And, she was somehow grateful not to have a television, not to stay glued to the unfolding, unenlightened news from Egypt. No resolution. No Amir. Only the military in charge.
Justine was surprised to find the Pink House largely unchanged from its original 1920’s design, which presented a few problems. The small, primitive kitchen was almost devoid of conveniences and furnished with a miniature wooden table and two fragile chairs that looked as though they would collapse under the weight of a cat, let alone a woman as bulky as Frieda. Justine walked gently on the creaking wood-plank floors, stepping over Jody’s sheet-covered wooden sculptures. Adobe walls of broken plaster folded inward to encase small-latticed windows, some strung with sagging muslin drapes.
Justine stepped back into the kitchen and stood there, leaning on her cane, imagining Lawrence and Mabel sitting at the table trying to write while Frieda zealously swung her broom, pretending to clean the floor. She remembered from Mabel’s autobiographies about her attempts to seduce Lorenzo, as both she and Frieda called him, into co-authoring a book with her. Justine shuddered when she thought about her great grandfather in his house. She sat down and started to cry. Why do I cry so easily these days?
She took a deep breath, stood up and hobbled to the sink, selecting the only sharp knife from the single drawer and began to peel a bowl full of apples Pablo had brought her. One by one. Slowly, methodically. After each apple, she placed the peelings in a Maxwell House compost tin and turned back to the next apple, like encountering a new friend. She turned on her precious IPhone and dialed to Julio Iglesias singing La Vie en Rose, his sensuous voice echoing through the room like French pigeons cooing in a primeval cave.
She held the knife gently, yet firmly, as though she and the knife were partners, neither forcing the other forward. As the blade entered the crispy fruit, the scent of sweet apple blossoms floated up into her nostrils. She stilled herself to enjoy the pleasure of each whiff. Placing her palms together, she lifted the chopped apples into a dented pan, unevenly warped on the bottom, took a small handful of sugar from a one-pound box and sprinkled it on the fruit. She then began her hunt for the cinnamon. Thyme. Oregano. Salt. Pepper. Curry. Cinnamon. Four shakes to freckle the apples. She picked up a lemon and massaged it with affection, holding it into the air, sunlight brushing its yellow luster. Julio’s lush, lusty voice moved through her flesh, vibrations traveling down her arms, her hips undulating in sinuous rhythm, her body twisting in graceful dance. Her flushed cheeks tickled by her swishing honey-colored hair floating by. A sense of intense freedom, which was now just below the surface, permeated her being.
Pausing to slice through the lemon’s supple skin, the juice squirted across her hand and onto the wooden cutting board. She squeezed one half of the lemon onto the apples, permitting the juice on her hand to drip into the pan, dissolving the remains of the untouched cinnamon. Dribbles of fresh water. “Now for a match,” she said aloud, turning slowly, gazing around the room until her eyes lit on a partially full box of Diamond matches.
Lawrence’s ghost accompanied her on this meditative journey toward applesauce, toward her inner calm. She imagined she’d learned it from him—the way he made bread each day, respected each ingredient, each tool. What was it about this place, and the Ranch, that engendered such Zen practice? Justine pulled up one of the fragile wooden chairs, placed her hands on either side of her stomach and lowered herself into a sitting position. She was mesmerized by the blue flame licking the bottom of the wobbly pan, moving it back and forth with the energy of fire. After all, he’s my great grandfather, his blood runs in my veins, I hear the same rhythms, the same spirits. I am the descendent of his startling curiosity, his impatience with life . . . .
Then she felt it. A kick. No, two. My baby is alive, dancing with me, telling me she enjoys the music. Justine began to cry again, this time with joy. Pure joy—and gratitude, a remarkably wide wave of gratitude.
A knock sounded at the front door. She slowly glanced up to see Judy Lynn’s flaming red head of hair—then looked back toward the drawer, rose and pushed it part way in. “I’ll be right there,” she said.
