The Winners Circle

by Christopher Klim

  Ruiz sounded cautious over the phone. “I’m disappointed.”

  “I don’t think she’s interested in a one-on-one yet.”

  “Did she bring the guru?” Ruiz sounded disturbed.

  “Yup.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “It’s okay.” He found himself consoling Ruiz again. This whole experiment wasn’t turning out as he hoped. “There will be others, I guess.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, Jerry. I have a file cabinet full of women who’d be proud to know a man of your caliber.”

  He was afraid of that. He looked down the road as if holding a specific destination in mind, but plenty of time remained before the Saturday night buffet at the Hyatt. The big decision was whether to turn left or right at the next intersection. “I’m sure you’re hard at work.”

  “I can profile a few candidates for you over the phone.” She shifted files in the background. Charlie Parker bopped through the receiver. He was beginning to recognize the jazz masters from his compilation CD.

  “That won’t be necessary.” He saw steam rising from the hood of a blue Datsun on the side of the road. Its flashers were going. He signaled to pull over. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Don’t wait.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You need to stay in circulation. Every date makes you more desirable.”

  “We’ll talk on Monday.” He squeezed the power button on the cell phone and stopped several yards ahead of the troubled car.

  Jerry rose out of the Porsche, in his spiffy designer clothes. The sun beat down, and the air smelled like antifreeze and hot grease. Cars whipped past on the open road. The breeze barely fanned the midday heat.

  A woman leaned against the door, arms folded. She was dressed in trim black pants and a white buttoned-down shirt. Jerry saw relief in her expression. She pushed off her car, joining him halfway on the shoulder.

  “Thank you.” She was a blonde, with lanky arms like his former wife. Her tan skin reflected the color of burning wood before it catches the flame.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes. I stopped trying to wave down cars.”

  “No one stopped?”

  “No one stops anymore. I’m late for work.”

  He gripped the cell phone in his palm. “Need to make a call?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He turned it on and handed it over.

  Jerry walked to the Datsun and leaned over the hood. The blue fog started to dissipate, although the engine still hissed. A long and ragged slit opened the lower radiator hose. Not even duct tape would help at this point, and he doubted she carried enough water and antifreeze to refill the reservoir.

  The woman spoke quickly into the phone. Her job had something to do with food service. She was late for a catered affair. Jerry liked the way she took control of the conversation. She wasn’t about to be blamed for a blown radiator hose.

  He waited for her to hang up. “Everything alright?”

  “I think so. I don’t know why I take these jobs.”

  “For the money,” he said without thinking.

  She paused. She seemed to be taking in his clothes and car. “That’s the reason.”

  “I remember those days.” He recalled that women noticed details like shoes, pants, and hairstyle. Men noticed hips, chests, and hair. He wanted to say that this image wasn’t really him. “It wasn’t that long ago when I needed every paycheck.”

  “Sure. What are you, a stockbroker? No, don’t tell me. You’re a lawyer.”

  “Do I look like a lawyer?”

  “You’re a doctor then?”

  “I took a CPR course once.”

  She started to laugh. It was a deep expression, laced with sincerity. She brushed back her bangs and looked him right in the eye. It was a sign. He’d read the book on female body language, which Ruiz insisted he’d study as part of his training, but he summarized the entire text as a load of bunk, until this moment.

  “Do you need a lift?” He treaded slowly with his questions, trying to act casual. If he got her into his car, he’d muster the courage to ask her on a date. Things happen this way. They must. It’s just that easy.

  “Did I mention that I’m a tennis instructor in real life?”

  “This must be my day for athletes.”

  “Why’s that?” Her finger curled in her hair, another winning indication.

  “By chance, I just ran into Karen Leforte.”

  “The gymnast?”

  Good deal. He couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, he was smooth, and he didn’t even know her name. “I’ll give you a lift and tell you about her.”

  “That would be great.”

  He swallowed his excitement. Stay cool.

