The Winners Circle Page 11

  It was the night before Chelsea departed for college. He’d kissed her odd lip, nibbled it even. He adored every part of her and wanted her to know, but his words vanished, as he fumbled with her clothes. Cotton sleeves and bluejeans slid shyly from her arms and legs. He and Chelsea had come this close before, and later they’d find confidence in lovemaking, but at that moment in Jerry’s bedroom, with the cicadas singing beyond the screened windows, Chelsea flinched, as he entered her for the first time. He paused and detailed her lip with an index finger, aware that his weight above her was large. Strange scents hung in the air: smoldering ash, cut lemon. The blue glow of the lava lamp colored her face, unveiling her fear and desire. He wrapped his heart around his hopes. It was heaven, yet too brief to hold. He thought that she might never return.

  For a time, Jerry clung to the mood of that night. He smelled it in the woods outside his father’s house. He searched for bits of it in Chelsea’s letters and quick phone calls from her dormitory. He decided to build a nest for Chelsea. He worked blind. It was a place that she mentioned but only she saw in her head. He took extra shifts at GM, gathering cash for a farm in Hopewell. He wasn’t certain if Chelsea wanted to join him, yet at graduation, she suggested that they marry. It took him by surprise. It was her single greatest gesture toward him.

  Below the Hyatt penthouse, a large crane balanced an iron beam in the air. Jerry watched the men lower it into position and thread the rivets. He knew what he needed to do. His life was emerging from another test of time. Once again, Chelsea was back at school. She wanted to better herself, refine her own brand of perfection. He needed a reason for her to return home.

  “Six hundred thousand,” Jacob Johansen announced, before crashing his sledgehammer into a steel wedge. The collision released a tiny spark.

  Jerry watched the aged cut of hickory separate into two splintery hunks. The sun crested over West Amwell beyond Jacob’s farm, and the day’s heat abandoned the hills. Jerry noticed the birds and squirrels rustling at twilight. The impending fall wrought nervous energy from the woods. He missed the change of seasons. A return to the countryside was the right move.

  “That’s almost twice what you bought it for,” Jerry said.

  “Ain’t my problem.” Jacob balanced the next hickory cut upon the stump and tapped the wedge to set.

  “Be reasonable, Jake. I sold the property to you as a favor.”

  “You were in a hurry to sell. You’re in hurry to buy. Hurry has its price.”

  “Four Hundred. That should satisfy you.”

  Jacob eyed the Porsche parked along the lawn. “That’s a fine ride there. How much that cost you?”

  “I leased it.”

  “Hmmm.” He tugged his gray beard and drove the heavy sledge home. The chickens cackled, protesting each swing of the hammer.

  Jerry spread his arms. He knew the money game. He’d learned a lot from one summer in the penthouse. Some people wanted every dollar they clutched in their hot little hands. Only money stood between him and his ten acres of heaven in Hopewell. “What do you want from me?”

  Jacob propped his wrists upon the butt end of the axe. “Seeing as we were neighbors, I’ll take five hundred.”

  “Agreed.” Jerry took Jacob’s old paw in his grasp. He gave it a mighty squeeze, letting the farmer know what he thought about the deal. They wouldn’t be speaking for a while.

  “I can set you up with her for Thursday night.” Ms. Ruiz pushed another client over Jerry’s cell phone. She had a product to sell: nubile young women who were hunting for Daddy Big Bucks.

  “I don’t know about my schedule.” Jerry pressed the receiver tight, blocking out the noise of circular saws and hammers. He watched three men pry rotten cedar clapboards from the side of the farmhouse. The smell of sawdust and moldy wood tingled his nose. A second crew tore up planks from the hardwood floor, and a priceless pile of lumber amassed in the scrap heap on the lawn.

  “Are you too busy for love?” Ms. Ruiz said.

  “It’s not that.” He didn’t know how to say it. He rejected her brand of love. He stepped aside to let the video crew move past. A black cable uncoiled near his foot, tailing the man with the lights. “I’m in over my head at the house.”

