The Winners Circle Read online

  He fisted the bundles of crisp bills still in their wrappers. It was the money—this very money—that had driven Chelsea mad. He hurled the bundles toward the lawn.

  Outside, Jerry kicked everything into a circle. He clutched a five-gallon gas can from the shed and a book of matches.

  Cortez lay beside the stump used for chopping wood. The black dog kept twenty yards shy of the action, silent, nary a whimper. He propped his snout on his front paws and watched his master. Every animal except man possesses the instinct to stand back from trouble and hold silent.

  The pile ignited fast and hot. A mushroom cloud burst into the air, a carbon copy of the nuclear fusion in Jerry’s head. Atoms of thought collided and merged, blowing sky high with the flames and ash. He breathed harder, sensing the heat on his face. He stayed close, compelled to experience the change erupting both inside and out.

  He stared through the flames. Snippets of US currency transformed into glowing red parachutes, rising into the air. They lifted up and over the old farmhouse and the deteriorating barn. They flew over the grassy fields and blooming thickets of wild roses. The hundred year oaks drew witness, as did the ancient stars above. Everything must go: the house, the clothes, the truck, the memories of love, the smells and the tastes of it. Purge it all. It’s poison. He needed to cut open a vein and bleed it free.

  CHAPTER 8

  Fire Sale

  Jerry placed an ad in the paper, and on a chilly April morning, he kicked open the doors to the contents of his life. People roved throughout his house, hunting for bargains. He stood in the living room and listened to the footfalls of strangers. He didn’t care if they stole his stuff. He wanted it out of sight. He’d decided to reshape his world from the wallet on out.

  “What’s the price for this?” A petite old woman bent over Jerry’s coffee table. She looked down, baring her teeth like an irritated raccoon.

  “Thirty bucks.” Jerry guessed at what she wanted to hear. He disliked haggling.

  The old lady ran her palm over the table’s wood laminate edge. “There’s a chip on it.”

  “It’s used, ma’am.”

  “I’ll give you ten.”

  “Fifteen, and I’ll haul it to your car.”

  “Twelve-fifty.”

  “Sold.” Jerry lifted the coffee table and carried it to a lemon yellow Pinto hatchback parked out front. Ten years ago, he and Chelsea brought the table home on a rainy afternoon. They sat beside it on the floor, with a fresh baguette, a wedge of Port Salut, and a bottle of Beaujolais. It was their second piece of furniture after the bed.

  Jerry spotted a young couple from New Hope still lashing his bed to the roof of their car. Jerry put it out of his mind. He slid the table into the Pinto’s trunk, hoping to vacate another memory.

  The old lady looked pleased. Her tiny teeth chattered as she spoke. “I think I’ll give the kitchen a look-see.”

  “Be my guest.” Jerry peered down on the vicious little shopper. “Fifty bucks, and you get the contents of the lower cabinets. There’s professional pans in there.”

  Her grandmotherly eyes lit up like a furnace door. “How much?!”

  “Fifty.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Jerry heard tires on the driveway stones. A pink Neon approached. He remembered when GM introduced the model. He loathed the trendy colors. The car appeared entirely too disposable.

  Gina Spagnoli emerged from the Neon. Her trademark pink sneakers stepped outside. “Jerry?”

  He let the young woman join him. She wore fancy blue jeans, a pink sweater, and her ruby necklace, not an undesirable sight in the least. He flinched, recalling that moment in the basement of Princeton Memorial Hospital.

  “I see you took my advice,” Gina said. “I hope you aren’t leaving town.”

  “I’m staying at the Hyatt, until I calculate my next move.” He wished he hadn’t said it like that, but what did it matter? His decisions belonged to him. Whenever he conceived an idea in the past, he needed to sound it off Chelsea for approval, retooling even. Let Cogdon jump that hurdle—a tall order for a little man.

  “Can I look you up?” Gina asked.

  “We might cross paths.” The statement felt liberating. He paused to drink in her cute fresh face. He wondered if she’d take him on now.

