Jackpot Summer, page 16
“Tell them how you always use a three in your lotto numbers,” Ruby said.
Mabel beamed. “I do. Three must be all of our lucky number.”
“Don’t forget you said I can interview you later, Gran,” Ruby said.
Mabel blew her granddaughter a kiss. “I never break a promise.” She turned to the Jacobsons. “Ruby has a video thing on that phone of hers with hundreds of subscribers.”
“It’s called TikTok, Gran,” Ruby said. “And I hit a thousand!”
“TikTok, Schmick Tock. It’s all nonsense. Anyway, I’ve played the Pick Six, the Mega Millions and the Powerball every week for as long as I can remember. Same numbers, same convenience store. The first kid to ever sell me a ticket has grown children now. He lives in my town. How about you? What’s your lotto routine?”
Just great. Now they had to tell her they were undeserving, first-time players. Unless they lied—again.
“Well, we—” Laura began. If there was going to be a mouthpiece for their trio, it had to be her. Fortunately, a young man wearing a headset entered and saved her.
“We all settled in here?” the man said. “I’m Rich, one of the Good Day, Garden State producers. You’ve got about ten minutes until we go live. Everything will go just like I said on the phone. The state lottery commissioner will be on set, each winner will pose with the big check. Mabel, that’s you alone, Jacobsons, the three of you, and then our anchor, Coralee Jones, will ask you how it feels, what you’re going to do with the money, yada yada. Any questions?”
When no one said anything, Rich flashed a thumbs-up.
Laura heard her cell phone buzz from inside her handbag. It had been going crazy all day with texts from Doug and the girls, as well as Mindy and a few other friends she’d clued in that morning. Everyone was asking for pictures and demanding a play-by-play. There had been nothing from Matthew.
When Noah’s phone rang, Laura hoped it might be their brother after all.
“It’s Dad,” Noah said. “Hey, Pops. We’re at the TV studio…What? I can’t hear you…You’re where? Eating pickles?”
Laura took the phone. “Hi, Dad, it’s Laura…Oh, you’re at a pickleball tournament…It’s windy…Yes, we’re good…I called the financial planner you recommended. What’s that? Oh, you have to go? Okay. We love you.”
Laura handed the phone back to Noah, who shoved it in his pocket.
“Matthew always busted me for forgetting to say ‘Uno,’ remember?” Sophie was looking at Mabel’s grandchildren, who had crashed from their sugar high and were crouched around a coffee table playing a civilized game of cards. “But then he’d always give me a second chance.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” Laura said, lowering her voice. Ruby appeared far more interested in their conversation than the Uno game.
“I agree,” Noah said. “I haven’t been able to sleep.” His normally bright eyes were dimmed by pillowy bags.
“I know Matthew and Beth are really comfortable,” Sophie said. “Rich by basically all standards. But should that matter? Because nothing feels the—”
“They didn’t have your license, honey,” Lisa said, reentering the green room, her voice a purr. She looped an arm through Noah’s. “Want me to check your wallet?” As she tried to slip a hand into Noah’s back pocket, the producer burst in.
“Folks, it’s time,” Rich said. “We had to pull the cat food commercial due to an off-color pussy joke. Which means you’re on in two. Follow me!”
The three Jacobsons locked eyes. What was happening? Had they just changed their minds about Matthew? Should they refuse to go on air without him?
“Let’s call Dad back,” Sophie suggested. Noah started dialing.
“We can’t. He said he has to put away his phone,” Laura said. “It’s against tournament rules.”
The three Jacobsons reluctantly left the green room. Mabel’s granddaughter Ruby was walking in step with Laura down a long hallway covered with framed photos of Chiclet-toothed anchors. The girl touched each one as her fingers grazed the wall, knocking them off-kilter.
“I like your dress,” she said to Laura and then stopped walking, her face suddenly serious. Laura stopped too and looked at the girl, unsure what was happening. “When I can’t make up my mind, I flip a coin,” Ruby said. “That’s funny, actually, since this is about money. Anyway, see you out there.” She dropped back to walk with her family.
