A.My personal bank accounts and properties to my wife, Frieda Lawrence, with the following exceptions.
B.The manuscripts of The Gipsy and the Virgin and all of my poetry to my step-daughter, Barbara Weekly.
C.Remaining royalties forthcoming from the sale of Lady Chatterley to my sister, Ada Lawrence.
D.My literary estate and all proceeds forthcoming (with the exception of Lady Chatterley) in a trust for my daughter, Laurence Hassouna, held in private until she is twenty years of age. The trust is to be administered by Pearn-Pollinger-Higham, Ltd., London.
Third-If my sister and/or step-daughter shall predecease my daughter, the remains of those estates will be granted to my daughter, Laurence Hassouna.
Fourth-I hereby order and direct that I be cremated and that my ashes be distributed on Lobo Mountain, Taos, New Mexico.
Fifth-I hereby nominate, constitute and appoint Lady Dorothy Brett to serve as Executor of this, my last will and testament. I also, herewith, nominate and constitute and appoint Mr. Lawrence Pollinger literary Executor and Pearn-Pollinger-Higham, Ltd., to deal with all of the matters stemming from my literary work.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, to this, my last will and testament, consisting of three handwritten pages, to each of which I have subscribed my name, at Vence, France, this 5th day of February, A.D., 1930.
Justine read with strange detachment, then rose and walked to the window, staring at the lone pine just outside. She blinked, the armature of her face rigid as a porcelain doll. The literary estate to my grandmother! While worth little while Lawrence was alive, it would have been worth a fortune as the years passed. Grandmother found out about it when she saw Lady Brett. Grandfather was dead by then, so why didn’t she pursue it? She shivered and turned to gaze at Judy Lynn. She had almost forgotten that she was sitting there.
Her guest waited patiently, almost breathless, then, “It’s a legal document, for sure. He had professional advice.”
Justine took another deep breath, finding it difficult to process all that she had read. “Probably in the sanitarium,” she said. “He was there until just a few days before he died. That’s probably where he found the witnesses.”
“And Barbara?” Judy Lynn wanted to know. “Who was she?”
“Barbara was Frieda’s daughter. She often visited the couple in Italy and became quite close to Lawrence. He wrote The Gipsy and the Virgin for her. She was there with him at Vence at the end and was devastated by his death, I understand.”
“I see. A sad corollary to the story. Never heard that before,” Judy Lynn’s eyes welled up, yet she went on, “Remember that Lawrence had no properties in New Mexico, so the estate cannot—perhaps could not—be reopened here. If it were, it would have to be in England and the statute of limitations could forbid that in both countries.”
“That was probably part of the reason that my grandmother didn’t pursue the will. For all we know, she sought legal advice. I’m not sure I would want to reopen the will. Even if I could.”
Judy Lynn’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth puckering like a cupie doll. “I realize it’s a long shot, but after all this searching . . . hunting . . . pursuing? What will you do with the will now??”
Justine sighed, then released a genuine, relaxed smile. “I have a few thoughts.” After a pause, “Shall we go?”
CHAPTER 51
JUSTINE HOBBLED INTO the office in Santa Fe with renewed vigor, a new lease on her life—at least a significant part of it. She now had proof, beyond the letters, that she was D. H. Lawrence’s great granddaughter.
The town was still cold and stark, no sign of life springing from the trees or would-be lawns. Yet she knew that it was all there, life lying dormant. Like hers. She had driven to Santa Fe for the first time this morning. The cane was still her close companion, and would be for a while, but she didn’t mind anymore. A pocket of sorrow resided in her heart for Amir. She had turned on BBC news as she drove.
The Cairo Court for Urgent Matters ruled today to ban the 6 April Youth Movement Monday for “espionage” and “activities that distort Egypt’s image”. The court also ruled to shut down the headquarters of the movement, which was one of the main groups calling for protests ahead of the 25 January Revolution. Khaled Al-Masri, media director for 6 April Youth Movement said, however, that 6 April has no headquarters. “We are an idea, not a company. How would they ban people from assembling in coffee shops, clubs and other places?” he said. The group plans to appeal, he said. “It is a black era for the Egyptian judiciary,” he said.
