How It Ended - Laurence & Ma Duck Ch. 01

Laurence:

One Monday morning I received a call during rounds with one of my teaching doctors. Zita knew better than to disturb me in the morning, but the nurse told me that Miss Sullivan was holding and had said the call was urgent. So I tore myself away, literally ran to the telephone station, picked up the phone, and after hemming a hawing briefly Zita told me that I should get a blood test. She read from something she had written down that the test should be in two parts -- covering both 'Treponemal' and 'Nontreponemal' factors.

"What that means -- " she began to say before I cut her off.

"-- I know what that means," I barked in a whisper. "I'm a doctor." I continued: "Look, we can discuss this later. I've got to get back to rounds." I hung up, not angrily but as you might expect not friendly either. Businesslike would describe it best, I suppose.

In medical school I had taken a course in STDs and so I knew this indeed was not a minor matter. It was embarrassing to have to ask Walt, a male nurse with whom I was friendly, to draw the blood, mark it with a fictitious name -- this broke a few laws, but medical professionals do such things all the time -- instruct the lab what values to test for, and deliver the results to me, stat. Within two hours I knew I had dodged a bullet -- the benevolent result was negative. That, of course, did not mean that all was well in Paradise.

Well, I like to think that I am an understanding man. But Zita had pretty obviously violated the only immutable requirement she and I had agreed upon, eschewing sex with others. I saw her that night, and after terse greetings, I heard her out. About a month earlier, Zita told me, Joe had come to her door unannounced. (Usually he called first.) She says she told him from inside the safety of the apartment that she could not see him; that she was now involved elsewhere. That wouldn't be a problem, he was said to have responded. "It would be for me," Zita said she retorted through the closed door.

Somehow she did let him in after some wheedling -- old habits die hard, I reflected when I heard this. Joe shared some cocaine with Zita -- and one thing led to another . . . Well, you get the picture. To make matters even worse, Zita told me, they did not use protection. Not to sound racist, but if you knew the STD infectivity data for African-Americans, let alone for those with unprotected sex who frequent multiple partners, you would understand why I had been alarmed that morning before receiving, literally, a clean bill of health.

Hard to believe, you might say, that Zita -- an intelligent woman already with one o.w. child [in that era "o.w." was the polite, now quaint, term for "out of wedlock"] -- would engage in risky sex, but there it was. The previous week, she continued, she began to notice some symptoms, painful urination and inflamed vaginal tissues. She went to the clinic on Thursday to have blood drawn and tested and got the results that Monday morning and - voila! - there it was: she had syphilis.

"And you waited to get the results, which were positive, before deciding to tell me," I offered. It was not a question but a statement. And she concurred with that assessment by nodding.

"I didn't want to upset you," she meekly offered.

"Don't you think it concerns me even more that I've learned about this fully a month after your exposure?" I asked. No answer was forthcoming.

She was receiving standard treatment, Zita related, three megadoses of penicillin at weekly intervals. She'd already had the first dosage.

I told her my test results were negative.

"You're not very angry," Zita stated.

"Oh, I certainly am," I disagreed.

"Well, you're not screaming or throwing anything or hitting me."

"Would you feel better if I did?" I asked.

"No, of course not, but I've known that to happen," she replied.

"To you?" I asked.

And she replied in the affirmative: "Twice. One time I was beat up while Trina was screaming in fear." (Inside, I wept at the inexpressible sadness of the situation and, particularly, her history.)

"Given that experience," I offered, "I suppose I should be grateful that you did tell me. At least you don't think I'm an animal."

"What now?" Zita asked.

"I'm disappointed and wounded that you cheated. And I'm dismayed that you put me at risk. And I'm saddened that you didn't tell me until you had to. And now I'm leaving," I replied and rose to depart.

"For good?" Zita asked.

"Put three ping-pong balls in a pot," I told her. "With a felt-tip pen mark one 'Yes,' then the next 'No,' then the last 'Maybe.' Without looking, put your hand into the pot and pull out one of the balls: there's the answer. Seriously," I continued, "I am inclined to mull over what's happened, after that have a serious discussion with you about 'us' -- here I made the 'quote' sign by placing the index fingers from both hands in the air -- and then I'll think about it some more and let you know my decision."

