The Ego Makers

by Donald Everett Axinn

  I played squash at the Javelin Club on West Fifty-sixth Street. It fashioned itself after the Ivy League clubs on Forty-fourth Street, except that Javelin’s members were self-made. Most were graduates of state colleges and universities. A few, like me, had graduated from private colleges. They really aspired to be the social equals of their old-line brethren on Forty-fourth.

  Both “A” and “B” teams were in the squash league; no victory was sweeter than beating Harvard-Princeton-Yale. You’d think our members, most second- or third-generation Irish, Italian, and Jewish, plus a sprinkling from Scandinavia, the other Americas, and the Balkans, might have accepted their heritage. Been proud of it. But most of them tried, if not to bury it, then at least not to expose it. Not that they were ashamed. They simply possessed an unspoken but undeniable inferiority complex vis-à-vis the downtown crowd.

  My fellow members weren’t just satisfied with trying to beat everyone on the courts, they wanted to win at everything. A few had married upper-class women from the Upper East Side, Westchester, New Jersey, and southern Connecticut. Love was not always their primary motivation. In any case, Javelin members were fierce competitors. Maybe I have it wrong about the Ivy League crowd; if you dig a little, I suppose only a few are descended from the Mayflower. I’ll bet a sweet hundred some of those so-called swells have indentured service in their background.

  Spear was a typical Javelin member. He was unstoppable, beating up on his business competitors as often as he could. Also a wild stallion, intent on taking away any alpha male’s harem. He chased women, early and often. His line —- he would call it his charm — was something to behold. Being married didn’t seem to make any difference to him. “Need variety, Martin,’ he would say. “Only doing what I was designed for. We’re male animals, you know.” Spear was famous for his clichés.

  “Dan,” I said as I was lacing up my sneakers, “one of these days some broad’s going to get to you. She'll get you to divorce again, marry her, have a baby or two. Then when you’re old and tired, shell not only have your money, but some young stud to keep her satisfied.”

  He ignored my remark. “Always coming, pal, never going. I know where to draw the line.”

  “That why you’ve been married only twice?” I said, laughing, though I knew my question would irk him.

  “Don’t like the trip, don’t come along, I tell them from the start,” Spear said. “Ten years is max. Maybe five. They can get tired of me, too. More fun with something fresh.”

  “That’s fine in theory,” I said, “but what about all that alimony each time?” I said it too quickly and hit his not-so-funny bone.

  “That’s none of your goddamn business.” He turned to his locker and took out his racquet. “Going to whip your ass today for sure, pal,” he said with a grin, his calm returning.

  “Ready when you are, old buddy,” I said. I really didn’t like him. Probably because I recognized some of me in him.

  He took the first game. Handily. Like a pro beating an amateur into the ground. I think I got eight points. The second game went to 22-all. Why was I so tired? Spear was four years older and had put on a little weight, but he moved around the court like a cat. I thought I had him a few times, slams into the corners. He got most of them back for winners.

  “Whatsamatter, Martin?” Spear asked. “Lost your youth and beauty?’’ He had just broken my serve for the game.

  “The next game, I'll give you five points,’ I said as we began again. I won the first four points, but after that he was off to the races. He took the next ten in a row. The final score was 21 to 9.

  “Another one?" he asked, a grin carved on his face. “A thousand bucks says you don’t beat me. Ill even give you two-to-one.”

  “Think I've had enough. Nice playing,’ I said, trying to be a good loser. I was thinking of telling him about what had happened to me earlier, that my mind was not on the game, but decided not to. Sour grapes. Besides, he’d hear soon enough.

  I showered, standing under the hot water for several minutes, wanting to ease the tightness, get that conversation with Phelan off my mind. Phelan was okay; he only did what he had to. It was the meeting I had to have with MacDougall. First, I needed to assess with Steve and Ari the full financial impact of losing the lease. Here was Steve’s big chance to give me the business. MacDougall was going to be one unhappy banker. And I would be the object of his anger.

