by Mick Austin
Copyright 2021

“Hello, Mama Sharon. It’s Rivka . . . Koen.”

“Oh my God, Rivka. Is it really you? We heard so many stories and they said you’d been deported.” She began to cry, then I began to cry.

“Yes, it’s really me. It was big mess . . . can I speak to Misha, please?” There was silence.

“He, uh . . . he left, honey . . .”

“Left?”

“Yeah, he took off. He was havin’ a rough time of it. Got kicked out of school. He . . . missed you so much and everything here was makin’ it worse.”

“He just left? Where? Where did he go?”

“Oh, God, Rivka, he went to San Francisco, then LA, then . . . he said he was following Route 66.”

“Like the song?” I don’t know why I said that. “Well, didn’t he tell you where he was going? Where he is? I mean, didn’t he call or write?”

“He, uh . . . stopped calling.”

“He what?”

“He stopped callin’, honey. He writes but he doesn’t call anymore.” She started crying again. “I think we kind of . . . made it hard for him to call . . . I mean . . . Oh, Rivka, I miss him so much. I think he’s safe. His letters say he is, but he won’t tell us where he is.”

“Do letters have postmark?”

“They’re all postmarked from Philadelphia, but there’s no return address. We hired a private detective in Philadelphia a month ago. So far, he hasn’t been able to find him . . . oh, Rivka, I think his dad and I are responsible for him not callin’. Every time he called I’d start cryin’ and pleadin’ for him to come home and Owen would be angry and try to make him feel guilty for making me unhappy and it was just . . . just terrible, Rivka. I feel like we drove him away. Oh, please forgive us, Rivka.” She was crying again.

“Oh, Mama Sharon . . . it’s just horrible situation. I think only people to blame are people who kidnapped my parents and me . . . Do you think I could see letters? We can’t leave DC. It’s complicated . . . hard to explain.”

“Of course, honey. I’ll send them to you.”

“Thank you, Mama Sharon. I’ll call again in week. Hopefully our boy will have called by then. You’ll call me if he calls, yes?”

“Of course, hon. Give Rachel and Isaac our love, darlin’.”

“They send their love too. Goodbye, Mama Sharon.”

What the fuck? . . . What the fuck?!! I couldn’t believe it. I called Ava.

We had similar conversation with more detail about what Misha had gone through after our kidnapping. Drunkenness, high all the time, fighting, suspension, expulsion.

“Everything reminded him of you, Ri. Everything . . . and he just couldn’t handle it. He was lost, girlfriend. He wouldn’t talk to me or Maria or Steve, not more than a few words. He wouldn’t come to school and when he did someone would say something about you and Mickey would beat the shit out of him. He put two guys in the hospital . . . then he left. One day he just left. We heard about it from Mama Sharon when we called to check on him. We haven’t heard from him in . . . months.”

I thought, Oh my sweet baby . . . alone, out who knows where? Thinking I’m in Russia. Thinking I’m lost to him. Oh, Misha, just phone home. For God’s sake, phone home.

                                                                                              ***

I was allowed to go to school. Senior year, so I was on track to graduate when I otherwise would have. I had, if not normal, at least social interactions and even made some friends. Not friends like G5, but movies, dances, normal Senior in high school stuff. No boyfriends. I already had boyfriend. Boyfriend who wouldn’t phone home. Fucking, stubborn knuckleheaded boyfriend who wouldn’t phone home. I tried to understand. I really did. But I was starting to feel angry with Misha. I missed him and I was really horny. I began to imagine him finding comfort in another girl’s arms. I mean, he was normal, well maybe not normal, but healthy teenage American boy. Why wouldn’t he find comfort? Except he told me that if we were ever separated permanently he would probably become monk . . . Jewish monk. (I really didn’t think there was such animal). Plus, I was getting picture of depressed, drunken, stoned Misha and my mind could not help but go to some very dark places. Jesus Christ, Misha, fucking phone home!

I continued calling O’Taney home every week. Mama Sharon sent me his letters. I read that he’d visited Oklahoma City (oh so pretty) and took bus from there to St. Louis because of some trouble with Oklahoma rednecks. He was not specific. He’d gone to Chicago, then on to Philadelphia and there is where trail turned cold. Letters were postmarked from there with no return address. He was working on docks somewhere. I thought, Maybe he went to Boston . . . maybe I’ll run into him there . . . maybe I’ll search for him on docks in Boston when I go to MIT. Why don’t you fucking phone home??!!!

