Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “A diferent Name”

 Since their heart to heart, ‘get stuff of our chest’s’ discussion of ten days earlier, both Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky, bordering on being obsequious, have attempted to be and do as the other had requested…

However Marsha had drawn the line at becoming a ‘screamer’.

Skokie, Illinois

February 1, 1958

“ ‘Gigi’, Dad.”

When they came through the door without her grandson, “Where’s Mikey?” Myra had asked.

“We’re going to the ‘Melody’ on Sheridan...” Mitchell had answered. “...and because it’s almost around the corner from them, we thought it best to leave Mikey with my mother-in-law rather than waking and schlepping him back and forth all night. And so long as we’re spending the day here, with you guys tomorrow, we thought we’d let him sleep there tonight.”

As always, Saturday evening dinner at the Lipensky's was lox and bagels with all the trimmings for the family and, by her choice, bagels and the trimmings for Marsha.

Allowed to watch television as they ate, Lawrence and Morton were in the den.

As it was only the four adults, Walter, Myra, Marsha and Mitchell ate in the small kitchen.

“A musical? I’ll never understand why anyone would spend good money to see crap like that!”

“Walter...” — in an increasing foul mood, Myra had been sniping at her husband from the moment Marsha and Mitchell had arrived without her grandson, “...just because you don’t like musicals, or sports or…” she said angrily, “...anything except your god-damned boat, doesn’t mean no one’s supposed to like musicals!”

Trying to lighten the situation, “Yeah, Dad...” Mitchell said, “...there’s always ‘I Married a Monster From Outer Space’.”

Putting his coffee cup down, looking at Myra—though knowing his wife. Knowing her moods, thinking he was making a joke though knowing he should know better—smiling, Walter said, “No, I married the monster from outer space.”

Glaring at him, childishly wanting the last word, “No!” Myra said irately. “I’m the one that married the monster!” Standing, she began to clear the table.

By then recognising her mother-in-law’s moods, perhaps it would have been best to let it drop, however, “Mother and daddy saw Gigi last week and they liked it.”

Her anger scarcely contained all evening. Hearing her trigger word, ‘mother’, her back to them at the sink rinsing dishes, her dam breaking. “I’m sure your mother is always at your home!” Myra said harshly. “And she gets to see her grandson whenever she wants! I thought you were going to bring him here tonight!”

“Yeah, Mom...” Mitchell repeated, “...but so long as we’re going to be here tomorrow…”

Cutting him off. “My mother really doesn’t see that much of Mikey, or me.”

Jealous of each actual or imagined second she thought Marsha, Mitchell and ‘especially’ her grandson spent with Rhea, slamming the handle of the single control faucet down, turning from the sink’. “Don’t give me any of your bull-shit! I know that…” Hesitating, knowing she shouldn’t, but saying it anyway, “whore’s there all the time!”

When more than three people were sitting at the table in this narrow kitchen, one or two had to sit on a bench with their backs against the wall. As Marsha was, by far, the thinnest, while eating in the kitchen she always sat on the bench with Walter to her right. Sitting beneath the dining room entry with the front legs of his chair on the kitchen’s linoleum covered floor and the rear legs upon the dining room carpet, Walter sat to the left of his wife. Partially blocked by a foot wide projection of the wall that butted to the end of the bench and the edge of the table, Mitchell sat on the other end of the table. With or without the table pulled out, because it was practically within arm’s reach of the stove, sink and refrigerator, Myra always sat on the side of the table facing the wall.

“What did you say?” Standing abruptly, the motion of her body skidding the side of the table across the floor, slamming it onto the stainless steel stove handle. “Did I just hear you say my mother’s a ‘whore’?”

Feeling both the betrayer and the betrayed. Looking from his wife to his mother. Remembering that after he’d received the call from Don Hoffman informing him that Marsha was, indeed, going through with the divorce and the grounds were desertion. Because he felt it no longer mattered and not caring who knew, in a fit of raging anger he’d told his mother all that Marsha— in strictest confidence had told him about Rhea.

