The Winners Circle Read online

  Jerry saw the problem. The Mercer Oak was completely collapsed, split down the middle. Its colonial limbs sprawled across the lawn like a dead soldier. People carted away sections of bark and branches. A twisted limb poked from the back of a Subaru. Two kids dragged another branch. They’d been busy collecting souvenirs but stopped to watch Jerry.

  The news photographer, on the scene to cover the fallen tree, had lucked into the moment. He snapped more pictures of Jerry beside his car. The flashbulb blinded Jerry, which was good because he no longer cared to see.

  “What happened here?” Jerry asked.

  The senior officer’s gaze shuttled to the tree and back. “It’s the oak.”

  “But what happened?”

  “It fell last night. Didn’t you hear about it?”

  “Fell?”

  “I suppose the windstorm took it down.”

  “They should’ve knocked it down years ago,” the kid cop added. “What a waste of time it was saving this thing.”

  “It’s gone?” Jerry just didn’t grasp the facts.

  He scanned the lawn as if he might find the tree somewhere else. Their tree—the spot where he and Chelsea shared countless picnics—was history, cut up and carted away for keepsakes. The sight mortified him, and his knees went weak again. He fell back against the hood of the Porsche.

  “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled.

  “It’s just a tree.” The senior officer approached Jerry, scanning the area around the car. He reached inside and nabbed Jerry’s keys.

  “It takes all kinds,” the kid cop said.

  The crowd chatted and laughed. Someone recognized the distraught millionaire as that guy from Home Makers, and the revelation spread quickly.

  Jerry didn’t care. He barely noticed the gawking and jeers. He put his face in his hands. Chelsea was gone, god-honest gone for good. He felt empty, hollowed out inside. He’d cry, but the tears were stuck. He’d become just like his father, incapable of expressing simple emotions, unable to recapture his heart.

  “Sir?” The senior officer jangled a pair of handcuffs. “You should come with us.”

  Jerry dropped down further against his car, pressing his thumbs against his ears. In the back of his mind, he heard a terrible noise arching over the horizon. Jet engines roared overhead.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Watchtower

  Tom and Dick gathered in dark trench coats on the cedar planks of Jerry’s expanded front porch. A soft rain pattered the ground like crinkling cellophane. Jerry noticed Dick’s leather briefcase. The men resembled Jehovah’s Witnesses zoning in to ply their faith.

  “We haven’t seen you around lately.” Dick met Jerry’s eyes with sharp focus, as if calculating the exact placement before the door swung open.

  Tom shuffled his shoes in a shallow puddle. He glanced up at the gray sky and blinked. His pock-marked face held the rain like tears. “What’s going on, Jer?”

  “Not much.” Jerry was dressed in torn sweatpants and an old flannel shirt from his closet floor. He hadn’t shaved in three days, and he’d just devoured a bland microwave hotdog. He lifted his shirtsleeve and wiped mustard from his mouth. In a pinch, the old flannel doubled as a napkin. “I didn’t expect to see you guys up here.”

  “We were wondering what happened to you,” Dick said.

  “Nothing.” Absolutely nothing. Jerry scratched his beard. The damp air felt strange against his skin. He hadn’t been outdoors in days. He searched the horizon for Cortez. Where was that dog roaming in the rain?

  “Can we come in?” Dick asked.

  “I suppose.”

  The men stepped upon the antique rug in the foyer, pressing wet imprints in the gold and blue pineapple pattern. It was a rug that Chelsea had fallen in love with years ago in a Lambertville shop window, but she lacked the cash to bring it home. She spoke about it often, and Jerry was surprised when he found it still up for sale.

  Tom hung his coat on a peg by the door. He raised his nose, like a plump gerbil testing the air. “What’s that smell?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Expecting company?”

  “I just ate.”

  Tom scratched the roll of flab above his belt.

  “Go check the kitchen,” Jerry said. “There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge and chips in the cabinet. Take whatever you find.”

  “Really?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Primo.” Tom padded to the kitchen.

