The Winner's Circle: Faith! Family! Frenzy!

One  |  Fran

UNLIKE JACKIE, FRAN WAS irked by Amazing Grace. Especially when Bonnie’s ringtone interrupted steamy Tom Selleck dreams. She groped the nightstand for her cell, clicked it on, and croaked, How—

Fran swallowed to regain her voice and attempt cordial. She needed to reply, How sweet the sound. It was the obligatory response among friends, but just now the ritual undermined behavior management principles. One shouldn’t reinforce disruptions like nighttime phone calls. Though she was a late-in-life newlywed, who didn’t require beauty sleep, she did need peace. How did Jackie Breeden sleep with grandfather clock chimes every quarter hour through the night?

Fran opened one eye to sneak a clock peek: 10:33 p.m. In the jostling, her phone dropped to the floor, but their carpet prevented clatter. She gratefully rolled over, mindful not to bump her snoring mate. His guzzle-snort camouflaged a phone call that would awaken him and ignite his potential to pray.

Joan Baez’s famed anthem resumed. Fran suppressed a groan. Her clumsiness had disconnected the call of a persistent friend. Rolling to a crouch on the floor, she scooped up the phone and clicked on.

The new sweet sound will be cha-ching, Bonnie said. Write these numbers down!

"Hold your horses if you want to remain friends. I didn’t hear please. Also, speak softly. Paul’s asleep and I need to locate paper and pen, plus my bookmark. I’m reading the new Jan Karon book."

This was a half-truth, a misdirect to cover her irritation. Somewhere Safe with Somebody Good lay spread-eagled on the nightstand. A moment ago, it covered her phone.

Trying to learn how to be a pastor’s wife? Bonnie joked.

Bad move, Bonnie. Thank your stars you’re long distance. Do you want me to write the number or not?

Fran bustled into the robe draped across the foot of the bed. A double bed shared with a pastor, who performed un-puritanically beneath the sheets, then cozied her onto the mattress edge where she tried to read herself to sleep. Marriage was unexpectedly exciting. Apparently abstinence did make a body grow fonder. Fran was considering an additional wedding gift—purchase of a king size bed to ensure her own space.

She grabbed her phone and held it low, amidst the rustle and swish of the silken fabric, hoping the noise would infuse sense into Bonnie’s head. Fran padded to her office down the hall and Brailled the desktop. A tablet and pen aligned in their always-place. The silver patina of her recent wedding photo’s frame twinkled in the moon glow.

Fran startled. She’d never noticed Paul’s tie skewed to spoon the folds of her wedding suit sleeves. Significant lust hidden in plain sight.

She smiled as she recalled squeezing her nosegay during the ceremony and the subsequent photo shoot. Moments later, she lofted the roses over her head backwards for a perfect landing into the hands of Bonnie, Paul’s secretary. The same still unmarried woman who’d quit her job and left town a few days ago with Carl, Steve Breeden’s half-brother. California bound, they said. What an upended apple cart to accept, to explain, and, eventually, to embrace.

Bonnie Voss. The same woman who’d lost her morals and her mind. The same woman who called her for a favor in the middle of the night. Please.

Fran’s chair rewarded her careful sit with silence. Her knees complied, noiseless too. She poised the pen and drew her cell to her ear. I’m ready. Shoot me the numbers. Fran cleared her throat to underscore her great effort.

Please? 10. 11. 31. 41. 44. 14. 24.

Okay. Let me repeat them to make sure I got them right. Fran adjusted her robe. 10. 11. 31. 41. 44. 14. 24. After Bonnie’s confirming purr, she continued, What are these? Sounds like high school locker combinations.

Good guess, girl! It’s Carl’s combination from his junior and senior years of high school. He was excited to have a locker in the jock block twice.

Is that the hell why he remembers the numbers? Fran snapped so harshly she almost bit her tongue. She nursed a grudge about entitled high school athletes, a remnant of fending off Coach’s over-protection when his star players missed grades. She smiled at a memory of hoisting her paddle in the general vicinity of his over-stuffed ass. Hell, she’d have whacked him if her office door had been closed.

Emboldened by the memory, she pressed on. What the hell am I supposed to do with these numbers? Memorize them and then eat the note? Global nuclear war didn’t start after the nightly news, did it? You giving me the combination to Carl’s underground bomb shelter or his safe deposit box?

