A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “A bullet, A death”

Peoria, Illinois

May 25, 1959

In Mitchell’s opinion, Hugh and Valerie Ivy appeared to be a fairly well matched couple. In height, weight and the looks department they were, in Mitchell’s opinion, average.

Being a sweet, but not overly intelligent young woman, he and Marsha truly did like Valerie.

However there were a number things about her husband that neither liked.

First off, Hugh was the absolute ruler of their home.

Often appearing with bruises, one day Valerie also appeared with a blackened eye, coming up with the weak excuse of “accidentally walking into a door.” Marsha and Mitchell both thought of Hugh Ivy as a wife beater.

Secondly, Hugh Ivy had an undertone of…

While on the fringe of a conversation between Hugh and Bobby Joe, Mitchell overheard the word ‘kikes’ used in reference—so he assumed—to Marsha and himself.

Also, even though he felt a flush of anger whenever he heard the word, still considering himself an outsider, knowing that Marsha enjoyed the company of these women and — excluding cowardice, truly not knowing what to do about it! Thinking of his lost friend, Ruby—Mitchell hated when the words ‘nigger’, ‘spade’ and ‘coon’ were used.

This, above all else caused him to drastically minimise the time spent with Hugh.

But having no reason to dislike Valerie, by accident one day…

Well, because when given the opportunity he would ‘always’ look, it wasn’t altogether by accident that Mitchell had seen Valerie’s breasts…

And possibly, when thinking about it, possibly it wasn't really by accident.

It had happened on the second of May.

After a late night rainstorm, on his way to canvas a small, newly discovered industrial area...

Stepping outside and taking a deep breath, Oh, God!

It was one of those exceptionally beautiful spring mornings that more than merely seeing, you could actually feel in your mind in your heart and the pit of your stomach: the air warm, the breeze balmy and the powdery, light blue sky dusted with wispy, brilliant white clouds that could only have come from the palette of, and been painted by the hand of God.

The morning of May second was the start of one of those rarefied spring days that gave Mitchell Lipensky cause to pause and, if he needed one, another reason to be thankful to be alive.

“Hi!” Coming out of her door with Rebecca’s hand in hers, turning onto the worn meridian path, Valerie stooped to tie her daughter’s shoelaces.

Approaching, “Hi, Val,” he’d stood behind Rebecca and above the kneeling figure of her mother.

Freshly out of the shower, wearing a bathrobe with — so he was about to discover, nothing beneath — in her stooped position Valerie’s robe had gaped open and…

Sure! You bet!

Making whatever small talk he could think of, he stood above her for the thirty or forty seconds it had taken Valerie to double tie her daughter’s shoelaces.

Whether or not she was aware that her robe was open or whether or not she was aware that he was looking, or, for that matter, whether or not she was aware that her breasts were fully exposed, Mitchell Lipensky did see Valerie Ivy’s moderate sized breasts that looked ‘so’ nice, with their small, tightly puckered chocolate coloured nipples that actually looked better.

At that time due to the combination of the sight of these ‘strange tits’ that looked ‘so’ nice, along with the beauty of this heaven sent spring day, Screw work, he’d thought, so…

Keeping the chatter going, of course waiting until Valerie stood and her breasts were once again hidden beneath the robe, Mitchell then retraced his steps and finding Marsha upstairs making the bed, he’d suggested a way in which they might go about messing it again and, as Michael was safely ensconced in front of the television, Marsha had readily agreed and they did, indeed, mess the bed…

However, the episode with Valerie Ivy remained on Mitchell’s mind and far from a sexual fantasy, the incident was extremely bothersome.

First off: Life with Marsha was now better than he could ‘ever’ in the past imagine; both outwardly and personally, and there was no way in hell that he would do, or want ‘anything’ to change that.

Secondly: Did Valerie purposely orchestrate the — possibly, chance meeting on that morning. Fresh out of a shower? How long does it take to tie a kids shoelace? Excited nipples? Because she knew I was looking and because she wanted me to see? Or because she was fresh out of a shower and a slight breeze might have caused her nipples to contract? Why come outside wearing just a lose fitting robe… Just as I was going by?

Also, there was ‘no’ way that he wanted even the slightest inclination that there was ‘anything’ going on between Hugh Ivy’s wife and himself…

Thinking back to the L’il Abner dinner of two nights ago, he wondered if there was any indication of ‘anything’ happening…

There wasn’t.

But what did happen on that second day of May?

Working

Remembering: For a while queries coming from Peoria looked like this:

DATE: 4/19/59

FROM: M. Lipensky

CUSTOMER NAME: Oeltman Engineering.

PRODUCTION ORDER: 18-11772

REQUEST: #10’s running a little late. Customer

getting low.