  “Can I look around?”

  “Be my guest. It’s all junk to me.” He wore his newfound indifference oddly. That was his problem. He over-thought things and got jammed up. He determined to let things run their course, see what happens without making any tough decisions.

  Jerry headed for the barn, where Jacob Johansen had been sniffing around the farm tools since sunrise. Aged and rusting farm implements hung from the rafters, some used for a horse hitch, others for slaughtering. Jerry didn’t know the names of half of them. They were in the barn when he bought the farm at an estate auction.

  Jacob lingered beside the John Deere tractor. Several blades dangled from an overhead beam. If they dropped on the spot, they’d shred the octogenarian farmer like a bread slicer. “That’s some collection you have here.”

  “They’re colonial, I think.”

  “Could be.”

  “You want them?” Jerry dug his hands in his pockets, preparing to surrender the collection. He took pity on his neighbor. Farms in this neck of the woods were being gobbled up like chicken feed by tract housing.

  “I’m interested.” The farmer had deep wrinkles in his face, but his eyes were vibrant green like budding oak leaves. He put his hands behind his back. “How much you asking?”

  “Take them.”

  “For real?”

  “Take all of them.”

  “Thank you, much.” Jacob scraped his boot in the dirt floor. His laces were untied, hanging beside the scored leather. “How much for everything?”

  “The tractor?” Jerry didn’t need a tractor either.

  “The tractor, the barn, the house.”

  “You can’t afford that.”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  Gina hadn’t traveled far, bugging the entire conversation from the rickety barn door. She cleared her throat, stepping between the men. “Let me handle this. Real estate is my forte.”

  “Gina,” Jerry said, “don’t bother ...”

  She pressed her palm against his breastbone, backing him off like the referee in a boxing match. “Don’t worry. He has the money.”

  “I don’t ...”

  “He sold a forty-acre parcel in Amwell last year to a developer. People in my business know Jacob. He owns more land around here than God.”

  “Good deal,” Jerry said. He longed to be that kind of rich, the kind that few people knew about, but he was long past that point. Even the paperboy peered at him sideways if he didn’t leave a big tip.

  Gina drew intense focus on the land baron farmer, not unlike the old lady rummaging through Jerry’s kitchen cabinets. “This farm is connected to your property. I assume you want to join the two.”

  “Yes,” Jacob sighed. He seemed familiar with Gina. He looked to address his remarks to Jerry but to no avail.

  Gina winked at Jerry. “I think we can reach an agreement.”

  “I’m offering two hundred thousand.” The wrinkles in Jacobs face folded back like shutters.

  “Hit the road,” Gina said. “It’s worth at least a half million. There’s ten acres here.

  Jerry stood with his arms folded. How did she know that? With the trees and broken down fences, you’d never guess where the property began and ended.

  “The house is about to collapse,” Jacob said. “And that carriage house up front—I’m surprised the wind hasn’t knocked it down yet.”

  Gina glanced at the farmhouse. “Looks like everything’s standing to me. It’s a palace to the right family.”

  “Look at the roof on the main house.”

  “I think I’ll buy this farm for myself.”

  “I don’t want the house, but look at the condition
of the clapboard, will you? It’s buckling and rotten.”

  “If you don’t want it …” Gina threw up her hands.

  The lady who purchased the coffee table scampered into the barn. She appeared younger, a bounce to her step. “Mr. Nearing, what are you asking for this?”

  She held a teapot that Chelsea’s mother brought from England. Hand painted pictures of the British countryside—horses on a steeplechase—scrolled around the chubby sides in a Wedgwood blue color. Chelsea loved that pot. Jerry wondered why she hadn’t taken it. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the cabinet beside the oven.”

  He gazed at it. Chelsea used to curl up in the breakfast nook with a pot of tea. She looked out the window and identified the birds in the fruit trees, calling their names aloud. He’d be flipping pancakes on the griddle or carving up a grapefruit, listening to the joy in her discoveries. “Goldfinch,” she’d say. “Cardinal. Humming Bird.”

