Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "How do you know.^" Claire asked.

  "I've heard him on the subject before," she said dryly, "about

  a few people we know in New York. But we won't be seeing him, so it's not important. I've been dropped from Quentin's charmed circle, so we'll make our social life in other places, and I've shipped everything Hale had at the farm to his apartment in New York. It's the end of a chapter. Maybe of a book."

  "But it's the beginning of a new one," Emma said. "I'm really happy for you. Brix wouldn't have nice things to say, either."

  They all looked at her in surprise. They had never heard her say anything critical about Brix. "Is that so.-^" Hannah asked mildly.

  "He's not a vers' tolerant person." Emma heard herself in amazement. How could she do this to Brix.^ But it felt good to do it; it was as if she were on a roller coaster and was picking up speed and it was exciting and liberating. She knew, at the bottom, she would still belong to him, but right now it felt so good to break free that she rushed ahead. "He can't stand it when people are really different from him; he thinks they're peculiar or sick or something, and he doesn't want to have anything to do with them. And he doesn't like it when people disagree with him; he puts them down, as if they're obviously stupid."

  "So do you always agree with him.^" Hannah asked.

  Emma flushed. "He's usually right. And . . . it's easier . . ." A look of confusion spread over her face. She felt like crying. She could not remember that feeling of excitement and freedom; she felt like a traitor.

  "Tell us what it's like to be a model," Gina said quickly. "Do you work all day.^"

  "Mostly," Emma said, and animation returned to her voice as she spoke. She told them about Lea, who did her makeup, and about Bill Stroud and Marty Lundeen, and about Tod and the way he prowled the room with his camera. "He's always talking, the whole time he's taking pictures. I don't think his mouth ever stops. Maybe it's connected to his camera."

  Claire smiled. "Talking about what.''" she asked.

  "Mostly it's just words. 'Nice, nice, good, sweetie, great, good, terrific, hold that, Emma, look this way, look that way, nice, nice, sit up, stretch out, good, good, great ..."

  They were all laughing at Emma's mimicrs, and Emma felt herself sink softly into the cradle of their approval, and she loed them all. Lhen they all began telling stories about the way people

  talked, at work and play, while Hannah moved around the table, serving second helpings. Claire sat back, watching Emma, wondering what was happening with her. She seemed to fade in and out, almost as if the rest of them caught glimpses of her through swiftly moving clouds. But even when she was with them, talking and laughing, her gaiety and even her beauty had a feverish quality that made her seem fragile, on the edge of collapse: as if her happiness—and she did look happy, Claire thought—was temporary and she knew it and was cramming everything into this little space of one Thanksgiving dinner.

  I'll try again to get her away from here, she thought. Maybe she's ready to take a trip to Europe. Or anywhere. Maybe she won't fight me so much.

  "Have you met him, Claire.^'" Roz asked.

  "I'm sorry," Claire said. "I haven't been listening."

  "Hannah's friend Forrest; she says he talks like a poet. Have you met him.''"

  "No. A poet.^ I'd like to hear that. But Hannah doesn't give us a chance."

  Hannah turned red. "I know I haven't. I've been meaning to. I really don't like to be secretive, you know."

  "Did you think we wouldn't like him.^" Gina asked.

  "Oh, dear, it sounds as if I have a beau. It's all rather awkward; that's the problem."

  "Well, tell us about him," Gina said. "Even if he's not your beau, you're spending a lot of time with him, right.'"'

  "Not so much. Oh, we're getting low on corn bread; I'll get some more—"

  "Oh, no, you don't," Gina said firmly. "Come on, Hannah, out with it. Is he a con man.'' Does he rob from the rich and give to the poor.'' Does he prey on old people and get them to—oops. Sorry. Not a great thing to say. Tell us something about him. How old is he.''"

  "He says forty-eight; my own opinion is that he's closer to fort^" Hannah was sitting verv' straight, her head proud, as if gathering her dignity about her as a bulwark against what they might say, and even, Claire thought, against her own doubts. "What is more important is that he is a brilliant poet and teacher; his students love him—"

  "Where does he teach?" Roz asked.