And shortly progressed to this:

DATE: 5/9/59

FROM: M. Lipensky

CUSTOMER NAME: Peoria Motors

PRODUCTION ORDER: 18-12007

REQUEST: Customer is becoming angry, wants to

know where the hell his 6&3/4’s are!

And soon to this:

DATE: 5/26/59

FROM: M. Lipensky

CUSTOMER NAME: Central Illinois Lumber Co.

PRODUCTION ORDER: 18-12909

REQUEST: Damn it! I need these eps!!!

Immediate shipment demanded!!!

And the trainee thinking, What an asshole! put the latest query from ‘M. Lipensky on the bottom of the stack.

July 14, 1959

Chicago, Illinois

He’d had the second of his occasional twice weekly day-labour jobs yesterday. Afterwards, reciprocating to a friend that had popped for wine on one of his non-working days, the derelict had spent the remainder of that day’s wage — as usual, by staggering from one gin mill to another; that in this skid row area of Chicago’s West Madison Street were in more than ample abundance.

At 5:12 AM.…

“ ‘Ay, man!”

***

As had become his habit…

‘All food establishments remaining open twenty-four hours a day...’ so said the Chicago regulations, ‘...must close at least one hour per day for clean up.”

So…

As had become his habit — After relieving his brother, on warm mornings leaving the double doors open — the man would pull the steel barred, diamond shaped accordion gate to a closed position and lock the lock.

However, extremely distracted on this day, the man had merely slipped the hasp of the Master Lock through the staple of the adjoining hasp then, as always the man began to…

****

“ ‘Ay, man!”

Having swept the floor and now mopping the floor, “Huh?” Facing the opposite direction, turning the man saw the unkempt, vaguely familiar black man.

“Needs me a cup’a’jo!”

Being a good humoured, generous man he had done it on hundreds of occasions and normally would have poured coffee into a takeout cup, handed it through the gate and given it to the bum.

Far from his usual mood on this day however. Wondering if it wasn’t past time he took his head out of the sand and see his wife for what he knew—for what he had known she was and what she did, but could not admit to.

In an uncharacteristically bad mood. “Sorry...” the man wearing a long white apron over his neatly pressed slacks and sport shirt said, “...we’re closed. Come back later.”

Having taken advantage of this man in the past, “ ‘Ay...” wrapping his hands around a bar, rattling the gate, “...all’s I want’s a cup’a’jo!”

“Look, I told you, ‘we’re closed now’!”

“Yeah, I know’s ya tol’ me!” Noticing the lock was not locked, “But…” slipping the hasp from the staple, pulling the gate open he came into the restaurant, “...I need’s me a cup’a’jo, now!”

“God-damn-it!” Dropping it, the mop handle fell between two stools where it clattered against the Formica counter. “I told you, ‘not now’!” Taking two steps forward, “Get the ‘hell’ out of here!” Putting both hands onto his bony chest, shoving, the man pushed the derelict against the partially open gate.

“ ‘Ay!” Pushing back. Coming closer. Shaking a fist in the man’s face. “All’s I want’s a cup’a your god-damned, fuckin’ jo!”

Thinking it would scare him away...

Speaking from between clenched teeth...

“If you don’t get the hell out of here ‘right now’!” Moving the apron aside, the man exposed the wood grain handle of a snub nosed .38 calibre pistol that was tucked beneath his belt.

But the threat remained unfinished because…

Shoving again, the derelict pushed the man backwards where tripping on the mop handle, off balance the man stumbled between the stools and…

As he stumbled, jerking the pistol from the man’s belt…

Peoria, Illinois

July 14, 1959:

7:22 AM

“Hello.”

“Mitch, it’s Roger.”

Pouring a cup of coffee, “Hi!” putting the pot on the stove, glancing at the clock, “what’s up?”

Speaking in a strangely flat voice. “Is my sister...” which, for conversations he’d had with Roger, did not sound all that strange “...uh, is Marsha around?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Having a long cord, the one phone in the house was on the dining area side of the adjoining wall. Inadvertently glancing at his son, who was sitting on the floor watching television, then at the stairway. “Guess she’s still in the bathroom.” Never getting a phone call from his brother-in-law, let alone one at 7:22 AM, “Is something wrong?”

The line silent a number of seconds, “Yeah,” Roger finally said. “Tell my sister that dad had a, uh, accident and that you guys should come on home.”

“An accident? Yeah, sure, Roge. How is he? A car accident?”

The line silent again… “No… he got shot.”

“ ‘Shot’?”

“Yeah, look…” Obviously not wanting to talk of this, hesitating again, “I can’t talk anymore. You guys just come home as soon as you can! Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll be there at about...” looking at the clock, judging how long it will take them to get ready to leave, “...twelve, twelve thirty, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, okay. See you then,” Roger said, then hung up.

