Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "This is so cool," Emma said, "being able to do whatever we want. We're really good at it, aren't we.'^ Even though we haven't had any practice."

  "We're fast learners," Claire said. "Come on, now, we have a lot to do."

  "Like what.'' Where are we going,''"

  "I don't know. I'm so restless, I just want to keep moving, keep doing things." They left the house and watched the realtor lock the door behind them. Next time I'll do it myself, Claire thought, with my own key. She and Emma got into their car. "Shall we go to Joseph's.'' We both need shoes."

  "Could we just go home.''" Emma asked. "I thought I'd call Marie and Lorna and have them come over and look at my new clothes, and then take them for a drive when my car comes. He said it might be this afternoon, late. Oh, I can't wait to see Lorna and Marie's faces; they'll die. This has been the most wonderful day. Everything was wonderful, but you're the best; you're spectacular. Are you really going on a cmise.''"

  "I might. W'hy not.^ I've been reading about them for years, and they always sound wonderful; I guess it's been in my mind for a long time. Why don't we go together.'' Wouldn't it be a good thing to do before you go off to school.'"'

  "Oh." Emma looked blank for a moment, and Claire knew she was thinking of the new house, and parties and barbecues

  with friends for this last summer before college, the last time they would be together before they went separate ways.

  "If you'd rather not—"

  "No, it might be fun," Emma said. "They're pretty short, aren't they.^ I mean, it wouldn't be for all summer."

  "Oh, no, we'd find one that was just for a week or two. It depends on what we want, how we feel about it." Claire turned into their street and parked at the curb. The people were still there, scattered about, waiting; she could not tell if they were the same ones she had seen in the morning, or if new ones had come during the day. But she was not looking at them; she was looking at the house where she had lived for so many years. Once, probably, it had been grand—a three-story frame house on a corner near the center of Danbury—but now Claire was shocked at how shabby it was. She had stopped looking at it long ago, but now she saw that the window frames were peeling; the paint on the outside walls was faded and flaking; the narrow strip of land at the side and front was hard-packed dirt, with a few scraggly blades of grass that still struggled to grow each spring. How did we stay here so long.^ she wondered.

  She opened the car door, absently watching a stooped man with a gray beard and long ending hair who was loping across the street toward them. "Mrs. Goddard.^" he said. "You are Mrs. Goddard, aren't you, I recognized you from your picture in the paper. If you could give me just a minute . . ."He pulled a thick wad of paper from his jacket pocket. "I won't take much of your time, but this is so important—it could be the most important thing you do with your money—it's a way of revolutionizing the way automobiles are built, and I only need . . . Mrs. Goddard!"

  "I'm sorry," Claire said over her shoulder as she fled up the front walk with Emma just behind her. "I can't help you."

  "But I need the money and you have it!" the man cried, following them. "You could make millions more; you'd be the major stockholder!"

  "The only stockholder," Claire murmured. He was close behind her, and she walked faster, glancing over her shoulder. The others were watching, getting ready to follow him: all those who sat on the curbing or in their parked cars with the doors open, all of them waiting. She felt besieged, and guiltv. Thcv all seemed so needv.

  The van from Simone's pulled up, and the driver began piling garment bags on his arm. "Oh, I'll help with those," Emma said, and ran back to the van.

  "Claire Goddard, I'm so pleased lo meet you," said a young woman with owl-like rimless glasses and sandy hair flying in all directions. She planted herself in Claire's path, her hand outstretched. "My name is Heredity Semple, you've probably heard of me, maybe you've even seen me, I do performance art at the Dollhouse Club downtown, I've never been able to get to Broadway or even off-Broadway, it takes connections, you know, but you can't get them unless you live in New York for a year or two and meet people, I think if I had fifty thousand dollars I could do it . . . oh, wait," she said as Claire dodged around her outstretched hand. "I could do it for forty, or even thirty, but . . . listen, I've got to do this!"

  "Please go away," Claire said helplessly. "I can't help you." The man who had been following her stood close by, listening.

  "You can help!" Heredity cried. "You've got to! I mean, it's my destiny, and you can help! You've got all that money!"

