by George Jehn
Driving to the flight school Erik had the radio volume high, humming along with the songs. Although he didn’t understand why, his mind was on only one person, Carol Rodriguez. Whenever his thoughts turned to her everything else faded away. Strutting into the office he told Andrea, “You look marvelous.”
“My, but you’re in good spirits.”
“Remember the pretty chick I flew with last week?”
“You mean the skinny one who kept me here ‘til almost 7:30?”
“Her second lesson is later today.”
Not pleased, Andrea had fantasized one day Erik might invite her out and after getting to know her, well who knew what might happen? But apparently he had his sights set on this other girl.
“This time, I just hope she leaves a bit earlier,” she muttered and turned back to her typing.
The day seemed never-ending, with Erik afraid Carol might not show, but then he saw her enter the office dressed in second-skin jeans and an equally tight-fitting pink tank top, her thick hair pulled back into a ponytail, carrying the books he had provided. The same huge shades hung around her neck.
Smiling, he pointed to the books and asked, “Did you read them?”
“Yes. But I couldn’t understand everything.”
“You should’ve called.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she replied, not telling him she had begun to dial his number several times but chickened out.
“You remember how to perform the preflight inspection?”
“I think I do.”
“C’mon. I’ll follow you,” he said with a toothy grin.
All her preflight items were down pat, so Erik again reviewed the cockpit instrumentation and procedures while keeping a close eye on everything. As they taxied out he handled the radio communications while Carol performed a flawless takeoff.
“Take her up to two thousand five hundred feet,” he said pointing to the altimeter. “We’ll review the fundamentals, again.” Carol was more self-assured and they returned to the field at twilight, just as the horizon was swallowing what was left of the sun. “This is the most magnificent time of the day to fly,” he offered. “The air’s smooth, no wind or sun-induced up or down drafts.”
“It’s the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen. I wish I’d brought my camera.”
As the sky was beginning to deepen from watery blue to purple and the sun’s late-day bolts barely penetrated the darkening clouds and touched the treetops, Erik floated in for a perfect touchdown. “Were you comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes. How did I do?”
“You should be able to fly solo pretty soon.”
“Well, I’d better check with my father before thinking about that.”
“Glancing at his watch Erik asked, “It’s past six. Wanna grab a bite?”
Ten minutes later they were seated side-by-side in a small booth at the airport diner decorated with white walls, vivid red tables and edged with sparkling chrome called The Landing. She cupped her chin in her palms and stared at Erik with blinking huge brown eyes. “How did you get into flying?” she asked, as though every word he uttered was important.
Feeling like God’s gift to Carol Rodriguez, Erik surrendered a shortened autobiography. “I was kind of drifting aimlessly, going to school, learning how to sleep ‘til noon, working at different summer jobs, that kind of stuff. One thing I always knew was I never wanted to get on the business world nine-to-five treadmill, the one you never get off. I finally spread my wings after going up with a buddy’s father because flying made me feel meaningful. I set my sights on becoming an airline pilot and never looked back.”
“How could you afford the lessons? They’re so expensive,” her beauty shining like a magnet to him.
“I borrowed the money.” He heard himself say, almost opening up too much. He steered the conversation in a different direction. “I’m a brand new Boeing 727 flight engineer for Shuttle Air, the new airline headquartered at LaGuardia, flying from New York to Boston and Washington. I’m teaching on the side just to earn some extra cash.”
“You’ve got another job?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ve been there only a short time but was involved in an episode last week in Boston when an engine quit during takeoff. Maybe you read about it or saw something on the news? Lots of newspapers and TV stations carried it.”
“I did! That was you? Was it scary?” she asked, as though what he would impart was immeasurably important.
Erik recounted what happened moment by moment, omitting anything about Woody. “It happened so fast I didn’t have time to get frightened ‘til it was over.”
She pictured him, calm and cool and a chill ran the length of her spine.
“The airline job was a godsend ‘cause full-time flight instructing was taking its toll, with my patience the first thing to fly off into the sunset.” He related an account about another student, omitting his name. “He’s not a bad pilot, but we began doing touch and go’s, when you don’t stop after landing but keep the plane rolling and take off again. Like I showed you, when you retard the engine throttle before landing you’re also supposed to pull out the carburetor heat knob to direct the motor’s warm air into the carburetor to keep ice from clogging it. But he was so edgy he mistakenly pulled the mixture control knob.”
Carol put her hand to her mouth, gasping, “Doesn’t that shut off the—?”
“—Yeah, the engine. Suddenly it got very quiet, very quickly. I was certain it would restart, but he was terrified and didn’t want to fly any more that day.”
