How It Ended - Laurence & Ma Duck Ch. 02

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[Author's Note: Please read Part 01 in this series before this selection.]

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They seemed perfect. He was smitten with her at first exposure. She was immediately attracted to him. Their initial friendship took a long time to form, to gel into a relationship. When it did, they were truly soul-mates. Yet they broke up.

The break-up can best be ascribed to "sexual politics." That term, coined in the late sixties as a by-product of the feminist movement that started on college campuses, is defined as: "The principles determining the relationship of the sexes; relations between the sexes regarded in terms of power."

In other words, power in the bedroom.

This is the second installment in their story.

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Laurence:

I was running late. I should have left the hospital 90 minutes earlier, but there was an emergency surgery resulting from a car wreck. Dr. Anderson asked me to assist. Not that great an honor given that all his more likely choices had already left the house. I did not have time to change out of my scrubs. I did change into my street shoes from my surgical slippers, but the rest of my "street clothes" were in a small duffel bag.

I made it to the airport about three minutes after the scheduled landing time for the Flight. So rather than going to the gate to find Ma Duck among the arrivals, I went straight to the baggage area. And there I spotted her, waiting for the luggage to start sliding down the ramp onto the carousel. She was professionally dressed in a smart ensemble consisting of a skirt of tasteful length, matching hose or tights -- I couldn't be sure which -- and a smart blazer.

I approached her.

Ma Duck:

He wasn't at the arrivals gate. Was I worried? Not at all -- this was Quack, my Quack, a pinnacle of reliability.

I turned my head from the baggage carousel and out of the corner of my eye notice someone walking towards me. It was quack, dressed in scrubs including one of those surgical caps, in solid forest green to match his scrubs.

"Yes, I'd like a single scoop of cherry vanilla on a sugar cone," I requested.

Ever affable and unflappable, Quack just smiled.

"Seriously," I continued. "Are you trying to impress me with the fancy duds?"

"Ms. Duck, if I desired to impress you I'd be wearing my stethoscope," he replied. "Actually there was an emergency at the hospital and I didn't have time to change if I wanted to get here on time. But here we are. I've got a change of clothes in the car."

My bag came down the chute. I walked to retrieve it. Quack, ever gallant, interposed himself and scooped it up. Off we went.

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Laurence led them to his car, a brand-spanking new Datsun 280-Z -- second only to the Corvette as the premier sports car of the era -- in a jaunty deep blue color. A two-seater, it had no trunk. However, the passenger front seat folded down to allow one to place a hardcover book, or maybe even a box of pastries, in the open rear compartment. It proved large enough to accompany Ma Duck's suitcase, laid sideways, with easily a half inch to spare. Just fine -- so long as the driver did not mind having the rear view mirror occluded.

Laurence:

My car was parked, quite illegally, at the curb. (Passenger pick-up only; no unattended vehicles.) A 10" x "12" cardboard placard that read "Mass General -- Emergency" was placed in the dashboard. I had figured that might dissuade a meter maid from her duties for a good 30 seconds or so. My keys were in it (for a quick getaway) and it was unlocked. I had become quite the outlaw.

"What happened to the '68 Chevelle?" Ma Duck inquired. "Was it repossessed?"

"No," I replied. "I got about $75 for it in trade for these wheels."

"Well," she commented. "the wheels are very impressive. As is the vehicle to which they are attached. It smells new. How long have you had it?

Ma Duck:

Quack looked at his watch, calculated, and replied: "About 46 hours now."

"46 hours?"

"Well," he stated, "when I knew you were coming I decided I had to squire you in something befitting your professional status."

Laurence:

"I guess you were impressed with my newsletter story about Leon the Chimp, huh?" Ma Duck retorted.

"Yes, Ms. Duck," I replied. "It was very well written. Not a single split infinitive. Don't forget, Ernie the Great [Ma Duck's moniker for Hemingway] burnished his credentials in literary circles by writing about African wildlife.

Ma Duck:

"It will be only an eight-minute drive to the hotel," Quack indicated as we pulled out from the curb. "Of course, that will be after the waterfront tunnel is completed. Government estimates -- which as you know always understate these things -- give it about eight years. Figure double that. So for tonight's trip it will be about 45 or 50 minutes in rush hour. You can adjust the air conditioning with this control and this vent."

