Pot of Gold

  for our fellow travelers and researchers-David and Judy Schramm

  Alan and Leila Marcus Larry and Carolyn Zaroff

  c

  L A I R E won the lottery on a Wednesday afternoon in May, the same afternoon that Emma graduated from high school, the dog ran away, and the landlord raised the rent.

  They had returned to the apartment after the graduation ceremony, Emma beautiful and glowing in the buttercup-yellow dress Claire had finished sewing just the night before, and Claire was glancing through the mail while Emma looked for the dog. "Toby!" she called, looking into the two small bedrooms and the tiny, windowless kitchen. "Mother, Toby isn't here."

  "Didn't we let him out before we left this morning.^" Claire asked absently. She was opening an envelope with the landlord's name rubber-stamped in the corner. "He's probably in the yard; he never goes very far without you. Fifty dollars a month!" she exclaimed, reading the landlord's letter. "We can't pay that much more; he knows we can't."

  "Toby!" Emma called through the window. She went outside, to the street and the small side yard, calling as she went. "He's gone," she told Claire when she came back. "He's never done that, he's never run off, ever since I found him in the alley that day. Maybe he found a girlfriend; I saw him with another dog last week. I guess he doesn't need me anymore." She stood in the middle of the cramped living room, her eyes wide. "Everything's changing at once."

  "We'll have to move," Claire murmured. A smaller apartment, a different neighborhood, maybe a little closer to her job. But perhaps not as safe . . . She brushed it aside. She'd gotten

  around Danbury by herself for seventeen years; she wouldn't start worrying about it now. And she could make do with fewer rooms now that Emma had her scholarship and would begin college in the fall. But I'll still need a place for her, Claire thought; she'll come home all the time. She belongs here; she needs me. We need each other.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  "Someone found Toby," Emma said happily. "I knew he couldn't be gone for—"

  But the door was flung open and Gina flew into the room, waving a piece of paper. "Look at this! I think this is it, Claire; I think you did it; I think you won. Look!"

  "Won.'" Claire repeated.

  "Where's your ticket.'^" Gina demanded. She was tall, with black hair combed close to her head in a gleaming cap, strong features, and large hands that gestured extravagantly when she spoke, especially when she was excited. "The one you bought yesterday when we were at the drugstore. Come on, Claire, wake up. Where's your ticket.'"'

  "What ticket.''" Emma asked.

  "The lottery," Claire said. She was standing still, transfixed, staring at Gina. "You really think—"

  "Where is it?'' Gina repeated.

  "Mother, are you still buying those things.'" Emma asked. "They're such a rip-off; I thought vou'd stopped a long time ago."'

  Claire opened her purse. For years, it had been a game she played with herself, buying one lotters- ticket a week, on the same day at the same time: the only time she let herself drift into fantasies. "It's in here somewhere," she murmured.

  Gina snatched the bag from her and with the familiarity of fifteen years of friendship riffled through it until she found a small blue ticket. "This is it, I remember the first number was twenty and I thought I remembered the rest—oh, God, I can't stand the tension—twenty," she read, looking from the ticket to the paper in her hand. "It was on the afternoon news and I wrote them down, just in case . . . and it sounded right . . . three, ninety-eight, nine, two, zero." She looked up, a grin breaking over her face. "Bingo." Her voice rose. "Bingo, bingo, bingo. Claire, do vou know what vou'vc done.'"

  "She won?" Emma burst out.

  "She won!" Gina held out the ticket. "She won the lottery'! Your wonderful, marvelous, magical mother won the whole goddamn thing!"

  "How much.^" Emma asked, looking from Gina to Claire.

  Stunned, Claire opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  "Tell her! Tell her!" Gina said, almost dancing in her excitement.

  There was a pause. "Sixty million dollars," Claire said, forcing out the impossible words.

  Emma gave a shriek and sat down hard on a small hassock.

  "Say it again," Gina urged. "I love the sound of it. Sixt\ Million. Dollars. Can you believe it.'' God, Claire, I didn't even want to stop at the drugstore and you insisted; you said you'd just be a minute, just long enough to buy a ticket. Good Lord, what if you'd listened to me.'' I could have ruined your life. Thank God you didn't pay any attention. I can't believe it. Sixty million. . . . Of course they don't give it to you all at once, do they.^ They've got all kinds of rules."

