Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "Mercedes? BMW? Porsche?"

  "I don't know. I haven't—"

  "You haven't thought about it. How about a plane?"

  ''k plane?"'

  "You going to buy one? A little jet?"

  "No, I can't imagine why I would."

  "So you can get where you're going on your schedule, not theirs. You are going to be doing some traveling, right?"

  "Oh. Of course we will."

  "Haven't done much up to now, right?"

  "We haven't done any; we never had the money."

  "Better and better. So, travel. And then clothes for all the travel. What kind of clothes do you dream about?"

  Abruptly, Claire stood up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Webb, I'm not verv^ good at this. These are all too personal. I never talk about myself; I don't like to do it. I can't do it. And I'm not going to start now."

  Webb turned to Emma. "How do you feel about your mother winning the lottery?"

  "Rich and happy," Emma said.

  "You going to ask your mother for lots of new clothes, your own car, jewelr-, furs, whatever?"

  "I don't know. I guess we'll talk about all those things. Mother has always bought me more than she's bought herself."

  "Nice," murmured Webb, writing. "You still planning to go to college?"

  Surprised, Emma said, "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Well, you don't need to learn a profession now; you could just play."

  "I'm not going to college for a profession. I'm going so I can learn about the world and meet wonderful people and . . . grow up.""

  "Nice," Webb murmured again. Nice girl, he thought; stunningly beautiful but not aware of the impact she made, or at least not arrogant about it. Nice voice, low and soft; she probably never shouted. And all that red-gold hair, long, uncombed looking, like the girls did these days, probably took a lot of time to get it that way, and an incredible smile. .And great eyes, huge, with the longest lashes Webb had ever seen. And she liked her mother. In fact, Webb thought suddenly, she looked like her mother, too.

  He glanced at Claire, who was watching Emma. Hard to tell

  exactly, because the daughter had all that youth and bubbly kind of energy, and that gorgeous hair, while her mother looked more withdrawn, subdued, sort of. . . pinched. And her hair was dark brown, though it had glints of red whenever the camera flash went off, and she wore it straight to her shoulders, not good with her narrow face. But the face was good, Webb thought; she and Emma both had the same terrific, wide mouth; they both had eyes like brown velvet beneath level brows; and, though Emma was taller—tall for a girl—they both were slender. And if the mother would straighten up, get rid of that slouch, she could have the same easy grace Emma had, almost like a dancer.

  "I want some shots of the two of you," Webb said. "Okay.'' Sid, let's do it."

  "One or two," said Claire, "and then we'll be done."

  Webb nodded. "I've got enough to put something together. You'll have to go through it again for Barbie, you know, and her cameraman."

  Claire glanced behind her. "I think we should wait . . ."

  "No, there's really nothing to it," Barbara Mayfair said, standing up in alarm. "You'll talk to me just the way you talked to Parker, just the two of us, chatting. Or three of us; I'd like Emma, too. You won't even notice the camera. It's just a conversation."

  "And I only have a few questions," said Blanche Eagle. "I do have a cameraman who should be here any minute, but we won't take long. We'll be gone before you know it."

  "So will I," said the man from the New York Post. "I take my own photos; we'll talk a little and then I'll be out of here."

  Claire looked at their intent faces. They seemed to fill every corner of her small living room. There had never been this many people here at once; even when she entertained friends, she only invited two or three at a time; she didn't like crowds. Emma seemed perfectly comfortable; she liked the attention and the excitement of a crowded room. But Claire felt hemmed in and pressured; she felt the familiar outlines of her life sliding away; and, for just a moment, she wished none of this was happening. But she couldn't wish for that; this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. And these people had a job to do. She knew all about that: a job that had to be done, a deadline that had to be met. She understood their urgency.

  "You want some help.^" Gina asked.

  Gratefully, Claire smiled. "I'm fine, Gina, thanks." She turned to the others. "Let's get started. As long as it doesn't take too long."

