We locked up and hopped in the car, and in a few minutes we pulled into the parking lot at the Abiquiu Inn. Quite a few cars were there, but I found the last empty parking space near the welcome center and tucked my car into it.
The Georgia O’Keeffe Welcome Center—a giant, gray cube of a structure—could not have been more different than the sprawling adobe complex of the Inn. Though it was winter, the bare-branched cottonwood trees still provided a soft backdrop for the Inn. The welcome center had no such visual relief.
We went in and gave our names to the receptionist, who invited us to watch a short film about O’Keeffe in a small room off the lobby. Tony shrugged when I asked if he wanted to see it, which I interpreted as interest that was marginal at best. He was looking at his phone, scrolling the screen, by which I deduced that there was cell connectivity here.
“Let’s look at the shop first,” I said.
The gift shop was full of books, posters, calendars, little gifty-things, and of course, prints of O’Keeffe’s artwork. I browsed the books, and looked over a shelf of dishes including teapots, along with a stack of square canisters of tea labeled “Hu-Kwa,” which rang a bell. I picked one up and looked more closely; ah, yes—a famous Lapsang Souchong. I considered getting a canister for Kris, filed it under “maybe,” and continued browsing. If I bought anything, I would wait until we got back so I didn’t have to carry a package around on the tour.
Tony had settled by the books, and was looking at his phone again. I pretended not to notice.
The entertaining aspects of the gift shop exhausted, I collected Tony and headed back to the lobby, where we admired some historic photos displayed on the walls, and poked our heads briefly into the movie room. By then, it was almost time to get on the bus, and I drifted toward the front doors with Tony in my wake. Before I got there, the doors burst open and in came Football Fan and family.
“Where’s the damn bus?” said Football Fan in a voice that filled the cavernous lobby. He stormed toward the reception desk, followed closely by Lisette and at a distance by their son, wearing earbuds and staring at his phone as he shuffled after them.
Football Fan began a loud complaint, but Lisette swiftly intervened, and the murmuring voices that followed were indistinguishable. I looked at Tony and found him watching me.
“Oh, boy,” he said.
I sighed.
My faint hope that Football Fan was just escorting his family to the tour rendezvous and wouldn’t actually be accompanying them evaporated when he pushed his way to the front of the line as the small tour bus arrived. Lisette shot me a glance as she followed, half apologetic, half defiant. Resigned, I boarded the bus and took the farthest seat possible from the family, which put me and Tony at the back of the bus.
Tony seemed not to care. He was already resigned to a couple of hours of boredom, I supposed. I, on the other hand, had been looking forward to this tour, and hoped my enjoyment of it wouldn’t be ruined.
Another dozen or so people joined us, filling the bus. I relaxed a bit when it was full, and realized I’d been bracing for the guy with the flag hat to arrive and complete my joy.
The tour guide stood at the front and began his narration as the driver pulled onto the highway. The drive was short, less than a mile to the turnoff that led to the tiny village of Abiquiu proper. The bus swung sharply around and climbed a steep hill. The guide grabbed a support pole and continued talking without missing a beat. He must have done this many times.
Adobe walls hid most of the buildings from view. We passed the village church, which was in the traditional Spanish mission style and impressively large. No doubt many of the parishioners lived in the surrounding hills and the river valley.
The bus drove through a gate in an adobe wall and into a large parking lot. Gardens to the south, enclosed by more walls, were almost as large as O’Keeffe’s home itself, a sprawling group of single-story adobe structures perched atop the bluff overlooking the Chama River valley. I’d read in the O’Keeffe biography that it had once been a convent, and had been long disused when O’Keeffe first sought to buy it from the church, a negotiation that had taken a while.
We left the bus and gathered around while the guide talked about the architecture. Football Fan’s son was still absorbed in his phone, until his father gave him a buffet on the shoulder and ordered him to put it away. This struck me as unlike the father, and I looked for Lisette, wondering if she had asked him to intervene. From her frown, I gathered not.