  "They pay it over twenty years," Claire said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from someone else, and she felt numb. These things happened to other people, not to her; nothing ever happened to her. So how could this be real.''

  Emma's eyes widened, as if making the numbers smaller made them more real. "We get three million dollars a year for twenty' years.''"

  Claire met her eyes and both of them burst into ner'ous laughter. And in that moment it began to seem real. "Wait, I have to think," Claire said. "No, I'm sure we don't get that much; I'm pretty sure they take out the taxes first. I guess that's about a third. But still . . ."

  "Still not too shabby," Gina said mockingly. "A couple million a year for twenty years.'' I wouldn't sneeze at that. And, hey, that's only a start, you know.'' I mean, if you wanted to, you could probably borrow the moon right now; who'd turn you down when they know you'll be getting that check every- year from the State of Connecticut.'' Claire, you can do anything you want!"

  "We're rich," Emma said softly. Her eyes were shining. "Rich, rich, rich. I never even dreamed of anything like this."

  "So, what's next?" Gina asked. "How do you get it, Claire?"

  Claire was listening to the echo of Emma's voice caressing the word rich. "What?" she asked.

  "How do you get the money? Do they mail you a check for two million dollars, or give it to you with their hot little hand?"

  "I don't know. I can't even imagine ..." The sense of reality faded in and out; one minute a wild excitement filled her, and the next a sinking feeling that this was about someone else: Gina had made a mistake, the television announcer had made a mistake, someone else had won the lottery, not Claire, never Claire, because Claire never won anything.

  "Maybe they mail it," Gina said.

  "How can they?" Emma asked. "Do they know Mother's won?"

  "Oh, God, of course not," Gina groaned. "We're standing around talking . . . Claire, you've got to call them."

  "Call who?" Emma asked.

  "There should be a number," Claire said. "Probably on the ticket. If I could see it . . ."

  Gina gave her the ticket, and while Claire found the number and made the call, she pulled Emma to her feet and hugged her. "Your whole life is going to change. Every single thing you do . . . everything'xs going to change. Can you believe it? Can you wait for it all to start? You'll never be the same again."

  "Sure we will," said Claire, hanging up the telephone. Her face was bright; excitement bubbled within her. She had won; it was real. An anonymous voice on the telephone had confirmed her winning number and told her she was the only winner. She would get it all. Claire Goddard had just won sixty million dollars. She smiled at Emma and Gina, loving them, loving eversone, loving the whole world. "We'll have a lot of money but that won't change the way we are. We'll be the same people we've always been, and we'll have the same best friends."

  ''Nothings going to be the same for you. It's going to be . . ." Gina frowned, then sighed. "Well, maybe. Why not? Stranger things have happened. We've been through a lot together, maybe we can survive sixty million dollars. So,
okay, what arc you going to do first?"

  "Pay all my bills," Claire said promptly. "Pay off the loan on the car—"

  "Oh, Mother," Emma groaned. "What are we going to do that's excitingF'

  The telephone rang and Emma picked it up.

  "Claire Goddard.'*" said a woman at top speed. "This is Myrna Hess of the Danbury Times and I want to interview you about winning the lotterv-; I can be there in ten minutes, less, actually; I'd just like to be sure you don't talk to anybody else before I—"

  "This isn't Claire Goddard," Emma finally managed to say. "I'll let you talk to her—"

  "No, wait—are you a friend.'' A relative.'"'

  "I'm her daughter."

  "Oh, terrific, there's a family. Tell your mother I'll be right over. Remember: Myrna Hess, Danbury Times, don't talk to anybody else." She hung up.

  "There's a reporter coming here," Emma said to Claire. "How did they find out so fast.^"

  "There are probably reporters who hang around waiting to see who wins these things," Gina said. "There's no such thing as privacy anymore. Anyway, this is probably the biggest thing to hit this town since the Revolutionary War."

  The doorbell rang and Claire answered it.

  "Hi, Parker Webb, Mrs. Goddard, from the Danbury Times.'''' Behind him, a photographer's flash went off, and when the blinding light faded, both men were inside the apartment. "How does it feel to be one of the richest women in America.''"

