Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "I mostly like her," Emma said. She saw Claire put a finger to her lips with a quick glance at the closed bedroom door only a few feet away, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I mean, I guess I wouldn't like it if she tried to take over my whole life and tell me everything I had to do, but she's ver^ efficient, isn't she.'' Anyway, I like her."

  "So do I," Claire said. "I think she's a lot lonelier and more frightened than she makes out. She's been desperate to unpack her suitcase for the past couple of hours, as if we might kick her out if she didn't get settled in a hurry."

  "Do you suppose she'll really stay with us forever.'"' Emma asked.

  "I'll bet she would, if you let her," Gina said. "It's not bad, you know," she added almost wistfully, "having somebody run interference the way she does, and worry about your hair and plan your kitchen . . . she must cook, if she wants a professional kitchen."

  "She says she does," said Emma. "She's like a little wizard, isn't she.^ All wrinkled up. with little magic tricks, and she's done thousands of things, at least that's what it sounds like. I think she can do anything."

  "Well, I guess we've got her for now," Claire said. "But if she pushes too hard, we may have to ask her to leave."

  "How would vou do that.'"' Gina asked.

  Claire laughed. "I don't know. It was probably easier to win the lottery than it would be to get rid of Hannah. I'll figure it out, if it ever comes to that. I don't even want to think about it now. I have so many other things to think about; so many things are going on. Life used to be a lot slower."

  "And duller," Emma said.

  More manageable, Claire thought. She had always liked things to happen gradually, so she could get used to them. For seventeen years she and Emma had lived such a quiet life, in a routine that seldom changed. She had gone out with men now and then and she had had affairs with some of them, but even the affairs seemed to follow a pattern that matched the calm rhythm of her life, with little passion, and no upheavals. Whatever was part of her life was there because things happened to her; she did not make them happen. She did not want anything startling.

  But now everything seemed startling. Amazing things were happening at headlong speed, and Claire was right in the middle of them. Gina's right, Claire thought; I really am changing. How else could I have practically bought out Simone's and bought a house in less than an hour and be planning to move in a few weeks.''

  And so when Hannah announced the next day that she had made an appointment in New York for Claire to have her hair cut, Claire went along. Left to herself, she would have put it off. But since Hannah had taken care of it, she let it happen.

  She sat in the chair, watching herself in the mirror as Gregory snipped and combed and snipped some more, and Hannah hovered nearby, keeping a close eye on his swiftly moving hands. "It's the shape of the face," Hannah said, wary of intruding on his concentration, but unable to keep silent.

  "Of course, madame," Gregor' said shortly. "It is always the shape of the face that is crucial to the haircut. But without the genius of the hairstylist, the shape of the face is meaningless."

  "True," nodded Hannah. "But sometimes geniuses get carried away with the thrill of their own innovation and expertise and violate the principles of harmony in nature."

  Gregory' met her eyes in the mirror. "'cr- wise," he said, and turned back to his snipping.

  "Just follow the line of my hair," (Claire said, uncomfortable at being discussed, and worried about what (Jregors might do to her.

  with or without Hannah egging him on. "It has a curl when it's left alone."

  Gregon,' and Hannah shared a swift, shocked glance. "Left alone, madame.^" Gregorv^ repeated. "Then why are you here.''"

  "To have someone more experienced follow the line of my hair," she said, hoping that was an adequate answer. She did not add that she thought that anyone who charged three hundred dollars for a haircut, and stayed in business, must be doing something right.

  Gregory worked in silence, and Hannah, too, was silent, watching him snip one hair at a time for almost two hours. And when he was finished, she sighed. "Perfect," she said. "My compliments."

  Claire was looking at her image in surprise. Her hair swept back from her face, freeing her high cheekbones and framing the long, elegant shape of her head. Her mouth looked fuller, her eyes larger; she looked younger and more like Emma.

  "Madame would like to talk to Margo.^'" Gregory asked. "She is an expert in the art of makeup."

  "Yes," said Hannah.

