Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "Have you heard him.''" Gina asked.

  "Oh, indeed yes. Many times. You could, too; he delights in

  visitors. I've been sitting in on his classes off and on since we met last June. I never get involved with anyone I haven't thoroughly checked out, you know."

  Claire recalled Hannah's stories of the Italian industrialist on the cruise ship, and the realtor in her hometown in Pennsylvania, and she looked at her thoughtfully across the table.

  "Over the years I've met many people who've had schemes for some big project or other," Hannah said, "and of course they all want money. Just the same as the people who camped outside your apartment, Claire, when you won the lottery. I helped some of them with the few dollars I could spare from my teacher's salary; the others I refused. And after a time I found I was able to divine which schemes would succeed and which would fail. There was something in the eyes of the people who were asking for help. I was never wrong. You, of course, never looked into Forrest's eyes; you gave money because you care about me, and you gave it freely, without even asking what I wanted it for. You are a great woman, Claire, whom money has not spoiled."

  Claire was still watching her thoughtfully. She did not believe for a moment that Hannah, a third-grade schoolteacher, had been asked for money, or that she had been able to predict the success or failure of capitalized ventures.

  Hannah folded her hands on the table and beamed at them. "Forrest has been playing a little game with you, Claire; he can't resist these dramatic flourishes. The fact is, he has something for you. Forrest.'' You are not to put it off a minute longer."

  He nodded obediently. He reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope and handed it to Claire with great solemnity, as if he were acting out an ancient ceremony. "With my most fervent gratitude and admiration. You are indeed a great lady, a humanitarian, a true friend."

  Claire opened the envelope and took out a check for fifty thousand, four hundred dollars.

  "I estimated ten percent interest for approximately one month," Forrest said, "but I confess great ignorance in, and a strong aversion to, mathematics. If this amount is not satisfactory, tell me what you would like and I'll write another—"

  "It's quite satisfactors." (JIaire was looking at the check. If it were a coin, I'd bite it, she thought, to sec if it's real. But 1 can't do anything with a check but deposit it and wait to sec if it bounces.

  "It won't bounce," Forrest said with a boyish grin. "This is real. This is true. This is really going to happen."

  "I'm very happy for you," said Claire, "and I owe you an apology."

  "Oh, no, not for a moment." He put up his hand as if to stop traffic. "Those of us who are visionaries are used to being doubted. You had no reason to believe me, except for Hannah's faith in me, and I'm sure you thought I was a charlatan who mesmerized her to con her out of a pile of money. But we're past that now, yes.^ And we can be friends. Let me tell you about the center. We will have ten rooms, two people to a room, for poets who need a place to live and write for a few weeks; we will, of course, provide their meals as well. We'll have famous poets giving readings and lectures and conducting seminars; we'll have special films and concerts ..."

  He talked on, all through lunch. He spoke with fewer theatrics and even gave some hard figures on how much it would cost to run the center. "We'll always lose money; that's the way life is. We'll get grants from foundations, to keep going in a Spartan way, but that's the most we can expect. In modern societies poetry is far down any list of what people think is important in their busy lives. Anyway, it does not exist to make money; it exists to enrich our souls, and the souls of nations."

  "I agree," Claire said, thinking of Alex and his theater group and all the other groups around the country whose brochures and well-written, pleading letters filled her mailbox every day. So many groups, outside the profit system, but essential for the beauty and new understanding and broader horizons they brought to those whose lives they touched. But they could not exist without money. Everything came down to money, Claire thought; it solved all problems. And she had plenty of it, coming every month, so predictably it no longer amazed her. Nor was she surprised any longer at how thoroughly she had mastered the many ways of spending it. "I'll be glad to make a donation to the center," she said, "when you know what your needs are."

  "Oh, how generous. But in fact, we already know how much—"

  "We'll tell you as soon as we have some figures," said Hannah firmly. She had put a platter of cookies in the center of the table and was pouring coffee. "We're not running it yet; all we're doing

  is getting the building ready for the grand opening next September."

  "Hard to believe," Gina said. "She really came through, Mrs. what's her name."