  "I don't know," Claire said. "Someone else called from your paper, some woman. She said she was on her way over here. Are you together.'"'

  "Myrna called already.^" he asked. "Sharp girl, Myrna. But not sharp enough to beat Parker Webb. This is really going to tick her off."

  "Mrs. Goddard," said a tall, dark-haired woman at the open door, "I'm Barbara Mayfair from WCDC television; I'm so excited to meet you, it's absolutely fantastic that you won the whole thing. Our viewers are going to be so thrilled to see you in the flesh."

  "In the flesh.''" Claire repeated.

  "You know, in person; viewers see famous people on television, they think they're seeing them in person. It's the closest they'll ever get, after all. Now we want to tape an interview for

  tonight's news, but it's awfully crowded in here. If we could clear it out a little bit . . ."

  "She wants us gone," said Parker Webb amiably to Claire. "Barbie, sweetie, wait your turn; we were here first. Mrs. God-dard, how did you feel when you heard you'd won six-ty mill-ion dollars.''"

  "I didn't believe it," Claire said.

  "But now you do." Webb saw the blue ticket that Emma had picked up and he swooped down on her hand. "Sid, get a shot of this. . . . Hey, Sid, you with me.'"'

  The photographer had discovered Emma's glowing beauty and was circling the room, taking pictures of her while she watched her mother. She did not acknowledge his presence, but she was leaning slightly toward him, a small smile on her perfect lips.

  "Right," said the photographer when Webb nudged him with his foot. "The ticket. Would vou hold it up. Miss . . . uh . . . Miss.?"

  Emma held up the ticket but was silent.

  "So have you decided what you're going to buy first.?" W'ebb asked Claire.

  "A butler to answer the door," said Claire.

  Barbara Mayfair laughed. Emma smiled with her, and the photographer took another picture.

  "Why would you do that.?" asked Webb.

  "So I don't get surprised by people wanting interviews."

  "You mean I should have called first. Right, right, but we've been through that. I mean, if I'd called first, Myrna would have beaten me, and Barbie, too, and I'd never live that down. So, come on, Mrs. Goddard, could we do an interview.? I'his is crucial; I mean, it's pretty dr- countrs around here, Danburs-, for a reporter; there's not a lot that you could call spectacular, you know. But this is a terrific storv'; this is history in the making. Fifteen minutes, I promise, and then Barbie can have her turn."

  A small, round woman burst into the room. "For (jod's sake, Parker, you could have checked with me!"

  "Hi, Myrna," Webb said. "Next time somebody in town wins the lotters, it's yours, word of honor."

  Mvrna looked from C'lairc to Ciina and then locked onto

  Emma. "You're the daughter? You said you wouldn't talk to anybody else."

  "I didn't promise anything," Emma protested.

  "She didn't," said Gina, speaking up for the first time.

  "You a relative.^" Myrna asked Gina.

  The telephone rang and Claire answered it. She looked at Webb. "Do you know Mick Wales.^"

  "The Norwalk Crier. They've got it already.'' Listen, we've got to get moving."

  "Here's the New York Post,'' Barbara Mayfair said. She leaned against the wall, making room for her cameraman beside her, while a short, gray-haired man with thick, black-rimmed glasses sidled past them. "Skip Farley," he said to Claire, though she still held the telephone to her ear. "Are you giving out numbers.'^"

  "Just get in line," said Webb testily. "I'm outa here as soon as I get my interview."

  "I can't see you today," Claire said into the telephone to Mick Wales. "Call tomorrow morning." She hung up and gestured toward a small dining table surrounded by four hardback chairs in a corner of the room. "You sit there," she said to Skip Farley and Myrna Hess and Barbara Mayfair and her cameraman, "while I talk to ... I'm sorn.^; I've forgotten—"

  "Parker Webb." He looked at the others, considering whether to demand that they leave, but Claire, understanding him, shook her head. "If you all hear what I say, I won't have to keep repeating it. That should speed things up. Emma and I haven't had a minute to be alone and think about all this."

