BOW #24: ‘Lipschultz’
San Diego, California
March 2, 1974
9:45 a.m. Pacific Standard Time
The hatch closed and secured, the portable staircase rolled away.
Within a minute or two, feeling a slight pressure in their ears, the cabin pressurized as, swallowing to clear their ears, they felt the surge of power as the four port and starboard jet engines came to life…
After two or three minutes of hesitation, the Boeing 707 airliner began to roll.
The plane taxied slowly. It turned to the right then to the right again and stopped.
The roaring of the four engines barely heard within the cabin…
Shuddering, straining to be on its way…
A sudden jerk as the plane began to move forward….
Slowly… Faster… Faster… Faster… faster, faster. Faster until the patched cracks in the runway and the weedy grass alongside the concrete strip became a blur… Inches. The wheels were inches off the ground… A foot… A yard… Two, three, five, ten yards off the ground…
The plane rose in steeply angled flight over the terminal and hangers and planes and commercial structures that dotted Lindbergh Field, then over houses and swimming pool strewn yards…
Higher… Higher… Higher…
Banking easterly, the early-morning sun, shifted from port to starboard.
Both watching, looking through the port at the Lavender and white bathed hills.
“Mitchie...” Laying her head on his shoulder “...I love San Diego so much I can’t wait until we’re back and our family’s with us.”
His hand on her cheek. “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about leaving here.”
“And that car, too, I’ll bet.”
Chuckling. “Oh, baby. No doubt you’ll win that bet.”
“And the sunshine, Mitchie. Can you imagine, no more winters.”
“No more shoveling driveways.”
“No more scary, ice storms or …”
“Slippery streets.”
“Think the kids’ll miss snowball fights?”
“Really, you think? In exchange for their own swimming pool?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
Sighing “I can’t believe we’ve only been gone a day and a half.”
“Or when we land, like we never left Chicago.”
Above the mountains.
In the clouds with nothing but gray above and below.
Marsha’s head resting on Mitchell’s shoulder with Mitchell’s cheek upon Marsha’s hair.
the wife slept and the husband...
Why now?
Ever since meeting Sophie’s friend ‘Harriet’, the reason for the familiarity of the name of Harriet’s deceased husband remained just out of reach
‘Lipschultz’ ?
‘Lipschults’?
Before the cover of sleep enveloped Mitchell Lipensky
‘Lipschultz’?
No!
Chicago, Illinois
December 28, 1962
In the fifteen months since he’d been back from Peoria she had seen Mitchell four times: twice at Transco’s semi-annual sales meetings and twice on the street, where once she had turned away and the other had actually ducked into a doorway. But now, tired of hiding…
“Mitchell!”
Hearing his name called, reluctantly pulling his head from his collar, turning, he looked about.
“Mitch! Mitchell!”
Downtown traffic sparse on this last Friday of the year, looking to the other side of Wabash Avenue, his heart quickening. My God!
Waving, “Mitchell!” Waiting for the light to change, she was there.
In the fifteen months since returning to Transco, as he’d walked the streets of his territory, Mitchell had constantly been on the watch for her, yet hoped he would not see her. Now, the moment he’d wanted… yet dreaded.
Of course seeing each other at Transco’s semi-annual sales meetings—as though afraid more would trigger something both were fearful of—other than a nod and a quickly said, “Hello, how are you?” both did their best to remain at arm’s length and maintain a standoffish attitude.
Waving back, he watched as — the light changing, Elizabeth Herzon crossed Wabash Avenue.
Wearing a white, fur lined, near ankle length suede coat and a fuzzy pink hat pulled low onto her forehead, her long, dark blonde, honey-coloured streaked hair fanning onto her shoulders…
His breath catching. Beautiful!
Her cheeks red from the cold and wind…
Watching Elizabeth approach, My God, Mitchell thought. She’s so beautiful!
Wearing a dark brown, calf length overcoat, his hair ruffled by the wind, Mitchell foolishly—the hat industry killed by John F. Kennedy’s refusal to wear hats—wore no hat.
Approaching…
Feeling her heart quicken. My God, Elizabeth thought. He looks ‘so’ good!
“Hi.” He thought of shaking hands, but knew if he took her hand he ‘quite possibly’ would not want to let go.
“Hi.” Ready to remove a mitten if he should make a move to shake her hand. Afraid, though, if he should she ‘quite possibly’ would not want to let go.