Infuriated with his mother for using what he had told her and fully embarrassed because he had shot his mouth off and, to say the least, rightfully fearful for what he knew he was going to have to face from Marsha for betraying her confidence, now, as with the suddenness of an early morning, surprise artillery barrage—with just about as much vehemence—the ensuing argument caused Mitchell’s head to turn to the left, to the hate filled face of his mother, then to the right, to the hate filled face of his wife.

Repeating, “Did I just hear you say my mother’s a whore?”

Her arms belligerently crossed across her chest. Her gray eyes frigid, the harsh look on her face betraying the thin, frozen smile upon her lips. “Yes, that’s what I said: You mother’s a whore!”

“You ‘bitch’!” The eggshell thin veneer of Marsha’s suppressed hatred of Myra splintering, “You god-damned bitch! What gives you the right…”

Shouting, “Wait a second, you!” Standing abruptly, Walter’s chair fell over making a soft thump on the dining room carpet. “Do you know you’ve just called your husband’s mother a bitch?”

“Dad...” Pushing away from the table also, Mitchell’s chair fell clattering onto the floor. Wanting to get to his wife, however unable to because of the projected wall to his right and his mother to his left. “… ‘don’t’ yell at her!”

‘Bitch’ being a far cry from, ‘mom’.

“You didn’t hear what your dear, sweet wife called me?” Infuriated, pointing at her son, “You just sit down and mind your own business!”

Mind your own business? If the situation wasn’t so terrible, he’d almost laugh.

“You don’t think this is my business?”

“No, Mitchell!” Pointing to his son, then his daughter-in-law. “This is between your wife, your mother and me!”

“God-damn-it, Mitchell! For just ‘once’ in your life don’t listen to them! I’m your wife...” shouting, “...and this ‘is’ your business!”

Trapped. Desperately wanting to get out from behind the table, Marsha looked from right to left. With Walter to her right and the narrow projected wall to the left, unable to move the table forward because it was jammed against the stove handle—to say nothing of her mother-in-law—short of crawling beneath or over the table, having no place to go, her delayed anger at Walter boiling over.

“Oh, yes, ‘Skipper’...” sarcastically said to Walter—reminding him that he’d betrayed her once before. Reminding him that at one time there was the love of a daughter for a father here—“...I’ve known what a bitch is! What a ‘real’ bitch is since I married your son! And if the word bothers you all that much...” looking at Myra, her dark brown eyes frigid, the harsh look on her face betraying the thin, frozen smile upon her lips, “...then the shoe must fit!”

For a moment, Walter and Myra were left speechless at this.

Well recognising the lip biting look of barely contained anger on his father’s face.

Seeing his wife’s anxiety at being trapped behind the table. Still smarting from Marsha’s, ‘you’re a coward’ discourse… Knowing he ‘had’ to get her out from behind the table and out of this house before something physical happened.

“What’s going on?” The sound of the argument louder than the gun shots of ‘Gun Smoke’, Lawrence and Morton had come out of the den…

Turning, as he ran from the kitchen, “Nothing!” Mitchell shouted over his shoulder as he rushed through the living room. “Just mind your own business!”

Knowing he was, somehow, going to have to redeem himself for telling his mother about Marsha’s mother, even if it meant—Oh, God—getting into an actual fist fight with his father. Shouldering Walter aside, grabbing Marsha’s hand, he pulled her from behind the table into the relatively open space of the dining room.

Pulling from his hand. “Mitchell...” moving to the front door, “...I want to get away from these people!”

Seeing Lawrence and Morton, whom she truly considered as her own brothers—much more so than the unfeeling brother she did have—the look on her face softened a moment then, looking at her father-in-law, regaining the look of pure hatred. “I want to get out of this house, ‘now’, Mitchell!”

Both boys, considering Marsha the sister they did not have. hearing the hatred in Marsha’s words, thinking she meant them, too, Lawrence, barely able to contain his tears, tightened his grip on Cricket’s collar… As tears came to the eyes of Morton.

Afraid of leaving his wife for even a second, “Larry, our coats are in the bedroom; get ’em for us, will you?”

Confused by the surreal scene before him, the boy stood as though rooted.

Coming from the kitchen, and to the realisation, finally, that this, now, had caused a complete rent in the precarious balance of her daughter-in-law’s fragile relationship with her. Also, of the very possible likelihood that she would be excluded from the life of her son… and her grandson.