Each time Carol reacted to what was spoken she tossed her hair and Erik noted a unique combination of virtue and seductiveness, an interesting combo.
To change the subject, he inquired, “You from a large family?”
“I’m an only brat,” adding, “but with lots of relatives.” She related some tales about her extended Hispanic family. “You’ve got to come to one of our gatherings. There must be over a hundred people.”
“That’s a part of life I’ve never experienced. It must be nice? Plus, I really enjoy fajitas and tacos.” He took a bite out of his cheeseburger followed by surrendering a bit more autobiography. “I’m also an only child. My parents are German immigrants and the only family on this side of the Atlantic.” He stopped speaking and glanced at the prints of fighter aircraft built by Fairchild Aviation, many during World War II when those family members were the enemy, so different from the way they were now viewed. The company was long gone but the prints still adorned the walls. Erik wondered if there was wisdom in any war.
Like the cards you hold during a game of draw poker, as a rule Erik played his private life very close to the vest, but he felt inexplicably different with her and opened up a bit. “My parents aren’t like the family picture you just painted...” he hesitated, wondering if he had already said too much, “more like loners.” He quickly added, “Josef and Ursula are their names.” Mimicking a German accent he continued, “But zey are so American zat zey now go by Joe and Uli. Zey also changed our last name from Preismann to Preis; definitely more American-sounding.”
“Why’d they come to the States?”
“I think it had to do with when JFK was President and stood up against the Russians in Berlin because the entire family worshipped him like a god.” He took a long swig of soda and added, “I’m still living with them here in Farmingdale and it really stinks ‘cause there’s no privacy and I still have to put everything in its proper place. Plus, it’s an hour-long drive to LaGuardia, more with traffic. But the rent is a bit cheaper.”
Carol sensed he might feel awkward, so she took his hand and the first thing she noticed was its warmth
. Patting it, she added with mock pity, “Then you must come to a Rodriguez family get-together. Everyone would love to meet you if for no other reason than you’d be the only one with blond hair,” she added in a tender voice.
“I’d love that. But for now let’s concentrate on getting you flying solo.”
“Oh my God! Me? Solo? I can’t believe it. How long does that take?”
“Sometimes it takes only four or five hours for really sharp students like you, but more for others.”
Sitting there sipping sodas she asked out of the blue, “Are you married?” The question hung in the air for a few seconds begging for a response.
Do I look married? “No. No woman could ever live in the same house with my parents,” adding, “I’m not even seeing anyone right now.”
Obviously embarrassed, her cheeks flushed. “That was pretty bold of me.”
“Don’t worry.”
When finished she offered to pick up the tab. Though most airline pilots were so cheap they let less money slip through their fingers than air seep through the windows of their pressurized jets, she was different. “No way,” he said. I’ve got it.” Erik quickly slid out of the booth, went to the cashier and paid the fourteen-dollar tab. While standing outside next to her black Subaru he reminded her. “Don’t forget to hit the books before our next lesson; that is if your parents agree. You’ll grasp a lot more since we’ve now been up twice. We’ll be practicing the same basics with the emphasis on you performing them without my help. Next come the touch and go’s and soon you’ll be ready to solo.”
While extending her hand to thank him for the instruction and the burger their eyes made direct contact. “If you buy dinner for all your students, you’ll go broke,” she laughed with a twinkle in her eyes.
There was no hesitation. “I save it only for the ones I like.” But now he hesitated, probing, “Would you like to get together in a more informal setting one night?”
“Are you asking me out?”
He hesitated, again. “I guess so.”
“I would love that.”
“How’s tomorrow night?”
“That would be great,” she immediately replied, noting he was a bit on the shy side, which she found to be very sexy. She also prayed his reserved reaction wasn’t from being burned in the past; afraid to touch the stove, again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christina spent much of Saturday holed up in the bedroom, telling David she was studying for an upcoming checkride and didn’t want to be disturbed. In reality, she was formulating an intricate plan, known only to her. Once the basics were in place, she scrutinized it from every possible angle and could find no flaws, which brought an impending sense of freedom from her prison cell of epilepsy. There was risk involved, but she believed it could definitely work.
David knocked and stuck his head in the room as the afternoon shadows were forming outside. “Done studying yet?” he asked.
Christina stretched on the bed, while closing the small pad she was using. “Yes. I was going over all the procedures because it’s no longer like being tested in the aircraft where there were lots of maneuvers they were fearful of checking because if you screwed up everyone could get killed. Nowadays everything is done in the flight simulator, meaning I’ve got to know and precisely perform each one, so there’s a lot more studying involved. Come and lie down next to me,” she offered, patting his side of the bed.