6 April, Amir’s revolutionary group. Khaled, his friend and colleague. Justine had pulled the car to the curb across from Ohkay Owingeh casino, dropped her head on the steering wheel and started breathing deeply.
Sam nearly knocked her down opening the door.
“Whoa, Sam! Don’t be quite so helpful!” she warned.
“I’ve great news. But I’ll wait until you sit down.” He stepped aside, held the door and waited for her to start down the hall.
As she moved, men and women sitting at their desks waved to her. Am I some kind of local hero? The article in the New Mexican must have touched a few readers. How ironic, hero worship . . . my god, I didn’t cast myself off that mesa in an avalanche on purpose. I shouldn’t have even been there in the first place! She smiled and nodded.
Justine settled into the armchair held out for her at the end of the table. She was being handled with kid gloves, as though she could easily break. “Hi, Scott. Mike. Pablo—delighted to see you here. Sam seems a little excited. Who’s going to tell me the good news?”
“I think Sam has the honors,” said Mike with generosity, then adding, “Wish you’d have let me drive you.”
Justine smiled and turned to hear what Sam had to say.
“Well, it’s like this. Scott, please chime in at anytime,” he began. Scott nodded and grinned. “We—Scott and I—talked with the director of the Archaeological Institute of America at the conference two days ago and she offered to support our efforts for a Cotsen Excavation Grant. Looks like our own office will provide for the overhead. Just talked, mind you. No proposal, no grant. She simply said, ‘I’ll get back to you.’”
“And, she did,” added Pablo. “Right away.”
“How soon could you get back on top of Hupobi, Justine?” inquired Sam with the innocence of a high school coach asking when she could get back in the game. In a way, he was her coach.
She began to laugh. Fully, expressively, playfully. “Are you kidding me?” A pregnant woman with several broken parts—little chance.
The men stared at each other and joined in her obvious pleasure. “Okay, Okay,” admitted Sam, slightly embarrassed, “a dumb question.”
“We could lower her in by helicopter,” offered Pablo. His sardonic manner never accusatory or sarcastic. “That’s how we took her out.” He sat back with his chipped coffee cup, a sly grin sneaking out from under his bushy mustache.
“I can work from maps,” she offered, eager to please these generous men, friends really. “The site of the garbage dump will not be difficult to find.”
“That should work,” said Mike, jumping from his chair before anyone could remind him that map study was a bit premature. He sprinted toward his own cubicle.
“When will this funding arrive—and what do we have to do to secure it?” Justine asked as she watched Mike disappear down the hall.
“Good questions,” acknowledged Scott, refilling his coffee. “While the initial support was amazingly easy—so far—the actual process will require a plan and a timeline.”
Mike returned with maps of Taos and Rio Arriba Counties and threw them across the scarred, oblong table. “Here it is” he exclaimed, placing his index finger on Hupobi.
Pablo reached forward and moved Mike’s finger a little to the left. Justine grinned, but said nothing.
“Justine. Mike. Can you draw up an excavation plan? Consult with Pablo here.” Sam was focu
sed, his exuberance giving way to practicalities.
“I’d like to include members of Santa Clara and Taos Pueblo. I have a couple in mind,” suggested Justine, watching Mike from the corner of her eye. Not so long ago Mike declared that including local Indians would muddy the water, embellish reality with myth.
Mike swallowed hard, his left eyebrow shooting upward toward his receding hairline. “If you must,” he grinned.
“It’s settled then,” said Sam before Mike could speak further.
Pablo’s eyes danced with pleasure as though he were watching his granddaughter dance. “Lunch anyone? I know a great little dive off Old Santa Fe Trail. Not much to look at, but terrific burritos.”
“Thanks, Pablo, but I’ve got to get back to the Institute. Let me know how I can help.” Scott directed his comment to Justine, who understood that lunch with Mike would not be to his taste. While the two men had come to respect each other in recent months, their worldviews were vastly different. Until recently, Mike had thoroughly rejected what he considered to be Scott’s farflung notions about migration.