“ ‘My son’!” Hysterically pulling at her hair, “ ‘My son’!” Myra wailed dramatically. “I’ve lost my son!”

“You!” Approaching Marsha “This is your fault!” Walter said through clenched teeth.

“It is ‘not’!” Shouting, “My wife didn’t do a god-damned thing till she…” pointing to his mother, “...started on her!” In a spontaneous move, he stepped between his wife and father. “It’s not Marsha’s fault, it’s yours’n’mom’s!”

For the first time in his twenty-three years of life, Mitchell Lipensky put his hands on his father in anger and, “Stay the hell away from my wife,” shoving against his chest, Walter was propelled backwards.

Forced to back step, realising his son had just put his hand onto him. Looking at Mitchell with disbelief then slamming his left shoulder with the palm of his hand. “You think I’d touch that piece of shit!”

Fists clenched. Verging on hysteria, fear and caution gone as though daring to hit him again, his face but inches from his father’s…

“ ‘Damn it’!” Out-shouting the renewed wails of his mother.“She’s my wife! You ‘can’t’ talk to her that way! We were just sitting there talking about what movie we were going to see, then you…” doing something his father had done to him on any number of occasions throughout his life: poking Walter’s chest with his stiffly extended finger, “...and her…” jerking his thumb in Myra’s direction, “...started this whole god-damned thing for no god-damned reason and now look what you’ve done!” Shouting, a fine spray of spittle coming from his mouth, “ ‘Nothing’s ever good enough for the two of you is it’!”

Thinking her husband and son were about to come to blows, her wailing stopping suddenly, Myra crumpled to the floor.

“Mom!” Moved to action, rushing to his mother, kneeling Lawrence lifted her head…

In a moment her eyes opened and with the help of Walter and their middle son, Myra struggled to her feet.

Seizing the moment he rushed to his parent’s room, grabbed their coats and ran back to the living room where, back on her feet…

“My son!” Myra wailed again. “I’ve lost my son!”

“ ‘Get the hell out of here’!”

Pulling the door open, responding in like vehemence, “Oh, yeah, Dad, you ‘bet’ we will!”

About to slam the door shut behind them, sagging to the floor again the last thing Marsha and Mitchell saw as the door closed was Walter and the boys bending over the supine figure of Myra.

His breath coming in hard gasps. Sadness replacing anger. Verging on tears and well aware of the long term consequences of what had just happened. Attempting to gain control of his emotions, placing his forearms onto the canvas top Mitchell lay his forehead onto his crossed wrists.

“Mitchell, you’d better go back to see if she’s okay.”

“I…” his breath catching, “...can’t.”

“You’ve ‘got’ to! To see if she’s okay!”

Dragging his sleeve across his wet eyes and running nose, “Marcie, I just can’t!”

“She’s your mother, Mitchell! If you don’t go back she’ll tell everyone she knows that you didn’t even care enough to even go back to see if she was alive or dead.”

Sighing, “I guess you’re right.”

Reluctantly going back to the door, opening it he looked inside.

Flanked by Walter on one side and her two sons on the other, Myra was sitting on the sofa.

“Marsha told me to go back to see if you’re okay.”

“She wants to know if I’m okay, huh? ‘Bullshit’!”

“Yeah! ‘She did’!” Slamming the door shut, he returned to the car.

“So, she okay?”

“Yes, just fine!” Starting the motor, he pulled away from the curb.

**** 

Immediate Aftermath

Her feelings were mixed.

Even though she knew she’d miss Lawrence and Morton, Marsha did not, not even for a moment, regret finally telling Walter and Myra exactly what she thought of them.

Yet, having her own code of ethics, she did feel bad because she’d displayed a lack of respect for elders by using the language she had used when she did tell them.

On the one hand she felt sad for Mitchell because, after all, they were his family. But then again, she was glad that she would not have to make excuses for not wanting to be with his parents.

Yet, she knew how loving Myra was with Michael. And even though Walter rarely showed any outward signs of affection—other than for his boat—she was always amazed when the man, as gruff as he was, cooed over his grandson and she knew how badly they’d both miss him.