  "Mrs. Manasherbes, and some of us never doubted that she would," Hannah said. "You might have noticed that Forrest has a way with him."

  Claire was frowning. " We'll tell you as soon as we have some figures,' " she said, echoing Hannah. " V/ere getting ready for the grand opening next September.' What does that mean.'"'

  "Well, my dear Claire." Hannah leaned forward and took Claire's hand. "I was going to tell you later, but this is really quite a good time for it. We've actually formed a partnership. Forrest will deal with the visiting poets and writers, the public programs, and the writers who need scholarships to live and write at the center for short periods of time. But he does lack an essential practicality'. Someone else has to run the place, someone who's a kind of combination resident housemother and executive director and traffic cop. Forrest has asked me to be that person. And I've accepted."

  Stunned, Claire just looked at her.

  "It's time," Hannah said gently. "You never thought, when I arrived, that I would stay indefinitely."

  "But that was a long time ago, and we weren't sure it would work out. But it has. Don't you think so.^ I thought you were happy here."

  "I've been happier than you can imagine," Hannah said simply. "This is my home, and I love it. But now I'm needed somewhere else, not only by Forrest and all those poets who probably have no idea how to cook or take care of a poetry center, but also by this elusive woman, Mrs. Manasherbes. Perhaps she and Forrest will need a mediator. Perhaps she needs a friend when she returns. I find this so exhilarating, you know: new people whom I can help, new territorv,-, a new adventure. And I must tell you, my dear, I happened to be downstairs when you and Alex were talking just inside the front door last night, and it occurred to me that your life may be changing again, and it certainly would not include me."

  "That's not true; you always have a place with mc. You've

  been so wonderful I can't imagine . . . You were downstairs? In the library?"

  "Yes, getting a book; I couldn't sleep."

  "The light wasn't on."

  "I'd just come down when I heard you and I didn't want to startle you, so I kept quiet." Claire looked at her skeptically. "Well, of course I was interested; I can't deny that. I'm interested in ever'thing that happens to you, good and bad."

  "Yes," Claire said, amused. She knew she could not have it both ways: that Hannah would be interested when they needed her, and discreetly withdraw when they decided they wanted privacy. Fairy godmothers, Claire thought wryly, are interested all the time.

  "And I'll only be as far as New York," Hannah said. "Close enough for visits and long talks, and if you should ever need me, I'd come to you in an instant."

  "Yes," Claire said again. But it was not at all the same, and she was feeling a sense of loss, as if she were losing her mother all over again. How amazing, she thought; once she had come to love Hannah and to love her presence in her life, it had not once occurred to her that Hannah might have a separate life and might someday leave.

  "And I'm not leaving yet," Hannah went on. "Good heavens, how could I? I won't have a place to lay my head until the renovation is finished, sometime in August. So I'll be with you until about the first of September. If that's all right with you."


  "Is your name really Forrest Exeter?" Gina asked. "It sounds like something out of a nineteenth-century novel."

  "Of course it's all right," Claire said to Hannah. "How can you say such a thing?"

  "Much older," Forrest said. "Are you a student of literature? If so, you've heard of the Exeter Book, a collection of old English poetry' put together in about 1070. Forrest, as of course you know if you know literature, is my own modification of The Forest Lovers, a romance that was indeed published in the last century—"

  "Gina, can I talk to you?" Emma stood in the doorway.

  "Sure." As if freed from taking a test, Gina shot out of her chair.

  "Emma, come join us," Claire said.

  "Not now, maybe later. Fve just got to talk to Gina now."

  "It's one-fifteen," Gina said, following her into the hallway. "Did you just get up.^"

  "A little while ago." They went into the living room and Emma dropped onto the couch. "I just can't get myself to wake up. And I've got to, I've got to, because we're doing an extra photo shoot. Hale couldn't wait, and I've got to be good, I've always got to be good ..."

  Gina sat next to her. "Look at me." Slowly, Emma raised her head, blinking in the gray-white light that filtered through low clouds and a few blowing snowflakes. She met Gina's eyes, but it was as if she did not see her; she had a blurred, distant look, not focusing on anything, not interested in anything. "You're doing too much of that stuff," Gina said bluntly. "And it looks to me like you're mixing your poisons. Emma.^ Did you hear me.^"

  "Sure." Slowly, Emma's look focused. "I'm okay, Gina; it's just that we were up awfully late last night, that's all; I think it was about four or something when I got home."