  “It’s not the nicest I’ve seen,” the old woman said. “What’s the price?”

  He considered sticking the pot in a box and shipping it to Chelsea. Another man might sell it or smash it to pieces out of spite, but that wasn’t his style. “It’s not for sale.”

  “The ad said everything was for sale.”

  “Not that.”

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

  “I said it’s not for sale.”

  “Twenty-five.” She polished the pot with her sleeve, until Jerry wrenched it from her hands.

  “Here’s the deal,” Gina interrupted in a half whisper. “I have him committed to three hundred and fifty, but he wants the truck and tractor thrown in. Will that close the deal? I can hold out for more.”

  “When did I say I was selling the farm?” Jerry supposed that the yard sale explained everything. He was cashing out of his old life.

  “I just assumed.”

  “Hear me,” the old woman chattered, “twenty-seven fifty. That’s more than it’s worth.”

  “No.” Jerry clutched his big arm around the pot.

  “Thirty. That’s my final offer.”

  His glance darted between Gina and the old woman. They demanded answers. In his mind, he balanced his hand on the lever of a large and powerful machine. He didn’t know the machine’s purpose. He’d never seen it before. He wasn’t even sure if he was starting it up or shutting it down, but nothing was going to be the same once he pulled the stick.

  “No on the teapot.” His voice echoed in his head. “And yes on the house.”

  The old lady huffed out of the barn. He watched her, relieved to banish her from sight. The belly of the teapot pressed against his ribs.

  Jerry turned, seeing Gina shake Jacob’s hand. The farm was gone. He couldn’t believe it, not all at once. He’d sold the farm, severed the cord that connected him with the past. It was that easy. He felt like a newborn, just into the light, recoiling at his first glimpse of the strange new world. He wasn’t breathing yet. Someone ought to slap him.

  Jerry took a breath, followed by a few more. Pretty soon, breathing felt normal again. When you make big changes, you open a bottle of champagne or call someone on the phone, but he wasn’t a drinker and his friends were returned to Chelsea after the annulment. He wrote her a postcard and dropped it in the mail. When Gina called to celebrate the sale of the farm, he accepted her invitation and descended from the Hyatt penthouse suite for the first time in days.

  Gina chose a dark French restaurant on the main drag in Princeton. He ate lamb chops and potatoes by candlelight. Gina dined on an animal organ that he didn’t recognize. He’d paused at the armory of flatware flanking his dinner plate. He hadn’t employed a knife and fork in a while. He’d gotten used to eating with his fingers or at the end of a tilted cereal box.

  He watched her mouth move in tiny circles as she chewed. Her toe kept riding up the cuff of his pants. She didn’t talk as much as when he lay in the hospital bed. She winked at him often. She expected him to taste the wine and choose the dessert. He needed to figure out women again, although he’d never figured them out to begin with. He’d fallen in and out with Chelsea by two incredible strokes of luck. He didn’t expect lightning to strike again in his lifetime.

  After he paid in cash and left ten dollars with the coat check girl, Jerry found the limousine waiting by the curb. He saw Gina ducking inside. He got in behind her.

  The car cruised up Nassau Street. They’d be at the hotel in minutes. He was nervous, undecided whether to invite her up or drive her home. He rationalized that he’d already had his hands on her chest all those months ago.

  “I can go home with you.” A knot formed in his throat. “I mean, I can ride you home.”

  “Either way.” Gina slid beside him on the seat. Her dress was black with subtle gold flecks. You only saw it when you were up close, like when she pressed up against him.

  Her leg draped over his knee, as she took hold of the knob of his shoulder with both hands. Through the slit in the side of her dress, he noticed the pink straps holding up her black stockings.

  The driver rolled up the privacy screen. Shadowy hulks of trees and buildings passed by the tinted glass.

  Gina’s eyes were dark brown, perhaps a tad too closely set, not a big problem. He felt her breath on his face. She liked to crowd him. She’d never remind him of Chelsea, thank God.