  "New York University. He teaches American and English literature and poetry, but he says they're the stepchildren of our schools today and we need to pay far more attention to them. In a time of technology worship, he says, we need a place to nurture poetry and teach people how terribly off balance we've become. Instead of being awestruck by fax machines, he says, we should be awestruck by Wordsworth and Eliot and Derek Walcott. I must say, that makes sense to me; I've never felt the need of a fax machine, but I do need the beauty of poetry in my life."

  "So he wants a place to nurture poetry," said Gina. "What kind of place.^"

  "Well, that's the exciting part. He's going to build the Exeter Poetry Center that will be a retreat for poets to do their writing, and a place for seminars and readings and conferences."

  "What's he going to build it with.^" Roz asked bluntly.

  "Oh, he has the money. Or almost. Someone has promised him all he needs and he's found a building, an old brownstone near his university, and as soon as he gets the money, he'll begin renovating it."

  "Who's the someone.^" Roz asked.

  "A very wealthy person who loves poetry and believes in Forrest's vision."

  Gina tilted her head. "Is this person a woman.'"'

  "Yes."

  "A woman over fifty.'*"

  "Yes."

  "Sixty.^ Seventy.'' Eighty.'"'

  "Eighty-two." Hannah hesitated. "To be honest, he does seem to be very good with older people."

  "Oh, he's got men on board, too.'*" Gina asked.

  "No. No, the truth is, he really does prefer women. But he's very straightforward and Mrs. Manasherbes knows exactly what she is doing. She has a great deal of money and no children and she loves poetry."

  "And Forrest," Gina said wryly.

  "She admires him and is fond of him, as I am. And as soon as she returns from England, they'll finish their paperwork and she'll give him the money, for the center and for an endowment to keep it going." Hannah looked at Claire. "Forrest did need cash to

  secure the brownstone, which someone else was bidding on. Since Mrs. Manasherbes was in England, I loaned him the money, which he will repay the instant he receives the money from her."

  "What if she changes her mind.^" Emma asked.

  Hannah's mouth tightened. She looked down, at her clenched hands, and Claire knew this was the fear that haunted her: that the money would not be given after all, and that Hannah would have thrown away fifty thousand dollars of Claire's money. "I believe she will not change her mind," Hannah said.

  "Have you met her.''" Roz asked. "What's she like.'*"

  "Well, no." Hannah was uncomfortable. "I wanted to meet her but she left for England before we could arrange it."

  "Keeps his women away from each other," Roz muttered to Gina.

  "That is not true!" Hannah cried, her eyes blazing. "Roz, you and I have known each other only a short time, hardly long enough for you to be in a position to pass judgment on my ability to evaluate a situation and make a sensible decision."

  "You're right," Roz said immediately. "I apologize."

  "How much did you loan him.'*" Gina asked.

  "It doesn't matter," said Claire. She put her hand on Hannah's. "I trust Hannah's judgment, and if she believes in Forrest, we should, too. And we'll all assume that everything will end happily. Does anyone want pumpkin pie or should we have it a little later.^"

  "Oh, later," Gina said. "Let's play Ping-Pong and billiards and jump rope and work off some of Hannah's elegant feast that I ate too much of."

&nb
sp; "Let's take care of this first," Roz said, and began stacking dinner plates. Gina gathered up the wineglasses, and after a minute, as if she had faded in again, Emma jumped up to help.

  Claire met Hannah's eyes. "Thank you," Hannah murmured. "I should have told you from the first, but I remembered all those people hanging around your apartment and chasing you up your front walk and knocking on your door, all of them wanting money for what they said were good causes, winners, sure things . . . and I didn't want to sound like them."

  "You couldn't have sounded like them; you're part of our family," Claire said. "I wish you had told me earlier, but I'm glad you did it now. And I hope it works out, for your sake."

  "And yours. And Forrest's. Life is no fun, you know, unless you take chances ..." Hannah sat back. "Look at Emma, would you. She hasn't helped around the house for quite a while."

  "Do you think it will last?"