  She walked with him to board the Porsche but stopped and caught his eye. “By the way, my name is Meg O’Brien.”

  A week later, Jerry strolled the aisles of a new super-sized market outside of Princeton. He poked the Brie cheese with his index finger and squeezed the French bread. He sampled the roasted peppers and liver pate, searching for the right flavors to compliment lunch. The main course—prepared to Jerry’s specifications by the Hyatt chef—waited in a wicker basket in the car. Meg O’Brien expected a simple picnic lunch, and Jerry planned to dazzle her.

  When the automatic doors to the store parted, Cortez stood up and greeted his master. Jerry watched the big animal twitch his ears in the sun. The dog was tied to a No Parking sign by the curb. The leash was just for show. He’d wait all day without disturbing the smallest child. He was the best damned dog Jerry ever owned.

  “How ya doin’ old boy?” Jerry scratched Cortez behind the ears. The dog rubbed its snout against his thigh. He reached into the shopping bag and tore open a half-pound package of ground chuck.

  Cortez gobbled down the bloody treat on the sidewalk, licking his chops with his long wet tongue. Overdressed Princeton housewives pushed past with carts full of groceries, sneering at the carnivorous display. The kids didn’t seem to mind, and Jerry returned their happy grins. Why did adults forget what made them happy as kids? He was as guilty of this crime as the next person, but regardless, his style wasn’t going to be cramped. He had a lunch date with an attractive woman, and Ms. Ruiz had nothing to do with it.

  When Jerry reached Battlefield Park, he spotted Meg O’Brien seated by the monument across the lawn. Tall white columns of stone rose at her back. He pulled the Porsche to the roadside and released the dog.

  “Hello.” Meg shouted, waving a hand above her head. She wore a short green cotton dress and white leather sandals. Her hair was tied into a ponytail, and a stray blonde lock spiraled down in front of one eye.

  Jerry noticed her tan legs. She was fit, healthy, and perhaps a tad furtive in the way she bunched her mouth to nearly a smirk, but as soon as she spotted Cortez dropping from the car, she came forward and took the dog’s head in both hands.

  “He’s beautiful.” She stroked the fur along his jowls. Some of it was turning gray.

  Jerry watched Cortez lick the salt from her bare knee. He gently grabbed a fistful of fur at his hindquarter. “That’s enough, boy.”

  “I don’t mind.” She let Cortez lick her face once and then stood up. “Is he a shepherd?”

  “As far as I know. I rescued him from the A.S.P.C.A.”

  Her mouth crumpled in the corner. It was cute. “You’re a rescuer, eh?”

  Jerry had to think about that. He’d forgotten about stopping to assist her at the roadside. It was his custom to do so. He didn’t fear strangers. He just preferred not to speak with them unless they needed help. Chelsea used to warn him against both his isolation and bravado.

  “What do you call him?” she asked.

  “Cortez.”

  “That’s a powerful name.”

  “I used to read a lot of history.” He still did, when he had the head for it. It was one way to kill time. It was either that or cooking, but the tiny kitchen
in his penthouse suite didn’t inspire many gourmet meals, and he never realized how much he appreciated the approval of a companion until he dined alone.

  “So what’s the history of Jerry Nearing?”

  Jerry looked at the pretty lady. They’d chatted by phone during the week. He’d kept it light, making jokes about his career. Once he said he was a butler to a millionaire. Another time he said he’d struck oil on his farm in Hopewell. She laughed, but he knew he’d be faced with the truth eventually.

  “I won the lottery,” he said.

  She took it like before. “No, really.”

  “I won the lottery.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He saw the surprised look on her face, like he somehow didn’t deserve it. ‘No one does,’ he wanted to say, but he didn’t hold it against her. It’s impossible to envision the other side. “You want some of it?”

  “Sure.” She grabbed hold of the little pocket near her waist. “Stuff it right in here.”

  “I’ll have to remember that later.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He felt uncomfortable, until he realized that he’d made her blush. Being rich wasn’t so bad after all.