Watch the Boffo Lotto drawing tonight at 11:00. We can’t, because we’re deadheading to Rock Island, Illinois. I knew you stayed up late and would do a favor for a friend. Bonnie didn’t pause to allow Fran to object. "I have a question for you, Fran. What the hell are you saying hell for? You’re a pastor’s wife now!"

I’m off-duty. Fran slammed down the phone.

Fran stood, hoisted her robe so she wouldn’t trip over its hem—and to shake off Bonnie’s rebuke—and swished into the family room. She turned on the TV, already set on FOX, and heard the same news pronounced by another bauble head, part of the daily parade, all interchangeable, most often blondes with hair sprayed into helmets. Cement-smiled with chunky gold jewelry coiled at the crest of vibrant high-necked, sleeveless dresses. Clothing to frame the toothy truths spread by big mouths on pedestal necks. Lipstick like dual blood streaks cheek-to-cheek. Yip-yap-yip. It was exhilarating to watch.

Fran settled in. She’d never monitored the lottery picks before, never even bought a ticket, considering the act beneath her station in the small, close-knit community. Maybe she’d made a mistake. A buy was frivolous for certain, but watching the drawing promised the simplest high on the planet. Its pep counterbalanced the bite of the recycled news’ spew.

The numbered ping-pong balls bubbled, perked, and popped into round channels, the Plexiglas contraption reminding her of the junior high science teacher’s elaborate gerbil cage.

Glad to perch on her chintz-covered chair, swimming solo in a household of beige leather and brown corduroy, Fran felt secure. She’d moved into the parsonage under extreme protest, put her Craftsman cottage up for sale. Paul didn’t know it, but she’d slipped back several times for respite from his parishioner problems, of which she now owned fifty percent. For better or worse.

The sixth ball rolled down the chute, almost smiling as it scooted into place. Fran looked at the paper in her lap, looked at the screen, looked at her lap, took a deep breath, and squinted.

Then, she looked again. Shock sucked her breath. I’ll be go to hell and back! Did that just happen? Is this a dream, a fairytale, or a nightmare come to life?

Bonnie’s, er Carl’s, numbers were winners! Fran’s heart felt as skittish as the numbered balls had looked inside the tumbler that assured their mix. Her sleeves fluttered like monarch wings while she flapped her arms in a wild chicken dance. She’d never pranced with abandon at wedding receptions, not even her own. She grabbed a table lamp before it toppled, then twirled it for good measure.

She longed to scream. She was a former school administrator, used to being in control, and a newlywed mindful of her husband’s rest, not a frivolous teen. Yet unbridled joy surged through her arms to the ceiling to accompany a silent Hip! Hip! Hooray! No high kick, her knees still aggravated by the beside-the-bed crouch to answer the cell call.

When she realized the size of the lottery win, she gasped and slid to the floor. Her mind flip-flopped like the ponytails of the cheerleaders whose moves she’d emulated. The ones whose skirts grew shorter every year—as did Fran’s fuse, fueling her retirement at the end of the last school year.

Should she call Bonnie back? She’d said something about being on Illinois time, an hour earlier than Michigan, but not whether she and Carl would be driving or sleeping at this hour. Perhaps Bonnie and Carl were as involved as Fran and her new husband, Pastor Paul, had been an hour ago.

She couldn’t tell Paul. She heard her snoring giant, sawing logs as if cutting away the sins of the world, perhaps beseeching God on His heavenly throne to fix all of the church problems overnight.

She couldn’t call Jackie Breeden. It wouldn’t be copacetic, as her husband, Steve, would say. Fran knew the farm couple awakened earlier than early for chores.

Bonnie, how are you? Are you sitting down?

I’m fine. Carl’s doing 80 mph on I-80 so, of course, I’m sitting. I’m seat belted and squeezing the handle above the truck cab door, gluing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to improve my balance, like you told me from yoga class. I’ve only driven small town roads, never been accelerated as a passenger to this speed. Carl said the sky’s the limit on the Interstates, so I’m hoping to not go airborne.

You won.

Of course, I won. I won the man, took that church secretary job and shoved it. Did I tell you we’re headed to Vegas to marry in the Little White Wedding Chapel near the Strip? Elvis will officiate.