  Claire ran up the stairs as Emma came up the walk. "Excuse me," she said, and slid past Heredity Semple to hold the door for the man from Simone's, almost invisible beneath his load of garment bags. While he walked up the stairs, with Heredity Semple on his heels, Emma opened the mailbox and pried out the envelopes that were jammed inside; she had never seen so much mail in their small box. "Mother, look," she said, climbing the stairs to their open door. The telephone rang and she heard Claire answer it.

  "No, I don't," Claire said. "No, I have a money manager and I don't need a stockbroker. . . . No, I'm quite satisfied with the arrangement I have. . . . No, I am not interested in changing anything."

  Heredity Semple was wandering around the living room. "Please go home," Claire said, and then the telephone rang again. "Yes," she said. "... What.^ You're not serious. No, I don't want to buy two plots in Fairfield Cemetery for me and my daughter. No!" She slammed down the telephone. "Go away or I'll call the police," she said angrily to Heredity Semple as the telephone rang again. "Yes," she said sharply. ". . . No, I don't want anything . . . oh. Well, I don't know. The Danbury Society of Fire-

  men's Wives? I guess I might give money if I knew something about it. Send me some material and I'll look it over. . . . No, I'm not going to make a pledge. . . . No, really, I don't want to until I . . . look, it doesn't do any good to keep pushing; I want to read about it first."

  She hung up, frustrated because she should have been more forceful. "We have to get an unlisted number," she said to the room at large.

  "I put everything on the bed," said the man from Simone's, coming out of the bedroom. "There wasn't much room," he added disapprovingly, making them understand that Simone's clients did not usually live in such places. He stood still for a minute, then stalked out. Claire wondered if she should have tipped him. No, of course not, she thought, but she was not completely sure. There was so much she did not know.

  The telephone rang beneath her hand, and without thinking, she picked it up.

  "Mrs. Goddard, this is Morgan McAndrew of Silver and Gold in Darien; I just wanted to alert you to a delivery we're having made to your house, a selection of jewelry you can examine at your leisure and send back only that which you don't—"

  "You're sending me jewelry.^ Why.'"'

  "Our most valued customers prefer it," McAndrew said gently, as if giving a lesson. "You can try the various pieces with your own garments in the privacy of your home, think about what you want without interruptions or distractions. It eliminates the mundane aspect of shopping. I'll call you later today, to see if you have any questions or if you need other pieces from which to choose; our deliveryman will be waiting—"

  "No!" Claire exclaimed. She cast a look around her small apartment, her bed and Emma's piled high with garment bags and boxes, the dining table covered with mail. What would she do with jewels and a deliveryman, waiting in the background.^ "I don't want any of it. Call him; tell him to turn around; I don't want it."

  "But, Mrs. Goddard, we've put together a ver' special collection; we've even named a necklace the Lotters' Necklace; it could be known as the (ioddard Necklace if you decide you want it. Believe me, you won't see another collection like—"

  Claire hung up.

  "Mother," Emma said, standing at the door, "there's someone here from Braithwaite's, it's a fur store? They have a bunch of coats they thought you'd Hke to see."

  "No," Claire said
. In her mind she saw herself, and Emma, too, swept away by a tidal wave of people, each of them reaching out to tear off a piece of her winnings, and her life. "I don't want a fur coat. Not today, anyway. Just tell him no."

  "But you should see the coats," Emma said. "They're unbelievable."

  "Not here!" Claire cried. She saw the tidal wave flooding her apartment, drowning her. "Tell him no!"

  "No," Emma said at the door. "Maybe we'll come in to your shop sometime. Not today. Today isn't a good time."

  Claire saw Heredity Semple still hovering near the doorway. She picked up the telephone. "I'm calling the police."

  "You wouldn't really do it," the young woman said. "I mean, I came in peace and love; all I want is money."

  Claire pushed the numbered buttons slowly and deliberately.

  "God, what a selfish bitch," Heredity Semple said, and left.