I glanced at Quick, so cool, so at ease -- as if this encounter between us was a regular occurrence. I should have been miffed -- how could he be so blasé? -- but I wasn't. In fact I felt secure, so protected, in his presence. Oh, how I had missed him.

He told me Abbey Road was in the glove compartment. He knew it was my favorite album. I retrieved it and slipped it into the CD player, following which he took my hand. I couldn't help but smile, though I remained silent through the remainder of the drive.

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The doorman came up, opened Ma Duck's door and as she emerged Laurence exited the driver's side. He told the doorman they would be checking in, and directed him to take the single suitcase and his duffel bag. Laurence discreetly handed the man a bill whose denomination Ma Duck could not identify. He seemed satisfied. "We'll be in the lobby, having a drink," Laurence indicated. "Please have someone from the front desk come to us there, as well as the concierge."

They ordered, white wine for her and a brandy stinger, rocks, for him. A man from the front desk arrived, and Laurence asked to be checked in, handing him his credit card. He requested two keys. (Ma Duck took especial note of that detail.) He asked that someone bring them the keys when they returned his card.

Their drinks arrived, and then the credit card was returned and the room keys delivered. Laurence asked that they have the bell service bring their two bags to the room.

The room, Ma Duck thought. Not our room. She didn't like that.

The concierge, an attractive young lady whose name tag read "Siobhan," appeared. She had mid-length beautiful red hair, wore a dark olive skirt with a fashionable length two inches above the knee to show off her spectacular legs. The remainder of her ensemble was a white blouse and tan vest, bow-tie and shoes. An eye-turner, she carried herself with great assurance and professionalism.

Laurence asked her what the entertainment options were for Saturday night. She replied shortly and succinctly:

֎ "Arthur Fiedler at the Pops;

֎ The Iceman Cometh starring James Earl Jones at the Shubert Theater;

֎ the Red Sox hosting the Baltimore Orioles at Fenway Park;

֎ the Boston Symphony performing a mostly Mahler program at Symphony Hall; and,

֎ the Boston Ballet performing The Firebird at the Boston Opera House

"Sadly," she continued, "the Boston Garden is closed; the Bruins are out of season." Ma Duck didn't appreciate this stupid remark that the concierge presumably thought witty; very unprofessional, Ma Duck thought.

"What, no Harmonicats?" Laurence inquired, going along with the flow as Ma Duck scowled.

Siobhan, the concierge, smiled. "They're sold out." Now Ma Duck did not like the way this woman was looking at Laurence. Nor did she enjoy their easy banter, which after all was not her role; definitely inappropriate for business commerce, Ma Duck decided.

"Please secure the two very best available seats for the O'Neill and charge to my room. We'll pick the tickets up at the theater. And please have someone unpack the suitcase in the room. No need to do anything with the duffel bag." From out of nowhere a folded bill -- looked like a twenty, Ma Duck could not be certain -- appeared in Laurence's hand and was gently pressed into Sharon's palm. Ma Duck thought their hands were conjoined just a tad too long for her taste. "I hate her," Ma Duck thought to herself. "The bitch."

Siobhan gave Laurence her card, indicating he could call her any time day or night. On the back a phone number was scribbled. It was not a hotel line. Laurence, who had noticed Ma Duck's disapproval of the concierge -- she didn't frown exactly, but her eyes had tightened. (Laurence was an excellent poker player, good at picking up on "tells.") Laurence wisely decided not to show Ma Duck the card.

Ma Duck was amazed at Laurence's quiet sense of command, and his aplomb. Here he was doling out orders, but in the nicest way. Ordering tickets without consulting as to her preference. She didn't really mind the choice. She probably would have chosen the play also; although, oddly enough, the baseball game would have been a close second: they could, after all, talk freely in the stands. Ma Duck found herself turned on by Laurence's quiet assurance. She figured the scrubs he was wearing gave him an air of authority with the hotel's service staff. But it was more than that: Laurence was no longer a college student. He was a man. She hoped he would be her man.

