Duncan: Across the Aisle

by Turner, Xyla

  I braced myself for whatever was coming, but he simply said in a low voice, “I am very sorry. Can you forgive me, please?”

  I stared at him. My heart was beating at one hundred miles an hour. I could not remove the image of him screaming in my face and kicking me out.

  “Yes, Duncan. I can forgive you, but it won’t be the same,” I told him.

  His face morphed from one of hope to dread in a matter of seconds.

  “Let’s finish this meeting and do as much damage control as we can with the information we have,” the man with the high voice chimed in. “Portia, my name is Charles.”

  I walked to the empty chair next to Trent on the other side of the table. There were four men at the table, Trent, Duncan, a guy with a Versace scarf wrapped around his neck, a black man and a Latino woman.

  “You must be Ms. Portia Lane,” the woman said with a tight smile. “So, we are clear, you are not looking for compensation or a monetary payout? I’m Sophia, by the way and that is Victor.”

  What in the world were they talking about?

  “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” I asked.

  “For Mr. Morgan’s behavior with you, in the morning, four days ago,” Sophia replied.

  “His behavior?” I asked. “He didn’t do anything. We had an argument, but that’s between us, and I’m not sure what you are implying should have happened after two people have an argument.”

  The whole group looked around at each other and then back to me.

  “Portia, maybe you and Duncan need to talk, before we all talk,” Trent suggested.

  “As his lawyer, I would not advise this,” the guy named Victor with the scarf around his neck added.

  His lawyer?

  “Portia, will you meet with me alone,” Duncan asked with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  I nodded my head, and he looked at everyone before commanding, “Give us the room.”

  When they were all gone, Duncan stood up and came to sit next to me.

  “I’m different, Portia. I know you know, but I have been trying to act normal for you. My constituents and everybody know I have a disability. I am what some call ‘on the spectrum.’ There are many points on this line, but I have been in therapy and social skills classes, before and after the election. I need routines, consistency, and people I can trust in my corner. Those people that were at the table, I trust; and they are concerned about me, so I let them…” he paused, put his head down, then continued, “I am extremely sorry about what happened the other day. I w-was so caught up in you, I got excited. Too excited, and we were not protected. You were not protected. From me.”

  My heart ached for him, but I was not sure what to say. I had no experience with this type of thing, and he clearly regretted everything. I can’t say that I did, but it wasn’t just me who was impacted.

  “I’m on birth control, by the way,” I told him. “I also hear what you’re saying, and I guess, I wish you would have told me sooner, so I could have been prepared. Maybe I would have known what your triggers were or things that would set you off. But thank you for trusting me to share this. I would never do anything, like going to the media or repeating any of this. You didn’t really do anything to me, except maybe hurt my feelings.”

  His remorseful eyes hit mine, and he looked as if he wanted to hold me, but I think we both knew we were beyond that level of comfort.

  “I am sorry, Portia. I am sorry.” Duncan seemed to be gearing up to get upset.

  My hand went up to stop him. “I know, okay. Let’s just get them back in here.”

  He nodded, rose, and opened the door of his chamber, letting them back inside.

  “Portia and I have spoken. There will be no media. There will be no mess. This meeting is adjourned,” Duncan told everyone.

  All formalities went out the window, when the black guy, Charles, said, “We were called here because you had a breakdown, and you needed to do damage control.” He enunciated every word. “One conversation with your lady friend, and it’s settled.”

  “Yes,” Duncan answered, unbothered.

  “I think Portia is right,” Trent chimed in. “Whatever happened is between them and for them to resolve. There is no crisis here besides a man and a woman trying to figure out each other.”

  “Thank you.” Duncan nodded towards Trent.

  He pushed up an eyebrow and nodded, while gathering his belongings.

  Victor glared at me before saying, “Remember that the next time you have a meltdown because your nose is caught in some puta.”

  “Excuse me,” I hissed.

  “Who the fuck are you talking to?” Trent chimed in and stood up. “That’s a standing United States Senator, and no matter what the fuck happened—”

  “You do not speak to him that way,” I blurted out. “And what you won’t do is ever refer to me as puta.”

  “Get out,” Duncan said, which had me turning to look at him.

  I was about to ask why, when I saw he was focused on Victor, the lawyer. Okay, he wasn’t talking to me.

  “Get out!” he repeated.

  “Are you serious?” Victor’s eyes were nearly bulging out of his sockets. “You are going to…”

  Duncan was out of his seat as fast as lightning and in the man’s space before he hissed, “Get out now!”

  I was on my feet by the time this happened too. This guy was about to catch it, and he was a lawyer.

  “Come on, man,” the black guy pleaded. “He said to leave. No need to be a dick about it.”

  “Don’t fucking call me again,” Victor snapped at the man.

  Sophia had sense enough to look ashamed, while the black guy’s face indicated embarrassment. The angry man slammed everything in his briefcase and stormed out of the office.

  The remaining people at the table looked at each other, and finally, the woman asked, “Okay, what’s next?”

  Nobody seemed to know, so I just said the first thing that came to my head.

  “Well, we are all going to wait fifteen minutes, and then we leave and go home.” I smiled.

