The Winners Circle Page 7

  “So what.”

  “Remember that day a couple of years back. You gave us the crib and baby stuff. You said you were never going to need it. It belonged to your mother. I cooked dinner—ravioli and Bolognese sauce. I told you how much we wanted kids.”

  She bent down to retrieve a scrap of lint from the floor, pinching it inside a tissue. She folded the sides of the tissue over the lint as if wrapping a present. “It’s nice to reminisce but ...”

  “You have to help. Tell the courts what you know.”

  “I can’t do that to my niece.”

  “Chelsea’s gone mad. I don’t know how it happened.”

  “You must have done something. Did you beat her?”

  “Never.”

  “Drink too much?”

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “Ahh, that’s why I don’t trust you.”

  He sensed his blood pressure rising. He tried to look away from her, but she was tossing back her shoulders, pondering the ceiling.

  “This is refreshing,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “Now you know how a woman feels.”

  Christmas passed like the ticking of a clock. New Years too. Each minute separated from the next. He cooked a turkey with sausage stuffing. He watched TV. He stared at that ridiculous log flaming on the tube for hours. He made soup from the turkey bones. A couple of teams played in the Super Bowl, and the same player fumbled twice and blew the game, but Jerry lost track of the score. He kept waiting for camera angles of the fumbler seated alone at the end of the bench.

  The sky outside was slate gray for days, but it never snowed. The wind ripped through the barren hardwoods and rattled the skeletal branches and the antique windowpanes. Somewhere along the line, Jerry managed to take his only suit back and forth to the dry cleaners. It was his wedding suit, but court day was coming, and he was going it alone.

  Jerry headed for his day of divorce, hardly able to mouth the words. He latched onto phrases like proceeding and dispensation, as if the event had no beginning or end. He drove the Ford out of the hills, descending toward Trenton. His necktie bunched beneath his chin, and his old loafers pinched the broad base of his toes. As he passed Taddler’s Horse Center, he glimpsed a man working behind the barn. He hit the brakes and turned around.

  The reconditioned Ford lumbered up the incline and past the horse corral. In the old days, people heard the pickup coming down the road, but the man shoveling the manure pile didn’t turn his head, until Jerry was almost upon him.

  “Morning,” Jerry called from the pickup window. He’d noted the mud and filth about his tires and stayed in the truck cab. The last thing he needed was Chelsea spotting dirt on his good shoes. Her sights would drop right to it. She’d almost expect it.

  The man wore rubber hip boots and gloves past his elbows. He noticed Jerry’s suit and immediately sunk his pitchfork in the ground. “Can I help you?”

  “Just passing by.”

  “Need directions?”

  “I used to shovel this same pile.”

  Yeah right, the man’s eyes seemed to say. He propped his hands over the handle and bent one knee, seemingly amused by the attention.

  Jerry caught a whiff of the horse dung briefly thawing in winter. It smelled harsh but natural. Not a year earlier, he stood in place of this stranger. He missed the open space and the mix of fresh air and dirt. He longed for the set routine. “Are you selling or taking for yourself?”

  “There’s an organic farmer in Hunterdon County.”

  “Hardaway?”

  The man seemed reluctant to reveal his client list. “Something like that.”

  “Better watch out for the snakes.”

  “What snakes?”

  “The rattlesnakes in the pile. If they’re still hibernating, they won’t like to be woken up early.”

  The man pulled his tool from the earth. “No snakes in here.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’ve been cleared out, guaranteed.”

  “That’s what I always thought.”

  Among the waiting assembly in family court, Chelsea sat toward the front. Jerry spotted her beside Haskell Cogdon. Her blonde hair was clasped with silver combs. She wore a navy blue suit with yellow piping. She looked sharp enough to bring her own caseload before the judge.

  She glanced back to the last row. He registered the shock in her eyes. His appearance at the proceedings was optional, and she obviously hadn’t expected him. She rose and walked toward the back of the courtroom.