  Jerry and Dick moved to the living room. Dick sat on a couch with flowered embroidery. The enormous piece of furniture had long sweeping arms and a scalloped back, yet beside the matching armchairs and the gaping hole of the stone fireplace, it wasn’t as intrusive.

  Dick was another issue. He offered sincerity, along with a healthy dose of inquisition. He often sported compassion that veiled enough pointed questions to run a Senate subcommittee hearing. “We’re worried about you.”

  Jerry threw another log on the fire and sat down. “Who’s worried?”

  “The Winners Circle.”

  Jerry picked up the newspaper and spread it on the coffee table. Other unread papers piled on the dusty oak floor. Since Chelsea left for Mexico, he functioned outside the passage of time, shutout from the world. It didn’t matter if the stock market, airplanes, or the house next door crashed to the ground. The oaks and maples budded in the valley. Jacob turned over the northern field for planting. The world spun in familiar cycles, yet without Jerry Nearing. He didn’t even return Gina’s phone calls about the baby. He just wrote checks to Tisch, telling him to ‘handle it.’

  “How’s your son?”

  Jerry caught Dick’s stare and returned to the paper. “Oh, you heard about that.”

  “Tom told me. Have you seen him?”

  “Gina sent a picture.”

  “Can I see?”

  Jerry wasn’t in the mood to sort through the stacks of mail on the kitchen counter. “It doesn’t look like me.”

  “Babies don’t look like anyone at first.”

  “This one doesn’t look like me at all.”

  “What does the mother say?”

  “We speak through attorneys.”

  “What does her lawyer say?”

  “I’m financing Gina’s condo in Princeton. She seems content with that.”

  “That’s it? A condo?”

  “What’s your point?” Jerry turned the newspaper pages. He smelled the ink. It shaded his fingertips gray.

  “Were you planning on coming back to us?”

  “The Circle?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if it helps.”

  “Of course it helps.” Dick opened his briefcase and thumbed through some paperwork.

  Jerry wondered if Dick had prepared a speech. Even better, perhaps Dick was writing a book: The Big Book of Dickisms, Meditations for the Financially Confused. He could picture Dick selling CDs and videotapes—the whole vertical line of psycho-economic therapy—on late night cable TV.

  “I have something to show you,” Dick said.

  Jerry continued to ignore Dick. Instead, he scanned the want ad section of the Trentonian. He didn’t need anything. He was avoiding Dick’s stare and hopefully the thrust of his argument.

  Dull thuds emanated from the kitchen, like cartons hitting the tiles.

  “Sorry,” Tom said. “I’ll put them back.”

  “Just leave them on the counter.” Jerry perused the employment classifieds. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he culled this section for a nugget of hope.

  “Hmm, Belgian chocolate,” Tom mumbled. “Hey, Jerry? Can I have some of these?”

  “Eat the whole box.”

  “Primo!”

  Dick laid the paperwork on the coffee table. Colorful graphs and charts began crowding Jerry’s newspaper. “I have it mapped out. You’re caught in the denial phase.”

  “The denial phase?”

  Dick landed a finger on a trough in the graph.
There were crooked, intersecting lines, like those financial prospectuses that gave Jerry fits. “First you go through the crisis phase. That’s when you win the money. There’s euphoria, followed by the inevitable letdown. In the end, you realize everything’s changed, but it may take a while.”

  “I know everything’s changed, Dick.”

  “That’s a great place to begin.”

  Jerry brushed aside the silly charts. “Chelsea used to do the same thing with our budget. The problem was we didn’t have the cash flow to make it work.”

  “This isn’t home economics. It’s your life.”

  “Then why the charts?” He considered Chelsea’s old projections for the future: a flush retirement fund, money for the kids’ education, but income wasn’t the issue anymore. He required a complete new set of goals.

  “You need to rebuild your life.”

  No kidding. Jerry glanced around the living room in an attempt to deflect the obvious. “I’ve rebuilt my house.”

