The Ego Makers

by Donald Everett Axinn

  A man in a large pickup truck stopped near the fuel tanks and observed the plane as we taxied off the runway. I waited to cool down the engines before shutdown. He continued to watch us as we opened the door and stepped down the ladder onto the gravel.

  He drove closer, and from his window said, “Helluva flying machine you got there. Beautiful paint job. Pretty as anything. You, ah, need anything?” He left his truck, came over, put out his hand, and offered a smile. “Täte. Jerry Täte. I run the flying operation here. Summit Air Charters, with my wife Susan. And a seaplane base on the lake.”

  I liked him immediately and got the feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing, knew this country and how to fly in it; also that he genuinely wanted to help us. Jerry was medium height, in his early forties, probably slightly heavier and thinner on top than he had once been, and physical in the sense that he appeared to be up to whatever he undertook The smile on his face seemed a harbinger of outright laughter.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’re up from the States, hoping to spend a little time here. How’s the fishing?”

  “If you promise not to tell, fantastic. Our lake trout cooperate nicely. Average ten to fifteen pounds. And salmon all through the rivers during their runs. I fly hunters around who try to take mountain sheep and goats; we also do a big operation hauling salmon off the Taku River. Even have two Shorts for heavy shipments.”

  “You really have a Short?” Julie asked. “And I know you, Täte. Some years ago my mother and I flew in here. On our way down from Fairbanks. You helped us with a bad magneto. We were heading down to Wisconsin.”

  ‘Yeah, now that you remind me. The Short sure is a funny-looking bird, but does a whole bloody lot of work. Quite a pilot, your mother. Yeah, I remember her clearly now. Didn’t she ferry planes during the war? You’re just as pretty now as you were then, ah …”

  “Roppel. Julie Roppel. My mother’s name was Randi.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you were here before, even though you said you wanted to show me Atlin,” I said.

  “Got to leave a few surprises for you … Jerry, this is Martin. Henry Martin. Back east he’s a big shot. But that stops at the border. Right, Henry?”

  Jerry and I laughed. “Right you are,” I said.

  “I can give you a ride into town and set you up at the hotel,” Jerry said. “The only place we have. But I’d suggest one of the cottages near it on the lake. Hotel’s pretty grungy. But the only place to eat dinner. There’s also the Pine Tree Cafe for breakfast and lunch.

  “Ill set you up with Ian, Ian McGregor, our best fishing guide,” he went on. “Oh, the bar at the hotel’s where everybody goes. Won’t take you long to meet folks.”

  This was exactly what I had been hoping for. Days and nights in this magnificent place at the end of the world. I probably should have been in touch with the office, but I didn’t want to spoil my time in Shangri-La. I felt freer than I had since … since I was that cocky kid blasting around in Marine jets. How much of it, I wondered, was

  Julie’s effect on me?

  We settled into a rustic cottage right on the lakefront. Rustic is a polite way of saying run-down. But so what if the bathroom door didn’t close all the way, or the water in the sink kept running, or the shower was an old rusted enclosure, or the floor wasn’t level? Who cared? The view from our porch was spectacular. We saw Cathedral Mountain directly across the lake, and other glacier-frosted mountains, their peaks and ridges encompassing most of the lake. There were pine- and spruce-covered islands near us and a lovely log-built house on one of them. It reminded me of sections in the Swiss Alps.

  It was mesmerizing to watch the pontoons on Jerry’s Beaver break the water as he took off parallel to the shoreline: first the roar of the powerful engine as he put the plane up on the step — the lifting of the plane’s weight onto the top of the water — then the buildup of speed and smooth liftoff, the lake’s surface filing in the grooves created by the indentations of the pontoons. The plane climbed higher and higher to cross the mountains, I imagined what Jerry saw as he flew through the splendor stretching across the Sloko and Florence Ranges, the tongue-like Llewllyn and Tulsequah Glaciers, toward the Tulsequah and Taku Rivers. And the incredible Devil’s Paw thrusting its knife-edged triple peaks sharply into the sky at 8,500 feet.