  “I bet you’re busy,” Ms. Ruiz said. “I saw the first episode on television last week. I’d kill for a kitchen like that.”

  “At the moment, it lives only on blueprints.”

  “I can’t wait to see it finished.”

  “Me too.” Jerry wanted the cameras off his property, but the architect had lined up the Home Makers Show for the entire renovation. The relentless exposure grated on Jerry’s nerves. He’d never agree to this arrangement, if he didn’t believe Chelsea was watching their dream house come alive in weekly installments. That was the payoff. Home Makers used to be a favorite of hers, and news of it in town had reached all the papers.

  “Excuse me.” The show’s producer tapped Jerry from behind. Mang Mun Mar’s height fell shy of Jerry’s shoulder. He had a slight frame and wide elusive features. Frost blanketed the fields, although Mang dressed in sweaters and collared shirts for every climate. “We need to talk.”

  Jerry pulled away from the phone. A month earlier, he expected the show host Shane Edlow or Babs the master carpenter to run the job, but he learned from the first day that Mang actually rebuilt the houses. Shane and Babs mugged for the cameras, sinking an occasional nail for the money shot.

  “I’ve got to go.” Jerry disconnected before Ruiz launched into her next pitch. No doubt, it was another exact match, complete in every aspect except love and chemistry.

  “Bad news.” Mang peered up through oval wire glasses. His expression was buttoned-down like his collar. “The foundation is antique.”

  “You mean, colonial.”

  “No, antique.”

  “Antique is good, isn’t it?”

  “For furniture.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  “Replace it, or you’re going to have big problems, very big.”

  “So?”

  “The floors will sag. The walls will crack. Disaster.”

  “Can’t we fix it?”

  “It’s going to put you over budget?”

  “I don’t care about the budget. That was for television.”

  The producer nodded and walked toward the production trailers.

  Jerry thought he caught Mang showing a modicum of pleasure, but he couldn’t be certain. “Quote me a price first.”

  Mang turned and nodded.

  Jerry heard a vehicle approaching. A monster green and white pickup motored toward the house. The lid of the tool bin flapped open and closed on the bumpy road. By the way the tires tore up the grass and the tail of the truck skittered left and right, Jerry realized that Babs was in a jolly mood—which was a shame for only ten in the morning.

  The truck locked its brakes, and a heavyset woman with short bleached-blonde hair dropped out of the cab. She wore bluejeans, a denim shirt, and a suede vest with Indian embroidery. A crushed green Heinekens can tumbled to the ground by her boots. “Where’s my fucking table saw?”

  Mang Mun Mar sent people running after her. An intern scooped the empty beer can into the truck, while another tailed Babs and buffered her from the contractors.

  “Where’s my shit?” Babs swallowed a belch, taking Mang in her sights. “Hey M&M, where’s my setup? I told you to be ready.”

  If Mang revealed any expression, it was a deliberate effort to disguise his distaste for Home Maker’s master carpenter. It resembled a wall against a raging sea. “In the barn,” Mang said.

  “Is that shit shed going to stand?”

  Mang paused, perhaps considering the benefits of an untimely collapse. “The men shored it up yesterday.”

  “Geez, M&M, you’re a regular sweetheart.” She strutted toward the barn with a cordless router in one hand and a six-pack-sized cooler in the other. She paused and glanced at the man next to Mang. “Hey, Eddie.”
>
  Shane Edlow stood beside Mang. “She better not call me that on camera.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mang said.

  “I’m worried.” A makeup bib dangled from Edlow’s neck, as a woman finished powdering his cheeks. He was a handsome man, with boxy features that complimented his beard. He stood an inch taller than Mang, and from Jerry’s position, the bald spot atop his head resembled a map of Spruce Run Lake. “Is she going to be camera-ready?”

  “Look at the bright side,” Mang said. “We won’t have to add color to her face.”

  “I hate when she does this. Somebody better make sure she’s standing for the walk-through. I’m not waiting around for her to sleep it off.”

  “She’ll be good, I think. We’ll tape both of you, after her sidebar.”