  “Seriously, you don’t want to be like Tom before you figure things out.”

  “I’m not spending my money.”

  “You’re not doing much of anything that I can see.”

  Jerry bit his lip. One more comment like that, and Dick was getting tossed out the door.

  Dick retrieved the chart and slid his finger along the line. “Once you go through the acceptance phase, it’s uphill.”

  Jerry stared at the pretty paper. Dick’s plan sort of made sense, but Jerry needed to cut his last ties with Chelsea. That was the issue. He wondered if Dick brought a diagram for that. He didn’t even want to admit those attachments still existed, yet if he salvaged a piece of his old life—a hobby, a talent, anything—it might fill the void. He considered Gina’s baby boy. That didn’t feel right either, and he didn’t know why.

  “I believe,” Dick continued, “that regular appearances at the Winners Circle will help you heal.”

  “I figured you’d come to that.”

  “You must try.”

  “I’m not a millionaire.”

  “Oh, you’re not?”

  “Not like the others. I’m just a guy with money.”

  Dick laughed. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that ...”

  “It’s true.”

  “If you’re anything, you’re a millionaire.”

  Jerry rubbed his temples. That’s when he saw it staring him in the face, not one of Dick’s pretty charts but a want ad in the newspaper. A company that he never heard of was starting up a parts manufacturing facility in the abandoned car plant. He seized the newspaper in both hands.

  “What is it?” Dick leaned forward.

  Jerry kept the paper close and read the small print. PTK Corp. needed men for the tool and dye line. His heart lifted. It was the right answer to a longstanding question. Who said a millionaire couldn’t work? There’d be familiar faces alongside of him. He’d buy them lunch every day. He’d be a hero again.

  “I’ve got it,” he mumbled.

  Dick craned his neck. “Got what?”

  “My own solution.” Jerry folded up the paper and tucked it in the drawer beneath the coffee table. He knew Dick was dying to see it, but he refused to let that happen.

  “Have we met before?” Earl Breck studied Jerry’s resume. He was the shop manager at PTK Corp., and he interviewed Jerry in a trailer beside the old car plant on Parkway Avenue.

  A plane from the nearby Trenton Airport went overhead, rattling the flimsy aluminum walls. Jerry waited for the disruption to pass, staring through the plexiglass window at the hulking shell of the GM plant. The once proud building seemed a far cry from the plant that had manufactured fighter planes during WWII and rolled them down the streets toward the airport runway and cheering crowds.

  “I don’t think we’ve met.” Jerry tugged at his starched collar. The suit and tie were too much. It made him appear desperate. Other applicants dressed in jeans and T-shirts—the stuff they’d be wearing to work.

  “Your face looks familiar.” Breck had a listing spine, as if he’d met up with more than his share of misfortunes on the manufacturing floor.

  Jerry was certain he’d remember a man like that. “Did you work for GM?”

  “No, PTK for twenty years, up in Somerville.”

  “I’ve never been to Somerville, I don’t think.”

  “I know I know you. I’ll get it.”

  “It’s just a coincidence.” Jerry squinted, hoping to make out the scribbles that Breck added to his resume. “So do I fit?”

  “Your qualifications look right.”

  Good deal. “Then there’s a slot for me?”

  “Are you good on the fly? Sometimes these old machines breakdown.”

  “I used to tinker with them every week.” Jerry straightened up, charged by the promise of steady work. On the line, his life made sense. The big machines shook the concrete floors. Hot grease and steam wafted through the air. He punched a card. He built things from raw materials. When it all came together, he was in a groove that lasted all day long.

  “We’ll be making parts for other machines.” Breck looked up. He gave Jerry a double take and stabbed his pencil forward. “Breadbasket!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Breadbasket, the homeless organization. You were at the annual auction.”

  Jerry recalled the event. It was a benefit for soup kitchens across New Jersey. Chelsea dragged him along, even though he loathed the buzz and glitz.

  “You’re that lottery man.” Breck pushed aside the resume and sat back in his chair. “I was there. I volunteer for Breadbasket.”