You won the Boffo Lotto. Fran kept her voice flat. Mention of a strip flustered her all the more. Was the former church secretary wayward already? She held her tongue, willing Bonnie to comprehend soon. Fran longed to end the call and return to bed.

"I did, er, Carl, my intended, did? What’s the total?

$536 million.

Fran clicked off the TV. The lottery win was the only news needed, and her tolerance for noise not what it used to be. Perhaps that’s why she disliked football, that roar of the crowd bullshit.

Along with the silly frilly cheers.

Then Fran realized that the phone echoed the silence in her home. Bonnie said nothing. No sounds. Not even road noise broke the silence. Eerie.

Fran shook her phone, pulled it back from her ear to see if it had gone dead. Are you there? Still silent. Fran wondered about tunnels on I-80 that might block cell reception. She’d never been west of Chicago.

Fran clicked off the call and sent a text, which took longer than it should because her fingers kept hitting the wrong keys. That many zeros after a dollar sign seemed inconceivable. The spacing back to erase and then re-enter the correct numbers took several seconds. Her phone rang, startling her into additional errors. Bonnie’s name appeared at the top of her screen, but she ignored the call until she completed the text.

She didn’t bother with the voice mail she received in the interim. She suspected it would be a resounding yelp. Instead she hit the callback feature.

Yes… Yes… Yes… Bonnie, calm down. You won. Yes, you won. Or did Carl? Where did you buy the ticket?

I bought the ticket in Tinley Park, Illinois. At a Speedway station while Carl gassed up. It was a whim. I was bored riding shotgun in a truck. Carl didn’t even need me to read maps! I had to pee and the kiosk in the station enticed me as much as the snacks, so I bought one of each!

A ticket and a Twinkie! You’re a two-fisted wonder woman! Fran doubled over with laughter, almost peeing her pajama bottoms. Fran thought, but she didn’t admonish Bonnie not to pee the leather seats in Carl’s new truck—nor did she ask if the dog was along for the ride. She held her tongue and remained patient. Bonnie’s giggling seemed out of control, but she’d come around to finish the call. Midwestern manners called for it.

Bonnie calmed to talk, her voice stronger now. The station and neighborhood looked safe, not likely harboring Chicago’s high crime, so I won’t mind going back to claim the money. $536 million, really?! Wow-oh-wow-oh-wow!

Well, as I recall, you don’t get the cash at the ticket seller’s. It’s not like an ATM. Think about it, woman. Give your brain a spin.

You shouldn’t insult me now that I’m a millionaire, Fran.

I’d say sorry, but it’s near midnight, Bonnie. I’m trying to help. Anyway, come home. You have to lawyer up, hire an accountant, and a financial planner. Maybe a publicist. I’ll call my brother—remember he’s a judge—tomorrow to see who he recommends.

Well, I hadn’t thought of coming back to Michigan— Bonnie said.

Where else would you go? Fran interjected.

I guess you’re right. There’s no place like home, among people we trust. Thanks. Thanks a multi-million! said Bonnie, her excitement building to a shriek.

Despite the distance, Fran heard a loud Woot! Woot! Whoopee! The news must be sinking in. Fran could almost hear the phone tossed over Bonnie’s shoulder into the back of the truck cab. How sweet the sound, indeed!

Two  |  Bonnie

BONNIE RAN HER HANDS down her thighs, hoping to compose her body, her self. She wanted to shudder, shake, and shout. Instead, she frowned. The fresh contact with her cellulite caused her to miss the compression of pantyhose, the virginity constraints of her youth.

She turned toward Carl, who’d taken his hands off the wheel to cover his ears. Uh-oh, she had shouted. The Dodge Ram cab was like a triple wide phone booth. While road noise didn’t intrude the super plush space, enthusiasm swelled.

To cover her gaffe, and to stop herself from shrieking Put your hands back!, Bonnie put her palm to her lips as mea culpa, then kissed two fingers to his cheek. Want an Advil, honey?

Carl shook her off, eyes glued to the road. He wasn’t giving an inch, but at least both hands returned to the wheel.