  "Drugs and booze, right.'^"

  "I don't do a lot, Gina; I don't drink much, either; I don't like the taste."

  "Something else, too. What is it.'' What else are you taking these days.''"

  "I don't know . . ."

  "Come on, sweetheart, just tell me what you're taking. Drugs and booze and . . . what.''"

  "Just something to help me sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep. And I have to, because I look awful the next—"

  "What is it.?"

  "Just an ordinary sleeping pill, Gina; it's nothing."

  'V/hatisitr'

  "It's called Halcion."

  "I've heard of it. Something; I can't remember." Gina frowned. "Who prescribed it.''"

  "Doctor Saracen; Brix knows him. It's okay, Gina, it really helps."

  "How much do you take.''"

  "I don't know. Not a lot. Just one. Sometimes two."

  "On top of drugs and alcohol."

  "No. I mean, not always. I don't do a lot, Gina; just a tiny bit."

  "A lot of what.^"

  "Coke, mostly; that's what Brix likes. And it doesn't do anything to my body or anything; it makes me feel good and happy, that's all it does; and Brix likes to drink, too, but I really don't like the taste. I like the coke best; it makes everything feel all right. It's not like I'm addicted or anything; it's not like I have to have it, it's just a ... a tool for making life better, Brix says, like you use a pencil to write.^ Well, we use coke to make things fun."

  "How original," Gina said dryly.

  "He's very smart. Gina, listen, I have to tell you." She struggled to sit up straight. "I talked to Brix and he said they won't release the line, you know, PK-20, in March,"

  "They canceled the release.^"

  "He said they'd push it back until they did a bunch of new tests."

  "He said that.'' Emma, he really said that.'"'

  "Yes, he promised. He said I shouldn't tell anybody, so you should keep it to yourself, but I had to tell you."

  "Why aren't you supposed to tell anybody.^"

  "Oh, lots of reasons. Mostly he was worried about the company's reputation; he said everybody would say they had bad quality control and they couldn't get their reputation back for a long time. Maybe never."

  "Maybe people would say what a good company it is, extra-careful, willing to spend more money to guarantee safety."

  Emma looked confused again. "I guess. But Brix didn't say that. He was really worried that people would know what was going on. Even about the memos. He kept asking and asking—"

  ''The memos? You told him you'd seen them.^ Emma, I asked you, I practically begged you, not to tell him."

  "I know, but how else could I warn him,'' I had to tell him all of it or he wouldn't have taken me seriously."

  Gina's head was bent in thought. A long sigh broke from her. She looked up. "What did he keep asking.'"'

  "What.?"

  "You started to say, about the memos, that he kept asking and asking . . . something."

  "Oh. If I'd told anybody about them,"

  "And? What did you say?"

  "Well, I said no; what else could I say? He would have hated me if he knew I'd told you, and after I said it once I had to keep saying it."

  Gina felt a chill. "Why did you have to keep saying it?"

  "I told you; he kept asking. The memos, the tests they didn't do, the tests he said they were going to do; all of it. It's so confusing, I don't even want to think about it. I'm not going to think about it. I'm going back to sleep; I'm so sleepy ..."

  "Just a minute." Gina put a hand on her arm. "Listen, this is important. He thinks you're the only person who knows about the memos?"

  "Yes, it's okay, he's not worried; he knows he can trust me." She drooped against Gina. "I'm going to sleep; I just wanted you to know. Everything's fine. Tell Mother I'll see her later, okay?"

  Gina put her arms around her and held her close. She seemed very precious, and very vulnerable. "Sweetheart, pay attention. I want you to stay close to home. All right? Promise me you will."

  "Why?" Emma murmured drowsily,

  "Well." Gina laid her cheek on Emma's head and held her tighter and tried to sound casual. "Christmas is a good time for you and your mother to be close. Okay?" She thought she felt Emma nod. "Yes? You'll stick around?"

