Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

  “You did so well I’d like to put you down for a few more sessions.”

  “Well, my father earns a decent living, but stock options and the like don’t come with his position.”

  “Then be certain to tell him he’ll only have to pay for the plane and not the instructor. That’s on me. How about next Saturday?”

  She hesitated only a few seconds. “Okay, it’s a deal,” she said with a musical lilt in her voice and once again extended her hand and for a second time there was some undefined electricity. He found himself constructing a false past for her, fighting off the guys, turning down offers of marriage. Getting back to reality he wrote a description of what they had done in flight in her new logbook and suggested, “Give it a few days to sink in. Right now it all probably seems like a lot. After reading the book you’ll have some questions, so jot them down.” After hesitating a second, he added with a wink, “Better yet, why don’t you give me your phone number. In case of bad weather or a scheduling problem I can call and save you a needless drive.”

  She readily provided it. She wanted more time with him, so while scanning her new logbook she flirtingly remarked she couldn’t read his signature. “How do you spell your last name, P-r-i-z-e?”

  “The pronunciation only sounds that way.” He gave her the correct spelling.

  Feeling as though she was peering into a tender soul, she offered, “What about if you write down your phone number? In case I have some questions before the next…”

  He immediately jotted down his home number, simultaneously thinking he would have to purchase a cellphone, something he could have with him all the time in case she called and no one could overhear him speaking with her.

  “Sure you don’t mind if I call?”

  “Any time.”

  On the drive home Carol was thinking how she could really get into flying, especially with this cute guy. Arriving at her modest English Tudor brick home she found her parents, Sal and Anita Rodriguez seated at the kitchen table with faces betraying their anxiety.

  “We were worried,” her father told her. “It’s late and I tried calling the flight school. There was only a recorded message saying it was closed.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have phoned. But my instructor kept me up a bit longer and then went over some stuff I need to know.”

  “Then you got to fly?” her mother interrupted; the don’t-spoil-her-excitement look sent her husband’s way.

  “It was incredible, with the endless blue sky and tiny houses below, just like in the movies. And my teacher is absolutely gorgeous!” She couldn’t suppress a giggle. “His name’s Erik Preis. I’d guess he’s mid-twenties and tall, with flawless skin, blond hair and luminous emerald eyes, as green as an orchard of trees right after they bloom. Not regular eyes but the calm and assured type you’d expect on a pilot.” She next pleadingly asked, “I’ve scheduled some more lessons with him starting next Saturday, if that’s okay?”

  As her mother’s animated look changed to concern she quickly added, “Erik said I don’t have to pay for the instructor, only the plane. Oh, please?”

  “I guess under the circumstances a few more hours would be no big deal,” Sal hesitantly answered. She thanked him, bounded up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom before he could change his mind.

  Erik stopped at a diner and grabbed a quick burger. His parents were having a drink when he arrived home, with the old man drinking Wild Turkey out of a beer glass. If Erik wanted to have a serious discussion with his father it had to be when he was still clear-headed. Was he sober now? An uneasy Erik sat down with both parents in the living room with the fragrance of freshly cut flowers competing with the stench of the booze.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?” his father replied, sloshing his fingers around in the glass and looking at him through brown eyes as frosty as the street outside after a snowstorm.

  Erik got a whiff of the familiar halitosis cigarette and whiskey mixture, heard the heavier than normal accent. Was he already zoned-out? But there was no alternative. “You recently raised my rent, but I would like to go for a while without paying you. I’ll reimburse all the money I owe with interest once I resume the payments.”

  Joe ran his nicotine-stained hand over his face, washing it without water and after a silent communion with his drink inquired, “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Always rapid fire, whiskey-based questions, Erik thought. “No. I’m just short on funds and will be until I get off probation.” There was no way he could tell him about the loan.

  “But if you lived anywhere else you would have to pay more than you do here. Why should this be any different?”

  “Because you’re my father, I figured maybe—”

  “I’m stupid? Well, I’m not.”

  “Those are your words, not mine. I’m simply asking for help,” Erik replied, looking to his mother for support but none was forthcoming.

  “Let me make certain I understand. You don’t want to pay rent, yet won’t tell me why,” his father said through slurred words.

  “I told you. My first year wages stink. I’ll repay with interest what I owe next year, when I’ll be making a lot more.”

  Joe Preis looked to Ursula, then at Erik. “You’re a big shot airline pilot. If you didn’t live here we would rent your room to someone else and charge even more.”

  Erik knew it was pointless to pursue this discussion further because even if Joe agreed it still wouldn’t be nearly enough. Fueled by the years, simmering resentment surfaced like a scorching flame and Erik broke his silence. “Maybe you’d better understand if you really listened and cared?”

  Joe slammed his glass on the table and stood up, ready to unleash his blitzkrieg of cutting diatribe. Another dysfunctional family gathering quickly came to an end as Erik took the stairs three at a time, slammed and locked the bedroom door. As he cooled down, an ice cold finger of fear touched him between the shoulder blades not knowing what was he going to do.

  Ursula stood, hand to her mouth and speaking in their native tongue, she pleaded, “Why won’t you help? He isn’t asking much.”