  Jerry set down the lunch basket and threw open the blanket. Across the road, he glimpsed the Mercer Oak where he and Chelsea used to picnic as middle class paupers. A memory or two passed through him like a brief and quiet wind. He didn’t waste time lingering there. “Is this spot fine for lunch?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  They began with cheese and crackers. Jerry poured Merlot into paper cups to avoid the ire of the police. He pulled the china and napkins from the basket. The chef had prepared clams on the half shell, light-battered fried chicken, slices of smoked ham, pasta salad with vegetables, and watercress salad with blue cheese and walnuts.

  Meg tasted everything, devouring a plate of pasta, chicken, and clams. She wasn’t shy. She sat with her legs tucked beneath her. After a second glass of wine, she laughed louder, and her sense of humor grew more sarcastic. Jerry liked it. He liked it a lot.

  “Let me get that.” She reached with a linen napkin and cleared a spot of raspberry pie from the edge of his lip.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “If I ever have something on my lip, I want you to tell me.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can’t stand it when people let it sit like a zit on the tip of your nose.”

  “They’re trying to be polite.”

  “Hogwash. They want you to look stupid.”

  “I can do that without the raspberries on my face.”

  “Not you.”

  He heard the quickness of her response. He was a different man around her. He was sailing gratefully into unknown territory.

  “What are you going to do now, Jerry Nearing?” She slid a blood red piece of pie into her mouth. The sun shone off her face. He believed that he saw himself in her reflection.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Will you start a business?”

  “I had the farm, but that’s gone. I guess I’m looking for a new direction.”

  “People would love to be in your shoes.”

  He’d heard that remark so many times that he wanted to print up reply cards like: ‘no you don’t’ or ‘maybe you do.’ He glanced about the lawn, thinking of a new direction to spin the conversation.

  Cortez was leaving, galloping across the grass.

  Jerry stood up. “Cortez!”

  Meg cupped her hands above her eyes to block the sun. “Where’s he going?”

  “It’s not like him to run off.” He watched the dog head for the trees. Since leaving Hopewell, Cortez visited few wooded areas. Even this sparse version had to be enticing.

  “Cortez!” Jerry shouted.

  “Coooorteeeez,” Meg called.

  “I better get him, before he’s gone until sundown.”

  Jerry stepped after the dog. Cortez’s black frame folded into the lush underbrush. Jerry saw a narrow opening in the woods and sprinted for it.

  He entered the tall hardwoods, eyes adjusting to the shade. Several squirrels scattered up the trees, and dozens of sparrows took flight. He felt mosquitoes feasting on his bare calves and slapped at the bugs.

  A footpath sliced through the trees. Cortez raced up the path and into daylight. Jerry pursued. A pair of joggers poured onto the path, and he shouldered past and reentered the lawn.

  The edge of the woods fanned to the left and right. Cortez wasn’t in sight. Jerry chose the left, gambling that Meg spotted the dog coming from the other direction.

  He ran at top speed. He once owned a mastiff that grew senile and had to be put down. It was too soon for Cortez, yet perhaps a summer of hotel living had debased the dog’s psyche or, even worse, compromised its loyalty.

  The traffic raced past on Saturday afternoon. Jerry kept glancing at the road, fearing Cortez broke in that direction, but he failed to spot him. He ran to the end of the park before heading back.

  He paced himself around the woods, catching his breath before returning to the picnic site. He still clutched the linen napkin in his hands and mopped his face.

  Cortez stood with Meg at the blanket. Another blonde woman in white jogging shorts spoke with her, bending over to pat the dog’s head. It took Jerry a few more steps to realize who she was. He stopped moving. His deck shoes planted in the grass. Damn, it’s Chelsea. Cortez must have picked up her scent and ran after her. The dog often accompanied Chelsea on her morning jog.