  She posed with Emma at the side of the room, then sat at the dining room table and waited for the reporters to begin their questions. How odd it seemed; she sat in her own home, talking about herself to strangers. She remembered Emma's wide eyes when she realized Toby was gone. Everythings changing at once. Not everything, she reflected. Money doesn't make such a huge difference in people's lives, not if they don't let it. There are lots of things Emma and I won't change, like love and caring and trusting each other, and being closer to each other than to anyone else, and loving our friends. It's just that everything will be so much easier from now on. We can handle whatever happens; we can handle anything. That's what money does: we can handle anything.

  And pretty soon everyone will be gone and this whole circus will be over, and no one will pay any attention to us anymore. Why should they.^ No one ever noticed us before, and there won't be any reason for anyone to notice us later on, as soon as a more interesting story comes along. W^e'll just fade into the background.

  The telephone rang, there was a knock at the door, and beyond the living room window another television truck pulled up and men and women jumped out.

  "Welcome to fame and fortune," said Parker Webb, grinning, and he gave a smart salute.

  TWO

  T

  H E car was a white Mercedes with white leather upholstery. Emma said it looked like an ambulance. "Well, pick another color, then," Claire said. And when Emma put an admiring hand on the hood of a cherry red, two-seat Mercedes sports car with black leather upholstery, Claire nodded casually to the salesman. "We'll take that one, too."

  Emma gasped. "Two cars.^"

  "I thought you might like to have one at college."

  "I might like—.^ Oh, Mother!" Emma threw her arms around Claire. "You're incredible. Everything's incredible. Isn't everything totally off-the-wall incredible.'^"

  "Off-the-wall," Claire echoed with a smile. Whatever it meant, it sounded weird enough to describe the way she felt: not quite awake, not quite real, not quite firm on her feet. It was as if a river of excitement was always flowing inside her, beneath everything she did. At first, six days ago, when she won the money, it had been a trickle; now, one minute it was like a rushing river, so powerful she wanted to fling her arms out and embrace the whole, wonderful world that lay before her, the next minute subsiding as she began to wonder if someone would soon call to tell her it was a mistake after all. But then her elation flared up again and she felt as if she and Emma were on a merry-go-round, reaching out to grab all the possibilities that spun by, close enough to touch.

  Close enough to touch. So close, so close; it was like a giddy kind of dream. Because, for the first time, the whole world—not just

  her narrow corner of it but all of it—had been flung open to her, its doors and pathways beckoning, no longer closed. If she needed proof, she had only to look around, at the paneled walls of the Mercedes salesman's office, at her checkbook open on the desk in front of her and her pen beside it, and at the salesman himself, figuring the total cost, being vers- quiet, fearing that if he said one wrong word he would lose his sale: two luxury cars in twenty minutes, without any more effort than opening the door for two women to get in and take a test drive.

  Claire picked up her pen. She had bought it that morning because her two Bic pens were both dry and she wanted something a little nicer. When the clerk showed her this one, she had tried not to gasp at the price; she had lowered her head as she tried it out on his white pad of paper and to
ld herself that it would last at least ten years and that would only be thirty-five dollars a year, and that was nothing. Oh, no, that's the old way of thinking, a voice inside her said. You don't have to amortize anything anymore; you're rich enough to buy whatever you want, whatever it costs and however long it lasts. And so she had lifted her head and told the clerk she would take it. It was heavy and black, with a white star on the end, and it filled from an ink bottle. She liked the old-fashioned feel of it, and the smooth flow from its pure gold tip. It nestled snugly in her purse, her new purse, sewn of leather so soft she mareled each time she opened it. She had bought the purse right after buying the pen, and it had taken her a much shorter time than with the pen: she was getting used to high prices.

  And now these things were hers, these things that had been behind all the doors closed to her when she had had barely enough money to support herself and Emma. And so now she began to believe that the treasures of the world really could be hers, the myriad treasures she had thought were only for other people. The river of excitement cascaded through her and she shivered with wonder and anticipation. There was so much she hadn't discovered yet; she and Emma were just getting started.

  She had quit her job three days before. She had driven to work on Monday morning as usual, but instead of taking her seat at her drawing tabic, she had gone to the office of Sal Hefner, the head of her group, and told him she was leaving.

  "Well. I can't say I'm surprised." he said. "And it's better all

  around; you wouldn't be happy here, plugging away, when you could be out somewhere playing. That's what I'd do if I'd won that pile. You figured out where vou're going to do vour plaving yet?"

