Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "Well, do you tell her what you think.^"

  "She doesn't want to know!"

  "Do you tell her.'' Do you ever just come up and say, 'I've got some problems. Ma, and I'd like to talk about them'.^"

  Emma gave a nervous giggle. "I don't call her Ma."

  "That's true. You never did. When you were little, about four or five, you called her Claire for a few months. She'd taken you to work with her because your sitter was sick, and you heard somebody call her that, and you picked it up. Do you remember that.'' Everybody thought it was pretty cute, but Claire wasn't sure whether she liked it. Then you got back to Mommy and everybody was happy. You two really had a good time; it was fun being with you. You made me feel good because you loved each other and you showed it. So do you tell her what you're thinking.'' Ever.?"

  "No. I don't want to."

  "Why not.?"

  "Just . . . because."

  "Because why.? Because you don't feel good about what you're doing.?"

  "No!" Emma cried. "I'm not ashamed of anything!" She slid off the stool and looked around vaguely, wanting to get away, but afraid she might miss Brix. "I guess I have to go."

  Gina stood up and put her arms around Emma. "Honey, I think you ought to talk to your mother. Give her some credit for being smart and able to understand you. She loves you so much, you know; all she wants is to help you be happy." Emma was stiff and silent in her arms. She sighed. "Okay, but think about it." She pulled back and searched Emma's face. "Look, you're going crazy here; why don't you wait for him in his office.?"

  Emma stood uncertainly. "I guess I could. I never have."

  "Why not.? He'd be glad to see you, wouldn't he.?"

  "Of course he would! Except ... he doesn't really like surprises, you know."

  "You go ahead. You'll feel better. And listen, let's tr- this one

  more time. When you go home tonight, why don't you and your mother sit down and talk? About anything. Little things, big things. ModeHng, food, clothes, politics, sex, the weather, for God's sake, if that's all you can think of. The trouble with you two is you don't connect; you live in the same house but you don't connect. It isn't enough that you talk to Hannah; you have to talk to your mother."

  "Hannah doesn't try to get me to give up everything and go to college."

  "Give up everything^''''

  "Well, you know what I mean."

  "Hannah's not your mother, Emma; she doesn't have the same responsibility your mother does. And I'll bet Claire hasn't talked about college for a long time. Has she.'^ Has she once mentioned it since you started modeling.^"

  "No," Emma said almost inaudibly.

  "So what's the problem.^ You're modeling, and you love it, and she's doing graphic design, which she really loves, and she always wanted to do her own projects and now she can, so you two have a lot to talk about. So why not give it a try.'^"

  After a long minute, Emma shrugged. "I can try. She's the one who doesn't talk much these days."

  "Well, that's what I meant. Neither do you. So you'll give it a try, right.^ Promise.^"

  "I'll try. I know you want to help, Gina, it's just that you don't know how hard it is. And nobody really understands how I feel." She gave Gina a quick kiss on the cheek and walked away, down the long corridor to Brix's office, a few doors from his father's corner office.

  The room was dark; he had pulled the drapes against the low November sun, and the lights were out. Emma turned on a floor lamp and wandered around, glancing without interest at the photographs of Eiger products on the walls. She picked up a magazine and flipped through it, then threw it down; she was so nervous she was shaking. / ought to go; hell hate it when he finds me here. He hates it when I call him on the phone. He only likes things when they're the way he plans them.

  She wandered across the room and looked at the two silver-framed photographs on his desk. A woman who maybe was his mother, and a younger woman. Who was she.^ Not me, Emma

  thought. He has lots of pictures of me, and he could ask Hale or Tod for a hundred more, if he wanted to. But I guess he doesn't.

  She trailed an aimless hand across the polished surface of the desk. There wasn't any reason to stay. She knew it. It would be awful if she stayed and he didn't want to see her and he looked at her with that cold look he had sometimes, as if she were something that was in his way. She bit her lip. Brix, please want me. I love you, I love you, please love me.