  I stepped outside to give Julie time alone, but when she was in the shower that first afternoon, I slipped out of my clothes and joined her. “Henry, how did you know this turns me on?”

  “Doesn’t everything?”

  “Stand behind me and soap me up. And even if I beg you to go faster, don’t listen to me.”

  “You talk too much,” I said.

  I began with her neck and the back of her shoulders, then had her raise her arms straight up, slowly bringing my soapy fingers over the front of her shoulders, even more slowly sliding them near and then onto her breasts, circling her nipples in ever smaller circles, then once, twice over them, scooping my hands until my fingers found her now-hardened nipples.

  “Oh, Henry,’

  Down across her flat stomach, hesitating, around her belly button, across her hips, bending down to reach her thighs. In deliberate motions, down her calves to her ankles, my body pressed against her back and rear, my arms around her lower hips, my fingers moving up her inner thighs to the beginnings of her pubic hair, slowly, ever so slowly, feeling her body gyrating, her hands reaching back behind my head.

  I made her stand like that, even though she wanted to face me and put her arms around me. Then I moved in front of her, water splashing my face. She moved her body against mine and held my penis, lifted one leg and guided it in. She strongly pulled my buttocks to her. We both came at the same time, screaming into the cascading shower, laughing, holding each other up.

  Still entwined, we struggled onto the bed, dropped, and slept for several hours. I woke up first and looked at Julie. The landscape of her face, her high cheekbones, black eyebrows and eyelashes, her completely contented look. And with her arms thrown around me, her head turned inside my left arm, her mouth slightly ajar against my shoulder — had I ever felt this way before?

  Julie purred as she woke. She kissed me softly.

  “Julie,” I whispered after a moment. “I want to be your lover. And not just for one week,’

  Her eyes opened fully. “You don’t need to say that. Henry Sabatini Martin is not the type to make rash statements. Think of your reputation.”

  I didn’t enjoy the teasing. I put two fingers on her lips, and pulled her close. I peered into her eyes, wanting to see every thing that had happened in her lifetime. “Julie, the simple fact is … I'm afraid I've fallen in love with you. It’s terrific and illogical, but true.”

  “Be careful.” She reached over and took my hand. “I’m different from anyone you’ve known, besides we’re up here in Shangri-La.”

  “You are different,” I said. “We’re opposites. That’s probably what makes it great.”

  I hesitated, then said slowly, “I never really loved anyone before. In my own way, I loved Nancy. For a while anyway. And one or two others, but oh so briefly. But my ego always got in the way. Kept me from losing myself, letting go. I was the problem. Whatever was happening between the other person and me. I guess I was only focused on me.” I held both of her hands.

  Julie pulled one hand away and laid it gently on my face. “We’ve only known each other for, what, a week?”

  “Julie, I said what I did because it’s the emmis. That means the truth. Remember I’m the one who tried to warn you.”

  Julie got up, put on my shirt, which bottomed out below her buttocks, and walked out onto the porch. We both turned to see Jerry taxi the seaplane to his dock across the small bay. It was seven in the evening. This far north, in late spring, it would be many hours before the sun settled down for the night.

  All of a sudden, she turned and looked straight into my eyes.

  “I don’t love you, Henry. Not yet, anyway.” She leaned aga
inst me. ‘“You’re exciting and fun. But Henry, there’s something else.”

  “You mean, there’s someone else? If you’ve got someone else, then how can you be sleeping with me?”

  “Hold on, Martin! I know you have women waiting for you back in New York.” She laid stress on “New” and tried to mimic an eastern twang. “No one owns me. And no one owns you. We do what we want, with whom we want, when we want, right? We don’t answer to anyone but ourselves. Isn’t that how we both want it?”

  I put on a pair of khaki shorts, opened the screen door, and jumped down on the grass. A breeze crossed my face, touched with the scent of spruce. I ambled toward the beach, my hands deep in my pockets.

  “Henry, wait a minute,” Julie yelled from the porch. She dashed barefoot to catch up with me.