  "Look at this," Emma said. She was sitting at the round dining table, opening letters. The table was covered with them. "Everybody wants money. Some guy wants you to pay his way to Africa so he can photograph some kind of rare snake, and there's a woman who says she needs half a million dollars to develop the perfect sugarless cake, and . . . oh, listen, I love this one: somebody who says he's ninety-three and he wants to die in the house where he was born, but that's in Ireland, so he needs airfare and then he has to buy the house, he says, so he'll have a place to live, because he may not die right away; he might live to be a hundred like his father."

  Claire laughed. "Maybe we should give all our mail to writers who are looking for plots." It was easier dealing with mail than with the people who pleaded with her on her doorstep. The telephone rang and, automatically, she answered it. "Yes, it is. . . . No, I'm not . . . oh, well, yes, in fact I am interested in cruises. You can send me all the brochures you have. Particularly for any trips that don't include a telephone."

  The doorbell rang. Claire did not move. "Aren't you going to answer it.^" Emma asked.

  "I don't think so. We shouldn't have talked to those reporters;

  we just should have kept quiet. I don't know what to say to people."

  "Oh, Mother, if you just keep saying no, they'll get the idea after a while. I mean, they won't be hanging around forever. There must be other rich people they can haunt. You just have to be firm. I'll do it, if you want. You'd think they'd figure out that if we said yes to all of them, we wouldn't have any money left. But I guess they don't think of that." The doorbell rang again, firmly and persistently. "I'm going to answer it; I can't stand not knowing who's there."

  Emma opened the door and looked down at the small woman who stood there, thin and frail-looking, but with her feet apart and firmly planted, as if she had rooted herself to the doorsill. Her face was a web of fine wrinkles and her eyes were as bright as marbles, peering up at Emma with instant approval. "Very nice," she said. "Very lovely." She held out a small hand speckled with brown spots and ridged with veins. "How do you do, my dear. We're related, though I'm not sure exactly how."

  "I don't think so," Emma said cheerfully. "I don't have any relatives."

  "Not true, not at all true; you have me. Hannah Goddard, my dear." Her hand was still outstretched, and Emma took it. "It's a pleasure to see you. You're a lovely girl, and I congratulate you on your great good fortune. I'm an aunt several times removed, or perhaps a cousin, it's so hard to keep track, you know. But I do know the connection is there. When I read about your mother in the newspaper, I knew without question the connection was there. I'd heard of her, you see, but I never knew where she was. One moment, my dear." She walked a few steps down the hall and came back, pushing before her a large suitcase that had been out of sight. "I lost my apartment in Philadelphia, my dear; they turned it into a condominium and told me I could buy it, but that was a joke; old women with small pensions don't buy condominiums. I'd planned to stay there forever, the rent was quite reasonable, perfect for an old woman who doesn't need much, but then everything changed, just about overnight. And then—such a stroke of luck—I read about your mother. I do congratulate you both; I rejoice at your good fortune. And of course I came as soon as I could."

  She pushed the suitcase into the li ing room as Emma jumped

  out of the way. "Pleasant," she said, giving a swift look around, her glance pausing at the rwo bedrooms, visible through their open doors. "Very . . . cozy. But certainly not appropriate for someone with your assets. You'll be wanting something bigger now, much bigger, more bedrooms, larger rooms, probably some land, too, gardens and so on. And of course much brighter. I'm quite sure you won't be living here very much longer; you'll be anxious to move. And with three of us working at it, that won't be a chore at all."

  Her bright eyes came to rest on Claire, who was standing beside the round dining table. "My dear Claire," Hannah said, extending her hand again as she walked across the room. "I'm Hannah. I've come to live with vou."

  THREE

  T

  HERE was no stopping her; she was like an ocean wave, sweeping everything before her, changing everything in her wake. "Good heavens, I never saw so much mail," she marveled, and began to collect the letters Emma had scattered over the dining table. "Money," she murmured, skimming one and then another and then a third. "Money and money and money. Do any of them congratulate you on your good fortune.'^"

  "No," Claire said shortly. She was angry; she felt her house had been invaded, but when she thought about ordering Hannah to leave, the words would not come out. And it occurred to her that Hannah was the only stranger who had congratulated them on winning the lottery. A point in her favor, but not enough, she thought, and forced herself to speak. "I think you'd better—"

  "You may want to save some of them," Hannah said, "as a souvenir. Of course you don't have much room, bur just for a while. . . . I'm sure you have some grocery' bags." She bustled into the tiny kitchen and opened the doors beneath the sink. "One. But that's all we need." She was sweeping the mail off the edge of the table into the paper bag when the doorbell rang.

