A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Other People Know”

“I’m sorry things worked out the way they did, Mitch, and Sophie and me hope Marsha and you’ll be able to work it out.” Holding his hand forward. “Just let us know when you’re leaving for good and we’ll give you your money back.”

Taking the offered hand. “Yeah, Paul, thanks. I’m waiting for one call, then I’ll get the rest of my stuff out of here.”

“Okay, Mitch. Just stop by on your way out.”

________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois 

April 23, 1958

Feeling the sad, familiar pain of loneliness, sitting on the kitchen floor, his mind roaming again, Mitchell recalled the weather patrol just before the ‘eyes-of-God’ marriage and the 0400 to 0800 watch when with the collar of his foul weather jacket pulled up and his watch cap pulled down and cold, wet and miserable, he had thought depressing thoughts of Marsha and wondered if he really loved her or if he was just lonely and horny and because they were told not to, they hadn’t had intercourse after their first marriage—their ‘legal’ marriage—and it was at that time that Mitchell had actually considered calling the wedding off and trying to annul the civil marriage because, after all, they hadn’t have intercourse and, really, did he ‘really’ love Marsha? Or was it just because he was lonely?

Sitting on the floor waiting for the phone to ring, feeling a world of anger at… at himself!

Clenching his teeth, Oh, God, he thought, how I wish I had! How I wish I had called the whole thing off! I knew it was wrong then and I sure as hell know it’s wrong now and I should have called the whole fuckin’ thing off, and if I did Marsha would be a memory now! Only a fuckin’ memory!

Now however, thinking of his son and the special combination of Marsha’s genes and his genes that went into the creation of the little boy he sighed and. feeling the horrible hollow pain within his heart, once again tears came.

Mitchell Lipensky leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes…

And didn’t notice the sky turn from blue to purple to black.

****

“What?” Shaking his head, tasting the brassy taste of sleep. for a second wondering where he was. Remembering, Mitchell pulled himself to his feet. Flicking the switch to the kitchen light, “Jesus!” the bright lights stinging his eyes. Looking at his watch, He can’t still be at work!

Consulting the number he’d scrawled on a scrap of paper when he called information for Roger’s number, he dialed… But the line was busy.

****

“He called here almost three hours ago and I haven’t called back because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell him! What do I say when he calls again? Just what in the ‘hell’ am I supposed to tell the poor guy?”

For some perverse reason actually enjoying the drama. Also, a lifetime of cheating and telling her own husband nothing made it easy to say: “You don’t tell him ‘anything’!” Rhea said—for the third time. “You don’t know anything! All you know is that your sister went someplace and you don’t know where!”

“Jesus, Mother, that’s a really ‘shitty’ thing to do to the poor guy!”

“Roger...” she said angrily, “...you know I don’t like toilet language”

On the other end of the line, “Fuck you!” Roger mouthed silently.

“Either call him back and tell him you don’t know anything or don’t call him back! I don’t care what you do! Just do not tell Mitchell where your sister is!”

***

He pressed the button a moment, then, for the twelfth time in the last three minutes, dialed again…

Finally, it rang.

Sensing who it was, Roger looked at his wife.

Shrugging her shoulders. “May as well get it over with, Roge.”

Hesitating, he waited till the fourth ring. “Yeah, hello.”

“Roger...” his hands shaking and although cool in the apartment sweat prickled his forehead, “… ‘please’! Please tell me where are my wife and baby!”

“Mitchell, I…” Covering the mouthpiece, looking at Brenda, whispering, “My fuckin’ mother and sister!” Bringing his attention back to the phone, “...Mitchell, look, pal…”

Fom the moment Mitchell had met Roger in the bowling Alley in Union Pier, Michigan, on the 3rd of August in 1949—the very same evening he met Marsha—Roger Goldman, in Mitchell’s estimation, had always been a grade A, first class schmuck! But now, the warm inflection in his brother-in-law’s voice and the word ‘pal’ not only set him back, but told him Roger knew what happened, and, that he sympathised, too.