She had been with David Bennedeto for roughly a year, after they met at a company-sponsored picnic. Initially there was a physical attraction, but after getting to know him better she realized he was narcissistic. But his negatives were offset by the crosscurrent of emotions a young Christina had experienced watching her mother trying to cope after her father had run off. The corrosive effects of total solitude destroyed her mother’s spirit and the dread of the same thing happening to her outweighed anything else. But she sporadically tried to convince herself being alone might be better than with David; that it could deliver serene isolation. But the thought of such loneliness subsequently had returned to paralyze her, so David remained.
Lying there, he offhandedly remarked, “My grandmother, Isabella Rosario was eighty this past week and the family’s celebrating tonight at her Brooklyn home. You wanna go?”
A surprised Christina immediately sat up. “Why…yes. I was wondering why you never introduced me to your relatives.”
“Maybe now’s the right time?” he mumbled.
. . .
They drove Christina’s car in silence except for the radio, arriving at their destination on Sixty-Third Street in the very Italian Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn approximately forty minutes later. Most of the last names on the mailboxes of the square-shaped brick homes lined up like Army barracks ended in vowels, although Christina also noticed some Asian surnames. Like others spots in Brooklyn, this neighborhood was probably changing. After parking about a half a block away, instead of entering via the front door they went to the side and descended into a large living room, replete with what appeared to be a very old black and white TV, well-worn rug and a plastic covered couch with gaudy flowered patterns. The huge kitchen had a yellowed linoleum floor and an enormous table with too many place settings to count. Offsetting the decor were mouth-watering fragrances, seemingly as dense as the Boston fog. It looked like at least fifty people were packed into two rooms with most screaming and communicating with hand gestures, while kids darted about. On the surface it appeared to be bedlam, but Christina quickly realized it wasn’t as coherent conversations were seemingly taking place. David walked around introducing her to everyone, eventually standing at the head of the long table beside an older woman with white, thinning hair and clouded eyes as if they were narrowed by a lifetime of disappointment. Will I look like that if I make it to her age? Christina wondered.
“How are you, Grandma?” David asked.
“I’m okay, darlin’.” After hugging and kissing him, she asked while nodding toward Christina, “Who’s your pretty friend?”
“This is my girlfriend, Captain Christina Shepard.”
Christina was caught off guard by David’s use of the word captain.
“Does she own a boat?”
David shook his head. “No. She’s a jet captain at the airline.”
Motioning with her hand the woman commanded, “Bring her here.”
Extending her hand, Christina was caught off-guard when the woman pulled her into her full bosom and imparted a big, wet kiss smack on her lips. The lady actually felt like she had whiskers! Quickly stepping back, Christina sputtered, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Rosario.”
“You call me Grandma, okay Captain?” The eyes brightened, just a bit.
“Sure...Grandma.”
“You Italian? You don’t look Italian.”
“No. I’m American.”
Grandma said, “Ciao,” dismissing them with a wave of her hand and turned to others waiting to offer birthday greetings. Christina grabbed a seat alongside David. Was it for protection? Before she knew it, table-cracking portions of pasta, followed by tasty homemade meatballs and sausage were passed out in chipped dishes with different patterns. One of David’s aunts hollered, “C’mon, Captain, mangia, mangia,” as jugs of red wine were opened and tiny glasses were filled to overflowing.
Right after dinner everyone broke up into small groups. The women drank coffee, cleaned off the table, washed the dishes and chatted, while the men played cards, smoked and conversed. Never one to join the dishwashing brigade, Christina sat with the men. Soon, a short and stocky fellow with penetrating dark eyes, David’s uncle Juni was seated beside her, as close as any red-blooded and married Italian male could do without raising eyebrows. Bet
ween sips of espresso he said, “You must be the pilot David’s dating.”
“That’s me.”
“Did he tell you I used to work at a bank that did equity deals for the airlines?”
“No. He never mentioned that. You still work there?” she asked, crossing her legs.
After a not-too-furtive glance at the slender legs, he replied, “No. I left some time ago.” Handing her a business card, he quickly added, “But if I can ever be of help, please call.”
Christina thought it odd the card gave the name of the Genoa Italian bakery and Juni Rosario, Owner, along with home and business phone numbers; not quite in line with a bank job. She placed the card in her pocket and they went on to chat about various airlines’ strong and weak points, pointing out the latter at Shuttle Air. Christina was concerned about many of the same things and also surprised at how well versed Juni was on the industry. “Maybe we should get together some time for dinner and discuss airlines in depth,” Christina suggested, handing him her Shuttle Air business card containing her home number.