The Winners Circle (23 page)

“
People laugh at you,” Willie said.

“
I suppose.”

“
They hum songs behind your back.”

“
I can imagine.”

“
Even the real Willie’s miserable. The IRS hounds him every waking minute.”

Jerry didn’t refute it. True, both Willies were miserable.

He let the poor soul talk himself out, turning a deaf ear to the conversation. Jerry didn’t give a damn what happened next. It was all over.
Pack it up. Go home. Nothing left to see here
. He expected to find Willie in room 201B at the Trenton JCC next Tuesday night. Willie would be huddled over a styrofoam coffee cup, telling stories, bitching and moaning with the rest of them.

A big screen TV droned on the electronics wall. It showed a cheery Hispanic woman, with a tad too much makeup, plucking balls from a lottery machine. Jerry checked his wristwatch. It was time for Super Pick Millions, the highlight of his day.

Four balls already sat on the chute. He recognized the numbers—a scramble of Chelsea’s birthday and his own. He watched his birth month number roll down the chute.

“
Nine,” the woman announced, all teeth.

His adrenaline kicked up a notch. Only Chelsea’s birth month remained. It sucked up the tube and rolled into view.

“
Eleven,” the lottery diva said.

He’d hit the Super Pick Millions numbers again and started to chuckle. “Good deal.” His heels did a little dance on the carpet. He didn’t even know how much money he’d won, much less if he’d have to share it with another winner.

When he spun around, he noticed the others in the room. They were watching him, each man aghast at his overt display. They peered at him as if he were crushing baby seal skulls with his boots.

Willie clutched his rifle like a spear, still tethering the trigger. “You won?”

“
That’s what the numbers say.” Jerry stopped smirking, nonchalantly tossing his shoulders.
Of all the stupid things. I won another time.

“
Again?” Willie’s voice cracked, not unlike the real Willie Nelson.

“
Looks that way.”

Willie charged, a crazed look in his eye. Dick stuck out his leg and tripped Willie but not before the confused millionaire squeezed the trigger by accident. The gun set off as he fell, shooting Jerry through the thigh. Jerry had even heard the shot a split second before the bullet struck. He twitched ever so slightly to the left, unable to dodge bullets as well as rattlesnakes.

Time collapsed. Jerry fell to the floor. The curse of the lottery lay upon him. It burned like a snakebite, and he laughed out loud a demonic mixture of pain and irony. This freaked out the others in the room even more than the shot.

Dick’s hands shook. Tom started to cry, bunching tissues into a nostril to stem his own blood flow. Willie Nelson threw up on the oriental carpet. Only now was Tucker turning away from the elaborate controls of Willie’s expensive stereo, trying to understand what had transpired.

In the back seat of the Lincoln, Jerry bled through the makeshift bandages. Crimson blood and rattlesnake venom purged from his veins, spilling onto the genuine leather seats. It was a catharsis of sorts.

“
I’m sorry.” Willie gripped Jerry’s shoulder, apologizing like a Christian after Mardi Gras. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Jerry listened to Willie ramble about his sad life.
Please God, don’t let this be the last thing I hear.

“
I don’t know what to do without her.” Willie looked weepy.

“
Without who?” Jerry asked. He felt dizzy.

“
My wife,” Willie said, finally reaching his point. “She left me three months ago.”

That wasn’t in the files.
Jerry grabbed his saturated bandages along with Dick, but his hands were growing weak. He submerged into the twilight of consciousness.

“
Get a move on it, Tom,” Dick yelled.

The Navigator’s engine roared like Jerry’s Porsche in high gear. His life felt too dumb to be his own, but it was his. It was the life he’d let happen to him, a life by attrition.

“
We were married seven years,” Willie continued. “I’ve known her since high school. That’s forever.”

Jerry studied Willie’s face, taking a good look at the man who shot him. He understood what made Willie so angry. He didn’t blame the poor slob for anything after that.

“
And you know what his name is?” Willie Nelson sobbed like a lost toddler.

“
No.” Jerry didn’t care. He wanted to stop hemorrhaging. Suddenly he wanted to live a long time. The mundane aspects of life—breathing, hurting, laughing, crying, itemizing tax deductions—made sense as he encroached the point of release.
Alright, maybe not itemizing tax deductions.

“
Her boyfriend’s name is Tony Bennett,” Willie said.

“
The real Tony Bennett?” Jerry asked.

It was a good thing they’d left the rifles back at the mansion. Willie looked ready to shoot Jerry on purpose this time.

Jerry received two blood transfusions in a forgettable south Jersey hospital. A nurse with sallow fingers swabbed his gunshot wound with sterile gauze, while a yawning surgeon phoned ahead to the operating floor. Jerry felt trapped in a nightmare. His life acquired the graininess of late night television.

“
You’re saying Mr. Nelson didn’t intend to fire his weapon at you?” A rural police detective stood beside the emergency room gurney, flipping through the pages of his spiral notebook. He poked his large forehead with the eraser tip of a pencil. His day probably amounted to stolen bicycles and vandalized mailboxes, and he fought to make sense of the shooting.

“
He didn’t want to hurt anyone.” Jerry examined the jagged vivisection of his leg, keeping his eyes away from the cop. He knew that much about lying. “He was showing us his rifle.”

“
A loaded rifle?”

“
I know, not very safe.”

The detective scribbled in his notebook. “Then it was an accident.”

“
That’s what I’m saying.” Jerry glanced up at the disbelieving cop.
Yup, that’s my story.