Suddenly she pointed, nearly stabbing Carl with a nail. Honey, see the Holiday Inn up the road? Let’s pull in there for the night. She shifted to touch his forearm, to soothe and to align him. You may have heard, but I want to tell you in style. I’m now a girlfriend—soon to be your wife—with more benefits than before. Let’s celebrate with a chocolate from Jackie’s gift box. Maybe a martini or ten!

She clicked open the glove box, ripped the shrink-wrap from the candy, crinkled it into a ball, and tossed it into the back seat, Twinkies eclipsed. She paused to inhale the heady scent of chocolate and stuffed a cream in her mouth. She was about to offer a chocolate to Carl when she noticed his jaw clench and unclench, illuminated by the business signs along the road. Carl couldn’t be annoyed at the news, could he?

I heard. There’s cause to celebrate and not. I hope you don’t mind, but our marriage plans are off. Carl, eyes on the road, death-gripped the leather-wrapped wheel and kept his foot steady on the gas. He resembled Reagan, even in profile. As if to negate his dismay, his single stud earring winked at her as it caught the neon lights’ glow. The Holiday Inn sign fuzzed as the truck sped by.

Though stated matter-of-factly, Bonnie didn’t take it that way. She considered unwrapping the Twinkies to stuff into Carl’s mouth, but she refused to waste her favorite snack on the turd. What do you mean we won’t get married, Carl? I’m a former church secretary, a servant of the Lord. While I admit we are not virginal—I think He accepts that in this day and at our age—I hadn’t planned on being a long-term whore.

That remark shut him up. Bonnie could see Carl was stunned. Since I’m the one who bought the ticket while you pumped gas, I’m the wealthy one, and I’ll just command a wedding. Acting like the Widow Braghorn may suit me. I listened to her harangues, as buffer for my boss, so I know a thing or three about bluster, making people flinch due to one’s omniscient amount of cash.

Bonnie, you don’t understand— he began.

You’ve got that right. Bonnie clutched her shoulder harness to entrench. Maybe for the first and last time tonight. We are about to have our first fight, Carl Edwards. She swept away the chocolate cream she held near Carl’s mouth and replaced it in its paper ruff. "I’m not sharing my chocolate—or my money—with you."

She thought about Forrest Gump. Life was not like a box of chocolates. You did know what you’d get. Hurt. Again.

Let’s not fight. Let me tell you about California’s community property laws. Though Bonnie could sense Carl taking his eyes off his road concentration, she refused to turn back to him. No way would she meet him halfway on this matter. Men always expected their woman to relent.

She’d seen it a million times as couples entered and exited the office for pastoral counseling. Male body language was always strong, go-ahead, while women appeared whole-heartedly subservient. She intended to eat this entire box of chocolates, then collect and spend her cash by herself.

Remember we’re headed to visit my three adult kids in California? They are married, and they have kids of their own. California’s an expensive state. If we’re married, half of the winnings we receive will be mine, regardless of who bought the ticket.

Bonnie gasped. What? What? What? She winced, whipped a sidelong look at his mask-like silhouette, and grabbed another chocolate. She clamped the lid and returned the chocolates to the glove box, slamming the door shut. She crossed her arms in front of her sweatered chest. Case closed.

And. Carl paused for emphasis and reached over to tap her forearm. "You were aware the winner only receives half of the lottery cash, weren’t you? If there’s only one."

Ha! barked Bonnie, tossing her head for emphasis. Her long, loose-curled blonde tresses entwined the raised headrest, forcing a pause to solve this problem rather than forge ahead with math.

Bonnie refused to be embarrassed. She began to work her fingers through the snarls, new to the hair extensions as well as nervous with angst. She’d paid a fortune for the new hair color with special premium blowout. Summer highlights had been added to ready her for her debut with Carl’s California kids. She resolutely worked to preserve the style, as important to her upper hand.

Finally, her golden strands released their stranglehold on the headrest. She forced cool, like a steel blade, into her voice as she continued, daring Carl not to laugh. Go on. I’m not seeing the upside of winning half-of-half while I’m losing a husband.

My kids came from a gnarly ex-wife. Carl spoke softly, his words articulated with precision. She’ll sic them on me, sure as hell. May even come after an alimony increase.

You pay alimony? To a woman who left you for another man, a woman whose kids are grown, a woman I’ll hate on sight?

Let’s not get bogged in that mess, Carl said. Let’s consider how we claim the winnings as well as how we can preserve and shelter our $536 million.

