“Right here, Justine. I have a good view,” answered the thrilled Taya.
“Okay,” said the technician. “We’re ready to see this darling little human being.”
The image of a small child came into view, the head curled forward as though ready to play a flute. Small fingers and toes came into clear focus, no penis in sight. A girl. No one spoke.
Abruptly, a third foot protruded into sight. Justine gasped. The child is deformed, she immediately thought, a sob pushing itself up through her chest. Still, no one said a word. The camera moved slowly around the stomach, faithfully photographing the inside of the uterus, catching the back of the skull, the left arm. “What is that?” she cried. “A shadow? Can there be a shadow in there?”
“We’re seeing a second head, Dr. Jenner. You’re having twins. A girl . . . and . . . and . . . a boy,” she said as the camera closed in on the second child.
Justine lay back on her primitive cot watching the waning sunlight dance across the adobe walls. She smiled. She couldn’t keep from smiling. Her mother had been as pleased as she was, reminding her of the time in Cairo when the investigating team had discovered in the codex that Jesus had had a twin. A sister. She didn’t need to be reminded. It was the very twinness of Jesus’ life that had caused the major religious and political upheaval. She’d found it profoundly curious that the revelation that Mary was not a virgin was less disturbing than the notion that Jesus had shared his mother’s womb with a female. Had God made a mistake by coupling Jesus with a female? Unthinkable.
It was as though her life had come full circle. Life was a circle, a never-ending cycle of discovery and possibilities. Once she came to trust the process, she could let go of controlling the future. And the way we think about the world changes us forever. Lawrence had found peace here, and so will I.
CHAPTER 53
AUGUST 21, 2011
“LOVE THIS RED pepper hummus! Cheyenne, did you make this?” Judy Lynn called across the forest of people standing in Justine’s living room in Llano Quemado. The meager ceiling fan stirred the warm air like slow hot tub jets.
Justine’s lease on the antiquated Pink House had run its course. She was eight months along and, besides, she was ready to return to the comforts of Emily’s house. A comfortable bed, warm bath, modern kitchen. Thick adobe walls that partially guarded against the extreme August heat. Her adventurous spirit was tempered now by a touch of domesticity. She surprised herself by reading recipes and discussing lactose and gluten. The twins were active occupants of her body, waking her at all times of night and day. Such a strange and wondrous feeling, it never failed to captivate her totally, engage all of her senses.
On this lovely, hot, and dry August Sunday afternoon, she had invited her friends to join in celebration of the launching of the dig at Hupobi, her purchase of a home just off Blueberry Hill, and a few surprise announcements. She was judicious about her news. Building to a dramatic moment reminded her of her mother, who was due to arrive at any minute. Justine had offered to pick her up at the airport in Albuquerque, but Lucrezia had insisted that she would want her own car anyway. After all, she was staying for a month or more. Justine smiled to herself at her mother’s familiar flourish of independence. They were so much alike, she realized—having fought the idea for many years.
Justine leaned on the island, sipping her champagne glass of fresh squeezed apple juice and surveying the crowd. She was overwhelmed by her mob of engaged friends. Loyal and diverse. Fascinating. Animated and eager.
Giovanna had arrived early to set up the catered buffet, supplemented by an array of favorite potluck dishes. Taya held Ricky, talking intently with her mother and Pablo. Scott, Lucinda, and Cheyenne were nearly whispering; all that Justine could pick up was something about Roxanne Swentzell’s aunt at Santa Clara, an important colleague of Scott’s in his pursuit of an explanation for the migration of the peoples from Mesa Verde. Apparently, Lucinda knew her. Bill Haller and his wife Jan were at the back door observing her ravens.
Mike waved his arms as he and Judy Lynn ranted playfully at each other. His wife watched in amusement. She was used to Mike’s dramatics. “You must be kidding?!” declared Mike, perspiration beading at his temples. “Horses were brought here by the Spanish.”
“Ah, ha,” said Judy Lynn with characteristic aplomb, “they were indigenous here before the last ice age.” She lifted her long reddish hair off her neck.
Now it was Mike who rolled his large eyes, deep brown orbs floating in pools of white.