  While glaring back through teeth clenched so tightly she feared his fillings would crack, Joe told her. “You should know the answer to that question. You were the one who had the affair. Now you ask me to help someone who’s probably not even my son. You have no right.”

  “I’ve told you many times. If you want proof we could do a paternity test,” A contrite Ursula pleaded. “I am certain Erik is our son. I openly confessed and begged for your forgiveness. I was young, foolish and confused, trying to adjust to a new life and culture in America. How many times must I beg you?” she uttered with raised hands, tears welling up in her azure blue eyes causing the room lamps to reflect off them like headlights in a storefront window.

  “I did not want any tests back then and still don’t. I was humiliated. You ruined my life. Maybe you can tell me why Erik doesn’t even resemble me?”

  “He takes after me. What more can I do or say?” a now weeping Ursula implored him.

  He held her gaze. Even though she was ageless, he could no longer make love to her. He had tried many times, but the vision of the neighbor doing the same always returned and nothing worked. This rumination was revisited each time and became his inescapable prison so he finally quit trying. He had originally hoped to find someone new, but never did. The years passed and the resentment built. “I don’t want to discuss this when he’s upstairs,” Joe yelled, waving a shaky hand in the direction of Erik’s room. “He might be listening. I know he understands some German. So shut the hell up!”

  . . .

  For what seemed like the
thousandth time Erik understood what was being said through a door barely filtering the words and it still disturbed him. Although no longer traumatized, recalling when he had first understood his father’s rage, his mother’s admission of infidelity confused a young Erik. He had double-checked what was said in a German-English dictionary to be absolutely certain and knew he was the bastard son Joe referred to, a tearful revelation he carried around bottled up inside ever since. These things were not supposed to happen with your asexual parents. How could Joe not be his father? What kind of person was his mother? Many times he considered telling Joe he knew. If they could bond in this knowledge maybe then he would get the paternity test and put this question to rest, forever? But his thoughts turned to fear, because what if it turned out he wasn’t? Erik didn’t want to think about that.

  Joe Preis got up and stumbled to the master bedroom furnished with twin beds. The anger slowly abated like the heat from dying embers of a fire, due to the alcohol he consumed to extinguish them and enable sleep. His thoughts turned to the young man in the other room. Should he have done the paternity test years ago? Back then, as now, his embarrassment and Teutonic psyche wouldn’t allow it. Instead, pent-up rage was vented on the only two people who were close enough to continually feel its fiery effects.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Christina skillfully guided the swept-wing stretched, denoting lengthened to accommodate more passengers, Boeing 727 toward a routine landing in Boston. It was the third segment of the two round-trip shuttle trips between New York’s LaGuardia and Boston’s Logan Field. The western sunset and beauty of the sparkling day’s end reflecting off the blue ocean waters surrounding Logan should have cheered her up, but instead she was pensive. “This ain’t as much fun as it used to be,” she sighed, recalling the many accolades her flight instructors had bestowed on her piloting abilities and how they didn’t mean a damn thing now. “And boy, am I tired,” she continued, yawning in Woody’s direction. She learned from reading fatigue could be a symptom of epilepsy and wondered if how she felt was due to her illness or state of mind? She next asked Woody, “Have you heard anything about Shuttle Air getting new planes? You always claim to have the inside track.”

  “I heard from a confidential management source management might be buying new jets to replace these aging 727’s. Notwithstanding these days of planned obsolescence, these old babies have held up well,” he said, gently patting the arm of his seat.

  “At least we’re better off than had we stayed with East Coast Airlines.” Christina smiled faintly, pleased with having made the move when the shuttle operation was sold off. “I don’t know what I’d be doing now after East Coast has shut down.”

  Seemingly, no matter what she pondered everything returned to the m-word; money. It was alimony for two ex-husbands and child support payments for her teenaged son, Jimmy who lived in Florida with his father along with another sizeable expenditure that ate up a large chunk of every paycheck. Then there were also David’s expenses.

  Turning to Woody she asked, “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I got hitched to the one and only quite a few years ago.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’m a two-time loser in the marital sweepstakes, divorced twice in the last seven years. I always figured flying was pretty much a single person’s game due to the lifestyle. Plus, being the female pilots’ media representative exacerbated the situation because it translated into extra time away for interviews and dinners. Both exes were the jealous types and sued me for divorce. The second one replaced me with a whiskey bottle,” she mentioned in half-jest to determine Woody’s reaction. Just then, however, the Boston approach controller cleared them for landing, so she shifted gears. “Enough of the marital tour, let’s get back to work. Flaps two degrees, please, then put the landing gear down and let’s perform the final checklist.” Christina purposely omitted the grounds of each divorce were allegations of her infidelity. There were also other secrets buried too deep for her to divulge.

  . . .

  Christina liked working with Erik Preis as he was young enough to eagerly accept working under a woman’s command; not an old fart like Woody, an obvious sexist who resented a woman’s authority. Thoughts of Erik reminded her to call her son, Jimmy after landing. Once at the gate she went off to an out-of-the-way corner of the chrome and steel coldly-furnished terminal, went to a pay phone, punched in her ex’s number in Miami and entered her telephone credit card number. Jimmy answered.