I don’t know. Bonnie shook her head. Shook it again, enjoying the heft of the loose curls, to amplify her authority. "I just don’t know anything anymore. I don’t feel like we should claim our winnings, since I bought the ticket."

"Well, how about we circle back to the Holiday Inn like you suggested. Dear."

Bonnie recognized that tone, used daily by her former boss, the pastor, attempting to disarm with charm. Bonnie could tell Carl hoped for the final word, but his mere presence in the cab aggravated her. First item I buy will be a long limo with a driver in black tights, tuxedo shirt cuffs, and bowtie.

Bonnie smiled broadly as the vision expanded. A young dude with a chiseled physique. Who can dance. Joined by a passel of buddies in the trunk.

No-o-o! she shouted, thrusting clenched fists aloft. This adamant move caused her to bop Carl’s nose and the passenger window simultaneously. Her shout reverberated while she checked her knuckles for bruises. When Bonnie gathered her spirits to voice her thoughts, a bump in the road warbled the tone, but not her resolve. If I’m rich, I demand a better bed than a Holiday Inn. Let’s use Siri to find a Radisson or a Wynn.

The Wynn’s in Vegas. Carl’s tone, so like a funeral director’s feigned tenderness, exasperated Bonnie. She might be blonde, but she recognized patronization. His voice practically patted her on the head.

Well, he was not the boss of her. She’d shed that circumstance when she resigned. I know. That’s where I’m spending my wedding night.

Thus began the war of the winnings.

Three  |  Jackie

SUNRISE, FLASHING THE GAP in the bedroom drapes, bolted Jackie upright. Despite its fresh promise, she felt cranky and forlorn. One of her best friends gone, maybe forever, road-tripping with her husband’s favorite brother, with whom friend Bonnie was in love. Though a half-brother, and a Californian to boot, Carl had wedged himself into everyone’s hearts with the force of the freight trains that hurried Midwestern grains to food preparation plants. Hubby Steve was bereft too, but shoveled his feelings into working his dairy farm.

Edgy that she’d missed the alarm, Jackie flung on her robe and stepped into slippers to descend the stairs, ritually kissing the 8x10 color photos of her only child, framed to align with each of the sixteen steps. Brandon’s birth, first fish, first school day photos as long as he would allow them—through fifth grade—followed by high school and college graduation portraits, and every stud shot of his glorious football career. His brief marriage had failed, so she removed that portrait. Today its empty spot triggered reminiscence of Carl.

Virtual snapshots shuffled, blackjack fast, and whizzed past Jackie’s visual field. Her first glimpse of Carl Edwards, mildly drunk and seated at her kitchen table as if he belonged. The day Carl bounded into the Koffee Kup Kafe to announce he’d purchased a nearby farm and a decrepit old bull to start a stud service.

The next unexpected step was Carl’s instant outlandish wealth. A Canadian energy consortium swooped in with a mineral rights lease on Carl’s land, but the fracking venture quickly contaminated his well.

Jackie’s eyes teared up. The image of Steve, her still handsome six-footer, diminished with protracted grief over the simultaneous deaths of his dog and the favored cow in his micro-dairy operation, renewed her guilt over not being able to bring him to peace. His mustache bushed and his hair clumped and, when he washed it, she saw the grey streaks had paled to opaline.

Steve, typically a temperate man who walked with his hands in his jean pockets, accosted Carl and banished him from their lives. The attack was stridently verbal, also atypical of Steve. He leaned on a broad smile and tucked in behind her social butterfly wings, ready to stalwartly back her up, but seldom to provoke. His community moniker was Even Steven, because he was—in temperament, aptitude, and style.

It was another time in her life when Jackie didn’t know where to stand. She gripped the handrail, willfully moving forward to recall when her sweet friend, Bonnie, who rapidly attached herself to the new man in town, scooped up a replacement pup to mend family fences. Sadly, the new dog failed to live up to the loyalty or the legend of their beloved Sparty. Dalmatian heritage didn’t help.

Perhaps propelled by grief as well as guilt, Carl had negotiated a sizable settlement with NOEBBLE Energy, its millions divvied—repentance by cash—and deposited in the local bank.

Well, a little siphoned off to pay for a van,