Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  In the office, the air was very still. It seemed to settle around Brix like a shroud, and he shifted uncomfortably, as if trying to free himself. But it was too late; as soon as he said those words to his father, admitting everything, his father thought of him as dead.

  "Her mother found her," Quentin said.

  "I don't know how that happened. I mean, we've gone to New York a lot and nobody ever came ... I don't know what made things different this time,"

  "You don't know very much, do you.-^ You don't know how to keep the affairs of this company private, you don't know how to keep your girl quiet, you don't know enough to tell your father about something that could undermine the whole company, you don't even know that murder is a stupid waste of energy- that only weaklings think of; it's a weapon of impotent people, and it can backfire. Well, maybe by now you know that much, at least."

  "I was trying to help you!" Brix cried. "I was worried about the companv!" Quentin was silent. "I wanted vou to be proud of me!"

  "Christ." For a brief moment Quentin felt a wave of helplessness. He had no one to talk to, no one to share his problems. He missed Claire; she had a quiet way of listening and a clear

  understanding that he had come to rely on, even though he told her very little of what was most important in his life. He might someday have trusted her with some of his secrets, he might even have loved her, if they had stayed together. But she would not wait. Impatient and shallow, he thought. Like all of them.

  As for his son, he had never thought of Brix as anything but a weakling who took after his mother, neither a colleague nor a companion to his father. But he had thought Brix could have a niche in the company and be useful; after his graduation from college, when he had come meekly into his father's orbit, Quen-tin had been confident he would at least be useful.

  Well, not anymore. "You'll have to get out." His voice had a strain of weariness in it that frightened Brix more than anger would have done. "You've gotten yourself out on a limb once too often; there's nothing more I can do for you."

  "Wait a minute!" Brix cried. He leaped from his chair and leaned over his father's desk, in just the pose his father had held earlier. "Wait a minute, don't say that! We're partners, I'm your vice president, I'm the one you ask to do things nobody else can do, like those test reports—"

  "You are not to mention those reports to anyone," Quentin snapped. "Is that clear.^ They don't exist, and if you say a word about them, I'll see to it that you never get another job, anywhere."

  "Another job.^ I don't need another job! I work here! I'm vice president!"

  "Not anymore. You don't have a title; you don't have a job. If you get out of here quietly, I'll write you a letter of reference that will get you a job somewhere, assuming you're not arrested for murder."

  "Jesus Christ, Dad!" Brix leaned farther over the desk; he was almost lying on it. "You can't just drop me like this, it's not fair! I mean, I'm your son, you don't just kick out your son—"

  "I kick out any stupid bastard who's a liability to me. I moved heaven and earth to keep you out of jail once before, and now you expect me to do it again. Why should I.^"

  "Because you love me," Brix said, the words forced out in a sob.

  "I don't love you. I have no reason to." Quentin walked to the door and stood beside it. "Clean out your office by this afternoon;

  I have a lot of work to do to clean up the mess you've made, and I have to hire somebody to do it."

  I don t love you. The words were knives, cutting into his stomach, into his chest. He stood up. The son of a bitch, he thought. The fucking son of a bitch. But he could not afford to think of his father that way. He doesnt mean it. He's mad at me, that's all. He'll get over it; he loves me and he cant get along without me. He'll get old and he won't have anybody. That's probably what the bastard deserves. But once again Brix pulled his thoughts back. He could not be angry at his father, he had to make him love him again and he could not do that with anger.

  He straightened and turned to walk toward his father, to face him, their eyes close and on a level, but nothing happened. His legs were like stones and everything inside him fought to stay where he was, at Quentin's desk, far away from the door. "I haven't got any place to go."

  "You've got a place to live, and you'll find another job. I'll give you three months' salary. Plenty of time to figure something out. I suggest you stay in the neighborhood for a while. Whether she dies or not, moving to another state would look like running away."

  "Dad, I mean I don't have any place besides this. Eiger Labs. There isn't any other place. It's like ... I mean, it's like home."

  "It's not your home anymore."