****

“Mitchell, look, pal, I don’t know where my sister is!” Thinking, Oh, shit! “Believe me, if I knew,” Roger said, trying to sound sincere, “I’d tell you.”

“Roger, I can’t believe that woman with a baby, without any money that I know of, could just disappear into thin air like this. I’m really worried about them!”

“Mitchell, listen to me!” Conceding, “They’re ‘fine’! Nothing is going to happen to them.”

“If you don’t know where they are, how do you know they’re okay?”

Breathing deeply, shaking his head. “Other people know where they are. Trust me; they’re okay!”

“What other people? Your mother? Your aunts?”

His eyes shifting to his wife again. “I can’t say. ‘God-damn-it’! I ‘can’t’ tell you!”

For a moment Mitchell thought Roger was angry with him, but then realised he wasn’t angry at him, but angry because he couldn’t tell him. ‘

Now knowing there was a conspiracy for sure. “I know you know! What if it was you?” he asked. “How’d you like it if it was you, and someone hid Brenda and your daughter from you?”

Hating his mother and sister more by the moment. Knowing how he’d feel if, indeed, it ‘was’ him.

Electing not to respond to Mitchell’s hypothetical.

“I want to tell you something! Outside of a couple’a bullshit things, I haven’t heard too many bad things about you, Mitch, and ‘trust’ me...” Roger said angrily, “...with my mother and her sisters, if there was ‘anything’ to complain about they’d do it!”

Hesitating, deciding to go on, Roger added, “And I also want to tell you that I have ‘no’ idea how in the hell you’ve been able to live with my sister for as long as you have without either beating the shit out of her or taking off yourself!”

Mitchell recalled stories Marsha had told him about her childhood and the contemptible way her mother, aunts and brother had treated her.

In the harsh tone of Roger’s voice hearing the obvious dislike of his sister, Roger Goldman appeared to be the opposite side of the same coin.

Also hearing the brother of his wife telling him that their family didn’t have too much to complain about him... Also, having someone who sided with him, did give Mitchell solace of sorts.

“So listen to me, Mitch! If my sister wants to fuck around with you this way, then you fuck her back.” Looking at Brenda, turning his back to her, Roger stretched the telephone cord as far as it could go. “I’ll tell you what I’d do. ‘I’d’ go out and have the greatest time of my life! ‘I’d’ screw every broad I could find!”

Turning back, Roger looked at his wife and again thought of the responsibility of a second child. A child that was but three months into conception that only he and Brenda knew about. That Roger knew was an added financial responsibility that he had ‘far’ from adjusted his mind to.

“So my sister’s got a baby. ‘Shit’! I still can’t believe that someone looking like you would have wanted her in the first place, let alone someone—‘anyone’ wanting her now, with a baby!

‘So I tell you, Mitch, go on out! Have a good time! I ‘assure’ you, Marsha will come back on her hands and knees.”

Not too happy at being placed in the category—even if just in Roger’s opinion—as the only person in the world stupid enough to marry his sister. Also knowing that siblings often have little or, in this case, no love for one another.

Passing Roger’s comment off. “You really think so, Roge?” Mitchell asked hopefully. “You ‘really’ think she’ll come back?”

“Yeah, sure! Who in the hell’d want her? ‘Especially’ with a kid!”

Anxious to be done with this conversation, “Talk to you later, Mitch.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Breaking the connection, thinking, ‘Who in the hell’d want her’? Added aloud, “Me.”

Lakeside, Michigan

Dragging the paint flicked lightweight wicker furniture into the larger of the two bedrooms where it would be out of the way, Marsha spent the balance of the afternoon and evening rearranging furniture.

Rather than sleeping on her parents double bed in the smaller of the two bedrooms, or on either of the twin beds in the larger room—that she had shared with her brother—Marsha decided to sleep on her sofa bed which she easily dragged across the linoleum floor to the centre of the room where it was closer to the gas stove and where it faced the television that— much to her relief, by moving the antenna in every which direction, though a bit squiggly, was able to have a picture on two of the three major channels and one local from ‘Benton Harbor’.