  His desk was almost clean, except for a folder with some papers sticking out. Emma saw PK-20 Human Sensitivity Test on the top one. My PK-20, Emma thought. It made her feel good to think about it. She wasn't just any girl waiting for Brix. She was the Eiger Girl for PK-20, and Brix said PK-20 was going to make Eiger Labs one of the biggest cosmetics companies in the country, maybe the world. Fm in the middle of it, really important in it, sort of the symbol for it. And Brix was working on it, too. They were working together. Maybe he wrote something about her, she thought. Maybe these papers were about how good she was as the Eiger Girl. Or. . . maybe not as good as he thought she'd be. She opened the folder and leaned over to read the top page.

  Date: March 30

  To: Quentin Eiger

  From: Kurt Green

  Subject: PK-20 human sensitivity tests {preliminary report)

  As per our meeting earlier today I want to summarize part of the latest test results of PK-20 Eye Restorative Cream on human subjects: 4% of test subjects experienced a variety of minor allergic skin reactions. A few subjects exhibited conjunctivitis, which may have been caused by the bacteria Pseudomonas aeruginosa or from an allergic reaction to one of the compounds in the product, either of which could cause corneal damage. The lab should have their report on the cause in a few days. Of course, as you pointed out, we cannot be certain at this time that the observed reactions were not caused by something other than the PK-20 products. Test #2, which begins tomorrow, will enable us to isolate the cause of any adverse reactions.

  Puzzled, Emma read it again. It didn't make sense. She knew about Eye Restorative Cream because they'd done a whole day of photo shoots, outdoors and indoors, focusing on her eyes. They

  were going to run the ads and ship the cream to the stores in March, with the other fifty or so products of the PK-20 Hne. So how could anything be wrong with it? Somebody had made a mistake.

  She Hfted the sheet of paper and looked at the one beneath it.

  Date: July 21

  To: Quentin Eiger

  From: Kurt Green

  Subject: PK-20 human sensitivity tests {test #2)

  The latest test results of PK-20 products confirm a 4% to 5% incidence in test subjects of allergic skin reactions. Subjects experienced some of the following: minor burning, itching, irritation, folliculitus, acneform eruptions, and allergic contact dermatitis. In addition, 1% of the subjects who used the Eye Restorative Cream experienced an allergic conjunctivitis, and one subject had a severe reaction, which resulted in blindness in one eye. {Note: we may be able to show that the subject used the product improperly, in spite of our careful instructions.) Additional tests have confirmed that the source of the allergic reactions is in the proprietary ingredient of PK-20. I will be ready to present a full report to you early next week.

  Emma shivered. She looked behind her. The office was shadowed except where she stood near the lighted floor lamp, and so quiet it felt muffled. It's a mistake, she thought again. I'll ask Brix. There couldn't be anything wrong with PK-20; he said it's wonderful.

  Don't ask Brix. It was as if a voice within her had spoken. She stood still, her head down. She loved Brix, but how could she talk to him about this.^ Admit she read something on his desk she was not supposed to see, and hear him say . . . what.^ What would Brix say.''

  Gently, silently in the silent room, she closed the folder. Gina, she thought. Gina works in the lab; I'll ask her.

  She turned off the lamp and tiptoed out, though she did not know why she did that, closing the door softly behind her. "I guess I can't wait
," she said to Brix's secretary without pausing as she walked past her desk. "It wasn't important anyway. I just wanted to say hi." And she retraced her steps, to the laboratory where she had been photographed, and then to the next one, where Gina worked.

  But it was after five, and Gina was gone. "Can I help?" one of the chemists asked. Emma shook her head. "I'll leave a message." She scribbled a note, asking Gina to call her, and put it on her worktable, then went to her car. Driving at a crawl in the heavy late-afternoon traffic, she tried to think about what she had read, but instead she thought about Brix, and the last time they had been together, ten days ago. It had been wonderful, but it had been terrible, too.

  In the first part, the wonderful part, they had gone to a movie that she couldn't even remember, and he had held her hand the whole time, his finger making little circles on her palm until she thought she would melt in her seat, she wanted him so much. Afterward, they'd gone to his house and he'd undressed her, very slowly, teasing them both, and she was so wet she was embarrassed, but he grinned when he touched her, and he put her down on his bed and kissed her all over with little licking kisses. And then, without a word, he was inside her, pounding into her, and just as suddenly he was still, lying heavily on her breasts, his mouth on her neck. "Gorgeous baby doll, fantastic," he said.

