Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  nod. "Look, we've got lots of things to talk about, a world full of things; we'll have a lovely day." She paused again and made her voice light. "I might even find a talent for picking out the best shearling jacket around."

  Slowly, Emma relaxed. The heaviness inside her began to lift; she didn't have to be angry at her mother after all. In another minute, she was like a different person, buoyant with gratitude and love. "Thank you," she said. "I guess I could use some help. I've never bought one."

  "Well, neither have I." Claire finished her coffee. "But we learn fast. We've never had sixty million dollars, either, and look how well we're doing with that."

  "Right," Emma said promptly. "Things have never been so great." And a few minutes later, wearing their new cashmere coats, long and full against the December cold, they left the restaurant. Attracting glances from passersby, they smiled at each other as they set off, side by side along New York's crowded, festive streets.

  Emma called Brix at home, sitting on the edge of the bed, her Christmas packages piled in a corner of the room. "I was waiting for you to call, but I couldn't wait any longer. I have something important to talk to you about; could I come down tonight.''"

  "Not tonight, babe, I'm going out. How about tomorrow.'' I was going to call you in the morning; there's a party—"

  "No, Brix, I really want to talk to you. Couldn't we go somewhere quiet.''"

  "I'll pick you up at eight. We can talk in the car on the way to the party. See you then."

  Frustrated, Emma hung up. We'll just have to go somewhere for a drink first, she thought. Maybe we'll never get to the party. I'm getting a little tired of Brix's friends' parties. But that was another disloyal thought, and she pushed it aside, and the next night, w hen he came to her door, she was dressed in a party dress, with a short chiffon skirt and a beaded top with thin beaded straps on her bare shoulders.

  "Wow," Brix said, "that is dynamite. And so's the girl inside it." He looked beyond her at the quiet, shadowed house. "Where is every^body.''"

  "They went out."

  "Well, then, I'm going to scoop you up"—he bent down to lift Emma in his arms and pretended to stagger forward—"God, you are a healthy, hefty lady. But I love every inch of you. You are my delicious little girl and I am going to eat you up. Come on, come on, let's go upstairs; we can be late for the party." He took her hand and held it against him. "Look what you do to me; you're a little witch, a delicious witch, casting spells . . . come on, babe—"

  "Brix, I really have to talk to you." Emma was glowing because he had said he loved her, and he was in such a wonderful mood, happy, playful, loving. / could watt; I shouldn't spoil things when he's being so wonderful. But she was afraid for him and she felt responsible. She knew, and Brix did not, what was going to happen. "We can go to bed later, I want to as much as you do, but I really have to tell you something, so can't we talk now.^ We can do it here; I'll make you a drink and we can sit in the library. Let's do that; I'll make a fire; it'll be so nice."

  Brix was scowling. "What the hell is so important.'' Well, go on, tell me; you don't have to make a fire to tell me whatever it is."

  "Come on," Emma said, taking his hand and tugging him with her. "I don't want to stand here, at least we can sit down."

  He let her lead him to the library, and when she sat in a chair, he perched on the edge of a table piled high with books. "Well.^"

  Emma looked at him and opened her mouth. But no words came. Suddenly, she was terrified. Gina had said she should stay out of it, and Gina was one of the smartest people Emma knew. Gina had said that what Emma ought to be worried about was Brix finding out that she knew—

  "That's it; time's up." Brix slid off the table and turned to the door. His face was dark. "I don't like your little games. Just because you didn't want to go to the parrv. Christ, what a stupid, half-assed trick."

  "It's about those memos I read," Emma blurted out.

  He stopped. "What memos.''"

  "Oh, Brix, you know, the ones about PK-20, testing it, the women who had problems with their eyes."

  He was facing her now, standing with his feet apart. "I told you that was taken care of."

  "I know, you said you were doing some new tests and the results were good."

  "Well?"

  "Well, they're saying, in the lab, that there weren't any new tests."