True to their word, the electric man had turned the electricity on. But also true to their word, the gas man had not turned the gas on.

Certainly not in winter, but in late spring and summer—when the nights and sometimes the days were cool and damp—hot air coming from the open door of the gas range would usually be enough to heat, if not the entire three room cottage, than certainly the one larger kitchen/living room/dining room.

On this evening, thought, as the sun set, without the gas range the cottage quickly became cold.

As his dinner heated on the double ‘Sterno’ stove—that in case of an emergency was kept beneath the sink—Marsha changed Michael into his warmest snuggies, turned the television to the strongest station, fed her baby and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then, getting into bed she covered Michael and herself with her grandmother Goldman’s wedding gift: a goose down quilt.

****

Chicago, Illinois

After speaking to Roger, Mitchell drove to the A&P on Howard Street and got two empty ‘Northern Toilet Paper’ boxes.

Returning to the apartment, he laid his hanging clothing in one box and, as they were strewn over the floor, threw his dresser clothes into the other, along with the sixty-eight, redi-wet, foil Pac prophylactics.

Hauling the large boxes downstairs, the convertible top still down he put one on the back seat and one on the front seat.

Knocking on the Keglevic’s door he gave Sophie the keys and she, in return, gave Mitchell his clean-up and security deposits along with their best wishes.

Sitting in the car, looking at the black windows of the second floor apartment— at what had been his home the pain of his loneliness being almost too much to endure, for the third time since walking through the door to find his family gone, Mitchell…

Fighting the emotion. Forcing back tears Mitchell put the Ford into ‘Drive’ and drove away from what had been his home.

Skokie, Illinois

“This would ‘never’ have happened if you’d done what I told you!”

Standing in the doorway of the den, his head hanging, his eyes cast downward…

Receiving no response, Myra went on. “If you remember, my dear son, I told you you should settle things with your wife before you got back together! ‘Didn’t I’?”

“Yes, Mom...” Looking at her. “...that’s for sure! You ‘sure’ did tell me that I should settle things with my wife before we got back together!”

Picking up the tone of Mitchell’s voice, standing, Walter approached his son. “You pop in here every few months expecting us to turn our home upside down for you, then you sound off to your mother?” Out of habit, for emphasis, he motioned to poke his finger into his son’s chest, but remembering that he and Mitchell almost came to blows the last time they argued, thought better of it. “What the hell are we supposed to do now, kick your brother out of his bedroom again?”

“No, Dad...” said wearily, “...I don’t want anyone to go out of their way; I’ll stay in Mortie’s room.”

Hating to admit...“And I guess you’re right, Mom. If I had done what you wanted this probably would not have happened again.”

Needing his parents not only for his livelihood but now, once again, for lodging, he neglected to say the reason it probably would not have happened was because Marsha and he would ‘never’ have gotten together under those conditions. Or, that the reason this happened now was because, in part, he ‘had’ done what his mother wanted.

****

Unable to sleep. Wondering about his wife and baby and if their lives would ever be right again, Mitchell spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering also, How am I ever going to be able to go on doing what I do with this on my mind?

Making a decision…

Lakeside, Michigan

Exhausted from the mind numbing decision she’d made that morning and the rush and work of the move, even with the surrounding cold and the vaguely remembered, but now unfamiliar sounds of the country at night, snuggling next to her son giving him the added warmth of her body, Marsh slept sounder that night than on any other in recent memory.

Chicago, Illinois

April 24, 1958

On this day, Mitchell…

Lakeside, Michigan

April 24,1958

She first heard the sounds from a distance.

She felt the sting of cold air on her face and cuddled closer to the comforting warmth.

A soft jab in her abdomen caused the veil of her subconscious to lift momentarily, then again sink again to mental oblivion…

Crying...

The crying seemed to come from someplace far away. Then, the piercing shrieks in her head, Marsha’s eyes opened.

Within the grey light of morning that edged through the drawn curtains of the cottage and the soft glow of the squiggle pattern of the television—that she’d left on the night before—lying in her side, “Hi, Mikey!” Marsha looked into the face of her baby that was but inches from her own. Pulling the squalling infant into the warmth of her arms, “Hi, baby!”