I was frowning too, I realized. That buffet had been close to a blow. The boy now looked sulky; the glance he shot his father edged with fear.
Disturbing, but none of my business. Nothing had occurred that merited a stranger’s intervention. I shook it off and returned my attention to the guide as he led us into the garden.
“The water comes from the village’s acequia,” he told us, pointing out the small irrigation ditches—more like brick-lined troughs, really—that ran through the vegetable plots and a small orchard. The gardens were impressive. I knew from the book that O’Keeffe had planted them because she’d grown tired of eating canned fruits and vegetables, and because traveling to a grocery in Santa Fe had been unreliable in winter.
How different things were now. Santa Fe was an easy drive today; only the most extreme weather could interfere with travel along the paved roads that had not existed when O’Keeffe came to live here.
The guide led us through a doorway into an enclosed patio, and suddenly we were standing in an O’Keeffe painting. Several paintings, rather—she had painted this place many times. The guide pointed out the small, squarish door that had featured in a number of the paintings—according to one quote, O’Keeffe said she’d bought the house because of that door.
I gazed at that side of the building, taking in the straight lines of roof and walls, the stepping stones that had become abstract little squares in at least one painting, the bright blue of the sky above the pale brown adobe. Of course such sights would appeal to an artist.
For a moment I wished I had brought Julio with me. Maybe I’d give him a gift of this tour, if he seemed interested. He had painted Vi for me, after all.
In the center of the patio stood Abstraction, a large and famous sculpture O’Keeffe had created in her later years, when failing eyesight had limited her ability to paint. Several castings existed.
After giving us a few minutes to take in the patio, and take photos, which were allowed outside but not inside the house, the tour guide shepherded us indoors. The house had been restored to its condition when O’Keeffe had left it, with furnishings and fixtures preserved. Rocks that she had collected on hikes and journeys lined the windowsills. The dining table she had designed—little more than a long plank of wood resting on sawhorses—stood beneath the large, white globe of a Japanese lantern, the gift of a friend.
In the pantry and kitchen, jars of herbs and goods from the garden lined shelves to the ceiling. Several teapots stood on one shelf, and I commented aloud on them.
“Yes, O’Keeffe preferred tea to coffee,” said the guide. “She drank it every evening. This was her favorite kind; she had it imported especially.” He gestured to a canister of Lapsang Souchong like the ones in the gift shop.
Aha! Well, now I had to buy some.
Lisette caught my eye across the room and smiled. I smiled back. She seemed more relaxed now, and I realized her husband and son were no longer with us. I verified this by looking at everyone in the group: two couples—one older, one young and Hispanic, three middle-aged white women who appeared to be together, a tall, thin, silent man who reminded me a little of my neighbor Bob Hutchins, and a solitary woman with short hair of a dullish red-brown who looked rather familiar. Maybe I’d seen her in the dining hall at Ghost Ranch.
If I knew Tony, he had probably noticed Football Fan’s absence as well. He seemed unconcerned, so I dismissed a worry that father and son had ventured into some room where we weren’t allowed to go. No doubt the tour guid
e would be on watch for such transgressions.
A workroom beyond the kitchen was long and low-ceilinged, filled with indirect light from large, north-facing windows. White geraniums and a large jade plant stood by these, enjoying the daylight.
“This plant is descended from one that O’Keeffe kept here. After she moved to Santa Fe, that plant died of neglect, but her dear friend and assistant Juan Hamilton saved some cuttings and started new ones. This came from one of those cuttings, and you can get plants started from this one in the gift shop.”
Ka-ching. I had to have a jade plant descended from O’Keeffe’s. I wondered if they were selling geraniums, too.
The guide led us outside into another little garden, this one for pleasure rather than produce. To the north stood another adobe building, which the guide invited us to enter through a narrow doorway. This, he told us proudly, was O’Keeffe’s studio.
Beyond a short entryway, the building opened out into a long room with huge picture windows to the north, the giant cousin of the sunny kitchen workroom. The indirect light would be an artist’s dream, and the view of the Chama River valley, with long bluffs to the west and the river bosque below, was breathtaking. Even without leaves, the trees of the bosque had a ghostly beauty. In summer, and especially in autumn when the cottonwoods would turn golden, they must be stunning.