“It’s Saturday, Justine. Time to get out and around. Go to lunch . . . see friends,” Judy Lynn declared. Justine’s friends had taken to coming around, rousing her on the days when she wasn’t working in Santa Fe, getting her out. They realized that limping around with an increasingly engorged stomach was not in keeping with her athletic self, so she had to be coaxed. Pushed was more like it.
“Come in!” Justine called blithely. “Want some applesauce?”
“Love applesauce! Hey, girl, look at those clear eyes! Happiness is becoming!”
The double entendre was not lost on Justine, who stood gazing at Judy Lynn. Her amber eyes were bright, expressive, alive. She just grinned. “Wanna feel the baby kick?”
“Sure,” Judy Lynn giggled, walking up to Justine and tentatively placing a hand on her stomach.
“Here,” Justine exclaimed, taking both of Judy Lynn’s hands and placing them on both sides of her stomach.
“Oh! I felt it!” Judy Lynn was thrilled. She donned that toothy, exuberant smile that Justine loved.
“Say, you haven’t seen the letter that Kosta and I found in the old safe—right?” She walked into the bedroom, opened her jewelry box and withdrew the letter from Lawrence to Brett. Returning to the kitchen, she thrust it into her friend’s hands. “What do you think??”
“Give me a moment to read it—don’t be so eager. I’m getting some applesauce.” Judy Lynn’s mouth curled as she read. “But none of this happened, Justine! No will was presented in court. Brett didn’t have any resources, but she didn’t cash the stocks—well, of course not; they were still in the safe deposit box!”
“Dad figured out the part about the railroad shares. Lawrence’s letter was written just five months after the crash . . . they were worthless!”
“Sure—of course! While you get ready we’ll brainstorm some more—then get some exercise.” Judy Lynn walked ahead of Justine into the bedroom and plunked on the single cot. “This is no better than an army cot, girl! How can you get comfortable?”
“I guess I need to get a little sponge egg crate . . . do you think Wal Mart has one?”
“I’m sure. I’ll pick one up,” promised Judy Lynn. “Now, you get dressed.”
“How cold is it?”
“Cold. About as cold as this damn drafty poky of yours. Now . . . how could it be that Brett didn’t make the new will known?”
“Something happened with Frieda. She threatened Brett somehow. And if the shares were no longer good, she probably needed Frieda’s support.”
“That’s credible,” said Justine. “Frieda would do that. Surely she saw the letter.”
“Surely Brett would have shown her the letter. After all, wasn’t that what Lawrence wanted?” asked Judy Lynn.
“Yes, I think she would have shown her the letter and the will,” said Justine. “It was probably torn up. By Frieda.”
“If that’s what it took. She was shrewd,” said Judy Lynn, her nose wrinkling with her choice of words. “Remember her estate would be worth a couple million today.”
“Let’s assume that somehow Brett’s efforts on Lawrence’s behalf were blocked—either because she felt threatened, or because she made other choices.”
“Enough. Off to the gym,” Judy Lynn rose from the bed, stretched her arms above her head as far as she could reach, which wasn’t far.
“Do we have to?” Justine copied the stretch and grinned. “Dinner after? I need strawberry ice cream.”
“Yes. And, yes.”
CHAPTER 49
KIOWA (D. H. LAWRENCE) RANCH, LOBO MOUNTAIN, SEPTEMBER 15, 1935
Costumed dancers from the Pueblo moved slowly in rhythm to the drums. For hours now they had negotiated the uneven incline surrounding the tiny six by six Lawrence chapel 1000 feet up the side of the Lobo Mountain. The Red Willow dancers were honored to participate in the se
rvice for their friend Lawrence.
That morning, Frieda’s lover, Ravagli, had prepared the wet cement into which Frieda had stirred her late husband’s ashes, determined to keep Mabel Dodge Lujan from carrying them off. She had had enough trouble guarding the ashes already. First, she’d left the ashes at the train station at Lamy, then at the Fechin House when she went for tea with her friend Alexandria. Frieda could be a careless woman.