  "Yes," echoed Claire, and they moved to a room hung with velvet curtains where a dressing table stood in a flood of lights. Margo held Claire's chin in her hand and studied her features. "A good face," she pronounced. "Superb cheekbones, excellent eyes, a fine mouth. A good chin. The face is a little too thin, but Gregory has alleviated that with his perfect haircut." Her hands fluttered and stroked like butterfly wings over the left half of Claire's face; then she watched and gave instructions as Claire used the same creams and powders on the right half. "You do not want a transformation," Margo said. "Makeup is supposed to make more wonderful what is already wonderful in you. Anything more and it becomes a mask and you are no longer you."

  Once again, Claire sat back and looked at herself in the mirror. It was not a transformation, but she was not the same. Everything that had been quiet and a little fuzzy in her face was enhanced, made vivid, and it startled her and made her oddly uncomfortable. "You are a beautiful woman, madame," said Margo, and Claire, who had never thought of herself as even pretty, knew it was true and that she would have to think about herself differently from now on. I'm remaking my life and Fm even remaking me.

  And then she wondered what Emma would say when they got home and she saw her mother suddenly looking younger and more dramatic; looking, in fact, like her daughter.

  Emma stared. "You look nice," she said. "He did a nice job."

  "Emma," Hannah scolded. "You could be more enthusiastic for your mother."

  "No, it's all right," Claire said. "She's surprised. So am I. We'll both have to get used to me. But I like it. At least I think I do." She heard the plea in her voice, asking them if it was all right for her to look like this; whether she should style her hair this way tomorrow after she washed it; whether, tomorrow morning, she should put on the makeup she had bought, in just this way, after she had scrubbed it off when she went to bed tonight.

  "You must never be ashamed of pushing yourself to be the most you can be," Hannah said. "If you are, then you will be even more ashamed when one day you are seventy-five years old and you realize you let your life slip through your fingers and never tried ... so many things."

  "Like what.^" Emma said.

  "All the adventures that let us stretch ourselves in new ways and make us bigger and better and wiser people."

  "Yes, but, like what.^" Emma insisted. "Do you mean lovers.^ Or drugs.^ Or what.^"

  "I don't think lovers and drugs make you bigger or better or wiser; do you.'^" Hannah asked. Emma frowned and did not answer. "I was thinking of how we see ourselves, the pride we take in ourselves, our experiences that we make a part of us, the ways we learn from other people, and the things we teach them, too. I was thinking of how we use the world, how much we manage to squeeze out of it, and how much we give back to it before we die."

  "Yes, but what exactly —" Emma began, and (Claire interrupted.

  "I think what we should be doing now is deciding how we're going to move in a few weeks."

  "We must buy furniture," Hannah said promptly.

  "And evervthing else," Claire said. "I'm not taking anvthing from this apartment except our clothes and hooks. Wed better start making lists; it's been so long since I moNcd. I'm not sure 1 remember how."

  But by the time they moved, everything was under control, and that was because Hannah was there. "I've done this so many times, I'm an expert," she said, and she organized everything.

  She began with furnishing the house. CaHing Simone and Gregory and
Margo for names of shops their cHents used, she made a Hst. "At most stores, there is a wait of six months to a year for furniture," she told Claire. "These shops carry antiques and one-of-a-kind pieces, and of course they're quite expensive, but if you don't mind that . . ."

  "I don't mind," Claire said. "I don't want to wait."

  They found deep couches in dark red, textured fabrics, soft armchairs in subtle patterns, an Italian coffee table made of painted plaster and mosaic that somehow fit harmoniously with antique French drum tables and a fringed Victorian ottoman. For the dining room they found a square, antique mahogany table with twelve Queen Anne chairs; they found nineteenth-century Danish pine armoires for the bedrooms, and an eighteenth-century pine hutch from Scotland for the kitchen. Hannah ran a loving hand over its surface, smooth and deep golden brown from centuries of use. "It makes a homey kitchen to have some old wood with all those modern cabinets," she said, and so they bought an early-American pine table with six ladder-back chairs to go with the hutch. They bought antique Oriental rugs, their colors softened by time, their texture like velvet, to lie on the gleaming plank floors in all the other rooms, and drapes and curtains and lamps.