  “Julie, you’re not dressed,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t give a shit.” She put her arms around my neck and pressed herself against me. “We came up north to have fun. Don’t spoil it.”

  She pulled away and pulled me by the hand. “Hey, let’s put our tootsies in the lake,’ We meandered to the small beach and sat peacefully on a large rock. Julie draped an arm over my back

  “I've been serious with several guys and married two of them,’ she said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get emotionally involved again until I had become a whole person. As far as Bill is concerned, he’s out on ships most of the time. We’ve had this — I don’t know — affair, I guess. The last five years. I’ll never many him. He knows that. I don’t love him, but we have had great times.”

  She scrutinized my face, which I was trying to keep tough and square-jawed. “You seem to be listening, Henry. But are you? Do you know what Amelia Earhart told George Putnam fifty years ago on their wedding day? I shall not hold you to any medieval code of behavior, nor shall I so be similarly bound. I must be free to pursue flying.’ “

  She sat on my lap and leaned back against me. “I find you more interesting than any man I’ve ever met. And that’s not a load of Hammerschlanger’s, either.” She slapped both her feet on the water, beaver-style.

  I must have had a hangdog look on my face. She got up, leaned down, and planted a soft kiss on my mouth. I could feel her warmth on my thighs.

  Normally I would have become aroused, but I was too busy absorbing her words. I knew my feelings for her wouldn’t last indefinitely unless they were reciprocated.

  “Mom tried to get me to see how I kept repeating the same mistake,” Julie continued. She pointed to a bald eagle cruising near one of the islands, then looked back at me and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Just thinking.” Julie cleared her throat. “You wouldn’t want to be another one of my mistakes, would you?”

  “I don’t plan to be,” I said. “I want to know everything about you I don’t already know.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  I grabbed a stick, began to break off small pieces, and tossed them one by one into the water. “Women responded to me in New York because I was the king of the pile. Except, I came out pretty empty.”

  “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, Henry, but that doesn’t change things,’ She turned and faced the cottage. “I’m getting chilly. Let’s get dressed and go to the lounge for a drink.” She pushed me. ‘“You’ve made me ravenous. I mean, for food.”

  I could feel anger mounting, but vowed to keep it in check. But first, I needed to know why I felt angry.

  Jerry was right about the bar. It was obvious who was local and who was not. Except for a few tables where men talked intently with one another the people were extremely friendly. Julie and I were greeted with hellos and nods. A few we had been introduced to by Jerry earlier in the day stood up as we passed their tables to shake hands and to introduce us to others.

  Jerry walked in with Sue, waved us over to a long table already occupied by a number of locals. All were talking. I went up to the bar to fetch drinks. Julie wanted a vodka. The bartender, a good-looking blonde, also doubled as the cocktail waitress. In the photo on the wall behind the bar, three men were mooning at the camera.

  “This half-wit pilot we hired didn’t check a high oil temperature reading he was getting,” Jerry began after I asked him during the second round of beers about unplanned landings and takeoffs from glaciers.

  ‘We didn’t hear from him when he was supposed to call in from Juneau,” Susan chimed in. “So late in the afternoon — this was October and the lake was frozen over — Jerry tracks this guy’s route.”

  “Yeah,” Jerry said, “there he was, sitting on his fat ass up on this fractured ice slope. At least he hadn’t completely wrecked my plane. I checked it out from what I could see.” He took a huge gulp of beer. “I wouldn’t say there was a decent place for me to land, but what the hell, we had to get the bugger out of there. My insurance doesn’t cover dumbness.

  “The kid never had the right feel for mountain flying. I had to let him go. Hear from him now and then. He made captain with Air Alaska. Nice and easy. Those guys steer their planes, punch numbers into their computers. I think I’ll take me one of those jobs. Make a whole lot more. And all those gorgeous stewardesses!”

  Sue punched him hard. “Plight attendants you sexist bum.”

  We were halfway through the second round, Julie,1 noted, was on her third vodka, “Well, when I was a kid, probably a little like the one you described, I flew Marine Air,” I glanced over at Julie, I had already told her about that part of my life. But not much about the rest. Perhaps I was getting tired of hearing myself brag.