She put her arm around me, plaintively, not exactly frantically but certainly not composed either. She was flushed and tears were forming in her eyes. "Please stay," she implored, "we can just hold hands and think things over." I hadn't had much drama in my life through that point. My father's death three years earlier had been a much greater blow to me, of course, but the grim proceedings at that time involved far less in the way of histrionics. But I knew that if I didn't leave there right away, in ten minutes time we'd be on the floor going at it.

Silently I left.

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Laurence and Zita did not break up. After several heartfelt and tender discussions in which Zita showed genuine remorse, Laurence was touched by her contrition. She convinced him that this lapse would not recur in the future -- that her life was changing due to his positive influence. And, he realized, as he looked back on the experience well after the fact, he needed what she gave him: easy companionship and scorching sex. He had had the former, but obviously not the latter, in his nearly two years with Ma Duck. He knew of course that he could replicate (maybe even improve upon) these attributes with someone else, but it would be a lot of work to get there. Essentially, though, Laurence wasn't up to the effort. And, he was a Christian with a deep-seated belief in redemption, absolution and forgiveness.

Ma Duck:

Exactly 54 weeks since I graduated and had been apart from Quack, he telephoned. We hadn't spoken in five or six weeks. He was his usual self, but something about his tone seemed ineffably different from the very start of the connection: it was not the usual "hi, what's up" type of breezy call.

Quack got right down to business: Would I like to come visit him in Boston three days' hence, for the weekend? American had hourly flights on the half-hour from Detroit Metro to Logan. He could get me a seat on the flight Friday at either 5:30 or 6:30. Could I make the earlier flight or would I prefer the 6:30 departure?

Was I stunned? Does a porcupine piss on a flat rock?

Laurence:

Well you guessed it. After Zita and I had been together for a year, she again cheated on me, and again contracted a social disease. This was about six months following the first scare: same circumstances; same dramatis personae; same trepidatious phone call from Zita; same mercifully negative result, this time on a Tuesday morning. "Who's the young pretty this time?" asked Walt, the beard who again ordered the blood test for me. I could not bring myself to tell him it was the same source.

That night I did not visit Zita. Instead I phoned Ma Duck.

Ma Duck:

I was floored and, for the first time ever with Quack, literally speechless. Over the course of our entire relationship there had been a robust, scintillating and thoroughly enjoyable banter between us. And now, my mind was stupefied, my mouth tongue-tied. And lest you think that is just an exaggeration, understand this: I said nothing. There was nothing I could say! So I was silent, paralyzed. Crickets. And the clock continued to tick.

Laurence:

My question was simple enough. So I waited for her answer. And patiently waited some more. I knew the connection was intact; I could hear Ma Duck breathing on the other end of the line.

I decided I would not repeat the question and appear unacceptably plaintive. So the silence -- and the apparent sudden clash of wills -- continued. The silence was uncomfortable. It was not a mêlée, but it wasn't sweet either.

Finally I acted and said this: "Well, look this long-distance call is not inexpensive. Apparently you need time to decide. So do that and get back to me when you are ready."

Ma Duck:

"—Wait," I blurted.

Laurence:

She had blinked first. Wonderful.

Ma Duck:

"O.K.," Quack responded in his intolerably tranquil voice. In effect, he had just pulled the pin and tossed a live hand grenade into a punch bowl, and then continued calmly to mingle with guests standing around the refreshments table until detonation. I had always admired Quack's unflappability. But that night it just piqued me.

So I finally responded: "I, uh, well of course I am surprised. No, I'm not just surprised: more like astounded."

"Well, that's fair," Quack responded. "But it's not like we're strangers, or that I'm asking you to come with me to Bermuda for a week."

"Hold it," I said. Suddenly I found I had regained my bearings and my ability to lob a riposte (not a grenade) at Quack. "are you revising your invitation in lieu of a more exotic locale?"

"Touché," he answered, "No. The original offer remains on the table, is unaltered, and a reply would be appreciated."