Looking at each other…
Standing wordless for a number of heartbeats…
Having to make some sort of a move. Deciding. Clumsily moving his hand to hers… Hanging in the air a second then, letting his arm drop he saw that she had began to remove a mitten but— both hands stopping movement, their eyes locked, each wondering of the other’s thoughts—which were pretty much the same Elizabeth Herzon and Mitchell Lipensky stood silent a long moment longer.
“Uh…” finding words “...you still got calls to make?”
“No...” Mitchell said “...finished and heading to my car. You?”
“Yes, me, too, uh, all done.”
“You…” knowing he shouldn’t “...in any hurry to get home?” Mitchell asked.
If he wants to go someplace to be alone… Not knowing how she would respond. “No. No hurry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Wanting to be alone with her, but terrified at the thought. “You want to grab a bite someplace? You hungry?”
One of Elizabeth's means of maintaining her hard fought weight reduction was by rarely eating lunch and sometimes nothing more than a small salad for dinner but “Yes...” she said “...I’m starving.”
On Wabash Avenue, looking south. “Harding’s...” Mitchell said “...Harding’s okay?”
“Yes. Harding’s is fine.”
***
Overcoats left in the cloak room opposite the entrance…
Wearing a white blouse beneath a business-like dark blue wool jacket with matching, below-the-knee skirt and black leather pumps with a one-and-a-half inch heel…
Walking behind Elizabeth as she followed the hostess up the richly panelled staircase, Mitchell watched her slightly thick calves and ankles—which did not deter him, not in the slightest—along with Elizabeth’s well defined, swaying backside.
“Enjoy your lunch.”
Seated at a small table facing each other.
Fearful the slightest touch might begin a process that would lead to infidelity and matrimonial disaster.
Sitting stiffly, legs sharply bent at their knees, the balls of their feet planted firmly beneath their chairs.
Both sets of hands held primly within their laps. Looking about the eloquently appointed restaurant — roiling emotions held strongly at bay, neither knowing how to start a conversation or what type of conversation to start.
In any case, studying the menu before them, buying the time needed to think of the start of a conversation.
Elizabeth, remembering the kiss she had initiated behind the cartons and wanting nothing more than to do it again—to kiss Mitchell.
And he, remembering that kiss and the feel of her body against his knew exactly what he wanted. However, remembering that haunting dream, he also knew the eventual consequences.
The silence becoming pronounced…
“How’d you find Peoria? You enjoy living there?”
Now looking at each other. Eyes unblinking. Both intently studying the face of the other.
“Yes, we actually did like it there. It was far enough away and close enough and…” truthfully, for and between Marsha and Mitchell “l...ife was slower and things more peaceful.”
Breaking the intense eye contact, Elizabeth looked downward. “I like big city living and think Peoria would be kind of small for me.”
“In comparison Peoria is small and it did take a little getting used to. But the business attitude is much friendlier and small town living is kind’a neat… Least-ways, everything’s cheaper there.”
Looking at Mitchell, studying his face. “You glad you’re back?”
Thinking, other than the never ending arguments. “So far… yeah...” he said “...I think so.”
“How you finding Tom’s territory?”
Looking at her, unable to believe that he was actually sitting here with a woman as flawlessly beautiful as Elizabeth; actually that he was even with Elizabeth.
“Other than freezing in winter and broiling in summer, what’s not to like?”
“Afternoon.” A waitress bringing rolls, butter and water questioned, “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.” Shaking his head negatively, he looked at Elizabeth.
“No, none for me, thank you.”
“So…” Elizabeth asked after the waitress left “...how have you been? Your wife…” remembering Marsha’s name, but “…uh?”
“ ‘Marsha’.”
“Yes, Marsha. So how have you and Marsha been?”
Lying. “Fine.” Opening the menu. “We’re just fine…. You?”
Knowing what she would order, what she always ordered. “Me?” Lying. “I’m fine too, Mitch.”
Deciding. Folding the menu and laying it on the table, he took a roll, tore it in half and smeared a half pad of butter on each half.
“You know, I was really surprised… Actually more like shocked, when Gene called and offered me my old job back.” Biting into the roll. “And especially surprised when he told me it was your idea.”
Watching him chew. Dying for a buttered roll.
“Yeah...” she said. Then saying one of those things that are occasionally said before the brain has a chance to process one’s thoughts. “...I missed you.”
‘I missed you!’ She ‘missed’ me!
Wanting to recall her words. “Yeah...” attempting to make a joke of it “...there’s no one else at Transco for me to make nuts, so I thought I’d try to get my old desk mate back.”
“May I take your orders?”
The conversation with Mitchell taking a turn that Elizabeth did not intend...
“May I take your orders?”