“She’s creepy,” Noah said, looking at the teenager. “If we can’t reach Dad, should we just—”
“Flip a coin?” Laura said as a chirpy voice rang out.
“Well, hello there millionaires,” Coralee Jones said. The Jacobsons had grown up with her steady chatter as background noise, prattling on about local events, the constant inter-LBI battle over adding more dunes and the chipmunk who famously lived in the Brant Beach courthouse under the stenographer’s desk. Now they were the story. “Sorry to rush you all. Jacobsons, follow me. You’re up first. Granny, you’re next.”
The camera lights were blinding and hot enough to melt the skin off Laura’s body. She couldn’t make out anything other than a sea of blurry faces hidden behind gigantic cameras and boom mics. She felt Sophie’s clammy hand in hers and reached her other hand to touch Noah’s back, but his stage marker put him out of reach. She quickly scanned the wings for Mabel. The grandmother was now donning a floppy crochet hat that covered nearly her entire face. Could she be trying to show off her needlework on TV? Something about that didn’t track with the woman Laura met in the green room.
Producer Rich approached.
“I gotta say, we sure were glad you all decided not to remain anonymous. Two winning tickets from New Jersey and both willing to be public,” Rich said with a satisfied grin. “The winner from Idaho had to go public, but that fourth winner from South Carolina—crickets. You guys will be great for ratings. We’re going to rerun this at eleven and then again tomorrow morning.”
Laura didn’t understand. This was a choice? Nobody mentioned that at the lottery office. The official who received them said someone from the local news would reach out to schedule the live check presentation, which happened the next day. Could there have been fine print in the nine pounds of paperwork they’d been handed, in the tiny text that required Leo’s magnifying glass to decipher? Is that why Granny had thought to wear a hat that obscured nearly her entire face? Did she also not realize she had a choice to stay anonymous but knew enough to obstruct her identity? Why hadn’t Laura thought to do the same instead of worrying about her makeup?
“Did he just say that—”
“We didn’t have to—” Noah and Sophie were anxiously talking over each other.
By then it was too late. Coralee was live.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Coralee Jones and tonight it’s my pleasure to bring you a slice of Garden State history. Two of the four winners of a $261-million Powerball are from our home state and will accept their whopping $65-million checks right here, in front of your eyes. First up, we have the Jacobson siblings from Long Beach Island. Baby brother Noah bought the ticket, but sisters Sophie and Laura went in on it with him. Good thing because now they’re all mega rich. Come forward, you three. Sheldon Mitchell of the New Jersey Lottery Commission would like to present the first check to you folks.”
Coralee motioned for a suited man waiting offstage to come forward with the first of two giant checks.
“Sheldon Mitchell,” Coralee said. “May I present to you Laura, Sophie and Noah Jacobson. Folks at home, you’re the first to meet the newly minted millionaires!”
FANTASTIC FOURSOME
SOPHIE
I sort of hate that Snooki poisoned the Jersey Shore. All these peeps who saw our TV segment think we’re from the same part
NOAH
Don’t rag on Jersey Shore. that show gave us GTL
LAURA
What’s GTL?
SOPHIE
OMG, are you even from jersey?
LAURA
M—do you know?
NOAH
If you don’t know, he won’t know. Matty—prove me wrong.
SOPHIE
Okay, we gave Matthew four hours to prove his chops and nothing. GTL stands for Gym, Tan, Laundry
LAURA
Ahh. I like it. Matthew—would you have known that?
NOAH
Matty?
SOPHIE
Earth to matthew
LAURA
Guys i found Mom’s recipe book in one of the boxes. Matthew—her apple strudel you loved was basically a heart attack in a cake. So. Much. Butter.
NOAH
M—remember we begged her to make blondies and she asked if those are brownies for gentiles
M?
LAURA
I may try to make something from the book
SOPHIE
I hope the fire extinguisher is nearby
NOAH
Matty?
Three Months Later
7
Noah
Argyle socks–wearing, hearing aid–packing, 60 Minutes–watching Leo Jacobson knew how to rock a tan.