  Myrna cornered Gina. "I can talk to you, right.^ You're a relative.'' Or a friend.'' How did vou find out she'd won.^ What did she say.?"

  Gina shook her head. "Whatever Claire wants in the paper, she'll tell you."

  Reluctantly, Webb had taken a seat in a corner of the couch. Claire took a chair opposite him. She looked at Emma, gazing dreamily out the window, and suddenly realized her daughter was posing, subtly changing her body position and her smile while pretending to ignore the photographer who was stalking her, coming in close, then moving back, silent, totally absorbed in her beauty. It was like a dance, Claire thought; in a strange way, the

  young girl and the man and his camera were locked together, almost merging, almost one. It made Claire nervous and inexplicably fearful. "That's enough," she said sharply to the photographer. Then, more quietly, she said, 'i think you have enough."

  "Jesus, Sid, get with it," muttered Webb. "A couple shots of the apartment—outside, too—and then get Mrs. Goddard. Talking, holding the ticket, you know, the whole bit. So let's start at the beginning," he said to Claire. "You and your daughter have lived here for ..."

  "Seventeen years," Claire said.

  "Just the two of you.'' You're divorced.'' Widowed.^"

  "Divorced."

  "Recently.?"

  "A long time ago."

  "How long.'*"

  "That has nothing to do with your stor\"

  "Just a round number. It would help a lot. Five years.? Ten.?" He paused. "Seventeen.?"

  "It has nothing to do with your stors%" she said again. She was uncomfortable. She had never been interviewed by anyone except for a job. But this was the press. Strangers reading about her, looking at her picture, and Emma's, too. She ought to be witty and clever and in control of the interview. She had no idea how people did that. "What else do you want to know.?"

  "Human interest, Mrs. Goddard; readers want to know all about you. How old are you.?"

  "Thirt'-five."

  "And Emma is . . . .?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Uh-huh. How manv lotters' tickets did vou buv.?"

  "One."

  ''OneP You won with one ticket.?"

  "It only takes one," Claire said, smiling.

  "Yeah, but to increase your odds . . ."

  "I didn't think of winning.
I only thought of playing."

  "Didn't think of winning," he muttered, writing it down. "So why keep buying them.?"

  "I told you: it was a game. It was a way to dream. I like to dream."

  The door opened and a thin, gray-haired woman scanned the

  room and picked out Claire. "Mrs. Goddard.'^ Blanche Eagle; I write for the New York Times. They asked me—"

  "Over there," Webb said, waving toward the group in the corner. "Shoulda sold tickets," he muttered.

  "Mrs. Goddard, the New York Times,'' said Blanche Eagle, emphasizing it. "Surely you'd rather talk to us than a local paper."

  "I promised Mr. Webb," said Claire. "He was here first. If you don't want to wait—"

  "For a short while," she said briefly, and joined the others at the table.

  "Likes to dream," Webb murmured, writing. "So, okay, Mrs. Goddard, what do you like to dream about.'' I mean, what's going to change now that you've won this pile of money.''"

  "I told you. I haven't decided."

  "Yeah, but give me a break, Mrs. Goddard; there's no story in haven't decided. Okay, then, let's talk about . . . well, what do you eat for breakfast, and is that going to change.''"

  "I eat toast with raspberry jam, and coffee, and I may try scrambled eggs with truffles," Claire said, surprising herself. She remembered reading about that in a magazine a long time ago; had she really been pining for it all these years.^

  "Great," Webb said cheerfully. He wrote swiftly. "What about your work.'' You work here in town.'"'

  "At Danbur>^ Graphics."

  "Doing.?"

  "I'm an assistant to a design team."

  "Designing what.''"

  "Everything from books to cereal boxes."

  "No kidding. You studv that in college.''"

  "Yes."

  "Where.?"

  "Western Connecticut State University."

  "And you got your degree when.?"

  "I didn't graduate. I had to go to work."

  He nodded. "So are you going to quit.?"

  "Quit my job.? I don't know. I haven't thought about it."

  "Well, could you now.? I mean, just/^^tvV/^ sixty million bucks means your life is different, right.?"

  "Yes, but . . ." Claire sighed. "I guess I'd like to own a house, and my car is ten years old, so I'll probably get a new one."