“Mitchell,” Marsha said softly, “I’m not going to keep Mikey from his grandparents. You can bring him there whenever you want, only I won’t go with you. ‘Ever!’”

These being the first words either had spoken since they’d begun the drive home and this being one of the long term consequences he’d thought of. Turning his attention from McCormick Boulevard, he glanced to his right. “Thanks, Marcie...” he said sincerely, “...I appreciate that.” Then brought his attention back to the street and waited for the axe to fall.

Okay, she thought, what’s right is right!

And the fact ‘is’ that her mother ‘had’ prostituted herself for as many years as she could remember.

But because of her brother’s long ago threat and her shame...

But ‘mostly’ because Marsha had wanted to spare her father the pain of knowing—if he didn’t already…

Rhea’s transgressions were a hard held secret that with the exception of Mitchell, she’d kept to herself since she was a child.

Now, in a way, strangely, so long as she wasn’t the one to tell—Well, in a way, I was the one to tell. But, Marsha rationalised, you’re not supposed to keep secrets from your husband, are you? And so long as she did ‘not’ blame herself, it was justifiable that ‘finally’ someone else knew about her mother.

But my ‘mother-in-law’?

But so long as it was out of the bag and couldn’t be retracted, she felt a sense of relief and rather than being angry at Mitchell for doing it…

“Why’d you tell your mother about my mother?” Marsha asked in the same, strangely soft tone of voice she’d used a few minutes earlier.

As a condemned man with his back against the wall and a blindfold over his eyes fearfully awaits the word ‘Fire’! Mitchell had been waiting for Marsha’s angry salvo. Now wondering at her calmness…

“Before, when we broke up...” keeping his eyes forward, “...I kept hoping… ‘praying’ that we would get together again. But when I found out that you’n’Mikey moved in with your folks and then, later, when my lawyer told me that ‘yes’ you were really going through with it and the grounds were going to be ‘desertion’, I became even ‘more’ upset and ‘more’ angry and ‘more’ depressed and blamed your mother and hated both of you so much you can’t even imagine! But I didn’t know how to hurt you like you were hurting me and thought it didn’t matter anyway, so I told my mother.” Glancing at her, taking her hand. “I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m so sorry.”

The hum of wheels. The whisper of wind through the parted window… The heavy silence within the car.

“It’s okay, Mitchie...” she said finally, her words devoid of anger. “...I guess I can understand you doing that.”

Huh?

God knew he was thankful that Marsha was not angry at him but, glancing to the right, unable to understand why she wasn’t angry because. more often than not she was angry at him for—so he thought, no reason. But now, when she had ‘every’ reason to be angry she wasn’t, or at least didn’t appear to be.

A study in contradictions!

One of the ways the female of the species keeps the male of the species off balance?

Marsha Lipensky being a woman that made ‘mountains out of mole hills’, now, to make a ‘mole hill out of huge mountain’?

Mitchell Lipensky was at a total loss to understand why.

Another long term consequence coming to mind: “What’ll I do about work?”

“Guess you’d better call when we get in.”

****

Three calls were made that evening.

****

“Mom’s okay?”

“Yes, Mitchell...” said sarcastically, “...your mother’s ‘just’ fine!”

“Dad, Marsha says whenever I want, or when you’n’mom want to see Mikey I can bring him over… by myself!”

“That’s nice, Mitchell...” Walter said wearily. “...your mother will be glad to hear it. And if your god-damned wife doesn’t want to have anything to do with your family, then by us that’s okay, too.”

Letting the ‘god-damned wife’ pass. And I was wondering if, uh, do I still have a job?”

“You and that wife of yours must think we’re really beasts!” His anger apparent. “Do you ‘really’ think your mother and me want to see our son and grandson out in the street, or living with that bitch of a mother-in-law of yours? Don’t be ‘stupid’! Of ‘course’ you’ve still got a job!”

****

“Mother, we had a’ horrible’ fight tonight!” Omitting the ‘whore’ part, but telling everything else.

****

“Myra, I’m calling to tell you that your son just had a heart attack,” Rhea said calmly, then hung up.

****

Strangely, no one called to find out if in fact Mitchell had.

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “ Two Birthdays”