Ma Duck:

Well, I certainly was familiar with Eugene O'Neill's classic The Iceman Cometh. I had read but never viewed it. I had discussed with Quack more than once whether the thesis -- that man desperately needs to cling onto illusions and self-deceptions -- was an accurate one. And this view compared with Fitzgerald's take on it all -- as portrayed in Gatsby's unrealistic yearning for the unattainable (and ultimately, shallow) Daisy. But the actor I hadn't heard of. "Who is James Earl Jones?" I asked.

"He's a young classically-trained actor with impressive notices," Quack responded. "I doubt he could rise to the greatness of Robards, père or fils, in the role; but who knows? And even more interesting is their audaciousness in casting Jones, a black man, for the part. The play is set in 1912. Very few black men were travelling salesmen in that era. Of course, they may have re-set the play to a later period."

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Suddenly it hit Ma Duck. She was having a discussion with a man who was not complaining about work or the Tigers' pitching, or commenting on the latest episode of M*A*S*H* or Columbo. Or some drunken fireman directing her to suck him off. Here instead was a grown man, a literate man of intelligence, positive action and ideas, who lived a purposeful life, and who was engaging with her not just like she was a friend, but an equal, an intimate. And he was attractive, and cared for her -- he didn't say so in so many words, of course, but as the ancient Romans said, "Acta, non verba" [actions, not words]. In addition, if he had lived up to his promise given three days earlier -- and she had never known him to lie -- he was unattached.

Ma Duck shivered. (Laurence couldn't help but notice.) And then -- --

Ma Duck:

-- -- "Quack," I responded without thinking -- I couldn't help myself. "This is why I love you. We are always on the same wavelength. You constantly fulfill me intellectually. Planning kids' birthday parties with Leon the Chimp and sitting home at night hearing my father complain that the Red Wings need a new forward has not come anywhere near to floating my boat. You and I are so well-attuned we can easily talk about anything.

"You are Grieg's Concerto in A-minor. All other men are elevator music."

And then I realized what I had just said. There it was, unplanned, but still there: the "L" Word had arisen with its two sided-head (exultant promise on obverse, desolate ruin on the reverse). I held my breath.

Laurence:

Well, my God, Ma Duck had certainly put the ball in play. And now, to continue the metaphor, it was in my court. "Ms. Duck," I replied. "I am not an overly expressive man when it comes to feelings. You can find an etching of me next to the definition for "taciturn" in Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. I have not wept since my father died and before that not since early childhood.

"But here and now," I continued, "I am as close to weeping with joy as I have ever been."

Ma Duck:

Well, now it was I that was close to tears.

My Quack made eye contact with the waiter and signaled the well-known gesture for him to bring two more drinks for us. He continued, "As George remarked to Emily, 'So I guess this is an important talk we've been having.' Ms. Duck, naturally we have a lot to talk over, but we have all weekend to do so. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you got right to the point. It saved us a lot of time that would otherwise have been spent engaging in Kabuki gymnastics."

I was elated. But a little nagging voice inside me, reflecting a healthy skepticism, noted that Laurence himself had not reciprocated with the "L" word.

Our drinks arrived. "I think we should take these to the room, O.K.?" Quack concluded.

Laurence:

"No," Ma Duck replied. "I think we should take these drinks to our room.

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They held hands as they walked into the elevator. Laurence pushed the floor number and looked straight ahead. He wondered whether Ma Duck had the same goofy grin on her face as he sported.

Once in the room Laurence changed out of his scrubs and into his street clothes. He didn't move into the bathroom, or even turn away from Ma Duck. She had seen him in his skivvies before.

Ma Duck:

The room was in fact a full suite. Quack's connection with management must be quite close, I thought. A large sitting room with a couch that converted into a bed; a desk and chair; two "tub" chairs; a love seat with a coffee table; a closet and full bath; and a television. Fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit graced the coffee table. There was an adjoining bedroom with California King bed; end tables; easy chair; desk; walk-in closet and full bath. No mini-bar, but room service was 24 hours and, according to Quack, speedy. "You know this how?" I asked.

"Your mother told me," came the prompt response, "she once blew the entire starting five of the Boston Celtics in this hotel. Hell, possibly even in this room. It was a suite, which helped her maintain her modesty; she insisted on privacy while she went about her business and took on each of the team members one by one, starting with the Center, and next the Forward, I think." A frown on my part; a wink on his.