“
You’re certain.”

Jerry refused to turn over on Willie. He understood the effects of a wife who left after you gained the means to offer her anything in the world. A bullet in the thigh and a pint or two of blood was nothing in comparison. “I’m certain.”

At home, Jerry limped about the farmhouse on crutches. He visited a physical therapist three times per week. Tom drove him around, brought in food, and removed the trash. Jerry considered hiring him fulltime. The sweet baker wasn’t all that different than Cortez, who endlessly roamed and guarded the property. With the proper maintenance, Tom would be loyal to the end. Tom could be Jerry’s version of Tucker, except wielding a rolling pin instead of a gun.

The phone rang, and Tom barged into the living room with the cordless. “It’s for you.”

Jerry had his feet propped upon a pillow on the coffee table. He was reading
The Miracle at Philadelphia
. He loved US history, but more importantly, he finally had the head for it again. “Who is it?”

“
She didn’t say. I think she knows you.”

“
What makes you say that?”

“
It’s the sound of her voice.”

Jerry scanned the pudgy shape lurking near the couch. Tom had an animal instinct. He knew when the mailman was going to arrive or the teakettle approached the boiling point. He dove into menial tasks with vigor, appearing happiest while resting in a sunny spot, licking crumbs from the corners of his mouth. Yes, he was more like Cortez than anyone thought.

The phone passed to Jerry’s hands, and he looked at Tom. “Do you still have your family holed up in that apartment?”

“
Yeah, why?”

“
I want to speak with you before you leave.”

“
What about?”

“
We’ll talk later.”

Tom shrugged his round shoulders and retreated into the kitchen. He was no doubt seeking a sleeve of crackers and a hunk of cheese.

“
Congratulations.” Chelsea’s voice struck out over the wire. It seemed to slap Jerry in the face, making him sit up at attention.

He dropped the book in his lap. He heard himself breathe into the receiver. It sounded like the wind before the rain began.

“
Jerry?” she started again. “Congratulations on winning the lottery.”

“
I’d given up on hearing from you.”

“
Oh that. I’m sorry about that.”

“
It doesn’t matter.” He gauged the joy in her voice. She presented a good front but didn’t sound all that happy for him. “It wasn’t as big as our pot.”

“
It’s fourteen million dollars, Jerry. I read about it in
Time
magazine.”

“
Really?” He didn’t believe her. She must have recognized his winning numbers in the newspaper. They were identical to their winning numbers. He never really considered the odds, but lightning had struck twice. If he ever returned to the Winners Circle, he’d let Arlene try to rationalize those odds.

“
You’ve done it again. You’re so lucky.”

“
Am I?”

“
You’re amazing.”

“
What’s amazing?”

“
You remind me of the first time. You didn’t care about the money then either.”

“
I never did.” He stopped short of explaining. He recalled how arrogant it sounded when rich people renounced their wealth without any intention of losing a penny. In truth, he’d gotten used to having a heap of cash. It made the everyday answers simple. It beat the pants off holding a regular job.

“
You’re not like anyone I know.”

“
No, I’m not.” He thought about that in both good and bad ways. There weren’t any simple emotions regarding Chelsea. He’d gotten used to that. “How are things on your end?”

“
You know.”

“
Is it getting better?” He already knew the answer. Haskell (a.k.a. Melvin) was being indicted for real estate fraud. The Cogdon’s were selling their custom home at the shore. The minutia of their lives played out in the public eye, and everyone was a critic. The newspapers quoted more attorneys and punsters than Jacob Johansen had chickens.

“
It’s getting there. Things are looking up, I think.”

“
Really?”

“
It won’t be easy. I have some decisions to make.”

He wondered what she meant by that, but he was in an unusual place with her, where he didn’t ask and she didn’t tell. “I wish you the best.”

“
Thank you. I know you mean that.”

He considered inviting her over but waited for the urge to pass. What would it prove? Too much time separated them. He never thought he’d feel like that. He’d cheated death twice. Neither a rattlesnake bite or a bullet was enough to conquer him, yet learning to unlove Chelsea was a more serious wound. If it didn’t kill him, there’d always be something left to give. “Chelsea, can I ask you something?”

“
What is it?”

“
Do you ever think about before?”

The receiver went silent for a moment. “Oh Jerry, I don’t know.”

“
I’m not just talking about us. Did things turn out like you dreamed?”

“
Like I dreamed?”

“
What was better—the dreams or now?”

She paused again, barely able to maintain her facade over the phone line. “Don’t be so serious. Spend your money. You can do a million different things.”

He nearly dropped another comment about not wanting the cash but let the issue rest at that. He decided to make a joke, still feeling responsible for lifting her spirits. It was something he could do for free. “So I’m nothing but possibilities, eh?”

She laughed, but he heard a twinge in her voice. It repelled the better part of his humor. He wondered if the conversation hit too close to home, or maybe it was only their connection from miles apart.

“
I’m going to hang up now.” He noticed his feet on the ground. His leg ached, and he felt dizzy, but he was standing for the first time without crutches. He held his stance for what seemed like minutes after he put down the phone.

“
She’s here.” Tom rushed into the living room, looking pasty. He pinched his nose, groping for the tissue box. A panic nosebleed was about to start.

Jerry closed his book. Rays of yellow sunlight cut through the arching glass windows. It made the room appear as if it were aflame. “Who’s here?”

“
Gina.”

“
Spagnoli?”

“
Yeah.” Tom tilted back his head.

“
Don’t let her in.”