The familiar sound of his mother’s voice and the soft, warm comfort of her breasts lulled him into a sudden, momentary, quietness. Then, feeling his wetness, hunger and the unaccustomed discomfort of cold on his face, pushing against her chest with arms and legs, Michael’s wailing resumed with revitalised energy.

“Yeah, Mikey.” Touching between his legs, she felt the moisture that had seeped through the rubberised shorts that encased his diaper. “I know you want to be changed.”

Edging from beneath the feather quilt, even though she wore flannel pajamas the cold, early morning air caused her to physically shiver and the frigid linoleum floor stung her feet through the socks she wore.

Marsha had given considerable thought as to how she was going to handle this morning.

Rather than attempting to wash Michael with cold water... First standing him in his playpen then filling a bottle, she put it along with the baby lotion into as large a saucepan of water as the Sterno stove could accommodate and heated all three: milk, lotion and water as…

“I know, baby. Shhh, Mikey, I know, baby!” She attempted to still the squalling baby.

Once the water came to a boil, removing the milk and lotion then pouring the water into a larger pot, she diluted it with cold water.

Placing a bath towel beneath him, Marsha unsnapped and lowered the soggy pajama bottom.

Glad there were no neighbors nearby, “Shhh, Mikey,” she unpinned the urine drenched and stool filled diaper.

Cold air hitting his bare stomach, thighs and legs. Michael’s screaming struck an even higher pitch as Marsha washed the thrashing infant with the diluted, warm water, dried then soothed the urine irritated flesh of his crotch with the warmed baby lotion.

Rediapering him, Marsha put dry pajamas on.

Now, in comparative comfort, the crying that had screeched through the otherwise deserted cove of cottages stopped.

Sitting Michael in the highchair, using about a third of the warmed milk, Marsha mixed the Gerber’s oatmeal, then fed him. When finished, she laid him in the playpen with the rest of the milk where, content, he suckled on the bottle.

Her child cared for, Marsha put more water onto the stove. Going to the bathroom and taking care of her morning needs, she’d considered taking a pain pill for her menstrual cramps, but the pain nowhere near what it had been yesterday, decided not to.

Hugging herself for warmth while waiting for her tea water to boil, she thought of Mitchell and, knowing him, knowing he was awake, Marsha wondered what he was feeling at that moment.

Though she tried to force the thought away, Marsha Lipensky could not help but wonder if she hadn’t made a mistake… A ‘horrible’ mistake.

Chicago, Illinois

Okay, ‘yeah’! Things that look bad the night before sometimes do look better the next day…

But on this next day ‘nothing’ looked better than grey to Mitchell Lipensky—including the darkly overcast sky that perfectly mirrored his mood.

On this day at ‘least’ as mentally depressed as the day before—knowing he had to do it, but not sure of how to do it.

Working as he had yesterday. Putting in the minimal appearance of work.

Driving east on Devon Avenue, stopping for the traffic light on Mozart he noticed the skeletal, two story, I-beam construction site...

But it was the sign that caught his eye:

     ‘  CITY OF CHICAGO PARKING FACILITY

Contractor

COSTELLO CONSTRUCTION COMPANY’

He’d thought about it the night before and decided to do it, but had to have a replacement job before quitting…

And maybe this being the way to do it.

Making a U-turn at the next corner, going back to Mozart and turning left he parked the car and walked to the construction company trailer. Inside were two men: one in slacks and a sport shirt; the other wore a khaki shirt and matching slacks.

“Hi! Shelly Barrish around?”

“Yeah...” the man in khaki answered. “...If you wanna hang around a couple’a minutes he ought’a be right back.”

 ****

Sitting at the counter in a restaurant drinking coffee.

“I just can’t work for my folks right now! This thing with Marsha has me so upset my mind isn’t on selling and I just ‘can’t’ seem to…”

“And...” cutting his nephew off, “...no one knows where your wife and son are?”