  "Yes, it is! I mean, it doesn't just stop; I'm your son!" Brix looked at his father across the room and suddenly felt like a child, small and helpless. He began to cry. "You've got to take care of me. You always take care of me. I did everything I could for you, I wanted to help you and make you proud of me, and I did everything for you, not for me, and now you've got to take care of me—you've got to!—because I don't know where to go and . . . I'm in trouble. Dad, you know I am, and I need to be here, where you can protect me. That's what fathers do; that's what they do. Dad.'' You've got to take care of me!"

  "I don't give people second chances," Quentin said, and opened the door.

  Slowly, Brix stirred, moving like an old man, bent over, tears still running down his checks. "It's not fair," he said, and sidled past his father without looking at him.

  Quentin closed the door behind him. I don't give people second

  chances. He had said those words to Claire. And to how many others over the years? None of them work out, he thought. No one stays. No one gives me what I need.

  Once again he felt that wave of helplessness, and this time there was a small thread of fear in it. It shocked him. Christ, I'm letting that bitch get to me. It was ridiculous. There would be more women; there always were. Right now he had other things to think about. He had a company to run, a product to save, a future to guarantee. He sat at his desk and began to make a plan of action. And as he wrote, he gained strength. This was what he was best at: creating his own life, without worrying about other, weaker people. This was where he was king: Quentin Eiger, forging his own future.

  "It's our best guess that she took somewhere around three milligrams of Halcion on top of a considerable amount of alcohol," the doctor, Claudia Marks, said to the others in the waiting room. "If her prescription was for a one-quarter-milligram tablet, which is the most it should have been—did you ever see it.'' It would be pale blue."

  "No," said Claire. She looked at Gina and Hannah, They shook their heads.

  "But there was an empty bottle in her room," Alex said. "I gave it to the paramedics last night."

  The doctor nodded. "I saw it. It was for ten one-quarters. But sometimes patients use the same bottle for other pills. Do you know if she had more than one prescription.'' Were there more pills in her purse, for instance.''"

  "Not when I picked it up at the restaurant," Alex said. "She'd left it there when she ran out, after dinner, and I can't imagine anyone in the restaurant taking anything from it."

  "What about the dose.'"' Claire asked the doctor.

  "Three milligrams of Halcion is twelve times the dose that was prescribed, and it could be fatal, especially when combined with alcohol." She looked at Claire. "There have been cases of suicidal tendencies being exaggerated in patients taking Halcion; have you seen signs of that in Emma.'"'

  "No," said Claire. "I know she didn't try' to kill herself. I know Emma. It was an accident."

  "Or someone gave it to her," Alex said. "Could someone do

  that, without her tasting it or being put off by a change in the taste of something she was eating or drinking?"

  The doctor looked at him gravely. "You're saying someone tried to kill her."

  "It's something we have to think about. Could it be done.^ In a glass of water, for example.^"

  "Halcion
is poorly soluble in water, so the answer to that is no. But it is highly soluble in alcohol."

  Alex looked at Claire. "They had three bottles of wine for dinner, and then cognac. I talked to the waiter on the telephone today. He saw Emma drink her cognac all at once; he said it was as if on a bet. Or as if she didn't like the taste."

  "She doesn't," Claire said, trembling. She folded her arms, holding herself in.

  "He also said she went to the bathroom around the time he brought the cognac, as if she were ill. He was worried about her, he said."

  "So she left the table and the cognac was there and so was Brix," said Gina. There was a silence in the waiting room. "But wouldn't it take a long time for twelve tablets to dissolve.^" she asked.

  "Not if they'd been crushed to a powder," Claudia Marks replied. She turned to Alex. "Do you know with whom she had dinner.^"

  "Yes."

  "And you suspect him of trying to kill her.^"

  "It's something we have to think about," he said again.

  "Do YOU know where to find him.'^"

  "Yes."

  "Then you must pursue it."

  "There's no question of that," Alex said. "I've called a friend who knows someone in the Norwalk Police Department. I imagine they'll be talking to him today."