  Emma lay still, wanting him inside her again, but slowly and sweetly, so that she could come in her own way as he had in his. But Brix got up and brought to bed his store of powder and the slim tube that sparkled in the light, and they leaned against the headboard, hips and legs and shoulders touching, and took long snorts, drawing the powder deep inside them.

  No matter how many times she did it, Emma marveled at how perfect it made everything seem. Brix knew how to make everything so clear and beautiful, just for them; no one else mattered. He put an arm around her and clicked on the television set, and they sat still, staring at the screen. There was no sound, but the colors danced so blindingly in the dark room that Emma was mesmerized by them. They swelled and shrank and flickered in and out; they seemed to sing in a high-pitched chorus that reverberated in her head. She reached up to Brix and kissed him deeply, and the chorus rose around them until she thought she could not bear so many sensations at once. "I love you, I love you," she said, her lips moving against his. "Please love me, please, please."

  "Anytime you want," he said, and pulled Emma on top of him

  and was inside her again before she could tell him that was not what she meant.

  "Brix," she said, but he had his hands on her breasts, and as she bent over him, he took her nipple in his mouth and played with it with his tongue and Emma forgot everything else. This time he let her move at her own pace until he heard her cry out, and then, with his hands on her hips, he moved her until he made the gasping sounds that Emma knew meant he was satisfied with her. Lying full length on his muscled body, she kissed him lightly, lovingly, "Thank you," she said, and Brix accepted it.

  They were still a little high when he drove her home late that night, and the way the car drifted across the empty road terrified her and she said something, she could not remember what, about not using so much coke if he was going to drive. He was furious, and when they were a few blocks from her house, he suddenly swerved to a stop and reached across her to shove open her door. He sat still, looking straight ahead, waiting for her to leave.

  "Brix, it doesn't mean I don't trust you," she said weakly, terrified at his stony face. She leaned over and kissed his cheek and tried to reach his mouth, but he refused to turn. "Brix, I love you, you know I do. You can do anything you want ..." She began to cry, silently because she knew Brix hated to hear sobbing. Finally, she stepped out of the car and stood beside it. Without looking at her, Brix reached over again and pulled the door shut and drove off, leaving her on the dark street, with just a few lighted windows shining through the bare trees to make her feel she was almost home.

  That had been ten days ago, and he hadn't called her since. She had counted on seeing him today, after her photo session. She wondered if he had left the building on purpose, while she was being photographed, to avoid her. Maybe she would never see him again.

  She turned the corner onto her street and realized she was shaking. Her hands could barely hold the wheel. She made it up the driveway and into the garage, next to Claire's car, and sat still, telling herself to calm down. I'm in terrible shape, she thought. I can't go inside like this.

  She wondered what was happening to her. She had never felt like this before, so helpless, as if everything were too big and too

  hard to face, as if anything could come along and knock her down. She cried a lot and jumped every time she heard the littlest noise, and she was so nervous she could hardly sit still. The only time she felt really wonderful was when she was doing drugs with Brix. I have to stop this, she thought. I can't face Mother like this.

  The trouble with you two is you don't connect; you live in the same house but you don't connect.

  I can't, Emma thought. I can't talk to her because I'm afraid to look at her. She'll see there's something wrong with me; she'll know I'm sleeping with Brix, She'll know about the drugs.

  AH through her body, Emma ached to feel her mother's arms around her, holding her close. I could sit in her lap, she thought, and felt the tears come again as she pictured herself curled up against her mother, warm and safe within the circle of her mother's protective arms. Oh, that's what I want, I want it so much. But I can t ask her, I cant tell her anything. Oh, God, I wish Vd never been bom.