  ''They're saying? Who the fuck is they? And who's giving you this crap; they know better than to talk to outsiders—"

  "I'm not an outsider; I'm the Eiger Girl; I'm part of this company just as much as you are. Well, almost as much. Anyway, people talk to me, and when I asked about new—"

  ''You asked? You went around the labs asking about tests?"

  Emma shrank into the chair. "I was worried about you."

  "God damn it, we went through this and you told me you'd stay the hell out of my business. You said that, right? Right?''

  "Yes, but when I heard—"

  "You were on your goddamn knees, right?"

  "Yes, Brix, but—"

  "Then what the fuck are you doing wandering around talking to people, asking questions, making trouble? That's the worst goddamn thing in the world!"

  "No, it's not!" Emma sat straight, suddenly angry. Hannah had told her what the worst thing in the world was; Hannah had told her about really terrible things happening, and people somehow getting through them, and what was Brix doing, trying to make her feel awful about something not nearly as important? He didn't even know what she wanted to tell him! "I wasn't making trouble; I was worried about you."

  "God damn it, I don't need you to—"

  "Let me talk!" she cried. He stared at her; she had never raised her voice to him. Wide-eyed, her back straight, Emma met his look. She felt brave and strong; she would help him whether he wanted her to or not, because she loved him. "They're saying there weren't any new tests, only the first ones, and the results on those are good, so the line will be released on schedule, in March. But something is really wrong, Brix, because the results can't be good if those memos were right. And people know that; maybe the whole testing lab." Brix's look was impaling her and she faltered. "So what if they tell some of the . . . the chemists and the chemists go . . . they call the FDA . . . and maybe the State's Attorney? Of course the FDA can't do anything until you ship across state lines, but they could be waiting for you to do it and then—"

  "Where'd you get all this shit?" Brix demanded. He had not moved from the center of the room, standing with his feet apart, his hands in his pockets. Emma could see the knuckles through the fabric of his pants; his hands were clenched. "Somebody's feeding you a line; who the fuck is it.'' Who've you been talking to?'"

  "It doesn't matter; what matters is—"

  "I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!"

  "I can't tell you. A few people—"

  "Your friend what's her name. Is that it.^ The one we hired because she's a friend of your mother's."

  "She's not involved with PK-20, you know that," Emma said, dodging the question. "Brix, I'm just telling you to be careful, that's all. You should know what's happening, what people are saying, because it could hurt you. You're the one I care about. Maybe you really should do some new tests; you can't just pretend those memos weren't there. Maybe you shouldn't release the line in March; I don't know. I just think you have to be careful."

  "Who talked to you.^" he asked after a moment.

  "I can't tell you."

  "Who talked to you, Emma.^"

  "I can't tell you. Why does it matter so much.'' The tests are more important, aren't they.'' Aren't thev the most important thing of all.?"

  "You won't tell me who it was.'"'

  She shook her head.

  "Did you tell whoever it was that you'd read the memos.''"

  "No; I told you, Brix—" She swallowed. He would never forgive her if he knew she had talked to Gina; he would hate her forever. "I didn't tell anybody."

  ""Nobody knows you saw those memos.''"

&nbs
p; "Nobody."

  He stood looking at the floor. The room was silent. Emma waited, not moving. I did it, she thought; I warned him and now he'll take care of everything. He doesn't need anybody to tell him what to do; now that he knows there could be trouble, he'll handle it.

  "Okay," Brix said, rousing himself from thought. He gave himself a little shake, like a dog waking up. "This is it. Now listen, because we're not going to talk about this again. We'll push

  the release date back and we'll set up another series of tests. Okay? Will that satisfy you?"

  "Fm not asking you to satisfy—" She stopped. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Brix. I'm very proud of you."

  ''Proud of me?"

  "Because you're strong and you know what has to be done. I think you're wonderful."