“We’ll take you up on your offer,” Justine said, confident that she saw amazing transformation in Mike. A new openness to alternative worldviews. “Now, how about a burrito? Baby and I are hungry.”
The drive back to Taos took Justine a while. Although she preferred shopping in Taos, she had a few favorite things that she could find only at Sprouts on St. Francis. Then, she set about to leisurely make her way home. While driving couldn’t quite replace running as a satisfying venue for reflection, increased meditation had helped, as well as some gentle dancing.
By the time she passed the Opera House and approached the Los Alamos turnoff, Justine had lassoed her mind around a few compelling questions: What will I do with great grandfather’s will? Who needs to know? What action—if any—will I take? She knew that the easiest option was to take no action at all. While the value of the literary estate must still be significant, the proceeds trickle out to generations of Frieda’s heirs.
The thought that a case could be made for reopening the will in New Mexico based on Frieda’s personal testimony in her autobiography that the manuscript of Sons and Lovers was given to Mabel in exchange for the ranch was now more defensible. Even though I’m persuaded that the Ranch wasn’t a gift, and therefore the Ranch was community property, I don’t think the case can be made that it was. Lawrence biographers are certain that the ranch was a gift, although Mabel’s journals suggest otherwise. I will have Judy Lynn’s quirky assistance if I decide to pursue it. She laughed to herself as she envisioned the energetic attorney with the fiery red hair.
Do I owe it to my unborn daughter to reopen the will? What purpose would it serve? Judy Lynn had pointed out that unless sinister forces were afoot to keep the will from coming to light, the statute of limitations could not be overturned. Certainly the letters suggest that Frieda forced Brett to withhold the new will. Any court would agree…wouldn’t they? And, what position would the University take? Certainly a reopening of Frieda’s will, which would of course be done during the trial, would air their dirty laundry: their failure to fulfill the conditions of the will by establishing a foundation to keep the ranch as a continuing memorial to Lawrence.
A frantic horn blared at her when she began to roll through a red light at the Chimayo junction in Espanola. She slammed on the brakes and held her breath. Justine cleared her mind and turned to Seriously Sinatra on her satellite radio. Taya had once asked her, “Who is Frank Sinatra?”
“Just my grandmother’s favorite singer,” she had replied. “Only the world’s best singer . . . along with Pavarotti.” As a small child, she had sat on her Gramma Laurence’s lap and rocked back and forth while Sinatra’s voice crooned from her old phonograph. Her eyes welled up thinking of Taya and her premature baby. Her near death. Finally, Taya’s forgiveness of Justine. Something happened to Taya in that hospital. She is a different girl from the one who had gone running with Justine, had shared her fears and sorrows with her, had been confused about who she was and how to deal with the two young men who wanted her.
Sinatra’s melodic voice smoothly ventured into Where or When, “It seems we stood and talked like this before, we looked at each other in the same way then, but I can’t remember where or when.” Justine began to cry—for Amir and the life they would never have. The child he would never see. To remember their lovemaking, that lock of curly black hair that insisted on crossing his forehead. The way he gazed at her when she awoke. Why did I wait so long to say yes?
CHAPTER 52
IT HAD BEEN A TUMULTUOUS NIGHT, nightmares intruding into her consciousness, seemingly in time with the repeated kicking of the active child, but she was definitely better all around this morning. A natural resiliency was her constant companion now; even though her capacity to bounce back had been so often tested over the past four years. She was now confident that she would make it. She knew that the major task ahead of her was to allow herself to let go of Amir. But how could she with his child in her body?
She heard the footsteps and the knock she’d been waiting for. Gathering her belongings, she turned off the burner under her teapot, picked up a file folder, and shuffled to the door. The sunlight caught her feathered eyelashes as she advanced toward the front of the house and stared straight ahead to Mabel’s house.
She wasn’t sure that she was expecting a girl, although she talked to the child as she would a daughter—cherishing the possibilities of bringing up a woman as the next generation. Projecting the life ahead for Isabella, the name she had already chosen.