  “You better. She’s a beer shy of nighty-night.”

  Jerry sensed the cameras about to roll and planned his escape. He was halfway to his Porsche before the interns intercepted him.

  Mang was hot on their heels. “You’re going to stay, yes?”

  “I have an appointment in town.” He began fabricating excuses, fumbling through his pockets for his car keys.

  “We need the homeowner on film.”

  “Is that really necessary? It’s about the house.”

  “People need to put a face with the dwelling. It humanizes things.”

  “How about Babs? She seems pretty human.”

  Mang pretended he hadn’t heard that. “It’s in the contract. We get at least three appearances from the homeowner.”

  “You’ll get them.”

  “The last time I counted, you were three short.”

  Jerry sucked in his stomach and stuffed his keys in his pocket. This was the new Jerry, he reminded himself. This was exactly what he wanted. Chelsea was watching the show. He knew her. She couldn’t resist. The engaging face of Jerry Nearing put the finishing touches on the ultimate house.

  An intern unfolded a chair for Jerry beneath a temporary canopy, and the makeup artist descended upon his face, powdering, lining, and smearing sticky gels across his cheeks and forehead. Jerry thought about his life in the briefest of sketches. To retrieve the love of his life, he must project the very opposite of what she’d once loved.

  When Jerry reached the house, Shane Edlow stood in the new kitchen space. The roof and walls were knocked out, and the primary builder was overseeing construction of the extended floor plan. Work turned in insidious cycles, as scruffy carpenters performed redundant functions. It all served as a good backdrop for filming.

  “So this will be the kitchen,” Edlow announced in an authoritative voice. “It’s a chef’s delight.”

  The camera lights blared in Jerry’s face. He stood completely still and upright, like one of the bare studs in the wall. He waited for Edlow to continue.

  “Cut,” Mang yelled. “Jerry?”

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to act as if you’d just walked into your new dream kitchen under construction.”

  “I have.”

  “Keep the flow. When Shane speaks to you, have something to say.”

  “Yes,” Jerry said.

  “Just go with the conversation. We’ve discussed your kitchen a dozen times. You know what to say.”

  “Got it.”

  “And please, take your hands out of your pockets.”

  “Got it.”

  “Cue the cameras, and roll.”

  Edlow launched into his TV voice again. “So Jerry, what do you think of your new kitchen?”

  “Well, it’s big.” Jerry saw Mang nod beside the key grip.

  “It’s going to be the jewel of your new home.”

  “It’s a mess right now.”

  “That’s because we don’t have the walls finished yet, or a roof for that matter.” Edlow glanced up, and his voice suddenly dropped out of character. “Wait a minute.”

  Mang stopped the cameras.

  “What is that?” Edlow grimaced, pointing up to second floor roof.

  “It’s just a camera,” Mang said.

  “I know what it is.” Edlow nervously brushed a hand over his bald spot.

  “I want brief overheads to cut in the mix.”

  “No, no, none of that. No overheads.”

  “Shane.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Mang’s shoulders dropped. He glanced to his assistant. “Break it down.”

  One of the interns burst onto the set. She nearly tripped over a carton of nails in the foyer. “We’ve got an emergency.”

  “What is it now?” Mang sighed.

  “There’s been an accident in the barn.”

  “Did someone break something?”

  The intern looked frazzled. “Babs cut off her finger.”

  Edlow tossed his hands in the air. “Not again!”

  Everyone glanced at the show’s host.

  “She did this in San Francisco four years ago. I warned you, Mang.”

  Mang sighed again.

  The crew funneled through the main hall and onto the lawn like a crowd exiting a movie theatre, but the real show lay ahead. Babs sat on her truck tailgate. A blood-soaked rag wrapped her left hand, and she fisted a can of Heineken in the other. The interns fussed over her. They wiped her head with a towel and brushed the hair from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, M&M.” Babs cried while sipping beer. Foam dribbled down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jerry lagged in the back, peering over everyone’s head. An open cooler sat beside Babs on the tailgate. He swore that he saw a loose finger zippered inside a plastic baggie on ice.