  "Good," he said; he was thinking of something else. "You'd better not tell anybody about this, Emma."

  "About the new tests? Why not?"

  "It could hurt the company. You know, talk about changing a release date, doing more tests, you could ruin a company's reputation overnight—everybody'd be saying we had bad quality control; we rushed into a release; you know—and it would take forever to get it back. If we could at ail. You're sure nobody knows you saw those memos?" Emma nodded. "Then keep this whole thing to yourself. You don't want us to shut down; then we wouldn't need an Eiger Girl, would we? Let me handle it; you just keep out of it. You got that? You keep out of it. If you'd done that in the first place . . . Well, Christ. Anyway, you've got it straight now, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, then, is that the lot, or do you have any other news to give me?" Emma shook her head. "Then what are we waiting for? That party won't wait all night. Get your coat, little girl, and we'll go have us a time."

  He was smiling broadly, his face cheerful, his body relaxed, but there was a falseness to his gaiety, and Emma looked at him searchingly, trying to see how he really felt. And she saw that his hands were still in his pockets, still clenched, and his eyes had no expression at all; they were flat, as if they did not see her, as if he were calculating something that did not include her and never would. A shiver ran over her and she held her bare arms, as if the weather had suddenly changed. "Go on, go on, get your coat," Brix said again, jovially. "We're going to make a night of it."

  Emma stood up. I wish I could stay home, she thought. I wish I could just be here alone. But she could not do that. Brix would never understand, and he would hold it against her. I've annoyed him once tonight, she thought, going to the coat closet. A second time wouldn't be a good idea. She turned and Brix took her coat.

  holding it for her while she slipped into it. Then he put his arms around her from behind, imprisoning her. "Love me.^" he asked in her ear.

  "You know I do," Emma whispered.

  "Well, then, we've got nothing to worry about, have we.^ Let's get going, my little sweet, before the rest of them drink up all the booze."

  FIFTEEN

  T

  H E theater was long and narrow, an old, converted movie house in Greenwich Village with seats that tilted and sagged and poked springs into unwary buttocks. But opening night had brought out a full house; the reviewer from the New York Times was in the third row, looking pleased and making notes; and Claire thought the play was one of the best she had ever seen.

  "Would I think it's this wonderful if the theater were plush.''" she asked Alex at the intermission. They stood in a little circle of privacy in a corner of the crowded lobby.

  "I hope so," he said, smiling. "I admit the setting makes it seem more of an uphill battle, so you tend to be amazed at what they accomplish, but they'd be good anywhere. In fact, they are: most of their plays have gone on to Broadway. And they're known for their acting classes, too; a dozen or more of the top film and TV stars you see today came from this company."

  A group of people came by and Alex introduced them to Claire. "How do you feel about our little family.''" one of them asked Alex.

  He grinned. "As good as you; it's a good night for all of us." When they moved on, he said to Claire, "We've all put money into this company; they have a lot more in it than I have, but for all of us it's like a family."

  "Does it make money.'"' Claire asked.

  "Never. We're happy if they break even. There's usually a loss at the end of the year, but we've always been able to make it

  up with our annual fund-raising routine. Most of these small theaters don't make money, you know; they can't charge enough for the tickets to pay the expenses. Broadway is supposed to make money; if it doesn't, the plays close. But it's ver^ special down here; don't you feel it.^ None of the slickness of uptown, but with a magic all its own. I'd give more, if I could."

  Claire thought of Quentin, who invested in restaurants and computer companies and insisted on seeing a profit. "Yes, it is wonderful."

  They stood silently, watching the crowd. Alex tossed his sty-rofoam cup into a wastebasket. "Do you want another coffee.^"

  "No. Thank you."