  "No," Claire said. "There are more things I haven't done than things I have. I'm not sure where to start."

  "Well, you'll figure it out," he said, his attention wandering. Claire no longer worked for him; she was no longer of interest to him. He held out his hand. "If you ever want to come back—you know, something could go wrong—let us know. You've always done good work here. Well, now, you have yourself a great time and spend up a storm; we'll miss you, but you'll be too busy to give us a thought."

  "No, I won't," Claire said. She felt a sense of loss. "I'll miss all of you." They shook hands formally, as if they had not been working together for fourteen years. "I'll come back and say hello," she said.

  "You'll be too busy," he said again. "No time for your old life." He turned back to his drawing table. "Bye, now, Claire; you have yourself a ball."

  "He's jealous," Gina said that night at dinner. Emma was out with her friends, and Gina and Claire sat a long time over coffee. "He sees you going off to have a whole new life, and he's just where he was last week and where he'll be next week, and that doesn't exactly make him ecstatic."

  "I suppose," Claire said. "But he seemed to go out of his way to make it seem that he was pushing me out, not the other way around."

  "Well, I guess that was what he wanted." There was a pause. "And, you know, you really will be too busy to think about them, or go back and say hello. You really will be having a ball and they won't seem so important to you as they do right now."

  Claire shook her head. "Everybody thinks I'm going to change. I'm not, Gina."

  "Well, that's good enough for me." Gina raised her wineglass. "To not changing."

  "Or, at least, to keeping the good things," Claire said. "I don't ever want to lose those."

  "You don't ever have to lose anything again," Gina said. "Maybe that's a new definition of being rich. Unless you lose the

  money. You won't, will you? Have you got it out there making more money for you?"

  "I've got a money manager doing that." Claire shook her head. "Can you imagine me talking about a money manager?"

  "Who is he?"

  "She. OHvia d'Oro. I asked at my bank, and they gave me a few names and I chose the one woman on the hst. She's only twenty-nine, which I found scary at first, but she really knows a lot and I like her."

  "In New York?"

  "She's with an investment firm in New York and she has an office in Greenwich."

  "So what's she doing with your money?"

  "Well, nothing risky; I told her I'm not looking for risk. She'll do the standard things—invest in stocks and bonds and treasury notes—and she's already set up an interest-bearing checking account with a minimum balance of a hundred thousand dollars."

  Gina tilted her head. "So what happens if you spend more than that? Your checks bounce?"

  "No. Well, I haven't done it—I can't imagine spending that much at one time—but Olivia said she's set up an automatic transfer system, so that if I do, more money goes into the checking account to cover what I've spent."

  "Good God, it's a perpetual-motion machine. Or the fountain of youth, only in this case, of course, it's money."

  Claire flushed. "I know it sounds incredible. It is incredible. I don't even really believe it. Except that I keep spending and my checks don't bounce."

  "Well, that's a paradise if I ever heard of one." Gina walked around the table to put her arms around Claire and hug her. "I think it's fantastic and nobody deserves it more; you've waited a long time for good things to happen. Enjoy, enjoy; I loe being part of your paradise."

  Paradise, Claire thought a few days later as she lay in bed after the alarm went off. She had set it the night before, as usual, forgetting that she would not need it, and now she stretched luxuriously, listening to the music softly filling her room and thinking of being free to do w hateer she n anted. This is me, she thought. She still had to keep saying it. This is me, lying in bed.

  not going to work, thinking of all the things I can do with my day. This is me, with money, and time. Both of them. Money and time.

  She sHpped out of bed and stood at the window, looking at the clear sky. A good day to go shopping, she thought. But then she looked down and saw the people, sitting, standing, waiting in their cars. They had appeared soon after the first newspaper story came out about the lotterv, and each day it seemed there were more. They knocked on her door and rang her doorbell, or they just sat and watched her windows and waited. Claire shivered. It was a little like being haunted. She looked up again, at the sky. "I can't think about it," she said aloud. "I can't do anything about it." And she turned away and went to dress for breakfast. She and Emma were going shopping.