  8

  I RETURNED Steve’s call from my limo. He was out, so I paged him on his beeper, “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, “I am your partner, after all.”

  I hesitated, then: “Phelan told me Standard General closed with Yedid.”

  “You’re joking! You said you’d convince him to sign with us,” My brother was frightened.

  “An internal problem. With Jordan. We’re the sacrificial lamb. Nothing Phelan can do.” Saying those words etched even deeper the gravity of the situation. They had biblical finality, “Look, Steve, first thing tomorrow, you, Ari, and I will sit down and review the whole goddamn situation. Our options.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday, Joyce and I have been invited for the weekend to her parents’ place in the Thousand Islands. We’re supposed to leave early.”

  And I was going to meet Karen in half an hour in my enchanted hideaway in the Village. We got together occasionally, so the relationship would retain a nice edge.

  “Oh,” I said. “I think it’s pretty important, don’t you?”

  “What’s important, my going away for the weekend or meeting with you?” How I loved Steve’s sarcasm. I decided to ignore it. I had to focus on what to do next. Once in a while Steve and Ari came up with creative ideas on their own; and I could bounce mine off them.

  “Up to you," I said. “Axi and I can meet without you. But if I don’t make a date with MacDougall first thing Monday mornings he’s liable to hear the good news through the grapevine. It’s not going to be a cakewalk.”

  “I’m in as deep as you, Henry.” He paused. “All right. 111 delay leaving. By the way, do you happen to know where Joyce is? She said something about a meeting, but didn’t say where.”

  “How the hell should I know where your wife is?”

  “Well, you do have all those foundation and museum meetings with her. I thought there might be one today.”

  “No,” I said. “Anyway, we’re on different committees.”

  “Where will you be later, little brother? In case I have to talk to you about something.”

  “I’m having dinner with a new date.” That wasn’t true, but I didn’t want him knowing about Karen. Then I added, “If it can’t wait, you can reach me on my beeper. Otherwise, eight-thirty tomorrow morning?” He agreed to the time. “Ill call Ari and let him know.”

  I hung up and directed Charles to drop me off at my townhouse on East End Avenue and Seventy-third. I’d take a cab downtown to meet Karen at my other place on Bleecker Street, We generally preferred to meet there.

  Karen Viscomi personified today’s modern career woman: independent, ambitious, talented. A little conflicted about not having children. Karen was thirty-three, and in great shape. She could have modeled. She was also a natural athlete. Very self-assured, she was an attorney, on a fast track with the district attorney’s office. Her mother was a prominent pediatrician, her father a trial lawyer. In that family, all the children were professionals. Two brothers were physicians and the third was an astrophysicist. Karen had recently been divorced from a Delta Airlines captain.

  Soft, brown eyes, large and searching; thin face and high cheekbones. Perhaps the only defect on an otherwise stunning face was a slightly crooked nose. She rejected cosmetic surgery. Karen combed her auburn hair down the middle, swept it over her ears, or sometimes tied it in a bun. I had noticed her right away at the Uptown Racquet-ball Club. She didn’t move, she flowed. After my last ladyfriend gave me the heave-ho because I wouldn’t get serious, Karen became the center of my attention.

  I had bought the townhouse after
Nancy and I divorced. A great bachelor’s pad. Spectacular view of the East River, ships forever in motion: tugs, pleasure craft, sailboats, Circle Liners carrying tourists around Manhattan, even Navy and Coast Guard ships, frigates, and patrol vessels. I loved watching airliners fly their patterns into LaGuardia. Viewing a sunrise. I chose not to live nearer the office on Long Island but in Manhattan. Only blocks to the heliport on Sixtieth Street and near the entrance to the East River Drive on Sixty-fourth. Close to Midtown, restaurants, and the theater district.

  I never used Charles when I went to meet Karen at my loft in the Village. I trusted him completely, but there was no reason he should be privy to my love life.

  “Ask what happened to me today,” she said with a twinkle.

  “What’s this, time for another Karen Viscomi show-and-tell?”

  She rose, put her arms around my neck, and pressed her body against mine. She was wearing a multicolored warm-up suit. I began to melt.