  Hannah contemplated Emma as she moved between the dining room and the kitchen, walking a little too fast, carrying too many dishes at once. At that moment, she dropped a glass and it shattered at her feet. "Oh, no!" she cried, and dropped to her knees. "Oh, no, oh, no, why did that have to happen.''" She looked up, tears in her eyes. "Everything was fine, it was so fine, I didn't mean—"

  "Emma, sweetheart, it's all right." Claire knelt on the floor and put her arms around Emma. "It's all right, it's only a glass, don't worry about it. Of course everything is fine; this is the loveliest Thanksgiving we've ever had. Come on now, you go help in the kitchen and I'll sweep—"

  "Way ahead of you," said Hannah. She knelt beside them with a whisk broom and dustpan.

  Emma went into the kitchen, her feet dragging. Claire moved out of Hannah's way and gazed absently at the brisk movement of the broom and the small pile of glistening glass shards. She heard Gina and Roz laughing, and then Emma's subdued laughter joining in. Hannah went through the swinging door and her voice joined the others, and the next time they all laughed, Emma's laugh came more easily and was clear and sweet.

  Claire stood beside the window, watching the heav^^ wet flakes drift past the glass. It seemed to her at that moment to be such a beautiful world, filled with family and friends, with work, with wonders she could now afford. Maybe she'd been wrong before; maybe Emma really was coming out of her infatuation; she seemed anxious to be part of the family again, to make a place for herself among them. Her mimicry and laughter, and the way she had jumped up to help clear the table, brought back the Emma of a year ago. Oh, nowhere near that long, Claire thought. I won the lottery in May. A few months out of a lifetime, and everything has gone through such changes, swinging like a pendulum, and still not settled down.

  She listened to the voices from the kitchen and suddenly thought of Alex. He had called to say he was making some changes in his article and would send it in a few davs. Thev had talked for

  a few minutes, and when they hung up, she felt an odd sense of loss. She had wanted to talk longer but he was working against a deadline on another article and had been almost abrupt. He was part of her new world of friends and work and wonders, and Claire wanted to know him better. Well, I've done all I can, she thought wryly; I've invited him to use my studio, and I've talked about his coming to dinner. I don't know how much more obvious I can get. Tomorrow night she had a date with Quentin. She shook off the thought; she would deal with it tomorrow. For tonight, she wanted only to think about what she had all around her, the people she loved, the studio upstairs where she had discovered the joys of her own creativity, all the possessions she had bought, bringing the magnificence of the world into her home, and the promise of whatever else she wanted to buy and do with her newfound wealth. For the first time, she felt she was making things happen instead of having them happen to her. Alex had talked about children who believed they could move mountains. Well so can I, Claire thought. It took me a lot of years to get there, but I know I can move mountains, and anything else that's in my way.

  "It's a long shot," said Alex, pushing his chair back from the desk in Claire's studio and stretching out his legs. A box of Christmas ornaments was near his feet, and he gently pushed it farther away. "My friend Stan Gabriel at the Times says Forrest Exeter put down fifty thousand dollars as earnest money on the brown-stone. He didn't keep any of it for himself; he put it all down. But Mrs. Manasherbes, unfortunately, is something of a flake."

  "You've heard of her.'^" Claire asked.

  "A lot of people have. You don't forget the name, you know; isn't it impressive.'' It curls around your tongue; you can almost chew it. I love words like that. Well, her father was Hosea Manasherbes, who made a fortune in oil in Oklahoma and died in a brawl when he was forty-five. He was divorced and left everything to Edith. His daughter."

  "Why is she Mrs. Manasherbes if that was her father's name.''"

