"Indeed," Claire murmured neutrally, and led the way to the library, where Hannah had set a lunch table before the fire. "If all I offered you was friendship, there would be no poetry center."
"But friendship is the first and most beautiful gift, dear lady, and from it flow other gifts. Your two checks, desperately needed and received with boundless gratitude, sprang from your sympathy to my cause, your confidence in me and your belief in my stewardship. In other words, you were a true friend."
Claire did not say that he was right about the friendship but wrong about the person: she had given the money because she loved Hannah; it had nothing to do with him. And she was sure she would never get it back.
In the library, she and Gina sat at a round table set with a green and red cloth that reached to the floor, and holly-patterned plates and bowls. Hannah served soup, and Forrest stood before the fire, one arm resting on the mantel, looking down at them. His mouth was half-hidden by his beard; his brilliant blue eyes held Claire's with unwavering sincerity. Claire, who was sure he was a charlatan, found herself liking him.
"The world is a treasure trove of such glories that we can barely begin to apprehend them in our short lifetimes," he said, and Claire was sure this was how he sounded when he lectured to his college classes in New York. His voice was a resonant bass, and it gained in fervor as he spoke. "The world is fresh each dawn with promise; look around! We are surrounded by wonders and possibilities; we stand tiptoe on a precipice, arms outstretched, one foot in space, poised to fly. My God, what a blessing to be alive, to stretch and feel our limitless grasp and embrace the infinite wonders of this magnificent world! What a blessing, to wake each day to such a splendid world!"
Claire glanced at Hannah and Gina; their eyes were on Forrest and they were smiling. Claire thought she must be, too; she felt buoyed up, as if his voice were a river, carrying her outward, beyond the house. But it was more than his voice: it was his outspread arms, his body, almost springing forward with robust enthusiasm, and a kind of innocence, too, such as a ver^ young child would have, walking through an enticing world where everything beckons and nothing is taken for granted. It was as infectious as an invitation to dance.
"It is our responsibility, as intelligent, sensitive human beings," Forrest went on, his voice dropping, then rising eloquently to new heights, "to increase the glories, to make them fruitfully multiply, and fall as the gentle rain from heaven to sate the thirsts of the spiritually forlorn throughout the world, so that violence and degradation and unhappiness disappear from the face of the earth forever."
"I agree," said Claire easily, stopping him in midflight. "I can't imagine anyone quarreling with that."
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to find his place in a script. Then he spread his hands wide, smiled a sunny smile that seemed to radiate happiness, and took the fourth chair
at the table. Gina was gazing at him in admiration. "You're very good. I'm not surprised people give you donations. How many projects have you been out beating the drum for.'"'
A look of pain at Gina's grammatical lapse rippled across Forrest's face, but he banished it in an instant and turned his smile on her. "Alas, none. I would have welcomed other opportunities, but the times were always out of joint. This is a dream I have had for a long, long time. We live on dreams, of course; we would shrivel to dried weeds without them; they nourish us and keep us human and alive, in harmony with the universe, itself a web of dreams. Awake and asleep, we dream; we merge with the ages to become what was, and what will be; we strive to become the invisible future. Now, with the miraculous generosity of Mrs. Manasherbes, all the stars of my destiny have turned in their orbits and arrayed themselves with infinity, and I am prepared to turn my energies and affections to a life's work that fully justifies my existence; I will leave this poor, bruised world a better place when I leave it than when I arrived."
"How.''" Gina asked bluntly. "The generous lady has to come through first."
Claire, who was enjoying Forrest's performance, looked at him with interest, waiting for his answer.
He gave several slow, sagacious nods. He draped his napkin across his thighs, took a spoonful of potato leek soup, and delicately dipped his tongue into it to test its temperature. Claire shot a glance at Hannah, uncharacteristically silent, watching Forrest with a quiet smile on her lips.
After a moment, when it became clear that he was not going to answer, Hannah put down her spoon. "Forrest does enjoy being dramatic," she said. "It's what makes him a great teacher. You should see him in the classroom: filled with fire and tenderness. He brings poetry^ and literature to life, and that brings romance and passion to the lives of his students. They think they know all about romance and passion, but in fact they know almost nothing, because they're too young and too abrupt with the world. Forrest gives them their first real taste of what it's all about, and they adore him; there are waiting lists to get into his classes."
"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?"
Pot of gold : a novel Page 40