  A group of kids tossed a frisbee, laughing and screaming in the background. Jerry considered keeping his distance from Meg until Chelsea disappeared. He felt strange seeing the women together, like he was cheating on Chelsea and had been discovered, even after everything that went down between them. He decided to pick up his pace instead. He didn’t know women very well, but he knew he didn’t want them comparing notes.

  Meg eyed him first. “There he is.”

  Chelsea turned around. She wore a powder blue tank top that picked up her eyes. Perspiration dampened the elastic ban above her chest. He saw the wetness in the pit of her neck. Hundreds of times she’d sauntered in from a morning jog and slid beneath the sheets to make love before work. She smelled that way now. It was a powerful elixir. “Hello, Jerry.”

  “Hello.” His mouth felt dry.

  “Cortez joined up with me on the trail.”

  Jerry wondered how much Chelsea told Meg. Women liked to stake claims that way, and Chelsea was exceptional at it. He typically fell blind to a come-on from another women, yet Chelsea shut it down as soon as she caught wind of it. She once ‘accidentally’ dumped a can of cola down the blouse of a woman who’d gotten a tad too fresh at the hospital picnic.

  “He likes to run.” He conjured an amiable expression, sending it in Meg’s direction.

  “I was talking to your date.” Chelsea glanced at the spent dishes and arrangement of food on the blanket. Her eyes rose to Jerry. “It’s good to see you out and mingling.”

  He felt ridiculous. He might have taken Meg to one hundred other places. Why here? He knew what Chelsea was thinking: another blonde, same spot, good wine and food—oh Jerry, how sweet, you still love me. He found the tone of her voice patronizing and accepted it like a mouthful of spoiled cheese.

  “I’m moving on,” he said, a tinge of spite in his voice. He wished she’d vanish. He’d spent months awaiting her return, and now he wanted her to leave the state. No, the country.

  “You look good.”

  He noticed she hadn’t modified her looks any further since the divorce. He expected she’d have gone under the knife for something else. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Her lip drew a slight wrinkle, not that anyone noticed but him. The surgeon didn’t hide everything. She wasn’t entirely flawless. He watched her curl a finger by instinct, but she kept it at her side.

  “Are you living in town?” he asked.

  “I like the trails here,” she said, as if he didn’t
already know.

  He noticed Meg in the corner of his eye. What was she thinking? She probably didn’t know what to make of this.

  “Thanks for bringing the dog back,” he said.

  Chelsea patted the dog’s fur again. “He’s getting heavy.”

  “I’m solving that problem.”

  “Good deal.” She dropped his old phrase, offering her hand like a stranger. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Maybe.” He stared at her long fingers—fingers that he no longer called his own, and then he sobered up and shook them. Her hand felt tense. It trembled slightly, totally unlike her.

  He let her walk away, careful not to watch. He counted the seconds, estimating the time it took for her to reach the road. Soon the coast would be clear.

  Meg watched Chelsea. “She’s gorgeous. How long have you known each other?”

  “A few years.”

  “Old girlfriend?”

  He understood that she was fishing for information. “Something like that.”

  “Long time?”

  He decided to drop the bomb. It was better to pretend like it didn’t matter. Damn, of all the dumb things to have happen. “She’s my ex-wife.”

  “She didn’t say.”

  He glanced back to see her sneakers trailing away. The growing distance calmed him. “That’s the new Chelsea.”

  CHAPTER 10

  This Old, Broken-Down, Godforsaken House

  Jerry ambled through the penthouse for days, stopping at the huge windows overlooking Route One. New office parks and townhouses blanketed the countryside, like swarms of termites burrowing through the trees. Cortez lay in the sunny spot on the carpet. Meg’s phone calls languished on the answering machine. In his dreams, he made love to a gorgeous blonde, not Meg O’Brien but his old standby, Chelsea.

  Their last encounter in the park replayed in his mind. Was he fooling himself? Chelsea was a cool customer, rarely driven to a display of nerves, but she shuddered as they touched. Only Jerry noticed. It reminded him of the first time they made love.