  Jerry flipped through the paperwork from Ralph Tisch. He wasn’t reading it. He saw nothing but letters and numbers on legal-sized paper. They didn’t make sense.

  Chelsea came alongside Jerry and sat down. Her silk suit slid across the wooden bench. He shuddered in a private way. They hadn’t been this close in months.

  “Thanks for the chocolate,” she whispered. “I still have a ton.”

  “I wanted it to last.” He’d forgotten about it. He felt stupid all over again.

  “I’ll never finish it.”

  He liked the idea of being never completely used up, but he glanced in Haskell’s direction and saw the truth of it.

  The short attorney scratched his head, trying not to look back.

  “Are you still with him?” Jerry asked.

  “Don’t do this, Jerry.”

  “He didn’t leave with you that day on the boat.”

  She broke eye contact with him. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I looked for him everywhere that day, but I never found him.”

  “He hid in the engine room of the boat. He bribed the Captain.”

  “I should have known. He does business that way.”

  “He thought you were going to kill him.”

  “It wasn’t a bad guess.” He’d do it right here, if that’s what it took. He waited for an indication, that nervous quiver to her lip. He wanted to touch it, like he’d done many times. He was the first to dare, but now it was beautiful and ordinary. The surgeon had carved out that part of her personality.

  Chelsea grabbed his arm, avoiding his glance. A finger pressed the pit of his elbow. Her fingernails were painted French style, peach with white outlines. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  “It’s my divorce too. Excuse me, annulment.”

  “I did it like this so you didn’t have to show.”

  “Do you really want to erase the marriage? Is that what you think of it?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “I’d rather have a divorce. There’d be a record of us, not this cleaned up effect, Cogdon-style.”

  She released him. “You’re angry with me. It doesn’t suit you. It never did.”

  “I’m better when I have something to fix.”

  “Jerry, don’t screw this up.”

  “I’m past that point. I’m screwed up already. I want to know what you’re doing? That’s the question.”

  She looked at him again. He saw his reflection in her eyes. In many ways, he was the same boy from the woods of Chesterfield, yet she had kicked her life into high gear. She was embarrassed for him. He sensed it down to his core.

  “I know you.” He saw her as she had been: harelip, normal breasts, regular clothes. She was a terrific therapist, top of her class, but she never missed the details that her egghead college mates disregarded. On Christmas Eve, she stuffed little stockings full of candy and toys for the kids in the neighborhood, and when Jacob Johansen caught a cold, she sent homemade pies and chicken soup. She was the most beautiful person he’d known on the inside. He wondered if she hadn’t turned inside out. That transformation was more astounding than anything a plastic surgeon might perform.

  “You’re making this hard on me,” she said.

  He appreciated the glint of compassion. He was beginning to think that she’d stowed it away with everything else. “So I’m no good for you any more. Cogdon can do a better job?”

  She took his hand in
the old way. Her long fingers wrapped over his big hands, hooking over his knuckles. She always set their direction. He was helpless to run against it.

  A tear formed in her eye, dangling in the corner. “We have to move on.”

  Why, he thought but never said it aloud.

  The judge slammed down the gavel, dividing Jerry from Chelsea on paper. Jerry left the courthouse. Frozen rain bounced off the steps like fragments from a shattered windshield. He was numb. Rattlesnake venom coursed through his veins. He felt it, tasted it in his mouth. It was pure poison.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Winners Circle

  On Tuesday nights, The Winners Circle gathered in room 201B at the Trenton JCC. Jerry studied the new faces. They were millionaire winners too. At the first meeting, he’d counted only five heads, yet by spring, a dozen men and women crowded the room. The place held a constant stink of coffee and donuts, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air like the mist at dawn.

  “Let’s get started.” Dick Leigh led the sessions. The Circle was his brainchild. He was a certified psychologist and one of the first big jackpot winners. He dressed in a Gordon Liddy kind of way: sport coats, turtlenecks, hair increasingly shorter. He claimed to have adopted the style during the trial against his dead wife’s family. “Can we take our seats?”