  They were silent again. Around them, the chatter of the crowd bounced off the tile floor and the cracked, peeling walls covered with posters and photographs of other plays the company had performed, magnified and echoing until it was like the screech of a train coming around a bend, isolating Alex and Claire in their corner. A couple approached Alex and raised their voices to ask about putting money in the theater company. "End of the year, you know, we're making all our donations." They were knowledgeable about theater groups in other parts of the country, and the three of them talked about income and expenses, acting classes, touring, publicity, and crossover into movies.

  Claire watched Alex's animated face, liking his enthusiasm, liking him. He met her eyes and for just an instant his look changed: it was private and warm . . . and loving, she thought suddenly as he turned back to answer a question the couple had asked. She clasped her hands in front of her, as if to hold on to the thought. Loving. That had not occurred to her, before this moment.

  But they had been moving beyond friendship, she thought, ever since they went to dinner a few nights earlier. It was the first time they had been together outside of her studio and at first they were a little stiff, their conversation slow and self-conscious, until Claire told him she liked the magazine article he had written about her: "It was much more interesting than I thought it would be."

  "Are you saying you don't think you're interesting.'" he asked. They were in a booth in a small restaurant in Greenwich, with wooden floors, red-checked tablecloths, whitewashed walls hung

  with hundreds of baskets of all shapes and sizes, and a wide stone fireplace with a leaping, hissing fire. On the table between them was a carafe of Chianti and a basket of crusrv' bread.

  "Oh, to ourselves we're always interesting," Claire said, "and to those who are close to us, but I never assumed I'd be interesting to strangers. What I liked in your article was that I came across as a person who thinks about things: what it means to have money, how we think about the world when we have money, and how other people think about those who are wealthy, how we all have to decide what kind of life we want to make for ourselves, what money does to people in a society where a lot of people don't have even enough to get through a week. You brought all those questions to life; you made them real and universal; you went beyond me and made the whole subject something people could relate to and find parallels to in their own lives. I think that must be very hard to do."

  "Thank you," he said gravely. "That means a lot to me."

  "But this isn't the first time you've been praised for your writing; you've always had people tell you how good you are."

  "There is no such thing as enough praise to a writer," he said with a grin. "We hunger for it; we look for it shamelessly. It makes up for all the solitude and self-doubt and hours of staring out the window as if something out there will give us a clue to how we'll write the next sentence or paragraph or even the next word."

  "Well, I've told you I think you're wonderfu
l. Your books are very powerful; they've all given me ideas and feelings that seem to be my own, to think about and use in my life. Your article did that, too."

  "Thank you," he said again. "I couldn't hope for better praise."

  "Do you get letters from readers.'"' she asked.

  He nodded. "They mean a lot to me, too; that people take the time to write, to say they're grateful, or to tell me what a terrible person I am."

  "Terrible.:^ Why.?"

  "Oh, some are angry at the four-letter words I use; they don't want to read them even when they fit the characters who speak that way. And some are angry at descriptions of pain—when I describe the cruelty people manage to inflict on each other—they say they're reading for pleasure and they don't want to see the

  dark side. Some of them think I should use my gift to be inspirational because the world needs that. And they're right—the world certainly needs inspiration—but when I answer them, I tell them it should begin with all of us, not just the writers."

  "You answer all of them.'"'

  "AH of them. If people take the time to write, I take the time to answer them. You don't get any of that pleasure, do you.^ You create a design and it appears on millions of boxes of shampoo or book jackets or soup cans, and you never know how people feel about it. Even if they wanted to tell you, they couldn't, because they don't know your name, much less how to reach you."

  "The designer is always the invisible person," Claire said with a small smile. "Sometimes we get credit, usually in something like an art book, but otherwise, designs just seem to appear from thin air. I think most people hardly notice them, though they're influenced all the time by the designs around them."

  "I remember one from when I was a kid. Probably because it had a baseball player in it." Alex looked up in surprise as the waiter appeared to take their order. "We haven't looked at the menu; give us a few more minutes." When he turned back to Claire, he met her smile. "I forgot where we were. But you wanted to get back early and finish your designs, so I think we'd better eat."