More rocks along the window sills here, and just outside stood a large wooden stump also covered with rocks. The guide pointed out work tables where O’Keeffe framed her pictures, and tools she had used. I was less interested in these than in the room itself and its sparse furnishings, which included a lounge chair of a particular style that she had preferred. A small sculpture—another of her famous works, this one early—stood on a glass coffee table.
The guide pointed out O’Keeffe’s private bedroom through a small doorway to the east, but did not allow us to go in. Instead he led us outside, past the rock-covered stump, along the windows to one that looked into the small bedroom. More rocks and a few bits of art were the only decoration. She had pared her life down to necessities, and while she didn’t stint on her own comfort, there were very few superfluous objects in the house.
The little bedroom was a bit of a let-down—a small finish to an extraordinary place. Such was life, however; in her final years, O’Keeffe had produced less and less art. She had moved to Santa Fe not because it was (by then) a center of the Southwestern art world, but in order to be closer to medical care.
The tour was over. I stood looking out over the valley, smelling the familiar scent of sun-baked New Mexico soil and the evergreen esters of piñon and juniper. What a life this remarkable woman had led, much of it in defiance of convention. She had done things that women like myself now took for granted—living alone, conducting her own business, not to mention her ambition to be an artist—but when she had done them she’d been a rebel.
The guide made his final remarks, then headed for the waiting bus, leaving us to return in our own time. Tony joined me and looked over the valley.
“Enjoy it?” he asked.
“Oh, yes! I hope you weren’t bored.”
“No—it was interesting.”
I smiled. “I noticed you weren’t glued to your phone.”
“Yeah, well—no bars up here.”
I verified this by taking out my own phone, then shot a few pictures of the valley and the house. I wanted some durable memories of this lovely, interesting day. Hoping to get a picture of the gardens, because I hadn’t been taking pictures at the beginning of the tour, I strolled back to the gate and snapped a few over the wall. Gazing into the oasis of green, I pictured O’Keeffe walking through the orchard, picking an apricot or a plum from the trees.
A familiar loud voice jarred me out of my reverie.
“Get on that bus! You’re lucky I don’t ground your ass!”
Football Fan and his son were coming toward us from the village end of the parking lot. The boy protested, “I didn’t go in there until you did!”
“Yeah, but you the one got us kicked out!”
“But the sign said—”
Football Fan aimed a clout at his son. This time the boy ducked. His father grabbed him by his jacket and shoved him forward, almost pushing him into Tony.
“Out of the way, Pedro,” the man said, glowering.
My heart stood still for a second. Tony, stone-faced, stood his ground. Football Fan frowned, but pulled his son away, propelling him toward the bus.
I exhaled in relief, looking at Tony. There was cold fury in his eyes, then he noticed me and shook it off.
“Jerk,” he said, turning his back on the bus.
I looked for Lisette. She was hurrying toward the bus, a stricken expression on her face.
Anger settled in the pit of my stomach; I was certain now that Football Fan was physically abusive toward his child.
Most of the others on the tour had already boarded the bus. The few who remained wore grim faces; they had noted Football Fan’s behavior. The short-haired woman gazed after Lisette with narrowed eyes, her mouth a thin line. Tony and I boarded, brushing past Football Fan who had claimed the front row, supposedly reserved for handicapped passengers. We found seats in the back, and soon the bus started off on the brief journey back to the welcome center.
The tour guide gave us a wrap-up speech during the drive. I confess it didn’t register; I was worrying about the boy and his mother. Nothing I could do, except continue to be vigilant. Tony openly watched the father and son, sharing the front row while Lisette had taken a seat in the row behind them. Except for once leaning forward to say something in a low voice to her husband, who ignored her, she sat rigidly silent.