  This time, as they shopped, Claire looked at prices, but her alarm over high numbers was fading. Oh, she thought, so a triple French armoire for my bedroom costs thirty thousand dollars. How interesting. And three thousand for a pair of antique English andirons. They're probably worth it.

  They took a day to buy television sets and video recorders, and a stereo system for the library. Then they went to an enormous music store and wandered up and down the aisles, plucking discs and videotapes from the racks, choosing every movie and piece of music they had ever wanted. Claire could not stop; the bright packages were so alluring, and she had never before been able to afford more than one disc every few months, and now, as she picked each one up, she thought, of course I can buy this; why shouldn't I.^ and tossed it into her basket.

  "Mother," said Emma, awed, "we've got about four hundred discs."

  "Yes," Claire said, and felt a momentary twinge of an old fear. It was too much; she was being insanely extravagant. But as she took her credit card from her wallet, it faded. Of course she could buy all this. Why was it taking her so long to get used to that.^

  Then Hannah led them on shopping trips for the kitchen, and whatever else took their fancy. The days blurred into each other as they went from store to store, checking off items on their lists and wandering into other departments to find treasures they had never thought of. For Claire, everything was like a dream: wherever she looked, objects of beauty glistened before her. She reached out and curved her fingers around vases and bowls, the frames of paintings, a set of silver goblets, the sleeve of a fur coat . . . everything was within her reach, and everything was desirable. She could not stop buying. She had never known how many wonderful things there were in the world because she had never looked; she had never known how many artists were at work all over the world, making the most intricate glass sculptures, knitting the softest cashmere throws, weaving tapestries of the richest hues, painting china in scrolls and fruits and flowers edged with gold. Now she discovered bed linens of such fine cotton they felt like silk, and towels so large and thick they seemed to wrap her in a warm cocoon, and down comforters in subtle patterns that shimmered in the light. She discovered the beautiful things of the world, and she picked them up and pointed and nodded and could not stop in her rush to make them hers.

  I'hen Hannah took a day to put away what they had bought for the kitchen and dining room. Humming with pleasure, her eyes bright with excitement, she filled the dining room sideboard with china and cut crystal and silverware; then, in the kitchen, she moved purposefully from cabinet to cabinet, sliding out the smooth drawers and shelves and arranging in them eer tool and gadget she had been able to find. And she stored a supply of food in the cupboards and refrigerator and freezer that Emma said would last them through three hurricanes and tornadoes or any other disasters that might strike their part of the countrs.

  "It makes me feel secure," Hannah said. "After ail, one really never knows what might happen, and this way, whatc cr comes along, at least we can eat. There is one thing, though, Claire . . ."

  "Yes," Claire said. They were back in the old apartment and Claire was sitting on the floor, packing books, thinking of all the empty shelves that awaited them.

  "I want to do my part," Hannah began, and then stopped, waiting for Claire to look up.

  "Yes," Claire said again, putting down the books in her hand and looking at Hannah.

  "I don't mind doing the cooking; for me that's pure pleasure. But I'm not sure what else you think I should be doing. I could run the house, of course, I've done it so often, but if I do all the laundry and cleaning and running errands ^;/^ cooking, I would feel very much like a servant, earning my bed and board. A poor relation, here on sufferance. And I would wonder—worry about—what would happen if I got ill and couldn't do everything. You see, if we could avoid that ... if I could believe that I'm here because you want me . . . Also, of course, at my age, even in full health, which I am, I might not be as efficient as someone younger."

  "No, of course we don't expect you to do all that," Claire said. "And of course you're here because we want you. I can't even imagine how Emma and I would have furnished the house, or moved into it and got settled so quickly, without you."