  “Agreed,” the woman replied.

  Duncan looked to me and said, “I would like to take you to dinner.”

  Fuck.

  I turned to stare at him, lowered my voice and answered, “Honestly, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You know. I would like us to remain friends though.”

  He gave me a puzzled look, then he said, “Friends have lunch, not dinner.”

  Okay.

  “Uh, sure.” I nodded. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “I will take what you give me, Portia.”

  He sat back in his chair and announced. “Twelve minutes left.”

  Trent started talking to Duncan about an upcoming bill, and I tuned out. Politics was not my thing, though I know I needed to do better, since it impacted me as well.

  When the time was up, we all left. On my way out, the guy and woman tried to make some small talk with me. Sophia, to my surprise, said as she parted, “Take care of him.”

  There wasn’t an opportunity to share with her that it wasn’t my job to do this. He and I weren’t together after the incident. I didn’t talk about it or really deal with it, but that level of rejection brought up many issues that I simply couldn’t address.

  That evening, I found that no sleep would come to me. I recounted argument after argument that I’d had with my mother over the years. Or arguments that I had witnessed her having with my dad. I didn’t pretend to like the woman, but I had tried many times to deal with her for my father’s sake.

  Not anymore.

  Chapter Ten

  Duncan

  Puta was the Spanish word for pussy, and the mere fact Victor dared to refer to Portia like that, could have put me back. Years ago, that would have sent me into a meltdown, but not the kind where I would yell. No, it would have turned physical, and I would have lost Portia forever. It is often thought that people like me lack empathy or can be self-centere
d. It might even be true. But the frustrated feeling that laid dormant inside me, came to the surface when my Portia was spoken to in an egregious way.

  Maybe because she was mine, the feeling was provoked, or maybe because I actually had empathy. I was no expert in feelings and emotions, but the internal struggle of tampering down on my rage was in full effect when he uttered those words out loud.

  As Trent and I were making our way to the parking garage, since we had let our drivers off for the evening, I told Trent about Portia’s response. Then, since he was able to land a woman like Bernadette, I asked what he would do.

  “Let me get this right,” he stated. “You asked her to dinner, and she said no. Then she said you guys could be friends. Meaning, she doesn’t want the prospect of a relationship with you anymore, but she’s not opposed to talking to you on occasion.”

  I was reluctant to agree because that did not sound as good as I thought it meant. I thought she was saying she was not willing to have dinner with me, but lunch would work.

  “She said she would have lunch,” I told him, hoping to bring clarity.

  “Because you put that in there. She didn’t offer, right?” he inquired.

  “That is accurate.” I sighed as understanding began to unfold. “So, she is leaving me.”

  Trent stopped walking and turned to me with a serious look before he asked, “I know we went over this the night I came over, but tell me again. How bad was it?”

  Shame began to cloak my body as I recalled the evening as if it were moments ago. She and I had the most explosive and amazing sex. She felt good and tight, just like I needed. Her care for me was like no other woman. There was a need I was fulfilling and that felt too good. Not just physically, but emotionally. I became overexcited and everything got out of hand. Portia wanted to be with me and showed me appreciation, gratitude, and warmth in her actions. It was more, and though I was not good at naming these things, I knew it was more.

  Then I was hit with the reality that I was unprotected and had just released within her body with no protection. The horrid thought of reproducing triggered me to my tipping point. Being off my routine the past few days did not help; but a baby, with me as the father, I could not bear it. I could not have her looking at me as if I were the spawn of Satan and having a child that had the same thing as me or on another level of the spectrum. I could not and would not have my life with Portia riddled with hate, resentment, or hardship.

  “I lost it and told her to get out. I screamed it actually. In her face, when she tried to talk me down,” I told him. We were in the shower, and I’d released in her with no protection and I cannot…”

  The words were always hard to say out loud. Apparently, it was inappropriate to say. My therapist would often scold me.

  A hand touched my shoulder, and I wanted to cringe because the soft touch made me feel unpleasant.

  “Trent, I believe we are friends, but know that soft touches do not feel as comfortable as they would for someone else,” I said bluntly.

  A quick jab hit me in the arm, and I turned to see Trent staring at me with his fist balled up.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Actually, yes,” I told him.

  “Good.” He chuckled. “My point is that I get it.”

  “You don’t get it,” I told him. “You are not like me. You never will be. People like you have a pretty wife with healthy kids that will grow and be pretty like their parents. They will be acceptable to society, as you are. I am not. Was not, and any kids that I have will not. I will not put a woman through what my mother went through with me. I will not have Portia resenting that she was ever with me. I will not have her kids resenting her as a mother. I cannot.”

  Trent nodded his head and put his hands in his pocket.

  “Duncan, while I may not be like you, I haven’t had a normal relationship since I was sixteen years old and in love with a black girl who went to my high school. My father got wind of that shit and made sure it ended because he was a racist son of a bitch. I became my own brand of an asshole after that, with little attachment to anyone. No real relationships. I used escorts to get off because I did not think I deserved anything more. I did not think I was worthy of this thing called love, and it wasn’t until Bernie and all of who she is that I realized I would fight tooth and nail for a woman like that. When she told me she was pregnant, it was no longer just her I was seeking, but the family I thought I never wanted or needed. I am well over fifty, and I didn’t know until it was here that my life now is what I always wanted.