...Thank, God! Elizabeth’s eyes shiftiing to the waitress. “Yes, I’ll have the house salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side and no croutons, please.”
Making the notation on her pad, the waitress shifted her gaze.
“Hamburger, medium rare and make the fries crispy, please.”
Making the notation. Taking both menus. “Thank you.”
Her eyes closed. Her stomach rumbling at the heavenly thought of a hamburger with French fries along with the cooking scents of Harding’s, Elizabeth ran her tongue over her lips to wipe away any ‘imagined’ saliva.
Thinking it best to let the ‘I missed you’ comment lie. “I hear your sales are going really great.”
“Yes, being a woman… Well, I guess their gamble is paying off.”
“Yeah, being ambitious and smart...” holding intense eye contact “...and as beautiful as you are sure helps, too.”
The complement as warming as a fireplace on a cold day.
Sensing a surge of emotion she knew was best held down. “I’d Like to think it was more being ambitious and smart than the way I look.”
Lowering her eyes, changing the subject. “Your son… How’s your son?”
“Mickey's fine, thanks, but we’ve two more now, you know.”
“You’ve ‘two more’ kids?” Blinking her eyes rapidly. Three kids! The impossible situation becoming even more impossible. Swallowing, thinking, He’s got three kids! “Wow!” Elizabeth said. “When’d that happen?”
“My father-in-law… Marsha’s father was murdered about four years ago…”
“ ‘Murdered’!”
“Yeah. He had a grill on East Madison Street. You know, near the skid row area, and a drunk…” not sure what word to use “...a shvartz… uh, a Negro came in and shot him.”
“A shvartzer shot him! Oh, my ‘God’! How ‘terrible’!”
“Yeah. And Marsha wanted to give her father a name. So we… she became pregnant as soon as she could.”
Nodding appreciatively. “Yes, I can understand that.”
“So we had a girl and named her ‘Ellie’ —My father-in-law’s name was ‘Eli.’ And ‘Sammy’… Well, she just wanted another baby.”
“Here you go, folks.” Placing Elizabeth’s house salad with vinaigrette dressing, on the side, and Mitchell’s…
Smelling it. Oh, my God! Hearing her stomach growl. Knowing she was drooling—actually she wasn’t. But thinking she was drooling—looking away, trying to think of something else, Elizabeth dabbed at her lips with the napkin.
Moving the lettuce around with her fork. Watching as he poured catsup over the fries, looking up, seeing Elizabeth looking at his dish.“I’ve plenty, if you want to split…”
“No!” She said a bit louder than necessary. “Sorry, Mitch, but I’m...” she said weakly “...watching my weight.”
Cutting the hamburger in half, about to—not said in a condescending way but in an affectionate way—the word ‘honey’ about to roll off his lips. Catching himself, “Liz, you look absolutely fine to me!” Taking a bite, watching her as she watched the hamburger travel from the plate to his mouth.
Her eyes dropping. Looking to the shallow bowl before her. Pouring a thin stream of vinaigrette dressing onto the salad and, as though forcing herself— which, indeed she was. Spearing a cherry tomato, she unenthusiastically popped it into her mouth.
Both quiet…
Thinking of telling him… Maybe to shock him as his news of his three children had shocked her. But also by telling him it might get her mind off the hamburger and fries.
“Mitchie...” toying with a slice of cucumber “...I want to tell you something...”
Swallowing. Taking a drink of water, he looked at her over the rim of the glass.
“...but You’ve ‘got’ to promise! You ‘can’t’ tell anyone.”
Intrigued. “Sure, if you don’t want me to say anything...” he said sincerely “...I promise I won’t.”
Hesitating again. Looking at her dish…Then once again their eyes locking…
“I’m married.”
“You’re ‘what’?”
“ ‘Married’. I’ve been married for about three and a half years.”
Confused by his contradicting emotions.
Married? His heart sinking, but yet glad because now — foolishly thinking, If she’s married nothing can happen between us.
“Why?” he asked. “Why’s it a secret?”
“When they hired me I got grilled, ‘really’ grilled about ‘was I married’? Do I ‘intend’ to get married or plan on having any kids? Gene told me that being the first woman to work for the company they planned on putting a lot of effort into me and promised me a really good territory! But wanted my assurance that I had ‘no’ ‘intentions about having children. And I got the impression that they thought if I was married I’d probably want kids, so not being married was kind of a bonus to them. So when Myron and me…
“ ‘Myron’? I thought you said his name was, uh...” thinking “ ...‘Howard’.”
“ ‘Howard’?’”