Were these even his ashes? She had her suspicions, since she didn’t entirely trust Ravagli’s commitment when he left for France to exhume her late husband’s body. To his credit, he did return with the paperwork from the appropriate authorities. Like the questionable relics of St. Mark ensconced in Venice, Frieda knew that it really didn’t matter whether they were authentic, as long as supplicants were willing to believe they were.
Frieda found Mabel’s claim to her husband’s ashes inconceivable. What chutzpah! Mabel thought she was more simpatico with Lorenzo than Frieda—or Brett. So Mabel pouted, refused to attend the actual service, and arrived late into the evening, only staying a short while. Frieda ignored her.
By late evening a chill drifted over the mountain and stars were flung across the night sky like casino dice. Frieda sat down on the damp grass in front of the white chapel. Huxley joined her. “Sorry that Maria couldn’t make it, Hux,” she said.
“She wanted to be here, Frieda. But her health has been unreliable lately. It’s quite a trip you know.”
A disingenuous grin crept across her lips. She knew Maria wasn’t fond of her. “Good that you could be here. Lorenzo thought the world of you. It would have been his 50th birthday, you know. On the 11th. Couldn’t get it all together until today.”
Aldous Huxley nodded. “D. H. was a good friend—he would have enjoyed his birthday party. Danced some, no doubt. I brought you my book of letters. Sorry I didn’t get it here earlier. I do a little analysis of my friend. I hope you’ll find it accurate.”
“No one knew him better than you did, Hux. I’m sure you did him justice.”
“Frieda.” He paused for several moments, gazing at the sky as though intending to count the stars. “The last time I saw him—the night before he died—he gave me a letter for Brett. I mailed it a couple days later. . . five years ago now.”
Frieda stiffened and began to shiver. She wasn’t cold. “Brett mentioned something about a letter. About his Italian whore.”
Light from a smoldering bonfire flared across Huxley’s face. She knew him well, recognized the raised eyebrow, the challenging expression.
“My dalliances were always just physical with me, Hux. You know that.”
“Ravagli?”
“After Lorenzo died, I needed someone. Ravagli was there for me. My daughter couldn’t hold it together. She was hysterical. I needed someone,” she repeated, desperate to convince her friend.
“There is a child.”
A bitter laugh rose from deep inside her ample chest. “Ha! Don’t you think I know better? He couldn’t even . . . .”
Huxley turned away, disgusted and deeply disappointed with her attempt to demean the man he had admired more than any other.
“I told Brett to tear up the letter,” Frieda said. “You see, now that Lorenzo was gone, Brett needed me more than she needed to be obedient to a dead man. She was destitute; her family lost everything in the crash. Besides, the court was willing to believe that the will couldn’t be found.”
“The judge wouldn’t have believed it if Murray hadn’t convinced him,” Hux responded.
“A good friend, Murray.” Her pungent laugh echoed into the night air.
CHAPTER 50
JUDY LYNN WAS A straightener. Pictures, flowers, dishes, closets. Anything that could be ordered, should be ordered. Things that were crooked or out of place burdened her sensibilities in the same way that combining brown and blue or red and orange would have sent Lucrezia into a fit. Justine found it curious that such order didn’t apply to her dogs. She knew her friend’s idiosyncrasies and allowed them full expression, enjoying those small things over which she had some remaining control, yet could observe with delight. Such was her response to the crooked, partially opened drawer in Justine’s kitchen.
As they walked through the kitchen, Judy Lynn automatically verged toward the cabinets and reached out to shut the protruding drawer.
Before she touched it, Justine cried, “Watch out . . . .”
But it was too late. The drawer nearly crumbled in her hand, the slats and contents separating in air and splashing across the wooden floor like children’s jacks, the off-white, peeling drawer box splitting into pieces and heading in all directions. An assortment of Royal Albert flatware followed: knives, forks, three soup spoons.
The two women watched the display as though it were a soccer match. Judy Lynn laughed, Justine rolled her eyes and plunked down in a nearby chair. She wasn’t fond of bending over. “Now, see what you’ve done,” she accused good humoredly.