  "Clothes," she said, and once again she felt a shiver of anticipation: shopping for clothes was still a rare treat; she had always sewn most of their clothes. "I thought we'd go to Simone's."

  'Tve never even been inside there," Emma said. "I was afraid of being tempted."

  "I want you to be tempted," Claire said. "I think we'd better park a block away until our new cars are delivered; I can't imagine Simone being impressed with what we're driving now."

  Simone was short and stout, with gray hair pulled into a tight knot high on her head, and a French accent she had worked very hard not to lose in her fifty years in America. She took the measure of Claire and Emma with one swift, cold glance, head to toe, and looked just past Claire as she spoke. "If Madame pleases, she and Mademoiselle would be altogether happier in the shops in the mall, a short distance away; my small shop is not to her style."

  Or budget, is what you mean, thought Claire angrily. No one was more snobbish, she thought, than the people who served the wealthy, and how did these snobs know, in an instant, who was wealthy and who was not.'' She would have turned and left, but she saw Emma flush with embarrassment, and she knew she could not let her daughter be defeated by this woman. "My daughter needs clothes for college," she said, her voice as cold as Simone's. "And I need a number of things for a cruise." ^4 cruise? Am I going on a cruise? When did I decide that? "If you have nothing that pleases us, then of course we'll go elsewhere, probably to

  Lisbeth's in Norwalk, but we do prefer to support local establishments whenever possible, and as long as we're here, we'll look at what you can show us."

  Emma looked at h
er mother in amazement, and Claire felt a rush of pride. She never spoke up that way; she always backed away from confrontation, fearing she might hurt someone's feelings or be made to feel inadequate. But as she watched Simone become flustered and confused, she thought, this could get to be fun, and added severely, "We don't have much time."

  Simone gave her a second appraising look and slowly nodded. "As Madame wishes." She took in Emma's figure, and Claire's, gauging size, height, weight. "If you will wait in here," she said, sweeping aside a curtain to reveal a boudoirlike dressing room lined on three sides with mirrors and furnished with a love seat and two armchairs, and a small desk in a corner. She beckoned to an assistant. "Do Madame and Mademoiselle wish tea.'' Or coffee.^ Or perhaps wine.''"

  "Tea," Claire said, surprising herself again; she seldom drank tea. "Jasmine." She saw Emma's quick look, but she waited until Simone and her assistant had left to break into a low laugh. "I don't know where I got that," she said. "It just appeared,"

  "Like the cruise.''" Emma asked.

  "Like the cruise."

  "To where.'"'

  "I have no idea." Another assistant appeared with a tea service and a covered silver tray and set them on the desk. Emma lifted the damask napkin to reveal petits fours and tiny cucumber sandwiches. She bit into one and looked around as she chewed. The room was as large as the living room in their apartment; the furniture was velvet, with fringes, the carpet was deep and smooth, and the wall that was not mirrored was hung with silk lit by soft lights in gold and silver sconces. The air was fragrant with flowers, and the rippling notes of a harpsichord floated to a high ceiling painted pale blue, like a summer sky. "Let's move in," Emma whispered, and they laughed softly together, afraid of seeming unsophisticated, but reveling in Simone's luxur', hugging to themselves the feeling that they were really here and could afford to be. This is me, Claire thought again. This is us.

  Simone and her assistant appeared carrsing clothing, which they spread on the armchairs and hung on a rod along one of the

  mirrored walls. Then they stood back, letting Claire and Emma gaze at the brilliant fabrics and colors flung with seeming carelessness before them. Claire felt as if she had walked into a kaleidoscope. She was surrounded by swirls of color and texture, the frail scent of silk and linen and wool, the deep shadows of velvet and satin, the gleam of buttons, the delicate curves of ruffles, and the sharp edges of perfectly pressed collars and cuffs. She had done their sewing for so many years that she knew fabrics, and she knew, without even touching them, how fine were the wools and chiffons, the silks with their slight nubby accents, and the crisp linens, woven of the finest threads. A soft sigh broke from her. She had often picked up bolts of fabrics such as these, but she had always set them down again, gently, reluctantly, never able to afford them. She put out her hand and lifted the sleeve of a blouse, as soft as a cloud.