Justine laughed as she watched the theatrics. A wave of gratitude lightened her body once again. It was past 3:00, past her naptime—where is Mom?
At that very moment, the door opened and her mother nearly sprang into the room, setting two large suitcases down in the hallway. Bill and two others rushed to help her with the load she had nearly dragged from the car. Otherwise, she was her glamorous self. White dress and jacket, chunky silver jewelry, tinted raven-black hair damp at the temples. Ivory skin. About a foot shorter than Justine, and with strikingly darker coloring, it was a challenge for anyone to think of them as mother and daughter.
“Mom!” Justine cried, swaying across the room to meet her. “Welcome!” Bill was wrestling her suitcases into the second bedroom.
Lucrezia threw her arms around her daughter and held on tight. It was a funny sight, both women arching their backs to lean across the protruding stomach. Lucrezia placed her hands on Justine’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length, then kissed both cheeks and lowered her hands to her generous stomach. “You look great!” she declared, the ultimate verdict now uttered.
“My mother,” Justine announced proudly, turning to the room, her arm around Lucrezia’s shoulders. “Now we can begin. But first, Mom, what can I get you?”
“Ice water followed by champagne,” she said, walking with confidence into the crowd, introducing herself to each eager guest. “Yes,” she was saying, “A good flight . . . Florence was just as warm . . . Oh, my girl sure was! Climbed the tallest trees, swam to the middle of lakes and could hardly get back. Smart as a whip. Her teachers said she could do anything . . . just like her great grandfather, I’m sure.” The stream of questions and answers about her heroic daughter went on for several minutes, until Lucrezia switched from water to champagne.
“Now show me those ravens,” she said to Justine, having taken the long path across the room. Justine and her mother stepped out the back door, as much to talk privately as to observe the birds. “Are you okay? You’re carrying quite a load there.”
A rainbow arched across the Sacred Mountain, a late summer rain that failed to dampen Taos itself.
“I tire out easily, especially by late afternoon when I indulge in naps. Working more at home right now. Did I tell you I’m on salary? I’m finding it difficult not to be up on the mesa with the team; but, Mom, the thrill of these children, Amir’s babies, is all consuming. I’m well and as happy as could be.” She didn’t say, “under the circumstances.”
Lucrezia heard the subtle qualifier and raised a sculpted eyebrow above her Etruscan green eyes, an expression that would have intimidated Justine at one time. Deep in thought, she asked, “Where did the ravens go when you weren’t here?”
“Emily was here much of the time. She said they would crouch near the miniature evergreen out front and watch for my car.” A raven stepped forward and cocked her head, as though to listen more closely.
“Watch for your car?!”
“Remarkable, isn’t it? They recognize individuals. They’re loyal too, Mom. Remember, they came searching for me, showed me the way out of the snow bubble.”
Lucrezia apparently decided not to challenge what she considered her daughter’s fantasy. She would have to learn for herself. Her eyes swept the mesa, the curvature of this magnificent land, embroidered with sage and cactus. Her daughter had not exaggerated its grandeur. She smiled and turned back to Justine. “When will you make the announcements?”
“Right
away. I need to run down the hall, throw some water on my face first though. Mom, I’m glad you’re here. This is going to be fun. Get yourself a plate of food and I’ll be right back.” Justine hadn’t always felt such comfort in her mother’s presence. As a teenager, she saw herself as gangly, fat, and homely beside her beautiful Egyptian mother and, even as a young adult, she was always too eager to please. But things had changed. Both women had matured.
“May I have your attention, everyone?” Justine asked, looking refreshed and buoyant, perched on a bar stool and the edge of revelation, holding an elaborately hand-carved chest.
“All of you know by now that one of my major motivations for coming to Taos was to learn about my great-grandfather, D. H. Lawrence. My mother’s grandfather.” Justine nodded to her mother. “I needed to know what mysteries he’d found here on the side of Lobo Mountain—how this magical place influenced the balance of his life, those pivotal three years. His inner muse that became more fully liberated on the mountain. Then, after returning to Italy in ‘25, he saw himself as a painter; he started to write with even more daring; and he met my great grandmother, Isabella. She became his muse, teaching him to love in new ways, to find tenderness inside, even a little patience. Now, I do believe that he loved and respected Frieda. His letters tell us so. Yet in Isabella he discovered a side of himself previously unknown, a side that he found here in Taos. A new capacity to love.”