“Yeah. When the three of us— you’n’Marsha’n’me, were sitting together at the Christmas party, you said you were engaged to a ‘Howie’.”
Remembering...“Nah...” smiling. “...that was all made up to get Marsha off my back.”
Remembering. Taking a bite of the hamburger. “Yeah...” remembering Marsha’s unnerving attitude “...I can see why.”
Cutting a small chunk of iceberg lettuce and swishing it around the vinaigrette dressing on the bottom of the shallow bowl. Putting it into her mouth she enthusiastically chewed.
“So you can see why I don’t want anyone to know because I really love my job and don’t want them, Transco, getting the idea that I might, maybe…” afraid of regaining her weight Elizabeth truly did not “...want to become pregnant because then they might get worried and start thinking about cutting my territory or firing me.”
Working on the second half of the hamburger. “So what does, uh…?”
“Myron.”
“Yeah. So what does Myron think about keeping your marriage a secret?”
“Well...” her fork poised to spear a French fry. But knowing one fry would lead to another, so calling upon all the will power she had “...I’m making more money then him, so…”
Revealing a bit of the depth of his feeling for her. Cutting her off. “If it was me married to you…” thinking, My God, I wish! “...I’d sure care!”
Thinking, My God, I wish! “Seeing as I’m the one bringing most of the money into the house he really doesn’t care.”
“So you’re not really...” chewing and swallowing the last of the hamburger “… ‘Elizabeth Herzon’ anymore.”
Glad to see it gone. “No…” leaving most of her salad “... now I guess I’m ‘Elizabeth Lipshitz’.”
“ ‘Lipshitz’?” Chuckling. “That’s almost as bad as Lipensky.”
“Mitchell…” Their eyes locked. For the second time saying one of those things that are occasionally said before the brain has a chance to process one’s thoughts… Or maybe not “…I’d love it if my name was Lipensky.”
She loves me!
Lipschlutz?
Remembering: ‘Lipshits’… ‘Elizabeth Lipshits’.
Although, on Wednesday, May 29, 1963 ...
Catching her breath, opening her eyes, looking at him...Hesitating a moment, “I told Myron I want a divorce.”
Breathing heavily. “Huh?” Still atop Elizabeth. Still within Elizabeth. “What?”
“I told Myron I want a divorce.”
****
“Ladies and gentlemen…” one of the plane’s officers announced... “...we’ll be making our final approach to O’Hara Air-Field within the next twenty minutes so kindly observe the ‘no smoking and fasten your seat belt’ sign.
“The mean temperature in Chicago stands at minus two with the wind chill factor of fifteen below.
“As a reminder, remember to set your watches forward two hours as Central Standard Time is now three-twenty-seven.
“On behalf of the Captain and crew, we wish you an enjoyable stay in Chicago and thank you for flying ‘United’.”
Looking at their watches, Mitchell and Marsha moved the time forward two hours.
Leveling off now. Approaching the narrow ribbon of concrete, the ground and the roofs of all structures within sight appeared to be covered in white.
Chicago, Illinois
March 2, 1974
4:12 p.m. Central Standard Time
Pushing through the revolving door to the outside world of bone chilling, face numbing, squalling wind. Breath coming in thick plumes of vapor.
Walking as quickly as possible from the O'Hara Air-Field Arrivals Terminal to the parking lot. Their coats — zipped and buttoned from hem to throat, willowed in the howling wind.
Spotting their tan, 1973 ‘Mercury’ Station Wagon…
“Thank God!” Quickly unlocking and tossing their two suit cases through the rear door, then unlocking the passenger door for Marsha, Mitchell rushed to the driver-side door as she reached across the seat to unlock it.
Out of the wind now. Sitting a moment to acclimate to the comparative quiet. Placing the key into the ignition, starting the motor and letting it run for about thirty seconds, Mitchell turned the heater to ‘Hi’, put the car into ‘D’, and drove from the parking lot.
Notation: Awaking with an erection, before heading to the bathroom, on occasional mornings Mitchell’s mind would go to Elizabeth and her soft breasts and large, near transparent pink nipples and an unruly thatch of golden hugged pubic hair…
If possible, would Mitchell Lipensky go back to Elizabeth and give up what he has? His four children, his wife, all whom he does love.
If possible, would Mitchell Lipensky go back to Elizabeth and give up what he is about to have? His new career? His new home in a ‘literal’ paradise?
Deep down…
‘Deep’ down does Mitchell Lipensky still love Elizabeth Herzon?
‘No’!
Mitchell Lipensky no longer loves Elizabeth Herzon.
He tells himself.
Next BOW #15: The Pool, Daddy