  “Hi honey. How are you?”

  “I’m all right, Mom.”

  His voice sounded strangely distant, even though there was an excellent connection. “I was thinking perhaps you could fly up and spend a weekend. Maybe we could go to a Mets or Yankees ballgame? It’s been a while.”

  There was a pause. “Sorry, Mom but this weekend’s no good. I’ve got a date Saturday night and my own ball game on Sunday.” Jimmy then added in a very clear tone, “And Mom, don’t forget. My birthday’s in a couple of weeks and you promised me a new Apple MAC computer with a color printer and one of those new fancy cellphones.”

  “I didn’t forget,” she sighed. “We can look at all of them while you’re here.”

  “I’ll let you know,” he replied. “I gotta jet. Bye. Love ya.”

  “I love you too.”

  Rumblings started in the pit of her stomach as though she hadn’t eaten for a week. Why was Jimmy so detached? When they finally got together she’d let him know about her epilepsy. A quick glance at her watch showed enough time remained, so she removed a small, black phone book from her uniform pocket. She hesitated, but then dialed a number in Minnesota. A woman answered after a couple of rings.

  “Mimi. It’s Christina Shepard.”

  “Oh. Hello, Mrs. Shepard.”

  It angered Christina when Mimi Johansen called her Mrs. Shepard because Mimi was actually five years her senior. There were also certain undertones in her voice Christina was certain were used to make her feel unclean or inferior for what happened many years ago.

  Pushing these emotions aside, Christina asked, “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s fine. And Laurel is absolutely eye-popping,” then adding, “she kind of looks a lot like you.”

  Christina could just picture her and smiled broadly.

  “She got fantastic grades last semester and is about to enter her junior year,” Mimi continued. “She’s talking about perhaps going to law school after graduation.” Following a long moment of silence a condescending Mimi inquired, “Would law school cause any financial problems?”

  “It might,” Christina sighed, not expecting the question. She paused for a moment and added, “There’s some doubt whether I’ll even be able to continue paying her undergraduate tuition.”

  “But—”

  “Something very serious has arisen and I have to speak with Laurel as soon as possible.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” came the immediate, barbed retort. “You’re fully aware of the agreement you and your mother signed when we adopted her. I don’t think—”

  “It’s imperative,” a fuming Christina interrupted with anger churning just below the surface. “It’s a life and death matter.”

  “But then she would discover she’s adopted.” Mimi stuttered. “John and I kept it from her all these years. I don’t know how she’ll react if she finds out. Why don’t you tell me first what it is. I can relay it to Laurel if I decide it’s important,” Mimi reiterated in a voice Christina despised.

  “Sorry. This is personal. Something I can only share with her.”

  “Can you at least give me some idea?”

  Christina hesitated. “It’s an item I must discuss in confidenc
e with Laurel.”

  “Meaning she would have to know everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got to give me time to think this over. You call out of the blue and tell me after all of these years you want my daughter to know who her mother really is. With John gone, I have no one else to speak with—.”

  “I’m very sorry about his passing,” Christina interrupted.

  “It all happened so quickly, seemingly he was fine one day and gone a week later. I’m afraid this knowledge, coming on the heels of her father’s passing could devastate Laurel.”

  Christina said nothing more, figuring Mimi was probably worried Laurel might leave and she would be alone. The word alone triggered emotions of how much she had missed out on in giving Laurel up; the tiny, sweet body smelling of baby powder, the runny noses, the beguiling smiles.

  Mimi’s voice transported her back to the immediate task at hand.

  “Could you call me back in a while?” Mimi finally asked.

  “No. I can fly to Minneapolis and meet over the weekend, but I must speak with her. Perhaps we could meet at an airport restaurant?” Christina insisted. Notwithstanding a thousand signed agreements, with or without Mimi’s permission she would contact Laurel.

  “All right,” Mimi moaned. “I’ll call you back with a time and place. Give me your number. I have it someplace but I’m not certain where.”

  Christina supplied her home number and hung up, thinking she also needed to purchase a cellphone so she could speak in private.

  She went to the employee cafeteria and after ingesting a tasteless burger returned to the plane. Lately, everything she ate seemed to produce a case of heartburn. Just prior to departure time she was again handed official notification an armed sky marshal was on board, meaning another probable delay. She sat in her seat, fuming, angry about Mimi and frustrated over yet another late flight. When the same truck pulled up planeside she got out of her seat, put on her captain’s hat and told a startled Woody, “You’re in charge ‘til I get back.” Making certain her ID badge was prominently displayed, Christina descended on to the ramp and as she walked around the nose of the jet, the young man with the badge put up his hand and commanded her at the top of his lungs, “Stop!” Then, he hollered, “She’s all right. Put the weapons away.” Wheeling around, Christina saw the guards had drawn their guns. No longer curious, she was now terrified. “You’re not allowed here,” he shouted over the din of the plane’s auxiliary power unit as he firmly grasped her arm and led her back toward the Jetway steps.