  “Since you insist, I'll tell you,” she continued, ignoring my question. “No, wait, Henry. One would think you’d been without a woman for years.” She pushed me away. “Sit down, I want to share this with you.” Karen sparkled. I sat on the sofa and pulled her onto my lap. “Henry, I won’t be able to concentrate if you do that. Henry … please.” She held my hands and turned her face to mine.

  “You know the case, where those bums beat up a storekeeper when he wouldn’t give them money? Claimed they had acted in self-defense after he brandished a gun. I mean, it’s so damn obvious!” She was excited, as if she had won an important medal. Fact was, if I’d been the judge, I’d have thrown those guys in the slammer for ten years.

  “The D.A. told me to take the lead on this case. He’d probably stop by the court. The problem is, the mob has money to hire the best lawyers. Anyway, I get the third guy, this palooka, on the stand. If I can get my witness to forget himself and his fear of the gang, maybe he’ll hand it to us. As a matter of fact, we already had pretty convincing proof.”

  Karen had already indicated what the outcome would be, but I knew I'd have to hear the details.

  “So, I begin slowly, trying to make him relax. Then I give ‘big boy’ a wink, and he grins back at me like some carnival clown. ‘Mr. Thompson/ I ask sweetly, let’s talk about intent, shall we? When you saw the two defendants from where you were in the back, when they didn’t see you, wasn’t it possible you thought they were trying to get Mr. Koeppel to pay them for protection?”

  “ ‘Ah, well …’

  “I winked at him again. ‘Please, Mr. Thompson, I really need your help. They weren’t really there to purchase something, were they? They wanted his money, right?’ And Thompson shakes his head like a donkey in his stall. ‘Isn’t that correct, Mr. Thompson?’ And he blurts, Yes!’ That did it. The defense tried everything, but the judge supported us. It looks as if we got the bastards.” She kissed me sweetly on the mouth and placed my hand on her breast. “Aren’t you proud of me, Henry?”

  I nodded and ran my lips across her neck slowly up to her ear.

  “What did you bring us to eat?” she asked.

  “Little Italy’s best pizza. And Amstel Light. Plus a large veggie salad. But It’ll have to wait. What I want right now, my little one, is you.”

  I swung us down flat on the couch and kicked off my shoes. I was on my back, Karen on top. Our lips brushed. Kiss one. Better to follow.

  She stopped abruptly. “Your reaction to what I just told you is underwhelming, Henry.”

  “Reproaches later, Karen. I think you’re a very effective attorney.

  I brought my mouth to hers, but before our lips met she rolled off onto the floor, stood up, looked down at me, and said, “You’re a great salesman, Henry. But you have a convenient way of forgetting that I too want certain things out of this relationship.” She went over to the counter and opened the pizza box. “And …”

  “And what?” Karen wasn’t always honest with me. Little lies I had caught her in. Like forgetting to let me know she was dating other men.

  ‘We never go to the theater. And last fall, I wanted you to take me to the U.S. Open. You never would.”

  “You should make me take you,’ I said. She looked at me oddly. “And I am genuinely pleased you were good in court.” I went over to her, stood behind her, pressed against her, ran my hands down her body, slowly over her thighs. She had torn off a piece of pizza and bit off the pointed end. She turned and gave me a look.

  “I’m hungry, too, honey,” I said. “But food comes second. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about an abominable day in the life of Henry Sabatini Martin.” I must have looked as pained as I was feeling.

  She softened. “I’m sorry,” she said. She took my hand and led me to the couch. “You don’t usually complain, Henry. Tell me about it later.” She told me to stand and close my eyes. She kissed me lightly, provocatively. She undid my tie and unbuttoned my shirt, moving her fingers across my chest as she slowly removed my shirt.

  For me the lovemaking was no good. I went through the motions, and I think she enjoyed it, but all I could think about was the S.G. lease. Karen had to have sensed it. We showered and dressed in near silence. We ate a few pieces of cold pizza, washing them down with beer. The salad lay wilting in its bowl.