  “Made this bet, another jet pilot and myself. A guy named Clancy.” I didn’t need to embellish. “A stupid, dumb challenge — to fly under a bridge. I made it, but a shrimp boat got in Clancy’s way. He veered, hit the end of his wing, cartwheeled, and went down in flames, as they say. They threw me straight into the infantry and over to Vietnam.”

  I looked at the faces of my listeners. Julie shook her head.

  “Male macho shit,” she slurred. “You guys give me one swift pain in the ass. Why is it you men” — her eyes settled on me — “are convinced that bravado bullshit impresses us?”

  No one said a word, staring hard into their mugs and glasses, hoping Julie would stop. No luck.

  “I’ve seen the way men treat women. Firsthand. Spent the first sixteen years of my life in places like this. Pm a half-breed. My father, the bastard, kicked my mother and me around. Other stuff, too, but I won’t go into the shitty details.” No one moved, but I put my hand on her arm. She gave me a dirty look and took another sip of her drink.

  “You seem to have all the goddamned answers, Julie,” I said, testily. “Pd love to be as wise and mature as you. Maybe we males do that stuff because you women encourage us to perform.”

  I stood up, but she pulled me down, “Henry, I talk too much. Forgive my bad manners.” She threw back her head and slugged down the rest of vodka number three.

  “Hey, Jerry,” I said, trying to change the mood, “how about some chow? Does the meat have hair on it, or is that just a rumor?”

  “Wrong,” he said. “Hair is the appetizer. You get through one of our meals, we make you an honorary citizen.”

  ‘What else do I get for being such a cooperative tourist?”

  “A ride in my seaplane and maybe an opportunity to use a busted parachute.” He put out his hand, which I grabbed and shook with both hands.

  Later, back in the cottage, I reflected on Julie’s scene, and also how I handled it. I shouldn’t have come down so hard on her, especially in front of the others. She does drink too much, I thought. She also has a problem trusting.

  6

  THE next few days were an exquisite blur. As addictive as the weather. We fished almost as obsessively as we made love. Ian McGregor, a young man in his early twenties, half white and half Native Canadian, whizzed us thirty miles down the lake one morning to a narrow strait between a small island and a bouldered shoreline. We wagered five bucks f
or the first lake trout and another five for the largest. I nailed a twelve-pounder, Julie caught two, and Ian two. Several more insisted on trying to scrunch my hook. Ian landed the largest. On our return to Atlin, Ian pointed to movement in the water about two hundred yards in front of us. Two bears, one black and one brown — unusual that they were together — were swimming between two islands. We circled widely to take photos, but that made them reverse direction. Since they were probably exhausted, we scooted out of their way. They scrambled up on shore, walked, then ran to the other side of the small island, swam again the short distance to the mainland. They disappeared quickly into the woods. A few intimate picnics on secluded, pristine beaches, soft walks on deserted dirt roads in and near town, huge breakfasts at the Pine Tree, conversations with people only too willing to chat, afternoon naps, a cocktail for Julie on our porch or down by the lake, delicious trout steaks at a cookout with Jerry and Susan and their three kids, beer and dinners at the “exclusive” Atlin Inn. And sex at unpredictable moments during the day and in the middle of the night.

  Everything was perfect — except, though I found Julie as loving as ever, she was somehow remote. Or was it I who was remote, angry that she wouldn’t commit herself? I had fantasies of thrashing her ancient mariner on some fog-enveloped pier in San Francisco.

  That evening Jerry and I replaced the broken wires on one of the blades of the propeller on the left engine, so that ice wouldn’t form on the prop. One thing less to worry about. Jerry dropped me at the cottage to pick up Julie; we were having dinner at the Inn. I noticed a candle burning on the porch table, wildflowers in the center, dishes and glasses set next to a bottle of white wine. I stepped through the door to find Julie standing by the stove. Fresh trout steaks were being pan fried, the smell of butter filing the cool evening air.