Placing the phone on the cradle. Trying to think how to tell Marsha. As he walked to the stairs, she was coming down.

“Who was that? Who’d call at this time?” Marsha asked. “A customer?”

“No, your brother, and he…”

“My ‘brother’ called?”

“Yeah. And he said that we should come there now because…”

“ ‘Now’? He wants us to come to Chicago, now? Why?”

“He said there was some kind of an accident, and…”

“An accident?”

“Yes.” Thinking if he remained calm, hopefully she would too. “He said that…”

“What kind of accident? Who…”

“I don’t know how it happened, Marcie, but…”

“Mitchell...” becoming upset, “... an accident with who? Who got hurt?”

“Marcie, it was your dad. He…”

All vestige of calmness gone, “Daddy!” Her voice catching, “What happened to daddy?”

“Your brother… Roger said that… That your dad, uh…”

Rushing to the phone, about to grab it, it rang. “Yes!”

“Marsha…”

“Aunt Ida, what’s wrong?”

“We didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but thinking about it we thought it best to let you know because…”

In panic, “ ‘Let me know what’?”

“We didn’t want the three of you rushing home and getting into an accident yourselves, but…”

Her voice rising, “Aunt Ida, ‘please’! What happened to daddy?”

“This morning, before he opened, some bum, some dirty, god-damned nigger bum came into the store, and… The bastard shot your father!”

“Daddy? Shot?” Not allowing herself to think it, “How… How is he?”

Struggling to find words, the line was silent a moment. “That’s why there’s no need to rush here,” Ida said. “Marcie, Eli… Your father’s dead.”

July 24, 1959

How could it be?

How could this day possibly be such a beautiful day?

In surrealistic contrast to this beautiful summer day the mood within the car was drearily grey, and the silence oppressive.

Emotionally drained from the horror of last week’s endless drive from Peoria to Chicago.

Then the funeral. Then the ‘Shiva’—the seven days of mourning for the dead, beginning immediately after the funeral in the home of the deceased.

Since leaving the home of, now, only her mother, though he had made an attempt at small talk, Marsha, with Michael curled on the seat alongside, asleep, had not responded and receiving no response, Mitchell, too, had lapsed into a depressed silence.

...Breaking the silence. “You know...” Marsha said softly, “...they say only the good die young.” Adding sarcastically, “Guess that means mother will live forever.”

Relieved at hearing her voice. Glancing at her and not thinking she expected an answer, placing his hand on Marsha’s knee Mitchell brought his attention back to the ribbon of highway before him.

“You do know they liked him! The cops really liked daddy and they always told him: ‘Eli, don’t threaten those bastards! Just kill ‘em, then give us a call and we’ll send a wagon and cart ’em away with no questions asked’.”

He’d heard someone at the funeral or Shiva say that, possibly

even one of the many policemen that had come to offer their condolences.

“Poor Roger.”

Never having heard Marsha say anything nice about her brother, he glanced at her again.

“Having to identify the b… uh, daddy.”

He didn’t remember who told him, but Mitchell had heard this before too, but thought it best to let her talk.

“To be called there! To find daddy sitting on the floor between those two stools with his eyes open, smiling… Oh, God!” Shuddering. Shaking her head from side to side as though attempting to rid herself of the sight. “At first he thought daddy was okay, then Roger saw the hole in his forehead and that he wasn’t moving.” Hugging her son, “Oh, God!”

Wanting to offer solace. Desperately wanting to say something, anything to console her, but not knowing what to say, he squeezed her knee.

“And they let him go!” Now railing against the police. “The god-damned cops find the son-of-a-bitch running around waving a gun saying, ‘I just shot a man!’ And because the god-damned ‘Urban League’ said it wasn’t his gun, and that he shot daddy in self-defence they let him go! ‘God-damn-it’!”

Attempting to give comfort, of sorts, “Marcie, you know what that one cop told you.”

“Yeah, that one day they’ll find that nigger dead in an alley.”

“Marcie…”

“No! ‘Don’t’ say it! Ruby’s a mench, but the bastard that killed my father is a nigger!”

Silent a moment, then, “I want a baby!”

“Huh?” So far out of context, “What did you say?”

“I want to give daddy a name! I want to become pregnant!”

Earning enough to be able to afford a second child.

Also knowing that in the Jewish religion the soul of a departed person cannot rest—so he’d been told—until that person is ‘given a name’. And because Mitchell was well aware of Marsha’s love of her father, and well aware of her stubborn determination. Also because he had truly liked his father-in-law…

“Sure, honey...” he said. “...If that’s what you want, it’s fine with me.”

Next FBOW excerpt in sequece:        "A  Death & A Life"