“The hunt for Lawrence in Taos has been the most important pursuit in my life. Many of you have been on this journey with me,” she turned and bowed to Taya, who smiled. “It began with Bill and his generous efforts to open the Lawrence Ranch to me. Through Bill, I also discovered the Kiowa Trail and the Hawk Ranch, locales where Lawrence walked and discovered his thoughts—his creativity, and became spirituality whetted by nature and the peoples of the pueblo.” Before she was done, she would acknowledge each person in the room.
“There, on the side of that mountain, I found my own spirituality as well.” Her mother looked surprised. “The deepness of the divine in each of us, in nature, in the seasons.” Justine gazed at Lucinda with gratefulness. “An understanding that the deliberate practice of simple things can bring an unexpected peace. And, on the side of the Hupobi mesa, I found hope in those simple things, in an unseen presence guiding me, in the sacredness of snow.” Many eyes in the room began to well up.
“But, let me continue with the story . . . I came to Taos with many letters,” she patted the ornate chest, “letters from D. H. Lawrence to Isabella that describe their unique relationship. His desire, his yearning to return to Lobo Mountain came through convincingly. It was those letters that led me here. Then—and this is a major confession, Bill—Taya and I discovered an old key under a concrete slab in front of the fireplace in Lawrence’s cabin at the ranch.” She paused. “But to what did the key belong?—or was it relevant at all? Enter Judy Lynn and Kosta onto the stage.”
The two glanced at one another—grinned with a certain pride.
“Judy Lynn, the adventurous attorney that she is, led me to the courthouse and the records of sales, gifts, quit claim deeds. Meanwhile, Giovanna introduced me to Maria Jaramillo who told us of the bank underneath the plaza, and the owner of the Red Cat led me to the tunnel running underneath the plaza. I can tell you, it’s a mess down there.” Everyone laughed.
“Can you believe it Lucinda, I met Kosta Papamanolis when he tried to save me from the Tricksters on San Geronimo Day. Little did I know then that he owned the La Fonda Hotel, the Lawrence paintings, and the mysterious bank situated underneath.” Justine bowed to the flamboyant Greek. “Kosta obliged by finding a little dynamite to help out. That’s where we found Lawrence’s safety deposit box, number 911, holding two astounding items: 200 shares of Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe stock and a letter from Lawrence to Lady Brett referring to a new will. He told Brett that he expected her to bring it to the attention of the court. And Frieda.”
“Good luck!” Cheyenne chimed in.
Bill gasped. The room was so quiet, it was hardly possible to hear any breathing, if there was any. The fan churned uselessly.
“That’s not all. After my accident at Hupobi,” she chose not to describe Amir’s death, “Cheyenne called and persuaded me to rent the Pink House on Mabel’s property for the summer. That was a fated move. When Judy Lynn came by to force me to get some exercise—yes, force,” she persisted, as Judy Lynn opened her mouth to protest, “she was resolute on straightening an old drawer which immediately shattered into splinters. There at our feet were the two missing pieces of this puzzle.” She paused, aware that almost no one in the room knew all of the pieces.
“Go on!” Mike demanded, his appetite for intrigue fully whetted.
A knock sounded at the door and Scott moved to open it. “Arturo, come in,” Justine called. The short, distinguished Italian had been lost in the housing complex for the past thirty minutes and appeared aggravated. His white shirt clung to his moist back. “Do you all know Arturo Servosi, Director of the New Mexico State Historical Museum? Have some champagne, Arturo. I’m in the middle of a story. I think you’ll be interested.” She chose to ignore his exasperated demeanor, trusting he would cool down before the last segment of her ritual. He caught her eye and she pointed to the hallway.