  Tucker, Dick’s bodyguard, assumed his customary position outside the circle of chairs. He leaned against the wall beside the kitchenette counter, digging jellybeans from the pocket of a kelly green windbreaker. The leather strap of his gun holster peeked beneath the nylon zipper. “Coffee’s ready.”

  “Did you use the French roast?” A bald man called over from the chairs. Jerry hadn’t learned his name yet.

  “Yes.” Tucker replied.

  “I brought it back from Provence. I hope everyone likes it.”

  “Smells good.”

  “I found it in a charming cafe by the sea.”

  People politely acknowledged the offering.

  “Next time,” he said. “I’ll bring china cups.”

  Jerry filled a styrofoam cup, like the others. The Circle broke the monotony in his routine. The company wasn’t bad either. He didn’t have to speak. He needed to have good ears and loads of patience for this crowd. He used to practice those skills with Chelsea, and now the silence at home was killing him.

  Tom Veris lingered by the pastry tray, a dusting of powdered sugar on his lips. His sweater bulged at his waistline. “Try the Linzer Tort.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Donut?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You never eat the donuts, man. It’s un-American.”

  “I used to bake on Sundays.”

  Tom dangled a jellyroll slice in the air, stopping mid-chew. “You did?”

  “I don’t have the patience for the measuring anymore.” Jerry listened to his own words. A man’s typical excuse for being impatient was a lack of time, but for Jerry, time piled up at home like old newspapers, yet he didn’t seem to have the patience for making even a simple meal.

  A crumb tumbled from Tom’s mouth and caught on the shelf of his protruding gut. “That’s the beauty of baking. You measure, and it comes out just right every time.”

  “And if you don’t concentrate, you screw up. Tablespoons look like teaspoons, and so on.”

  Dick turned from the circle. “Are you men joining us?”

  Tom and Jerry returned to their chairs.

  Dick checked his notes for an opening quote. He liked American Indian logic. He used to recite the Prayer of Saint Francis—something about giving yourself up to God and the will of things—but people asked Dick to stop. One woman admitted that she had enough money to buy and sell free will.

  “We are all poor because we are all honest,” Dick said. “That was Red Dog, an Oglala Sioux.”

  During the minute of silence, Jerry considered the quote. Dick was proud of it. Jerry thought Dick was full of horse manure—stacked higher and deeper than any mound Jerry had plied with a pitchfork.

  “Who wants to start?” Dick searched their faces.

  Arlene spoke first. She was a mutable woman with a permanent tan. She smoked Virginia Slims halfway down and stubbed them out with her heel. “Before the lottery, my biggest pay increase came from the Tooth Fairy.”

  “Good place to start,” Dick said. “Expectations.”

  “I went from a quarter to a dollar per tooth in one year. That’s a 400 percent increase.”

  Dick held a notepad and pencil at the ready. He wanted to return to the therapy business so bad that he nearly salivated in anticipation of a genuine problem. “How did that make you feel?”

  “Euphoric.”

  “As good as winning the lottery?”

  Jerry shut his ears from the conversation. He studied the posters from birthing class upon the wall. The stages of delivery plodded across the yellow plaster in cartoon replication. He imagined how his child with Chelsea might have arrived. Blonde hair and blue eyes, he hoped. His thoughts danced around that place in his mind where he’d promised to never go again.

  “Jerry?” Dick called. “Do you have a comment about that?”

  Jerry saw the others staring. How long had he been daydreaming?

  “Why don’t you join the conversation?” Dick had been fighting for weeks to get Jerry involved.

  Jerry frowned. Wasn’t showing up enough? He laughed and nodded with the others. He made small talk. Chelsea would be proud. He’d made friends on his own, sort of, if that’s what you called a ragtag group of Richie Rich’s who groped for affirmation and apologizes. “What would you like me to say?”

  “Arlene thinks that the money is a spiritual endowment to the truly deserving.”

  Jerry balked at Dick’s conclusion. When did Arlene reach Zen oneness with a pile of cash? She’d been discussing the Tooth Fairy. “You think so?”