  “Maybe a good night’s sleep is what you need,” Karen said. “I’ve got to dash. You can call me tomorrow in the office. I should be back from court late in the day.”

  I went to the window and watched her hailing a cab. I stood there a while, then turned back to the apartment door.

  I kicked it hard, then slammed the door with both fists. “Goddamn it!” I grabbed an empty bottle of Amstel from the coffee table and flung it at the lamp. It hit the shade dead-center, both lamp and bottle caught for a second in a slow-motion dance before crashing to the floor in a hundred pieces. “Fucking Christ!” I screamed. I stood there, shaking, then dropped to the couch, face down, sobbing.

  The last time I had cried was during the endless days before Nancy died. Before our divorce, Nancy had tried to convince me several times we should have a child. She was well into her thirties and felt her biological clock ticking. After we were separated, her gynecologist had discovered melanoma during a routine exam. All those years as a kid on Atlantic Beach, that glowing tan, those freckles, that could have been a warning. But who in their teens and twenties ever has such thoughts? I cried not only because I realized how much I had neglected her during our years together, but because now she would never, thanks to me, have the baby she wanted so badly. But, I kept telling myself that Fate or God or whatever never meant us to have a child. One more Henry Sabatini Martin rationalization.

  Some months after our divorce, I heard about her. At this point, the melanoma seemed under control, but later on it metastasized with frightful swiftness. A friend of a friend had dated her. He had done or said something she didn’t like, so she dumped him. Summarily, no second chance. I never imagined she could be that strong-minded. Later, I saw her playing tennis at her club with some guy. She was laughing and seemed to be having a great time. I did miss her that day. And I was jealous.

  About a year later, Nancy died. Her funeral service was in the elegant Episcopal cathedral in Garden City where we had been married. I swore to myself I would display no emotion. Her father and one brother showed great restraint, but her mother and younger brother broke down several times during the service. Her mother and I held hands. When she began to sob, I did, too.

  None of us wanted to witness the cremation. We went back to her parents’ big Victorian house on Fourth Street, set primly among huge oaks, beeches, and willows. The next day, I picked up the urn and, together with her father and brothers, scattered the ashes over the sands of Atlantic Beach, as Nancy had requested.

  I liked the MacAllisters: I admired their stability and equanimity. Emotions were almost always kept under control, rather than all over the place like the Sabatinis and Martins. They seemed to have it together. Ail of t
hem. Nancy’s father, a top executive with Prudential Life, had graduated from Colgate and had an MBA from Wharton. He had met his wife, Gladys, on a visit to Smith college, then saw her again when she was a bridesmaid at the marriage of one of his college roommates. They seemed an ideal couple, though once or twice I did pick up on a few incompatibilities.

  Nancy’s two brothers teased her and adored her. Jay, the older, was an engineer designing jet aircraft for Grumman. Calvert was a flight instructor at Farmingdale. He and I had lots in common. Although I got along well with her parents, I knew her father had expressed concern about our relationship. Once, when we first began to date, I was sitting in the living room with Gladys waiting for Nan to finish dressing.

  “It looks like you two are beginning to see a lot of each other, Henry,’ she said with a smile. “What I’m trying to say is, our Nancy is pretty important to us.”

  “Your daughter is very special to me, too, Gladys,’ I said. “I get along better with her than I ever have with anyone else. In everyway.” I hoped that would reassure her.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me, Henry. I’m not trying to interfere. Just a mother’s interest.”

  I nodded. They say if a man wants to know how a woman will turn out when she gets older, take a close look at her mother. Gladys was still a knockout.

  After the funeral, I tried as best I could to comfort my in-laws. And they me. Brother Jay poured me a second Dewar’s. I thanked him, then slipped away through the sunporch, out the French doors, across the brick patio, and through the formal gardens to a huge ash tree in the corner of the property.

  I sat down on the swing that hung from a thick lower branch. I imagined Nancy here as a child, pushing her feet higher and higher, feeling free as she arched her body with the swinging motions of the pendulum.