It was all Sophie and Noah could discuss when they arrived at Boca Breezes and were greeted by their gilded father in the overly air-conditioned, white-marble lobby furnished in eighties mauves, teals and chrome. Three months in the Sunshine State and their father could model for a Coppertone ad in AARP magazine.
“Golf tan,” he said proudly, lifting the sleeve of his short-sleeve collared shirt to show the contrast. “I’m terrible though.”
“That’s because you don’t let me help you with your swing, Leo,” a raspy-voiced woman with a helmet of platinum hair said as she passed through the lobby pushing a grocery cart filled with Publix bags. “See you at bridge later?”
“Save me a seat,” Leo said, offering a friendly wave.
“You know I will.” The woman headed toward the elevator but stopped short, her rubber soles screeching against the tile. “Oh my goodness, Leo, are these them? The famous Jackpot Jacobsons?”
“Two of them,” Leo said, with more enthusiasm than Noah expected. “Kids, this is Roberta Rosenblum.”
“My, oh, my,” Roberta said. “What lucky ducks you are. I wish my kids had such mazel.”
“Bridge?” Sophie asked Leo. Their mother was the card shark in the family. Leo refused to join his wife at the weekend canasta tournaments in Atlantic City, where she sometimes really cleaned up.
“I’m learning. We don’t play for money,” Leo explained. “Let me show you the grounds before we go up.”
Noah and Sophie left their bags with the concierge and followed their father, whose step was noticeably peppier down south. Florida might as well have been a steroid. They trailed him to the golf course, tennis center, pickleball courts (where he pointed out his name on the bracket as the top seed), card room (the size of a casino) and the multipurpose room, shaped like an auditorium with rows of cushioned seats arranged in a U. On stage, a cluster of post-menopausal women dressed in black leotards, fishnets and tap shoes were performing a coordinated song-and-dance routine. Noah was reminded of his client Rita Harrison. She would fit in swimmingly at Boca Breezes.
“The gals are rehearsing for Cabaret,” Leo explained. “It ought to be terrific.”
“Hi, Leo,” purred about a dozen voices, calling out to their father from the stage. His appearance brought the arthritic rendition of “Don’t Tell Mama” to a standstill.
“Looking great, ladies. Can’t wait for opening night.” Leo thrust an arm around Noah and Sophie. “These are my kids, visiting from up north. They say they’ve got a surprise for me.”
“Leo’s lucky bunch gracing Boca Breezes,” said a woman standing stage right with hair so black it looked blue. “I’m Donna, the director, which means I can reserve a front-row seat for your father opening night.” She tapped her clipboard authoritatively.
“I’d love to have you all for dinner,” another woman called from the stage. “You kids would love my pot roast. You certainly did, Leo.” When she winked at their father, Noah nearly vomited in his mouth.
“I made a few kugels this morning so they should come to me,” a different woman said. “Savory and sweet.” Was she talking about herself or the kugels? Noah prayed it was the kugel.
“Leo, you promised to help set up my iPad.” The lady requesting tech support propped one leg on a chair and attempted to touch her toe.
Leo’s face instantly reddened. Electronics were his kryptonite. Had he feigned competency to get close to Stretch Lady? Or was he just too embarrassed to admit he didn’t know how to help her?
“I got you,” Noah whispered to his dad. Lately, he’d realized how much he missed his service calls on LBI. Passing Haymarket Hobbies in Ship Bottom, Noah wondered if the owner was able to integrate the sales software he’d contracted to use back in June. Seeing one of the island year-rounders, Lindsay McCauley, whizzing past his bike in her pickup truck, he remembered her request that he help her with a slideshow for her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary party, which had to have passed by now. Since the Powerball, none of his regulars had been in contact. Even Robin, the client with whom he shared more than a tech connection, had laughed off his offer to tinker with her wireless printer when he ran into her outside the Surflight Theatre.
He still needed work, just not for the money. He didn’t know how to communicate that to the community. Even the people he’d offered free tech support hadn’t followed up to schedule appointments.
Leo was fumbling with his keys, looking more like the father Noah knew than the local Don Juan he’d become. It was a relief. “I’ll be in touch about that iPad, Lydia.”