Laurence:

O.K., look, I didn't want her to be flummoxed, but in truth I did want the benefit of her unvarnished, unrehearsed, reaction. On some level I wanted to know not just how she would react to my invitation but also more importantly how Ma Duck felt about me. I thought she cared about me, and more than a little -- I always had believed that. But just how deep those feelings ran I did not know. And I guess I wanted to know. Before calling I had figured I'd more or less know the skinny on that when she either accepted or declined my invite.

"Will you answer a single question for me before I answer yours?" Ma Duck asked.

"O.K.," I responded, reasonable as usual.

Ma Duck:

"So, just this . . . " I got to the crux of it. "Don't you have a girlfriend? Zita, right?"

"I do not," Quack answered.

"As of when?" I asked.

Laurence:

"Oh, as of about seven hours ago," I advised her.

"You terminated your relationship with her today?"

"No, I haven't informed her, so we're not officially broken up. But I made my decision this morning, and I will notify Zita promptly. In fact I will call her after we hang up. . . regardless of your answer."

Ma Duck:

"When did you see Zita last?" I inquired.

"Oh, two nights ago," Quack responded. "Sunday."

"And you were boyfriend and girlfriend then?"

"Oh, very much so," came the prompt response. "With all that implies."

Well, I guess I knew what that meant.

"No fight?" I asked?

"Not at all," came Quack's composed response.

"I don't get it," I told him.

"Look, I'll be glad to fill you in on all the gory details when we meet," Quack stated. "But understand this: I am not some flighty teenager. You surely have known me long enough and well enough to accept that. I know my mind. I have always been honest with you. And I advise you that Zita and I are no longer together, not today, not tomorrow, and not ever. When I explain the situation to you you'll concur in the rationality of the course I am taking.

"I tell you this," Quack finished. "Unless you expect to be hospitalized or imprisoned this weekend, or have a wedding to attend, or a funeral, you should come."

Oh, his arrogance -- what else could it be -- was nothing less than intolerable. And yet . . . truly his certitude was impressive, the essence of a man in full. And it filled me with longing and desire.

Laurence:

". . . O.K.," Ma Duck stated. "I can be decisive too. I look forward to seeing you Friday night. I can work half day and take the 4:30 flight. Is that good for you?"

"Great," I said. "A round-trip ticket will be waiting for you at the check-in counter. Return open. I will pick you up at the airport in Boston at 6:45. It is only a 75-minute flight, but you lose an hour due to the time zone. I'll get you an upscale room at the Ritz Carlton. Normally I couldn't afford it, but a hospital staff member with whom I'm close has a brother-in-law who is Assistant Manager at the hotel. Bring your bathing suit."

Ma Duck:

And that was that. We bade each other a good night and hung up.

And then it hit me: he said he'll get me a room at the hotel. What about him. . . where would he be staying?

More confused than ever, but somehow strangely upbeat, I watched PBS Masterpiece Theater with my parents. The Duchess of Duke Street, a period drama set in turn-of-the-century London. God, it ran through my mind, was Gemma Jones ever going to get laid?

Then I told my parents about my weekend trip. They already had made their feelings quite clear to me about the impropriety of my going out alone evenings, and returning in the middle of the night, often quite obviously much the worse for wear.

My father sat characteristically silent, deferring to the Etiquette Czar of our houshold. "It isn't ladylike," my mother informed me. "Going away for the weekend with someone you hardly know."

"I'm not going away with Laurence. We are meeting. And I know him quite well," I responded. "We dated exclusively for my final two years in Ann Arbor. I saw no one else during that period. Since then we have spoken frequently."

"That makes it even worse." She had set me up! "And I don't remember you mentioning this student," my mother continued. She was continuing to come at me full bore, even though she knew her protestations would be futile.

"Maybe I never mentioned Laurence," I answered, "but we are close. And he's not a student any more. He's a doctor, an M.D.; he's a Resident at Mass General in Boston training to be an orthopædic surgeon. He comes from a good family, helps support his widowed mother, and has no tattoos."

"And you know about the absence of tattoos how?" Clearly my skills at repartee were inherited from my mother.