  "Well." Hannah's smile creased her small, lined face. "Of course that is what I had hoped. You're very generous, Claire, to tell me; it makes me feel more at ease."

  Claire nodded absently, wondering, to herself, how it was that, in just a little more than two weeks, Hannah had become so much a part of their lives, as fixed and purposeful as if she had been there always. "We'll find someone to come in once a week to clean," she said.

  "Perhaps," Hannah said gently, "with a house that size, two or three times a week would be better."

  "Oh, well, of course. Of course you're right."

  "And someone to do the laundry. Unless you send everything out, but it's always better to have it done at home; it's not as hard on the clothes. And I don't know about you, but I'm not good around the house with repairs and such; I think a maintenance man would be valuable, don't you.^ A house needs so much upkeep, painting and patching and repairing broken wires and leaky plumbing and the washer and dryer when they go out . . . it's a very big job."

  "It sounds daunting," said Claire, who had never owned a house. She wondered when Hannah had. "Well, we'll find a maintenance man. Is there anything else.'^"

  "A landscaper. Those gardens didn't get to look like that without a professional being in charge. And I don't know about you, but I'm not good in the garden, though I do have a flair for flower arranging."

  "A cleaning person, a laundry person, a maintenance man, and a landscaper," Claire recited. She glanced at the cartons of books. Everything had seemed so simple when she bought the house: those bright, lovely rooms with so many closets, so many shelves and cabinets, so much space in which to move around and feel free. Now she felt as if her new house were swelling, ballooning, engulfing her.

  "But you don't have to worry about any of that," Hannah said. "I'll be happy to supervise them for you; I know a lot about it. And you'll be busy with all your new activities; you won't want to fret about whether the work is being done or whether it's on time or whether it's the way you want it. I'll be very happy to take care of all that."

  Now it was Hannah who seemed to get bigger, sweeping into her embrace the new house, and Claire's life. But she seemed to know what needed doing, and Claire did not. And it would take a while to learn. And you II be busy with all your new activities. What activities.^ Claire wondered. What am I going to be doing with my time, once we're settled, now that I don't have to go to work eveiy day.^

  Well, I did think about a cruise. That's something to do, for a start.

  "Thank you, Hannah," she said. "I'd be ver' grateful if you would take care of all
that." She found the telephone directory in one of the cartons and turned to the classified section on travel agents. She had never used one, and so she chose the one with the largest advertisement and, still sitting on the floor, dialed the number. "I'm interested in cruises," she said. "1 read a while ago about one to Alaska."

  "We have a great many, and they're all magnificent," said the agent. "And very popular. In fact, I just finished planning one for the owner of Eiger Labs—you know, in Norwalk.''—and his son. And another couple from this area; we get an impressive group of people on our Alaska cruises."

  'is there one soon?" Claire asked.

  "The end of June; that's not far off, but we do have room on it; it's a httle early in the season for the big crowds."

  "Fine," said Claire. "I'll take that one."

  "Is it just yourself.''" the agent asked.

  "And my daughter." Claire gave the agent her credit card information, and the address of her new house, so brochures and tickets could be mailed to her. When she hung up, she was smiling. Another adventure. She looked up and saw Hannah watching her. "I've always wanted to do this," she said. "I don't know why; it's just that it sounds different. Different from everything."

  "Cruises can be wonderful," Hannah said. "I think it's very good that you're going. Shall I finish packing these books.^"

  "Thank you." Claire leaned against the wall and watched Hannah pack and thought about the cruise, with an impressive group of people on it, and the airplane she and Emma would take to Vancouver. Neither of them had ever flown. A new life, she thought. Everything, everything was new.

  And then, finally, they moved. Trucks carrying furniture and rugs all converged on their new house on the same morning from a dozen places in New York and Connecticut; the moving van arrived with their clothes and books and Claire's drawing materials; and Claire drove her white Mercedes, and Emma, with Hannah beside her, followed in her red one, up the long gentle rise that led to their gleaming house, serene and safe in its oak and sycamore forest.