dishevelled.
“I… Shit, Rube,” his voice catching, “I don’t know what to do; Marsha’s gone.”
“It was some fight yesterday, huh?”
“Yeah, and I…” Said more as an attempt to get it off his chest than to inform. “... ‘Shit’! She kept saying things that got me so mad I slapped her.”
Due to Mitchell’s temperament, surprised at this, “You hit her?”
“No, I didn’t ‘hit’ her...” he said, defending himself. “...I slapped her.” Ashamed, adding softly, “Once! I only slapped her once, and said some things I guess I shouldn’t have.”
“That’s what usually happens when people fight, Mitch. They say things they shouldn’t…
“Look, when Sherry and I were over a couple’a weeks ago the two of you acted like a couple of love birds and Marsha treated you like she ‘really’ loved… ‘loves’ you! Sherry and me both picked up on that. Matter’a fact, when we left that night Sherry even said she’d ‘never’ met a married couple who looked like they love each other as much as you’n’Marsha.”
“Really?” Needing reassurance. “Sherry ‘really’ said that?”
“Yeah, ‘really’!” Sherry really hadn’t, but as a friend attempting to placate Mitchell.
“Lots of married couples act like they really love each other, but that’s probably only because the guy’s so fuckin’ horny he’s afraid to do or say anything to make his wife mad at him and then he probably won’t get laid that night. But you two acted like, uh, you weren’t married.”
Thinking, I didn’t get laid that night. Asking. “You’n’Sherry friendly with lots of married people, are you?”
“No...” answering honestly, “...not ‘lots’.” Now lying, “But those we do know are usually, you know, kind of stand-offish to each other. You’n’Marsha hardly took your hands off each other the other night.”
This was true and this was also the major reason for his irrational anger the day before. When ever near Marsha he liked holding her hand or touching her in some way. Now and then he’d ask Marsha to tell him if he was being a ‘nudnik’ and occasionally she would. But Marsha usually liked to hold his hand also and by this time they’d gotten so used to each other’s touch that he’d told her that unless he was touching her in some way at night, he couldn’t sleep. Although never admitting it, unless angry at him, Marsha felt much the same way.
Remembering how much he enjoyed just touching her and being touched by her, thinking, Who am I going to touch tonight? The remembrance and thought bringing the lump back into his throat but men do not ‘ever’ let other men see them cry so he forced the lump down. However, Mitchell Lipensky had one of those faces that were easily read by anyone who knew him—kind of opposite a poker face— That being the reason he was such a bad liar. Not that he lied! To the contrary, Mitchell Lipensky had very rarely been able to get away with a lie… Now and then, maybe, a fib, yes, but a real lie? Never! Especially before with his mother and certainly not with his wife.
Seeing the look that crossed Mitchell’s face. Noting the concentration it took to force the emotion down. Knowing he’d touched a sore spot. Trying to lighten his friend’s sorrow. “Mitch, you remember what I told you last night?”
“Yeah.” Actually, the reasoning for this thought was his one hope that Marsha would return. “Who’s ever heard of a pregnant woman deserting a sailor?”
“Yeah! And if you want my advice…” Stopping, waiting for confirmation that Mitchell did, in fact, want his advice.
“Yeah, Ruby, sure I do! You’re a friend! And to tell the truth, I’ve always had a hard time with girls.”
When he’d first met him, looking as he did, Ruby had thought that Mitchell must have ‘always’ had it made when it came to females. Since getting to know him, though, he was always surprised at his lack of knowledge when it came to really understanding women so Mitchell’s admission came as no surprise.
Sighing, “I’d look at myself in a mirror when I was younger and think about the guys that were getting the girls I wanted to get and couldn’t understand it because I was always… I don’t want to sound conceited, Ruby, but I was always better looking then those guys, but they always got the girls.”
“Yeah. Well, Mitch, sometimes it’s more than just looks that girls want,” Ruby said knowingly. “Some times girls want what they can’t have, and that’s what I want to tell you… Marsha left you! She went back to mama! How’s she get along with her folks?”
“With her dad, fine. With her mother? ‘Now’, I don’t know, but before we got married, not at all, she hated her.”
“That’s good! After a couple of days Marsha will begin to remember why she wanted to get married. The more she’s with her mother, in her mother’s home, the more she’ll want to get back to her own home, to be with you, her husband.”
“You think so?” Mitchell asked hopefully. “You ‘really’ think so?”
“Hey, pal, I’d bet the bank on it! And here’s what I’d do if Marsha were my wife…”
Mitchell didn’t say anything, so Ruby went on.
“If Marsha were my wife I wouldn’t call her! Fuck her! She left me and I’d let her stew in her own juice! Let her jump every time the phone rings! Fuck her! Let her be disappointed every time the phone rings and it’s ‘not’ you! And, Mitch, she will be disappointed! And I’ll tell you something else; I wouldn’t answer my phone till after, uh, ten or eleven o’clock. Fuck her! Let her call and wonder where ‘you’ are!”
“Yeah...” listening to his friend, “...let Marsha wonder.”
“Okay...” sitting at his machine, “...now that you’ve gotten my advice, let’s get back to work.”
Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: Timing Is Everything