  "Fast work," said Gina, thinking of her own telephone call. They had both felt they had to do something, as if going after Brix and his father would help keep Emma alive.

  "We can't tell Emma," Claire said.

  "She'll know," said Gina. "Either she took an overdose or somebody gave it to her; how else could she have swallowed it.'^"

  "She didn't take an overdose," Hannah insisted.

  "I don't think she did," Gina agreed. "So she'll know that somehow she swallowed a hell of a lot of Halcion at dinner."

  "I wouldn't worry about telling her now," said the doctor. "When she wakes up, you won't want to bring it up, so you have a while to think about what you're going to say. If she asks, I'd change the subject. I don't think she'll be concentrating on anything for a while."

  "But she's fine," Hannah said, not asking a question. "She's just sleeping now; she's not in a coma."

  "She's sleeping, but we don't know yet if any damage has been done to the central nervous system. We'll know better tomorrow."

  "Thank you," Claire said, and held out her hand to the doctor even as she took a step to go back to Emma.

  "Mrs. Goddard," the doctor said, "she'll sleep for several hours; why don't you get some rest.'^"

  "I'm fine," Claire said, and walked down the corridor. Alex thought she looked small and defenseless beneath the bright fluorescent lights, a slender figure in a dark blue suit. She walked with heavy steps amid the bustling nurses and doctors, who moved purposefully about their tasks while Emma's family could only wait.

  "Is there any reason why I can't sit with Emma and her mother.^" Alex asked.

  The doctor looked at him consideringly, knowing he was not a family member, but liking his quiet stability and the deeply sustaining way he and Claire looked at each other, the sureness of affection between them more pronounced than in many married couples. "Don't broadcast it," she said, "but go ahead."

  "Thanks." Alex grinned. He turned to Gina and Hannah. "Do you want to go home and wait to hear from us.''"

  "No way," Gina said. "We'll go to a hotel. Is that all right, Hannah.'"'

  Hannah nodded. "But I think I'll stay here for a while longer. It's better to be close. I don't feel so helpless."

  "How long do you think we'll be here.''" Alex asked Claudia Marks.

  "I'm not thinking about sending Emma home yet. I wouldn't even guess. You go ahead; I'll stop in again before I leave tonight."

  Alex found a plastic chair and placed it close to Claire's. He took her hand and they sat together, watching Emma. Claudia Marks came back and was with Emma a few minutes and then left. "Call me anytime; the nurses have my home number. And I'll be back at six-thirty tomorrow morning."

  "I like her," Alex said when she left.

  Claire nodded. "But she wouldn't say anything definite about Emma."

  "It's her job not to say anything definite unless she's definitely definite."

  A small smile played on Claire's lips. "I'm so glad you're here."

  Alex moved closer and put his arm around her, and Claire let her head rest against his. So it was the two of them, drooping with weariness but still there, that Emma saw when, beyond the win-dowless hospital room, dawn was brightening the sky and she opened her eyes.

  "Who's that.''" she asked, her voice thin but clear.

  Claire started. She can talk; oh, thank God, she can talk. But why doesn't she — P She leaned forward. "It's Alex, darling, you know who he—" She stopped at the confusion in Emma's eyes. "His name is Alex Jarrell," she said quietly, masking her fear. "He's a good friend."

  Emma looked at him without curiosity; then she looked at her mother. "I was thinking how you used to sing to me when I was sick," she said, as if continuing a conversation. "All those songs. 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary.' That was my favorite. It made me happy."

  Claire had sung that song the afternoon before, when Emma was in a coma. Now she sang it again, leaning forward. Alex held one of her hands; with the other, she took Emma's and held it tightly, as if she could send through it her love and all her energy, enough to make Emma stay awake, enough to make her well. Her voice was small but true, and it flowed sweetly through the room.