Judy Lynn began to pick up the pieces “I don’t think this drawer is worth saving. I’ll get Joe to build you another.” She picked up a yellowed envelope with tape sticking out of each side. “Yours?” she asked.
“Never seen it before,” Justine said as her heart quickened. She handled the envelope as she would a newborn, more with her long fingers than with her whole hand. Turning it in every direction, she said, “Please stop what you’re doing and sit down.”
Justine spoke with a firmness that Judy Lynn was compelled to obey. She released the six or seven slats she held in her hands, watching them slide across the floor once more. Pulling up a chair, she sat down facing Justine. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“There are two items in here,” Justine observed, her voice trembling. “Just like in the safe.” She held one in each hand, deciding to open the lighter one first. Unfolding the brittle paper that must have been taped under the drawer, she noted that it was not Lawrence’s handwriting, nor Frieda’s, nor Mabel’s. She began to read, starting with the date:
September 22, 1952
My dear Lady Brett,
I want to thank you for your hospitality and generous time you allowed for our conversations during my recent visit to Taos. As you know, my mother had wanted to come with me, but in the end felt it inappropriate. On my return, she came to see me here in Paris, so eager to hear your stories.
We were both thrilled to have a copy of the letter my father wrote to you the day before he died. Mother had no word of him since Brewster’s visit in February of that year. And, of course, Frieda had sent on the newspaper clipping announcing his death. How much she knew about their relationship was never clear.
Mother and I were both saddened to hear that the railroad stocks lost their value in the crash. I am certain my father would not have wanted you to be dependant on Frieda. From his letters to mother, we knew that he understood your brave, independent soul and cherished your friendship.
In the situation that you found yourself, we appreciate your decision not to bring the new will to light. The original manuscript of Women in Love that you sent to my mother was of more value than any amount of money. My step-father and our own family are not without resources, although as you can understand, the crash and war affected us all. Our wounds are more emotional than physical, having lost my dear step-father in the north African campaign. Fortunately, he never knew about my real father. My mother only chose to tell me the day the war ended. I was 15.
You are welcome in my home anytime, Lady Brett. I wish you well with your beautiful paintings and thank you with all my heart for your friendship with my father.
With affection and appreciation, Laurence Hassouna
“Well! That confirms your father’s hunch about the railroad stocks!” Judy Lynn had a way of cutting to the chase. She stopped and gazed at Justine whose eyes had filled with tears as she read.
“I can almost picture my great grandmother Isabella and my grandmother sitting in her Paris apartment talking over
Lady Brett’s stories, reading and re-reading that last letter,” she said.
“Why was she in Paris? She would have been what? Twenty-two?”
“About that. Grandmother Laurence attended the Sorbonne and majored in literature. Became a journalist for the Paris Match. Then went home and married an Egyptian—my grandfather. That was the end of her career, I understand.”
“Not unlike the fate of many women in the 50s—and married to an Egyptian to boot. Deadly combination.”
“True.” Justine said with a sad nostalgic grin. “That relationship convinced my mother not to marry an Egyptian, although she had plenty of chances. She went off to Berkeley instead!”
“From what you’ve told me, your father was a little controlling himself—more Nebraskan than Berkeley-like. I found him to be a real charmer.” Judy Lynn had met Morgan a few times while he was in Taos tending to his daughter in the aftermath of her accident and injuries . . . her grieving.
“He’s mellowed a lot since I was a kid. Let’s take a look at this other item—I just can’t wait any longer.” She picked up the second document and opened it slowly, barely recognizing Lawrence’s unsteady handwriting. Justine shivered as she began to read aloud:
Last Will and Testament of David Herbert Lawrence
I, David Herbert Lawrence, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and mindful of the uncertainties of life, hereby make, publish and declare this, my last will and testament, hereby revoking any and all former wills, codicils or bequests by me, at any time, made.
First-I direct the payment of my just debts, my funeral expenses and the expenses of my last illness, out of my personal estate, as soon as can conveniently be done.
Second-After the payment of my just debts, my funeral expenses and the expenses of my last illness, I give, devise and bequeath, as follows:
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 28