Outside the auditorium, Sophie said, “Dad, you’re a total fox here.” She elbowed Noah in the rib. “Which one did you like? Leotard Lady was my fave. She was surprisingly limber. But I didn’t care for the way the director tried to woo our father with good seats.”
Noah refused to play along. “They were all the same to me.”
“Let’s go to the apartment,” Leo said, clearly as desperate as Noah to change the topic. They passed through several buildings kept at meat-locker temperatures before they reached Boca Four, the residential tower where their father lived.
Noah wasn’t sure what to expect beyond the front door. Leo had been managing largely on his own for two years, though Sylvia tried to arrange his meals and monitor the cleaning lady from her bed. While she was sick, he learned to grocery shop for himself and replace the soap and shampoo before he ran out. But to create a home in a new space, in a new state, was an entirely different undertaking.
“This is it,” Leo said. He pushed open the door to a sunny apartment with views of a man-made lake and a putting green. He had leather furniture in varying shades of tan, a white kitchen with cookie-cutter appliances and the phone number for Boca Breezes’ emergency hotline tacked to the fridge.
They followed him to the terrace. “I sit out here all the time,” Leo said, sliding open the glass door. Noah put on his sunglasses and was walking toward the railing for a better look when he noticed two wineglasses on a small table, one of which had a deep red lipstick stain. Leo must have seen it at the same time because he ushered them back inside.
Sophie, who may or may not have seen the wineglasses, plopped herself on the sofa. Noah took the opportunity to poke around while his father went searching through his wallet for a receipt. The condo was a two-bedroom, two-bath. The rest of the furniture matched the living area in beigeness. His father had done alright. The swirly pattern on the hand towels matched the bath towels and shower mat. There was a neat line of pill bottles on the bathroom vanity next to a stack of paper cups. He snapped a picture for Laura. She would be pleased their father was on top of taking his medication. Still, something about the place irked Noah, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Holy cow!” Sophie called out. “Ravi just texted me. His ‘Everyday Carafe’ is in Elle Decor.”
Suddenly, it clicked. It wasn’t anything he saw in the condo that bothered him. It’s what he didn’t see. There wasn’t a single family photo or tchotchke from back home. The shore house in particular had been littered with photographs, art projects, party favors, old invitations and refrigerator magnets from every spot on LBI. It bothered him to watch Sophie revel in Ravi’s latest success, oblivious to the ways the Jacobson family unit was going extinct.
“Why are you staring at me?” Sophie tossed a beige throw pillow at Noah. “And what time is dinner around here? I could definitely hit up the early bird special.”
“Do you notice anything missing?”
“Um, food that isn’t supposed to relieve constipation? Dad has four bottles of prune juice in the fridge and six containers of dried fruit on the counter. Surprised I haven’t found a bottle of castor oil.”
Noah shook his head. “I mean photos. Of us. Of Mom. It’s so sterile, like the rest of us don’t exist here.”
Sophie paused to consider and shrugged. “I think Mom did all that stuff back home. C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving and I will literally ruin the plumbing at Boca Breezes if I eat any more fiber.”
* * *
—
Noah and the hostess made eyes the minute he walked into Fresco’s, one of Boca Breezes’ five on-premise dining establishments. When she said, “Right this way,” with a hair toss and a light brush against Noah’s arm, she might as well have handed him the keys to her apartment rather than a menu.
He’d been so preoccupied by the Powerball and its repercussions that he’d practically forgotten about sex, something he would have previously thought impossible. That wasn’t to say he thought money was better than sex. Nothing was better than sex, at least nothing he’d encountered in his modest thirty years. It was that the windfall was proving extremely taxing. There were accountants and lawyers to meet with, decisions to be made about matters he knew nothing about. Stocks? Bonds? Mutual funds? What happened to a plain old piggy bank, metaphorically speaking? Then there was the onslaught of emails and physical letters he received from “long-lost relatives” and “old friends”—so lost and so old that Noah didn’t remember them. Complete strangers contacted him to invest in their surefire businesses or to send money to patch them through hard times due to illness/fire/accident/layoff/you name it.