School year passed slowly, agonizingly. I received early acceptance from MIT and Papa was overjoyed. I continued calling O’Taneys but still no word from Misha. I spoke with Papa Owen few times. He was very subdued. He missed his baby boy. He told me he felt Misha not calling was mostly on him. On one call he seemed like he was about to start crying and he handed phone to Mama Sharon. Such terrible fucking mess! 

                                                                                               ***

“Uh, my name is Mark.”

“Oh, hi, Mark. My name is Rivka.”

“Yeah, I know . . . I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to you.”

We were in Chemistry Lab. “My goodness. Am I that scary?”

“No, no . . . not at all . . . maybe a little. Not scary scary but just kind of too gorgeous to safely approach.”

I chuckled. “Well, thank you . . . I think. I guess I’m not that friendly these days. I used to be . . . friendly I mean. My family and I have been through lot of shit in last year. I’m not trying to make excuse . . . it’s just, um, complicated.”

“Oh . . . okay. May I share your bunsen burner?” I looked at him, really looked, for first time. He was few inches taller than me. I was kind of tall for girl at 5-8. His hair was dark and short and his face, while not knock out gorgeous like Misha, was pleasant. Like most of Senior boys, he was trim. Youthful lean.

“Mi bunsen burner es su bunsen burner?”

He laughed. “That’s funny . . . You speak Spanish?”

“Not if I can help it.”

He laughed again. “You’re really funny.” He moved his lab manual and notebook to place beside me.

A few days passed. We got to be friends.

“Do you think you would, um . . . g-go out with me?”

I looked off in distance . . . I was really angry with Misha at that time. “What did you have in mind?”

What passed over his face was, in rapid succession, surprise, relief, puzzlement and fear. He was terrified. “I was thinking of a . . . movie?”

I almost laughed at his discomfort but caught myself. “Ok, Mark, movie . . . when, what time, what movie?” True, I was angry with Misha, but I wasn’t going out of my way to make new life for myself, for fucksake. No reason to make it easy for anyone trying to hit on me. This was my thinking.

“In my plan . . . I hadn’t gotten that far.”

That time I laughed. Nodding my head gently, “Ok, make plan, get back to me, okay?” I smiled at him.

“Right . . .” He was smiling as he looked down.

We went to see “Hard Days Night.” It had been re-released and was playing limited engagement at Georgetown Cinema. Misha and I loved Beatles. Between us, we’d bought three albums (UK versions) from Lucius before we were ripped apart. They had taken US by storm in 1964, year before our separation. As Mark and I were watching movie all I could think about was Misha, us playing together on stage, making love. I almost didn’t notice when Mark tried to hold my hand. Almost. I pulled away and looked at him. His look of rejection hurt me. I mean, how could it not? I felt his rejection almost as acutely as he.

“I’m sorry, Mark. I . . . it’s complicated,” I whispered. I reached over and held his hand for rest of movie . . . and felt very guilty and sad and horny. Pretty confusing.

Few days later in Chemistry, Mark opened his textbook at our lab table and said, “I’m really having a problem with stoichiometry . . . do you think you could go through some problems with me?” Stoichiometry was part of chemistry dealing with moles and measurements. I actually thought it was kind of fun.

“I think you probably know it better than you think . . . but alright.”

We went through problem in Study Hall and veil was suddenly removed from his eyes. Quite dramatic. It was hard not to roll my eyes. He was so appreciative. It was just funny and I was feeling real affection for him. God dammit, Misha! 

“Rivka, would you like to come over on Saturday? I mean, we could hang out, watch some TV. Just harmless fun.”

I shocked shit out of myself and said, “Sure. That sounds like fun.” As soon as I said it I regretted it but . . . too late.

                                                                                              ***

“This is really nice place. So, where are your parents, Mark?”

“Well . . . they’re kind of . . . away.”

“Away, like at store?”

“No . . . away like New York.”

“Hmm . . . if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to get in my pants, young man.” I was smiling at him. It was like I was being pulled along on this current and couldn’t swim out of it. I was being pulled into his arms . . . metaphorically at that point.

“No, Miss, I assure you my intentions are completely honorable.”

“Mm hmm.” I pulled him towards me by back of his neck and we kissed. I wish I could say I wished it was Misha but I’d just called Mama Sharon that morning and Misha still hadn’t called and I was really angry with him. In my head, in some twisted kind of way I was getting revenge on him. And it felt good. Kissing Mark felt good. He was . . . ok kisser . . . not like Misha. Fuck you, Misha! I put his hand on my breast.