  Jerry replayed the embarrassment in his head. He’d slapped a ten thousand dollar bid on a ceramic bust of Ronald Regan, hoping to satisfy Chelsea and create a quick exit, but the plan backfired, and the fledgling millionaire found himself in front of news photographers once again in gratitude for his generosity.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” Breck asked.

  “I want a job. I think I said that.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Breck lowered his voice. “Did you blow the whole wad of cash?”

  “No.”

  “Are you yanking me?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re qualified, but …” Breck motioned toward the waiting room, where men shuffled through stale copies of Sports Illustrated and Time magazine. “Can I explain it to them? There aren’t enough jobs for everyone.”

  Jerry felt terrible. Breck was right. Jerry was being selfish. He wanted to slink from the office and retreat to the Hopewell hills. Forget about a job. What was he thinking?

  “Since I have you here, Mr. Nearing.” Breck’s tone changed, no longer discerning the applicant before him. He got up and shut the door. “I have this idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you wear eyeglasses?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Lucky son-of-a-bitch.” Breck guffawed, his words meant as a compliment. “Don’t get me wrong.”

  “I’m not getting you at all.”

  “Let me explain. What do you think of glasses without fingerprints?”

  Jerry waited for the punch line. Was this a joke? Occasionally people became giddy around him, as if dollar bills might fly from his pocket if they made him laugh. For some unexplainable reason, he thought about reaching into his wallet and offering Breck a twenty for his trouble.

  “That’s right,” Breck said, “smudge-free eyewear.”

  “I don’t wear glasses.”

  “But lots of us do, and our lenses constantly have to be cleaned.”

  “I guess.”

  “Check these out.” Breck pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and plunked them in Jerry’s hands. They were black frames, taped and glued in spots. The lenses appeared yellowed, like old dog’s teeth.

  Jerry turned them over, indulging the eager shop manager. He pictured himself in the parking lot, where his Porsche waited
beside a collection of late model American vehicles and economy cars.

  Breck leaned forward, blocking Jerry’s exit from the chair. “You can get in on the ground floor. My buddy and me invented them. They’re made of a special polymer. It resists the grease on a human hand.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Great, huh?”

  Jerry imagined his keys in the car’s ignition. Breck repulsed him, especially the pushy attitude. Yes, coming here was definitely a bad idea.

  “Try them,” Breck said. “Press your fingers on ‘em.”

  Jerry realized that he was mixing with the wrong people, and this bothered him, not that it was true but that he noticed it, sensed the difference. He was no longer one of those men in the waiting room. How many times had Dick tried to tell him?

  “Go ahead,” Breck pleaded. “Don’t be shy.”

  Jerry pinched the lens between his finger and thumb. He held the glasses up to the light. He wasn’t sure what he saw through the amber haze.

  “Come on,” Breck said. “Get your fingers all over them. You can’t smudge ‘em.”

  “Nope.”

  “What did I tell you? Un-smudge-able. Want in on the next great invention?”

  “In?”

  “My wife’s developed a marketing plan. I think we can do the whole deal for under a million to start—plant, production, marketing, sales.”

  Jerry stood up and returned the glasses. “Let me think about it.”

  “Good. I have your number.”

  Jerry rushed through the trailer and pushed outside. Breck held onto the door, launching a final pitch for capital funds. Mercifully, a jet plane thundered overhead and deafened the rambling hole in Breck’s face.

  The Porsche waited beneath the sun like a big red bug with mag wheels. Jerry plodded forward. His steps were heavy. He felt more dejected than the day he received his pink slip.

  He dropped into his car. Why didn’t he see this coming? His perception was skewed. At the Winners Circle, people often blamed the lottery money for fostering a loss of reality. Money made you view the world as you wanted, not as it really was. Dick often reinforced this precept, but Jerry knew the true reason behind his own lack of clarity. A rattlesnake had altered his brain cells, and a slick of venom still pulsed through his veins, tainting every thought he conceived.