"Seriously, have you ever brought anyone else here," I asked.

"Look," Quack responded. Was that impatience in his voice? Or annoyance? "Zita has been my only social involvement this past year. You know this. For reasons of economy, we preferred our romps on the floor of her four-story walk-up as opposed to a luxurious bed in a five-star hotel. There is no one else but you in my life right now. If you doubt that you ought not to have come. I'm not inclined to tell you this again."

"You're angry," I stated.

Laurence:

"Truly, I'm not," I told her. But I'm disappointed. Have I ever given you cause to doubt my word? About anything?"

"No," she responded, "Never. I am sorry."

"No apology is necessary. But I'd really appreciate our turning from minutiae to the important matters at hand." Here he lowered his voice, gently looked into my eyes and concluded, "Some of the things we need to discuss may be awkward. But we have to be honest with each other. That will facilitate our helping each other. Truthfulness is liberating."

Ma Duck:

Quack suggested we order dinner in. We perused the menu and ordered. Quack had the Caesar salad and a filet mignon, medium rare. I had butternut squash bisque and the Georges Bay scallops grilled over rock salt. We decided to pace ourselves and drink only sparkling water. We settled on Perrier. I told Quack we should not order dessert. "We can have each other for dessert," I told him. No reaction on his part.

I stood, stepped out of my shoes, removed my blazer and sat back down.

Everything I was wearing, from the shoes up, I had purchased two nights earlier. I went for sexy in my outfit. I hadn't worn a skirt so short since I was in junior high and didn't know better. I had never worn a blouse as sexy nor lingerie as provocative. That was the beauty of the blazer. It hid the fact that the blouse was virtually transparent and the bra underneath abbreviated and sexy, producing lots of lace-kissed cleavage. The point is, with the simple removal of the blazer I went from wearing a PG-13 outfit to an NC-17 ensemble. Even as I removed the blazer I could feel my nipples hardening.

Laurence:

Ma Duck was wearing the sheerest blouse I had ever seen. Her push-up demi-bra shone through, with ample cleavage. She looked at me innocently and feigned an attitude of unconcern. But that was belied by the sudden flush in her cheeks.

"Ms. Duck, you are even more enchanting to look at than I had imagined," I told her. "Truly riveting. Irresistible. I want to tear off the rest of your clothing, throw you down on the floor and fuck you until it is time to get you to your flight home.

"But there is much of very great importance we need to discuss. I do not want to be distracted, and I need to keep my wits about me. There will be plenty of time for us to do what I very much want to do. But please do not exploit my weaknesses."

Ma Duck:

"You? Weak? -- HA!!" I retorted.

"Ms. Duck," Quack continued, "as a doctor, allow me to put this into clinical terms. Right now, as a result of your partial disrobing, I have quickly acquired what medical professionals refer to as a 'medium woody.' That would be a 'moderate erection' to laymen." Pun intended, no doubt.

"But seriously, if you persist in assaulting my libido with your visual onslaught, I will achieve a 'maximum woody.' Now, let me ask you, what occurs in a male to cause the physiological phenomenon known as a full erection?"

"Well, blood flows to the penis, right?" I responded.

"Yes," I responded. A lot of blood causes the penis to swell and become engorged, along with other tissues in his groin area.

"Now," Quack continued in his tutorial, "where does that blood come from?"

"Well, I guess, the arteries, right?" My grasp of anatomy was not advanced, but I thought I had that right.

"Sure," Quack persisted. "But if it is swelling into a man's entire groin area -- not just his proud, hard prick -- then where is there correspondingly less blood in his body?"

"Uh, well all over, I guess." I sensed maybe I was on thin ice here. My Quack must be getting to something, I figured.

"Yes, but a man's brain is deprived of a disproportionate percentage of the diverted blood. That is why men score significantly lower on standardized tests when they are sporting an erection. They have increased difficulty concentrating and thinking rationally.

"Look, what we need to go over is important stuff affecting our futures, our entire lives. And we don't want to be discussing weighty matters while part of us want to fuck the brains out of each other."