He pulled back, astonished, surprised but most of all, eager. “Oh, Rivka.” Then his hands were all over me. Next thing I knew we were in our underwear. Breathing hard. “Rivka, do you want to . . . um . . .”

“Do it?” I offered. He nodded earnestly and I was in full lather, wet and swollen . . . Good title for raunchy rock song, I thought. Wet and Swollen.

We peeled off remaining garments and lay down on sofa in family room. It was not quite right, not like Cave, but I was in no mood to be picky. I reached down and encountered his rigid cock. I looked down to be sure. Now, I’m sure he was average or thereabouts, but I couldn’t get beyond comparing him to Misha, who prior to that moment was only naked male I’d ever seen up close.

It was like car crash. I couldn’t look away. He was moaning and thrusting in my hand and I . . . started laughing. I couldn’t help it. More I tried to stifle, more hysterical I got. I think it was combination of guilt, anger but also, I’m not sure. I mean, his penis was uncut but I don’t think that’s why I was laughing. I think maybe I was finally having some kind of break . . . some kind of emotional break. I started crying alternating with hysterical laughter. “Oh, Mark . . . I’m so sorry. I’m not laughing at your cock.” I think that made it worse. It was like when Misha and I got into giggle fit and fed each other’s laughter, only right then, I was only one laughing.

He put back on his shorts, whitey-tighties. And that made me laugh more. “I think you should go,” he said, on edge of anger.

“Mark, just give me moment.” Then giggle fit began again in earnest.

“Just go, please.” He was handing me my clothes. “Go now, please.”

I got dressed as fast as I could, laughing and giggling whole time. “Really, Mark, I’m sorry.”

He was pissed. “Just get the fuck out!” He was almost shouting. I got to front stoop and realized I’d forgotten my panties. I turned around to knock on door when it opened and my panties came flying out and door slammed shut. They hit me in face and stuck. That sent me into more laughing. I stuffed them in my purse and half walked, half ran home, laughing all the way  (Ho Ho Ho).

I’ve had time to think about this. I knew, early on, in my heart, I could not cheat on Misha. I found idea repulsive and failsafe mechanism must have been set up in my brain. I think I blew right past it, making out with Mark, feeling him up, letting him touch me intimately, so that when it came to me sitting there with his . . . cock in my hand, switch must have been flipped and whole mechanism just kicked in with vengeance. Blew right past “No, I think this is bad idea,” straight to laughing and crying hysterically. This is my thinking.

Mark did not say single word to me or make eye contact for remainder of year, but it being April it wasn’t that long. I felt so bad, but it was all I could do not to laugh every time I looked at him. It wasn’t anything about him or his . . . equipment, I just kept remembering, there we were naked, lying down on sofa, about to do it . . . his cock in my hand . . . and I had fit. I am bad person. No one else approached me with sexual intent and I was friendly but no more than that, certainly not flirtatious, to anyone after that.

Mama and Papa were allowed to start teaching at Georgetown that summer and their moods improved markedly. We were told at end of summer we could go anywhere, including back to Hillsdale if we wanted. Apparently, CIA and DOD had worked out their differences, but I was going to start MIT in September and Rakhel and Itzak wanted to be close to their only child so they decided to stay at Georgetown.

Children of faculty could take classes tuition free so I took English Literature and Art History, making some casual friends, no boys, and listened to one radio station that played more than top 40, like deep cuts on albums by Byrds, Animals, Yardbirds . . . like that. 

I missed Misha’s and my record collection but when I mentioned it to Mama Sharon she told me Papa Owen had gone to our house and moved everything into storage, including my records. I thanked Papa Owen, almost breaking into tears. It sounded like he was choking up and he handed phone back to Mama Sharon. 

“He’s not doing so well, Rivka. Since we found out you were ok he’s been kickin’ himself for takin’ such a hard line with Mickey.”

“I wish he would just call.”

“You and me both, hon. You and me both.”

“I know he was having hard time but he hasn’t phoned home in more than year. I miss him so much, Mama Sharon. I love him so dearly, but I have to tell you . . . I’m very angry with him. When I see him again, after I kiss him, I’m going to give him good talking to.”

She chuckled. “Good! You do that. I don’t . . . really feel like I can . . . scold him.” 

“Not to worry, Mama Sharon. I’ll give him good talking to for both of us.” We both laughed and cried for while then rang off.