The family were first off the bus, and to my relief they headed for the parking lot rather than going into the welcome center. I returned to the gift shop and collected two tins of O’Keeffe’s favorite tea and a tiny jade plant: no more than a couple of leaves in a little two-inch pot; no wonder I hadn’t noticed them the first time. It being January, the calendars were all on sale. I waffled between a wall calendar and a weekly planner, then decided to get both. What the heck. They were discounted, and filled with beautiful O’Keeffe art. In fact, I grabbed a second planner as a gift for Nat, then carried my haul up to the register to check out. The clerk put my purchases into an elegant gray cloth shopping bag and tucked some tissue paper around the jade plant’s pot to protect it.
Tony was waiting in the lobby, and swiftly pocketed his phone as I emerged from the gift shop.
“You’re allowed to look at your phone,” I said.
“I’d rather look at you,” he said, taking the bag out of my hand.
“Thanks.” I dug my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the car. “Would you mind keeping hold of that so it doesn’t tip over? There’s a plant in there.”
Tony peered into the bag. “OK.”
He tucked it between his feet in the foot well. I drove back to Ghost Ranch at a leisurely pace. The dashboard clock said 2:37. I’d have time to relax with some tea, unless Tony was hot for another hike. I hoped he wasn’t; it was warmer now, and I was a little tired.
“Mind if I leave you alone for a couple hours?” he asked as I parked the car. “There’s a game on.”
I smiled. “Not at all. You sussed out a TV?”
“There’s one in the cantina,” he said, gesturing up the road. “It’s just past the dining hall.”
“A cantina? That’s a surprise! Does it have a bar?”
“I think it’s more of a meeting room, actually,” Tony said. “This place doesn’t have any bars.”
“Of any kind,” I added.
“Ha, ha.” Tony unlocked our room. “Do you want to come, too?”
I shook my head. “Not really a football fan. Speaking of which—if that man is there...”
“Don’t worry. He’s not worth the trouble,” Tony assured me, though he looked a bit stony. “You sure you won’t be bored?”
I lifted the shopping bag.
“I have amusements. And I might take a shower.”
“Great.” He tossed his hat onto the dresser, then caught me around the waist.
I hastily set down the bag so I could return his embrace. He kissed me breathless, grinned, and headed for the door. “See you in a bit.”
“Have fun,” I called as the door closed.
Football.
I shrugged. It was good to have some alone time. We really didn’t need to be joined at the hip.
Really. We didn’t.
Come on, Ellen. Who was just wishing for some down time?
It was partly worry. Football Fan had offered Tony a pretty bald insult, and I knew how angry Tony could get. But I had to trust him. He had excellent discipline, I reminded myself. He’d be all right.
I put the kettle on and spread my purchases out on the bed, admiring them. I wasn’t sure how much water jade trees liked—I’d have to look it up—but the soil seemed awfully dry so I gave it a little water and set it on a chair in the Room of Many Chairs, saving the tissue paper for the trip home.
Should I brew some of the Lapsang Souchong? I decided I wasn’t up for it, and instead got out the little tin of Assam that I’d brought. Lemon would have made it a perfect afternoon refreshment, but alas I had only a bit of raw sugar.
I hadn’t noticed any lemon in the dining hall. There was the snack bar in the visitor center; maybe I could snag a slice of lemon there. I turned off the kettle, which hadn’t yet boiled, and grabbed my sweater.
A path led between the south side of the Ghost House and the O’Keeffe Cottage (even smaller than the Ghost House), up the hill toward some of the other “casitas” and older ranch buildings, and along the hilltop to the welcome center. I thought that would be preferable to walking down the road and up the long, uneven steps. As I came around the west side of the Ghost House, where the public entrance was, I decided to go inside just for a minute.
While the walled courtyard was spacious, this part of the old house, just like our part, was small, with narrow, rectangular rooms and thick adobe walls. The main room was the largest, and probably the oldest. To the south, with a step down, was a smaller room with its long dimension at right angles to the main room. In one corner was a kiva fireplace, blocked. Maybe the only fireplace on the ranch that wasn’t blocked was the one in the dining hall.
A Black Place and a White Place Page 7