  Emma sighed. "Remember when you'd make pies, and I'd sit on the counter and watch you.'' You'd put the top crust on and pinch it all around in little ruffles, and then you'd hold it up with one hand underneath it and cut with a knife around the edge, and the extra dough would be like a long ribbon, falling, falling onto

  the counter, and I'd squeeze it all together so you could roll it out again and make little jelly tarts—remember?—because there wasn't enough left for another pie. Little squares with raspberry jam or orange marmalade in the middle, and you'd fold them into triangles and press the edges with a fork so they'd stay together, but some jam always leaked out anyway, and it would burn in the oven and make an awful smell and we'd have to clean it. But you'd always let me have one of the tarts as soon as they were cool, sometimes two, and they were so good."

  Her eyes were wide, but she was not looking at Claire; she was looking up, at something only she could see. "We made a snowman once, I remember, it was bigger than me, and it was cloudy outside, but the sun came out, just a little bit, poking through the clouds, and you were in the sunshine and I wasn't and neither was the snowman, just you, so bright, like gold, and you looked so beautiful and you were laughing. You looked happy, too."

  "I remember," Claire said softly. She was terrified because Emma seemed farther away than ever, but she kept her voice even and spoke almost lightly. "You were five. Almost six. You made his mouth out of grapes, and his eyes were two prunes, and he had red yarn for hair, and we put a book in his hand and a straw hat on his head."

  "The professor," Emma said with a little giggle. "He melted awfully fast."

  "We made another one the next year. Even bigger."

  "Oh," Emma said incuriously. She was silent. "I liked it when you put the sewing machine on the table in the living room—remember.'' There were pieces of fabric and pattern pieces, too, all over, sleeves, and a front and back, and parts of the skirt, and one day you made soup, it was cooking on the stove, and it was freezing outside, a really cold winter day, and all the windows steamed up, and it was so cozy, like being in a warm cave, just the two of us. That was a happy day."

  "And you came over and hugged me." Claire's eyes were filled with tears. "And you said, 'I love you. Mommy.' "

  "I'm sorry," Emma said, still looking at whatever she saw beyond the ceiling. "I'm sorry I wasn't nice to you, Mommy. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Her voice was fading away.

  "Emma," Claire said urgently. "Don't go away. Tell me, when weren't you nice to me.''"

  "All tho
se things I said when you . . . when you didn't want me to . . ." She sighed.

  "Didn't want you to what? Emma, come back, come back; you're talking about the last few months, aren't you? It's all right, Emma; it's better to talk about the present than the past. Because then we can talk about the future. Emma, do you hear me?"

  "Didn't want me to see . . . didn't want me to go out with . . . didn't want me to be a . . . the . . . girl. Can't remember. . . The Older Girl. Other. Awful. Dead. The Dead Girl. Magazines, you know, photo sessions. You know."

  "Not the dead girl, Emma; it wasn't anything like that; it was something much different. You'll think of it later. And you were always nice to me, Emma. We've always loved each other. I remember that."

  Emma turned her head and looked at her mother. Their eyes held for a long moment. Then Emma began to cry. "He said bad things to me."

  Claire gave a swift glance at Alex, who was watching her and Emma with complete absorption. "Should I force her to remember?"

  "I think it's all right," he murmured, and Claire turned back to Emma. "Who said bad things?"

  Emma's head rolled back and forth. "Said I wasn't his girl. Said he hated me. Didn't love me.''

  "Who said that?" Claire asked again.

  "I'm finished," Emma said clearly. "I told the waiter. I'm finished."

  No, no, no, Claire thought. I don't believe it. "Emma, what did you mean? What did 'finished' mean?"

  "Dinner. And . . . everything else."

  "What else? What else?" When Emma was silent, Claire put her hand on Emma's head and turned it until their eyes met again. "Emma, did you try to kill yourself because of what he said to you?"

  Emma looked bewildered. "What?"

  "Did you want to die? Did you try to kill yourself?"

  "Why?" Emma frowned. "Can't remember."

  "What can't you remember?"

  "Ran away. Everybody was watching."

  "You ran away from dinner?"

  "Through the restaurant. Everybody watching. You ruined everything."

  "That's what you said to him.'"'

  "You ruined everything. I ran away."