  “I’m going to make this easy for you,” she said. “I like flowers and jewelry. I want to go on vacations. I don’t like getting dirty. I’m twenty-six. My mother and grandmother each gave birth to five children. If you don’t like my family, you don’t have to speak to them. If there’s something that you want in bed, you have to ask, unless of course you don’t know what you like, and then we can figure it out.”

  He let her undo his necktie. How Gina-like. She was closing the deal on the spot. Perhaps he needed a deal-closer in his life.

  She kissed him and pushed away to undo the back of her dress. Jerry kept thinking about foreplay—what he might say, where to touch her first, how fast or slow, all the complicated things meant to define sex—but here she was shedding her clothes in the limo. They weren’t going to make it back to the penthouse. His pulse heightened. He wished he’d finished that glass of wine at dinner.

  “Tell the driver to take it slow.” She straddled his lap, bare-chested, a pink garter belt anchoring her stockings to her thighs.

  He groped for the intercom. “Take us to New Brunswick, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver replied. The speaker clicked off.

  Jerry heard the slight tremor in his voice. To appear cool, he needed to keep his mouth shut.

  “Is this your first time since ... ?” Gina unbuttoned his shirt.

  “It’s been a while,” he admitted. Her skin felt soft in his hands. Gina never exercised. It wasn’t in her nature. He pictured her after having children—larger, stately. He’d get used to it. She’d always be younger.

  “It’s not a problem.” She ripped the belt from the loops of his pants. It cracked like a whip. “Let’s take it at your pace.”

  He didn’t love her, although he questioned the value in it. If he had to recreate the ideal woman, wouldn’t it be like Gina? She was willing, flexible. She wanted to be comfortable. Was that too much to ask?

  His pants and underwear bunched around his ankles and shoes. Gina unsnapped her underwear. The straps of the garter belt fell free like the ribbons on a present. Maybe Arlene was right. The good life was an endowment to the truly deserving, although he wondered what he’d done to deserve this.

  He pressed her to his chest, working with her, trying to discover her style. He discovered his desire in the mix.

  “That’s it, baby,” she said. “Touch me there.”

  He raised his legs, bracing them against the seat, kicking the stereo by accident. Heavy metal music blasted from the console. Gina covered her ears and screamed.

  Jerry scrambled to turn down the volume in the dark. He fumbled with the little kno
bs, first setting the balance and tone, before clicking off the radio. “Sorry about that.”

  Gina’s minxish expression resurfaced in the quiet. “Sorry about what?” She took Jerry down across the seat.

  In minutes, he was riding the night train through the back roads of New Jersey. Gina cooed beneath him, sliding her hips down the smooth upholstery. He was king of the world again. He did as he pleased. He should have thought of this with Chelsea. She was waiting for him to raise the bar. He was going places he’d never imagined. He was going to screw the world as he pleased.

  The driver hit the brakes, and he went tumbling to the floor. Gina screamed, torn from her passion with an elbow to the nose.

  She clutched her face. She was bent over the hump on the floor, her limbs entangled with his. “I think I’m bleeding.”

  The limo pulled away from the traffic light. The green light faded to a dot.

  Jerry panicked, naked, lost in disaster. He stared at the drop of blood welling in her nostril. “I’m sorry.”

  Gina wanted no apologies. She stuffed a wad of tissue in her nose and mounted him like a thrown horseman.

  “We’re going to do this right here.” Her voice was nasally, but she started riding him on the floor, bracing herself against the seats. Gina swung her hips, chest bouncing with the potholes in the road. She grabbed hold of Jerry’s shoulders, taking him all the way home.

  Jerry let her run. He’d never view Route 27 the same way again.

  The limousine navigated as if on autopilot. Gina’s nose stopped bleeding. Jerry saw a thin ring of blood crusting her left nostril.

  He helped her dress, slipping the black material over her freckled arms. The floral smell of sex and perspiration lingered in the back seat. Or was it Gina’s rosy perfume?

  She tucked the pink garter in his suit jacket. He felt it bunch against his wallet. “What’s that for?”