  You are young, and I am not trying to belittle the traumatizing story that you, no doubt, have. Shit, I just started speaking to my father again, so I know a little of that. But what I will say is this. Don’t sell yourself short. You are a state senator of a whole, real state. The people voted you in, and no matter how socially awkward you might be, they thought you would do the best fucking job.

  Do not sell yourself short. For you, your future, kids, love, and especially Portia. Do not put limits on the possibilities that can come your way.”

  “I only won because I proved that Jake was a liar and cheat,” I clarified.

  “I don’t give a fuck how you won,” Trent retorted. “I won the Democratic seat, after being a lifelong Republican because my wife was campaigning her ass off because she believes in me. This is the same woman who called me a racist asshole and slapped the shit out of me when we first met and several times after that. What’s your point?”

  “My point is that if there was someone better suited, then I would have had no chance,” I answered. “If Portia found someone better, then there would be no friendship. If my mother would have chosen another man as her mate, then she would not have had me. It’s all a cyclical effect.”

  Trent eyed me for a few seconds before he punched me again in the arm. This one was much harder and would surely bruise, but it still did not hurt me.

  “That was my version of a hug,” Trent said before his voice became stern. “This sounds like shit for a therapist, and I’m far from that. According to Bernie, I need to be seeing one myself. But I will say this. God doesn’t make mistakes, and whether you believe in a higher power or the universe, I don’t really give a fuck. My point is, I believe that if it happened, it’s not a mistake because it wouldn’t have happened.

  Bernie getting pregnant was the best, unplanned gift I could have been given. Man, if you only knew the story. You being elected was not a mistake. You have done more for that state than Jake has done in the past eight years. You think that is a mistake? None of your constituents believe that it’s a mistake. No other person ran against you because it was meant for you. I don’t know what’s in the future for you and Portia, but she is different. You are different with her. That social awkwardness is not present with her. You light up like I do with Bernie. That’s not a mistake. She was ready to tear that guy's neck off for talking about you. That’s not a mistake. Your mom was the body used to produce the newest member of Congress, a friend of mine, and hopefully the future mate of my wife’s best friend. So what if it’s just friends. There are many more things that you will accomplish because you are willing to put the work in. So fuck that, Duncan.”

  He started walking to his car and then turned to me again and yelled, “Fuck your mother, too.”

  I believe he was attempting to be inspirational in his Trent sort of way, and I could appreciate the gesture. I am not sure if I felt any better.

  * * *

  The next week, I had interviews with potential executive administrators. This was the proper name according to Rich, the Dem, as Trent still referred to him, despite his new Democratic status. He said that I shouldn’t call them secretaries because they would get upset and then give me secretary work, which is just the very basics.

  Some of my Republican counterparts had other ideas about what they called and did with their assistants. Democrats, too. My only two across the aisle associates were Trent and Rich. Those two were dedica
ted to their wives, and for the most part, they doted on them as if they were not the hard-nosed politicians they represented on the floor. They kissed, cuddled, went on dates with their wives, and were kind. James was a friend of Trent’s, a Democratic Senator, and we shared the same building.

  Nobody outside of Trent’s immediate circle would call someone like Trent kind. Yet the man had come to my rescue twice, would have hugged me once, and showed me the ropes, which was more than any other member had done. There was something to be said about someone like him since he didn’t seem to look at me weird, whether I was in the midst of a meltdown or at any other time. I guess he had his own share of things to be fucked up about, but he swore Bernie made him better.

  I would not reach out to Portia until I had a solid plan, which I did not. If lunch was something, she would have with me, then I wanted to make sure it was something appeasing to her appetite, at a time that fit into her work schedule and around my interviews.

  I called her a week later, once everything was set.

  “Hi Portia,” I replied to her greeting.

  “Duncan. How are you?” There was a lightness in her voice, which one could assume as being happy.

  “I am hungry. Would you have lunch with me in an hour at Jeff’s Seafood Restaurant?” I asked.

  Her schedule reflected that she was in the vicinity of the eatery. The point was to prevent her from making any excuses as to why she could not go. She had noticed, it was a time when she should be hungry, it was close to her site, and her favorite food.

  “I should have known that you always have a plan, huh?” she said with a serious tone to her voice.

  “Yes, I think plans are good,” I told her.

  “Okay, Duncan. That works,” she agreed. “I’ll see you at noon.”

  “Good,” I replied and hung up.

  Jeff’s was only twenty minutes away, but I immediately called Peter and had him meet me around the side of C Street.

  Ten minutes after twelve, I still saw no Portia, which meant my anxiety was rising as the minutes ticked by. She was notoriously late, and everybody seemed to be okay with this behavior. It made me anxious. Fifteen minutes later, Portia comes floating in. I was in view of the front door, and she probably noticed me scowling at her tardiness because she said, “Stop it. I am not late, I’m right on time. Look at your watch.”