“Yeah! Whoever the hell I talk to in her family tells me…” said sarcastically, “...they ‘don’t’ know where her’n’Mikey are, but do say they’re okay.”

“They ‘don’t’ know where they are, but do know they’re ‘okay’, huh? Sounds awfully fishy to me, Mitch.”

“Yeah, ‘Uncle Shel’! But Marsha hasn’t any real reason to do this and I’m so upset I’ve decided…”

Looking at him sternly. “You didn’t hit her or anything?”

“No! Of ‘course’ not! We’ve been arguing about, uh, mostly mom…”

****

Having heard his sister complain about Marsha and her lack of respect by not addressing her, Sheldon Barrish recalled the morning in 1947 and the argument with his parents:..

“She can’t? So, what’s so ‘terrible’?” His face flushed with anger, leaning forward in his chair, jabbing his finger inches from Sheldon’s face. “Your wife, she can’t call us ‘something’?” Morris asked angrily. “Your wife can’t call ma, ‘ma’?” Looking at Linda. “You ain’t got respect for your husband’s mother and father? You can’t call my wife ‘ma or mother’?”

Though Mitchell’s mother did not remember the events of that day those many years ago, Mitchell’s uncle ‘sure’ did.

****

“…We’ve been arguing about, uh, mostly mom… You know her and Marsha don’t get along too well and… Well, one thing led to another and I think she’ll be back so I’ve decided to just kind’a sit it out and wait to see what happens. Only thing is, like I was saying before, Uncle, shel, I’m not in the mood to sell photography or for that matter ‘anything’! And I feel the only way for me to get things out of my system is to do physical work. So I was wondering… Do you need any help? Can I go to work for you, Uncle Shel?”

****

At the end of World War II, Sheldon Barrish had been hired as an engineer by the owner of the company. As John Costello had no successor and, as he deserved it, in time Sheldon came to all but run ‘Costello Construction Company’.

****

Sympathising and well relating over the ‘mom’ thing. Sipping his coffee, taking time to think.

“This is hard work, Mitch!” Sheldon said after a long pause. “Are you ‘sure’ this is what you want to do? And are you sure your mother and father won’t mind you quitting the studio?”

“I’m almost always in the red on my draw, and my parents and me seem to argue over Marsha all the time. And to be honest, Uncle Shel, I think they’ll be glad to have me out of their hair and not have to pay me anymore.”

Contemplating the inside of his cup… “Okay, Mitch, but I want you to know you’re just going to be a labourer, a ‘shlepper’ (one who drags)! No favours ‘cause you’re the boss’s nephew! You ‘understand’?”

“Yeah! Sure! ‘Thanks’! I don’t care what I do so long as it’s not selling photography… Uh, what’s a shlepper get paid?”

“Union scale’s $2.75 an hour and time and a half for overtime. But then there’s withholding and union dues… Tell you what: because most probably you’re only going to be temporary, I’ll talk to Tony Esposito, he’s the shop steward and a really good guy and I’ll see if I can get you out of having to pay union dues, least ways for a while.”

“Let’s see. $2.75 an hour…” Calculating mentally, “That’s more’n a hundred bucks a week! Right?”

“To be exact, $110 for a forty hour week.”

“Jesus, that’s almost $35 more’n I’m making now!”

“It may well be, but you’re going to work your ass off, Mitch.”

“For better’n four hundred bucks a month, I don’t care!”

“Okay...” Sheldon said dubiously. “Tell you what; today’s Thursday and you’ll only get paid for one day this week, but we’re pouring concrete tomorrow...” nodding his head over his shoulder, “...and I was going to pull some men off another job anyway...” feeling a little guilty about starting his nephew off that way, but, “...so if you want to start tomorrow…”

“Yeah, sure! That’s ‘great’! What time do you want me here?’

“Seven. And when you get here look up ‘Tony Esposito’. And, Mitch…

“Yeah, Uncle Shel?”

“Better get yourself a good pair of work gloves.”

April 24,1958

On this day, Mitchell quit his job at Walter Lewis Studio.

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Work & Retrospective 15"