“Good morning, Taya,” she said, opening the door. “I’m ready. Is Ricky with you?”
“He’s in the car. I told him we’d be right out.” She giggled, still appreciative of the opportunity to live, to have her own child. Although still a young girl, she had matured, ripened. She no longer called Justine “Miss Justine.”
Taya was free of the dominance of two men: her brother and the assumed father of her child. She could breathe, decide her own fate. Justine detected that Taya was beginning to settle comfortably into this evolving persona.
“How ya doing young man,” Justine touched Ricky on the nose, wiggling it slightly. The three-month old laughed fully, and so did she. Climbing into the passenger seat of Taya’s old Ford, she held both sides of her stomach as though she was protecting a basket of eggs. “Don’t you think I’m getting a little fat?” she asked.
“You are! Big mama, or I should say, Big Godmama,” Taya agreed. Before leaving the hospital, she had asked Justine to be Ricky’s godmother. Justine was extremely pleased, not only because she’d never been a godmother before, but, most importantly, because it meant that Taya had forgiven her, that she would still be a part of the young girl’s life.
“Thanks a lot! About being fat, I mean. I was a fat child and never want to face that again. What will Amir . . . .” She stopped herself and turned to Taya. “Let’s go.”
Taya nodded and pushed the gear into reverse to back out of the yard of the Pink House. “How much longer will you stay here?” she asked.
“Until the end of August. I want to be back in Emily’s house by September. I’m thinking of buying a place.”
“Here? In Taos? You’ll stay??”
“I’m planning on it. How could I leave my godson? My good friends. The work on Hupobi.”
Taya laughed with pleasure. “In that order?” she inquired.
Justine paused and held her stomach as Taya negotiated the bumpy dirt road back to Kit Carson Road. “I think so. Yes. In that order. By the way, I had lunch with your mom and Lucinda yesterday. They seemed to be doing well. Strong women.”
“Yes, strong women. I’ll be strong some day,” Taya said as she pulled up in front of the Northern New Mexico Midwifery Center on Maestas Road near the southeast corner of Holy Cross Hospital.
“You’re strong now, Taya,” Justine insisted. While she could have well made it to the appointment on he
r own, Taya had wanted to take her. Who is the mentor now? Both of us.
Justine wasn’t fond of pink, having always considered herself too much of a feminist to endure the color, but now she lived in the Pink House and would give birth in the pink room of the midwifery center. She laughed to herself.
Taya walked around the car and helped Justine out of the car where she waited until Taya handed her baby Ricky and grabbed her diaper bag. “Okay. We’re ready.”
The midwife Lisa met them at the door, warmly hugging both women.
“I’d like to be with Justine for the ultrasound, if that’s okay,” said Taya.
“Sure,” said Lisa, placing her arm around Taya, shivering at the memory of the young girl’s struggle with life and death. Life had certainly triumphed. “Justine, if you will just bring Ricky into the nursery here, Madrona will watch him while we’re in the lab. Such a good baby,” she observed as Ricky’s large black eyes moved around the room, drawn to the light and a dancing clown on a wire.
The three women walked together to the ultrasound room. Justine could hardly wait. While she assumed the child was a girl, she really had no idea. A boy would be just fine. She had already decided on his name as well: Amir Morgan. If a girl: Isabella, and for the middle name, either Laurence or Lucrezia. She would consult her mother. She liked cultural traditions that involved the child’s grandmother in the process of naming a child. Justine had promised to call her mother as soon as she had the news—a boy or a girl—either was fine. Just so the child is healthy, she thought, the mantra of all expectant mothers.
Justine slipped into the hospital gown and sat on the cool metal table. The lights in the room were soft, subtle, reminding her of the aura of the entire center: gentle and caring. She lay quietly while the technician attached the machine’s tentacles to her stomach. Justine gazed into the technician’s enlarged eyes and recognized a flash of surprise. She, too, thinks I’m a little large for six months, Justine deduced. I’d better give up pistachio ice cream! “Taya, are you there? Can you see the screen?”
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 29