"Well, I have taken his word on that," I responded, not willing to concede her even a small point. "He has gotten me a nice room at the Ritz Carlton. I'll make sure you have the phone number.

"Any way," I concluded, "I'm not asking for permission. I'm informing you of my plans as a dutiful daughter should."

My father, a UAW shop steward at Ford's Dearborn plant, remained silent, with no change in his demeanor. (He was a Hell of a poker player.) But I could hear the gears whirring in his head: a surgeon, hey? If only he knew this one solid fact: I would love Quack, fathomlessly, if he were a stock boy at K-Mart. I never admitted it to myself, but I had always loved my Quack, even before he presented himself to me that night, 32 months earlier, as the Chianti crooner.

===================================

Ma Duck retired to her room, gave some thought to what she would wear for the flight, and what she should pack for the trip, and went to bed. She reflected that if she believed in God, she'd be on her knees, thanking Him. "Maybe I should do so anyway," it occurred to her, "just in case." She slept unexpectedly well that night. Seven Hundred Twelve miles due East, a contented Laurence slept very soundly too.

Laurence:

So, did I have an agenda for the weekend? Of course: one that was in general terms; not fully formed, if you please. I wanted to re-connect with Ma Duck, and to see if we could establish a working basis to go forward as a couple -- notwithstanding the formidable challenge posed by the distance separating us. And perhaps also and to a lesser (but not negligible) degree, there was the issue of any impact on our feelings for one another based on our actions the past year. I wondered if her most recent social behavior had damaged her as a person. And perhaps she had the same question about me.

I had always admired Ma Duck intellectually, and in terms of character. She was certainly superior to Zita in both respects. And frankly, though it took a while for me to recognize it, I realized that I missed her -- I had never stopped thinking about her, even when I was getting my ashes hauled with the faithless Zita.

You may assert, well, sure, you're more than ready to move beyond Zita, but isn't it a kneejerk reaction to consider someone whom you haven't seen in more than a year? The simple truth is this: the heart wants what it wants. And I recognized that I missed Ma Duck very much. There may also have been a sense of wanting to be a "white knight." I had formed the impression that Ma Duck had not been comporting herself in a very upright fashion. I believe she was allowing herself to be used by dishonorable men: if I could get her to improve upon that, so much the better. Hell, I would, I could, never use her; and I was hardly unworthy.

But a further question you may ask, aren't you constructing a false dichotomy? You don't need to go back to a previous relationship just because your most recent one has foundered. Surely there are plenty of wonderful talented and attractive women in Boston, whom you would not need to pursue and nurture from afar, no? A fair question. But, look, I really had this closeness, this intimate connection with Ma Duck -- never bolstered sexually to be sure -- but still a not inconsiderable bond that could not be gainsaid.

Of course there was the question of distance: Well, it obviously meant that we couldn't see one another with great frequency. I had been calling upon Zita four to six times a week, mostly to just spend time with her in her apartment, less often to socialize outside her residence. I would have to settle for far less frequency with Ma Duck. I figured that, given my budget, and the demands of our respective professional and familial responsibilities I could afford to have her fly to be with me two weekends a month; me fly to be with her in Michigan one weekend a month; two, maybe three, phone calls during the week; and, such vacation periods as we could coordinate. It wouldn't be perfect, of course, nowhere near ideal; but manageable, I thought, and sufficient to allow us to flourish initially as a couple.

It is said, absence makes the heart grow fonder. That I believed. Ma Duck and I had already disproved the other aphorism, out of sight, out of mind. I had never stopped thinking about her, with great affection, and I believed (maybe only arrogantly hoped?) the same applied to her.

Ma Duck:

"What did Quack want with me?" was what I wondered. Well, no mystery, he wanted to see me. But beyond that? Perhaps he only wanted solace from me because of whatever unhappy development had led him to terminate his relationship with Zita. Under that unpleasant scenario, we'd hold hands as he cried into his beer. But somehow I didn't think that was the case. I didn't think it was wishful thinking to suppose that Quack missed me -- though I had to acknowledge he hadn't actually said so -- and that he couldn't stand to be without me any longer. Truly, that's how I felt about him.