  Claire sighed and began to stand up. "I'll do it," Emma said. "I know how to say no."

  "To what.-*" Hannah asked.

  "The same thing as all the letters," Emma said. "Everybody wants money. Everybody thinks we can give them ccryihing they want—" She stopped, her face flushed. "I don't mean you; I mean—"

  "Of course you don't mean me," Hannah said brightly. "How could you, when I'm family? But you shouldn't have to be bothered by all this; let me take care of it. I was a bouncer, once." She was on her feet, already on her way to the door. "Yes.-^" she asked, beaming up at the man and woman standing there.

  "Mrs. Goddard.'*" the man asked. "Wow, you don't look anything like your picture in the paper. Listen, we have to talk to you." He tried to edge his way into the room, but Hannah, her small, thin body amazingly firm, blocked him. "If we could come in . . ."

  "No," said Hannah simply.

  "Just for a few minutes ..." He shoved his way past Hannah, pulling the young woman with him.

  "Young man!'' Hannah exclaimed.

  "No, see, this is really urgent. Oh," he said, looking past Hannah. ''You re Claire Goddard; I recognize you now. Look, Claire, this is the thing. I'm a painter and Liza's a photographer and we want to go to Paris to live a real artistic life and get ourselves launched, and we could do that if you'd be our patron. You know, like in the old days.^ I mean, if there hadn't been patrons, there wouldn't be a Beethoven or Mozart or Goya or, you know, all of them. We brought photos and slides for you to look at, and you can see what we do and then you could discover us, the same way people discovered Picasso and Monet."

  "I'm sorry—" Claire began.

  "No, look, it's not a lot of money, you know, just for a few years, and we'd pay you back when we got famous—"

  "No," Claire said.

  "Hey, listen, you've got x\s fortune and—"

  "Young man." Hannah's chin was almost touching his chest as she edged him back toward the door. "Picasso and M
onet and all their friends worked for their living and paid their bills with their paintings when they ran out of money. That is a kind of dedication you would do well to emulate; history demonstrates that it spurs the flowering of genius." She propelled him steadily backward, into the hallway. "You, too," she said to the young woman and swept her through the doorway with both hands. "I wish you both much success in Paris."

  She closed the door and came back to the table.

  "My goodness," said Emma.

  Claire was gazing at her. How useful, she thought. And amusing. But who asked her to take over our Hves.'' "Thank you," she said. "You did that very well, but Emma and I can manage—"

  "He should not have gotten past me," Hannah said. There was a faint thread of desperation in her voice. "That will not happen again."

  "You were a bouncerV Emma asked.

  "Oh, very briefly. Mostly I was a teacher; I taught—"

  "But whom did you bounce.''"

  "A group of people who wanted to crash some meetings we were having. But there's nothing mysterious about being a bouncer, you know. You just have to believe in what you want more than the other person believes in what he wants. It's not muscle; it's strategy. I used that in teaching, too."

  "Did you teach college.^" Emma asked.

  "Oh, no, my dear, I taught third grade, for forty years."

  "Forty years!" Emma exclaimed. "You must have been bored out of your mind."

  "Oh, no," Hannah said again, and smiled gently. "I loved third grade; the children have such curiosity and humor and love. Later they worry about being like everv'one else and they lose so much of their spontaneity and creativity, but in third grade they're still quite simply themselves, and I loved helping them discover the world. Once in a while some of us would trade places and try other grades, all the way through high school, but I never liked any of them; I couldn't handle all those adolescent agonies and sexual tensions. When my third-grade children came to me for advice and comfort, I could always help them, even in groups. I miss that," she added, her voice falling away. "I miss helping people."