  "Sure." Emma pushed herself to her feet. "I feel so heavy, like everything's dropping out of the bottom."

  "Come on, I'll help you." She kept her arm around Emma's waist as they made their way up the curving staircase and along the corridor to Emma's room. Gina helped her lie down and covered her with the quilt and stood over her as she fell instantly asleep. "Poor love," she murmured. "We'll have to figure out a way to rescue you." She bent and kissed her and closed her door before quietly going back downstairs.

  Claire was alone at the table, gazing at the fire, her hands curved around a cup of coffee. "They're gone?" Gina asked.

  Claire nodded. She looked up. "What's going on, Gina?"

  "Well." She sat down and poured a cup of coffee. "Emma's been doing a lot of drugs, Claire; she's drinking, too, but probably not—"

  "That's not true!" Claire looked at her angrily. "Emma's

  never used drugs; she and her friends never did, all through high school, and she wouldn't start now. I even asked her, a couple of times, and she told me she wasn't."

  "Well, she lied."

  "She doesn't lie! And she'd never lie to me! What's wrong with you, Gina.'' You've always said what a wonderful girl Emma

  IS—

  "She is. This has nothing to do with how wonderful she is. She's in trouble, Claire, and it's this guy she's going with, and if you'd looked at her really closely, you would have seen it."

  "Seen what.-^" Claire's anger was gone; she had sunk into her chair as if her energ^ had vanished, too. "I don't know what to look for."

  "The pupils of her eyes and the way she looks past every-thing a lot of the time; how much she sleeps; the way her moods swing back and forth."

  "I saw all that; I do look at her, you know. But I thought it was because of Brix, that she was worried about him and unhappv and ..."

  "All of the above. But mostly it's coke and booze."

  "You think,'' Claire said, fighting back. "You don't really know. It's
not like Emma; she wouldn't change so much; I would have noticed. We're still close enough that I would have seen . . . And I know she never, ever, was even interested—"

  "Claire, she told me. It doesn't do any good to deny it."

  There was a silence. "How much is she doing.^" Claire asked at last, forcing out the words.

  "A fair bit, I'd guess. With him and alone."

  "She's not doing it alone!"

  "I'd guess she is. Maybe not the drinking, but I'll bet he's keeping her supplied with whatever it is they're doing; probably just coke."

  "But she's all right, isn't she.'^ It hasn't hurt her or made her ... I don't even know what it does."

  "She's okay, but I told her to stop doing it. I told her to hang around the house, to stay close to home, and if I were you, I'd make sure she does. She'll be better off, and it would give you two a chance to do some talking. There's another reason for—"

  "She doesn't talk to me," Claire said, her words filled with

  pain. "When we were Christmas shopping, there was only so much we could talk about and then she started to run away. She doesn't trust me anymore."

  "Trust has nothing to do with it. She can't stand the thought of disappointing you. She isn't proud of what she's doing—I don't think she's proud of anything lately except her modeling—but at least she knows that _>'6»^/'r(? proud of her, and she can't bear to lose that."

  "I'm always proud of her," Claire said in a low voice. "I always love her. She knows that. She must know that."

  "Sure she does. But she's scared, too, and she's not thinking straight."

  "Poor love," murmured Claire, echoing Gina's words. There was a silence. "I have to get her away from here," she said at last. "I've tried before, but she didn't want to leave and I didn't push hard enough. I'll have to find a way now; she's got to get away from Brix and even the modeling; she ought to have a chance to think about what she wants to do instead of plunging in."

  "There's another reason I think she ought to stay close to home," Gina said when Claire's words faded. "I don't know whether it's something to be worried about or not, but since Emma's involved, you ought to know about it." She told Claire about the memos Emma had seen, and the copies and the test reports she herself had found in the files in the testing department. "What I'm pretty sure of is, somebody's doctored the test results so everything looks fine, and they'll ship in March with trumpets playing and banners flying and have the jump on all their competitors. It's all timing, you know; whatever ingredient they're using, everyone else will have a variation of it, probably sooner than later. So a few months can make a huge difference in sales."