  "Because she's never been married. She adopted the Mrs. when she ran the oil company; she thought people would respect her more. She was probably right. Anyway, she cultivated a personal image of eccentricity, but she ran the company better than

  her father and doubled her fortune. Then she sold out and moved to New York and took up a few causes that no one had ever heard of, Hannah's friend Forrest being one of them. The trouble is, she waffles on donations; she's been known to pull out at the last minute if somebody says something she doesn't like or if somebody distracts her with a new cause that demands immediate attention. And money, of course. Would you like more tea,^"

  "Yes, thank you." Claire watched him take their mugs to the small built-in kitchen. How quickly he had become part of the studio, she thought. He had worked there five times in the two weeks since Thanksgiving, and now she found herself missing him when he was not there, missing his silent presence when they were both working, missing their long talks when they finished for the day. "Well, there's nothing I can do about Mrs. Manasher-bes," she said as Alex put her mug on the table beside her. "I have to trust Hannah. But I'm worried about her. It isn't the money; it's gone and we won't starve if I don't get it back. But Hannah cares about repaying it, and she cares about Forrest and she'd be crushed if she found he was wrong about Mrs. Mana-sherbes, or if—oh, could this be possible.-^ What if he and this woman are a team.'"'

  "They lose the fifty thousand if they don't buy the brown-stone. That much sounds genuine. She has come through on a lot of causes, you know; it's just that she's not a person you'd want to bet on."

  "But Hannah did."

  "And so did you. Unwittingly."

  "Did your friend at the Times find out if there's a schedule for opening the Exeter Poetry Center.''"

  "No, it's vague. Exeter called Stan at the Times about a month ago and sent him a press release—he wanted Stan to do a story, to help with other fund-raising; I don't know why; maybe he was worried about Mrs. Manasherbes—but Stan said it wasn't a story yet but he'd be interested if it ever became one. Fhe press release didn't have dates for renovation or ribbon cutting or anything else. Are you staying here over the holidays,'^"

  "Yes," Claire said.

  "Will you have dinner with mc tonight.''"

  "I'm busy tonight. I wish I weren't."

  "Then tomorrow night."

  "I'd like that."

  "And what will you do at Christmas?"

  "Probably duplicate our Thanksgiving dinner. We were all happy being together; it was a good way to celebrate. What will you do.^"

  "Duplicate Thanksgiving. I think my sister's in-laws will be there, which will swell the crowd. When I was a kid," he said reflectively, "we had upwards of fifty people for Christmas. My parents gathered in all the strays from miles around, anyone who didn't have a family, and my sister and I made name tags and played usher, getting everyone seated and making sure they had cider to drink. Nothing harder than cider; we couldn't afford it and my parents didn't believe in it. Then we'd hand out Christmas presents that my mother had made: cookies wrapped in colored tissue paper, small loaves of raisin bread in foil wrapping paper, little jars of strawb
erry jam with striped ribbons tied around the lids. My mother had a passion for strawberry jam. I'd listen to all those people who didn't know each other, or didn't see each other from year to year, getting acquainted or reacquainted, telling their life stories, trying to impress everyone, even though most of them were out of work or not doing the jobs they really wanted, or just divorced or whatever it was that made them eligible for my parents' table of strays. I'd wander from one small group to another as they got together in different rooms to sing carols or play chess or Chinese checkers or help in the kitchen. It was like theater; that's when I started to think about being a writer. My sister and I loved it; we got so excited we didn't calm down until halfway into January. What did you do for Christmas.'"'

  "We went to a neighbor's house. Their son had been killed in the war and they wanted to have the house crowded at Christmas, with us and their married daughter and her family and a few others that,I guess you'd call strays. It wasn't as exciting as yours sounds; when I got older, I wanted to go to my friends' houses. In fact, I begged my parents to let me go, but they always said absolutely not; we had an obligation to help our neighbors fill their house at Christmas."

  "You're like that now, aren't you.^ You have a strong sense of obligation."

  "Yes, of course. The world would be an awful place if people didn't have it."

  "A lot of people don't. They make it tough for those who do. Have you finished your work for Eiger.''"

  "Almost. I hope I'll have a new job, or maybe more than one by the time I'm finished; I don't want to have to look at empty drawing tables. They always remind me of a cemetery. What about your work.^ You still haven't shown me your article."

  "It's finished." He took a folder from his briefcase and crossed the room to hand it to her.

  "Is this for me to keep.'' I'd like to read it later."

  "It's yours. Change anything that's egregiously wrong and let me know, within a couple of days if possible. I have to be going; I had a dinner date with my son for tomorrow night and I want to change it to tonight."