  I could kill myself, she thought. Close the garage door, start the car, and just go to sleep. But Mother and Hannah would hear the door close; they'd wonder where I am; they'd come looking. "Oh, stop it," she said aloud. Her voice sounded strange, as if it belonged to someone else. Stop, stop, stop, she told herself; you're acting like a terrible baby. Stop crying and whining; you don't need your mother; Brix told you you don't. You're a grownup; all you need is yourself.

  Behind Emma, a car pulled into the driveway. She squinted to see who was driving. A tall man got out of the car and stood beside it looking at the house in the floodlight that illuminated the driveway. He didn't look dangerous, Emma thought; he looked nice. He wasn't nearly as handsome as Brix, but he was older and seemed somehow more definite, and he held himself straighter than Brix. Brix, Emma had to admit, slouched a lot. This man was lanky, with dark hair turning gray, curling on the back of his neck and blowing a little in the late-afternoon breeze. He wore only a sports coat, though it had turned cold, and he carried a briefcase. He saw Emma and walked into the garage, to the open window of her car.

  "Emma Goddard.'' I'm Alex Jarrell." He held out his hand and Emma reached through the window to take it. "I'm sorr'; this looks like a bad time," he said as he saw the streaks of tears on her cheeks. "I can come back tomorrow."

  "No, it's okay," Emma said, thinking that was a nice thing for him to say. "How did you know my name?"

  "I've read about you and your mother, and I met your mother once at a party in Stamford. Is she here.^"

  "Her car is so I guess she is." Emma opened the car door and Alex stood back. "She's probably inside. What do you want her for.?"

  "A magazine story. I'm a writer, and Vanity Fair wdinis me to do a feature on the two of you. I just want to set a date to spend some time here, with both of you."

  Emma shook her head. "Not me. Mother won the lottery; I didn't. I'll bet those people told you to write about her and didn't say a word about me."

  He smiled. "You're right; they didn't. But I write what I want. zAnd from what I've read, you two are so close that I couldn't leave you out."

  Emma flushed. "This way," she said, and opened the door to a hallway that led to the kitchen. Hannah and Claire were sitting at the table in the bay window; Claire was sketching on a large artist's pad, and Hannah was peeling apples and talking. Emma stopped in the doorway, with Alex just behind her. She heard him draw in his breath when he saw her mother, but she
paid no attention; tears were in her eyes again because the room looked so beautiful. It was bright and warm, cozy against the November chill, with a tall, steaming pot on the stove, and the comforting smells of soup and bread filling the air. Emma walked in, forgetting Alex, barely seeing Hannah. "Hi," she said, and sat down close to her mother. But Claire, eyebrows raised, was looking past her. "Oh," Emma said. "This is Alex— uh—"

  "Jarrell," Alex said, coming in, his hand outstretched. "We met," he said to Claire, "at a benefit in Stamford."

  "I remember." Her hand met his and she introduced Hannah. "But I don't understand . . ." She glanced at Emma.

  "I met Emma outside and told her I wanted to set a time to interview you. I've been asked to do an article on you for Vanity Fair. I apologize for barging in, but I was driving back to New York and took a chance on finding you home. If we could just make an appointment, I'll be off."

  "You work for Vanity FairF' Claire asked.

  "No, I work on my own. I've written for most magazines, at one time or another."

  "And you want to do a story on me because of the lottery.'' That was last May."

  "And this won't be published until next April or May. It isn't the actual lottery I'm interested in; it's how wealth has changed the way you live, how you feel about it, how money affects all of us, how you balance the life you had with the life that's now open to you, all those doors opening for the first time."

  Claire looked at him with interest. "Did the people at the magazine talk about doors opening.'"'

  "No, that's me. Why.?"

  "It's the way I thought about it. But I don't think . . ." Her voice trailed off and she looked at Emma again, and Hannah.

  "Look, we'll only get as personal as you want," Alex said, "You set all the guidelines. I don't pr' and I don't violate confidences. That's a promise."

  "And what does Claire get out of it.'"' Hannah asked.

  "Publicity. That's about all. I'll get paid and I'll have another byline to my credit; the same goes for the photographer; and the magazine will sell more copies—at least they hope they will. A lot of people with money want publicity," he said to Claire. "If you're one of them, this is a great way to get it. If you don't..."