  “I’m bleeding like a motherfucker,” Babs said. “Fucking table saw.”

  Mang looked pale. Edlow headed for his trailer to lie down. No one uttered a word.

  “Where’s the hospital around here?” Mang asked.

  “I’ll take her.” Jerry moved through the crowd. He didn’t have to push. People normally stepped aside for him.

  He reached Babs and extended a hand to help her up. He prayed she didn’t offer the one with the bloody rag. “Come with me.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” She got to her feet, glancing at him like they’d never met. “Want a brewski?”

  For the holidays, the Winners Circle met in the backroom of a tavern by the West Trenton railway station. Jerry assumed the corner seat and studied the party. Green and gold tinsel decorated the walls, intertwined with white blinking lights. He saw Arlene sneaking a smoke by the fire exit. She wore a mink stole and a dyed mink Santa hat. Tom lingered near the appetizer spread, scarfing puff pastries by the handful. Dick mingled with the two dozen guests, clasping hands and touching base. Jerry awaited the moment when Dick reached him.

  “Merry Christmas.” Dick sat beside Jerry with a plate of celery and carrot sticks and a glass of champagne. He wore a camelhair jacket and black alligator loafers.

  “Tom looks good,” Jerry said. “Has he lost a little weight?”

  Dick glanced back. “Not for long.”

  “The holidays can be a killer.”

  “How’s the house coming?”

  “Good.” Jerry just assumed Dick saw it on TV like everyone else and was making small talk. “The floors should be finished by the end of January, and then I need to find furniture.”

  “Are you hiring a decorator?”

  “Only the best.”

  “It’s an awesome project.”

  “I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. On Saturday, they’re showing the roof episode.”

  “I’m surprised you went through that much trouble.”

  “I know. I could have built a new house for less money.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  Jerry was used to Dick’s probes. “What else?”

  “I was wondering why you chose that house.”

  “You mean my old house.”

  “The one you and Chelsea used to share. If it were me, I’d find a new place. No memories.”

 
Jerry fidgeted with his cocktail napkin, folding it in one hand as if performing blind origami. “I like the land.”

  “That much? Yesterday, I saw a lovely plot in Hopewell atop a hill. Twenty acres, I think it was.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I would have started fresh.”

  “That’s you.” Jerry grew warm beneath his cashmere collar.

  “If it were me, I’d move out.”

  “I get your point.”

  Dick drained his champagne, eyeing Jerry past the stem of the glass. “You’ve been missing meetings.”

  “The house takes a lot of energy.” In truth, Jerry felt useless during the restoration process, and countless times, he’d swapped his good shoes for a pair of work boots and started swinging a hammer or carrying sheetrock.

  “You’re busy at night?”

  “I didn’t sign up for anything when I joined the Circle.”

  “No, but …”

  “You better come out and say what’s on your mind.”

  Dick’s focus was searing. “What’s this house really about?”

  Jerry wanted to slap Dick for bringing this up at the party. “It’s about making a dream come true. You know about dreams.”

  “Is it your dream or Chelsea’s?”

  Jerry didn’t answer. Dick was only trying to help, but damn him. Jerry scanned the room. No one probably noticed how red he was getting.

  “Jerry?”

  Jerry rose from the table. He walked halfway across the room, considering a glass of wine or beer, but he saw the separation in the room divider and instinctively stepped through it. A minute later, he was driving back to his penthouse at the Hyatt.

  By February, construction on the farmhouse stopped, and Jerry joined the final walk-through with Mang and Edlow. Babs was back from her morning physical therapy appointment, barking orders at the carpet installers in the bedrooms upstairs. Her first weeks in AA were rough, and everyone cut a wide berth around her.

  “I remember Babs on the San Fran shoot.” Edlow walked into the remodeled kitchen. An island with a sink and European propane burners dominated the southern half of the room. A bank of circumnavigating windows offered stunning views of Jacob’s farm and the Sourland Mountains. “She was three weeks dry with a hard-on. Interns dropped off the set like lemmings.”