“It is those two items found in the Pink House with which we concern ourselves today.” She laid her left hand on the chest before her. “One was Lawrence’s will, legally drawn, as Judy Lynn pointed out, leaving his literary estate, with the exception of the proceeds from Lady Chatterley—which he left to his sister, Ada—to his daughter, my grandmother, Laurence. Why this will was never made public or carried out was explained by the accompanying letter from Grandmother Laurence to Lady Brett. You see, my grandmother came to Taos, and met with Brett, Mabel and probably Frieda, although we don’t know that. Lady Brett apparently explained to her that the shares were rendered worthless by the depression, that she was penniless and dependent upon Frieda. We learn of this in Laurence’s letter.”
“Which Lawrence?” asked Giovanna.
“Grandmother Laurence, spelled with a U instead of a W,” Justine explained patiently.
Beside her on the island, the phone began to buzz again and dance across the granite. A text. She chose to ignore it. This was not the time to interrupt the flow of conversation, to divert her attention from the moment. She knew it was her father, but he would have to wait.
“Lady Brett was afraid of losing Frieda’s sponsorship if she made the new will public,” Justine added. “Understandable.”
“Do you plan to reopen the will now Justine?” asked Kosta.
“That was never my intention, Kosta. I only wanted to understand—and make public—Lawrence’s full story, his full life.” Beside her on the island, Justine’s phone began to buzz and dance across the granite once again. Another text. Taya picked up the phone, without looking, and casually handed it to Justine who laid it on the island. She took a deep breath, picked up the chest and walked toward Bill.
“This container holds the letters from D. H. Lawrence to Isabella Hassouna and to Lady Dorothy Brett written from 1927 to 1930, the railroad shares, a thank you letter from Grandmother Laurence to Lady Brett written in 1954, and his will. Bill, on behalf of our family, I give these treasures to the Friends of the D. H. Lawrence as per our agreement.”
Bill beamed, thanked her profusely and kissed her on the cheek. He accepted the gift without equivocation, his eyes damp with emotion. Then he turned, as planned, and stepped across the room, presenting the treasure to Arturo, who bowed ceremoniously.
A usually taciturn man, on this momentous occasion, Arturo was so choked up he could hardly utter words of acceptance. “Thank you, Bill. Justine. These treasures will remain with us for the New Mexican exhibit on D. H. Lawrence, then returned to Taos for the new museum.”
“New museum?” asked Mike. “What new museum?”
“The new D. H. Lawrence Museum to be built at the ranch
on Lobo Mountain,” Bill proudly announced. “A gift from Justine and her family estate to the community.”
Heads turned toward Justine and her mother.
Justine smiled and surveyed the room of friends and colleagues—those individuals who had challenged and supported her through this year of her own evolution. They gazed at her in return, expressions of respect and affection, tinged with wonderment, surprise. Her mother’s unparalleled expression of love warmed her further. It had only been a year, but it seemed like an eternity. Life as dramatic as New Mexico seasons: life and death and renewal. She slowly returned to the island and picked up her phone. The text screen announced: “Lost in coma from injuries. Coming home. Amir.”
EPILOGUE
APRIL 14, 2012, LAWRENCE RANCH
JUSTINE GAZES OUT OF Lady Brett’s small cabin window while her mother brushes her long hair. Outside to her left, a thousand-foot cement staircase winds up to the Lawrence Chapel perched on the side of the mountain. Like a doll house, really, painted yellow with a single stained glass window and large wooden cross on top. Her great-grandfather’s ashes are interred within, Frieda buried just out front. In the distance, the peaks of the Sacred Taos Mountain and Sangra de Cristo range rise majestically into a turquoise sky.
Justine thinks of Lady Dorothy Brett now, a nearly deaf single woman born into the British aristocracy who had been madly in love with Lawrence, yet could never fulfill his last wish—to make his will known. Still deep in contemplation, Justine slips on her simple emerald earrings, a gift from her father years ago. She and Lucrezia chose this miniature cottage, barely large enough for a small cot, two chairs, and a table as the perfect place to prepare for the big event. Amir had lugged in an ornate Mexican mirror framed in brightly colored tin from a furniture shop in El Prado. On the bed lay Justine’s dress and matching shoes, which her mother brought from Florence. The pale blue organdy dress rose from the box like leavened bread. Lucrezia is already dressed in a simple cocktail dress and jacket in a complementing, darker blue.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 30