  “Look at the odds.” Arlene beamed. “It’s amazing anyone wins.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Don’t you agree? You have a better chance of getting struck by lighting.”

  “Does that mean we’re going to be hit by lighting next?” Jerry heard a few members laugh. He hadn’t meant to be funny.

  “No.” Arlene’s brown glow sank into her styrofoam cup. She lit up another cigarette.

  “I’m sorry. I think it’s dumb luck.”

  “Fine,” Dick interrupted. “Jerry’s a pragmatist.”

  “No, I don’t think I can take it to a higher plane like that. I’m not sure I was ever heading there.” Jerry tried to think where he’d been heading before the lottery. All roads passed through Chelsea, so he shut that part of his brain again, even though it refused to stay closed.

  Dick perked up, pencil in hand. “Jerry’s just brought up an interesting point.”

  “What’s that?” Jerry waited for Dick’s next nugget of wisdom.

  “We haven’t examined the pre-lottery emotion. We seem to be dwelling on the after effects. Perhaps if we put them into comparison. Jerry?”

  Jerry massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Dick was trying to run a can opener around Jerry’s head again. Jerry wanted no part of it.

  Dick scribbled on the paper. “Do you acknowledge the impact that receiving an enormous check had on your life?”

  “I’m still the same person.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Jerry Nearing. Born in Chesterfield, New Jersey.”

  “Really?”

  “I wake up in the same bed every morning, the bed I was in before the lottery.”

  “Do you feel that makes you the same person?”

  Jerry stopped talking. He wasn’t the same. He knew that. He drifted from sunrise to sunset. He didn’t work. He no longer cooked elaborate gourmet meals, opting for frozen dinners and takeout sandwiches. For the first time, he failed to live his life. He looked ahead to a time when he might restore things as they were, and every scenario involved Chelsea, at least a reasonable f
acsimile of her. The Chelsea in his dreams still smiled with that odd lip and strapped her arms across his chest at night. She reorganized his sock drawer on a whim. She curled up beside him after a successful meal and recounted the minutia of her day in gentle sweeping tones. He used to believe he was dreaming about better times then, when in fact he was living life to the fullest.

  “Jerry?” Dick leaned forward in the chair.

  Jerry glanced at the door.

  “Jerry?” Dick called. “Are you with us?”

  He was angry, as angry as he ever recalled in the past. The entire trip back from the JCC, Jerry cursed and muttered to himself. He tore up his driveway with the Ford, the gravel shooting from his wheels. He left the keys in the ignition and stomped inside the house.

  Unsure of his target, he spun his sights around the room. His brain hummed, electric, a wonderful mind-numbing rage. He wanted to tear down a wall.

  He sprinted upstairs and threw open the bedroom closet. Chelsea’s abandoned shoes were scattered about the baseboards like discarded betting stubs at a horse track. He gathered them into his arms and tossed them through the window. They plunged down upon the damp evening lawn. A pair of high heels pierced the soil and stuck in the air.

  Chelsea’s old clothes hung in odd bunches beside his flannel shirts. He ripped them down. The wire hangers stretched and sprung like bows, shooting into the rear of the closet, recoiling toward his feet. He scooped up a shirt he’d bought for Christmas and a dress she’d found on their honeymoon, and he snatched the framed photo off the bureau. The bulk of it took flight after her shoes. He caught a glimpse of her bright white teeth in the moonlight, as the photo crash-landed and shattered in the dirt.

  Jerry stood by the windowsill, shaking, sweating inappropriately for the season and time of day. His hands ached and tensed, and his head screamed for the blood of something that he couldn’t quite make out. He saw the safe in the back of the closet.

  The five hundred pound, fireproof, waterproof safe had a double lock and was bolted to the floor. Two months ago, Jerry installed it and filled the top shelf with fifty thousand dollars. ‘Fun money,’ he called it, but he wasn’t having fun, so most of the cash remained inside.