by Luanne Rice
Julia nodded, and while she helped Jenny form a burial mound among their dirty clothes, she knew the truth of history had gone the other way. The occupants of this mesa had been wiped out in less than a month. Her archaeologist colleagues had found graves filled with ancient bones and skulls, even those of children and infants. She did her best to keep Jenny away from the burial sites, but Jenny was wily, and had spied them as the scientists examined and measured tiny femurs and tibiae and rib bones.
“Ready for sleep?” Julia asked when Jenny had tucked her dolls in for the night.
“What if they come back?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The bad guys. The conquistadors.”
“They won’t. They’ve been dead for centuries.”
“Their ghosts, then.”
“Well, we have our cactus swords to fight them off,” Julia said.
“We can protect ourselves,” Jenny said. “Even without Daddy.”
“Yes, we can,” Julia said.
“I know he didn’t want to come,” Jenny said, “but I wish he’d wanted us to stay home with him.”
Julia tried not to react to Jenny’s words. Had Jenny, always hypersensitive to Julia’s thoughts and feelings, sensed the relief she felt being away from Peter? Or had Jenny sensed her father pulling away, too? Either way, it made Julia sad.
“Why don’t you draw him a picture, and we’ll both write him letters, and send them out tomorrow?”
“He’ll be so glad to hear from us.”
“He will,” Julia said.
The next day they wrote letters to Peter and handed them to Lupe Alvarez, Dr. Chris Barton’s assistant, to put in the mail pouch. Chris was lead anthropologist on the project, and he’d brought many of his students, including Julia, from Yale. Chris’s wife, Maxine, and their two kids had come along, so he’d welcomed Jenny and other students’ children.
Older kids took turns babysitting, running a sort of summer camp. They drew cave paintings in the sand, scratched petroglyphs on small rocks, sat around the campfire at night, and told ghost stories. The sky was endless, the stars so close, and every night Jenny wished on the first star that her parents wouldn’t get divorced. Julia knew because Jenny always made the wish in a stage whisper.
Julia longed to reassure Jenny that that would never happen. But deep inside she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Watching Chris and Maxine, she found herself dreaming of a good marriage, two people who not only supported each other but shared their deepest interests—that’s where she and Peter had gone wrong. At night, when the kids were staring up at the stars and making up stories about the constellations, Julia would watch Chris slip his arm around Maxine, watch her rest her head on his shoulder.
One night she heard music coming from their tent and peeked out to see them dancing in the dark, thinking they were alone. She’d felt ashamed but had been unable to keep from watching. The desert night was cold, but Maxine wore a silk slip nightgown; it glistened in the dark. Chris wore jeans and was bare-chested. They danced for a long time, and Julia saw the tenderness between them. When they kissed, it was anything but tender, so she inched back into her tent and hoped they didn’t hear the zipper coming down.
As she lay rigid in her tent, with Jenny breathing softly in her sleep a few feet away, tears burned her cheeks. She remembered the first Campus Dance with Peter, on the Brown green with colorful paper lanterns glowing all around. It had started to rain, coming down hard, drenching her dress and his suit, and they’d kicked off their shoes and pressed so close against each other that they’d felt naked in the downpour.
Like Chris and Maxine, Julia and Peter had fallen in love in college. How had the Bartons’ marriage stayed good while Julia’s had drifted into something so dull? Peter used to hold her face in his hands and stare into her eyes as if he wanted to enter her, become one person sharing skin and bones. Forever, he’d say. Forever, she’d respond.
She knew it was her fault. She had tried to be too “good”—had put her own interests on hold so Peter could go to law school first. Somehow they’d gotten the idea that his work was important and hers was inconsequential. Peter had fallen into law school almost by default—he’d finished college without any better plan—while Julia had dreamed of Yale, travel, following the teachings of Ruth Benedict and Margaret Mead, and studying other cultures her entire life.
Peter understood on an intellectual level, but by the time Julia actually entered grad school, he was living the life of a shoreline lawyer—he wanted her to golf and play tennis with him, have dinner parties with other lawyers and people who belonged to the Black Hall Beach Club, instead of devoting herself to rigorous study.
“We’ve outgrown that,” he said. “We busted our asses in college—now we can relax.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I haven’t outgrown anything—this is what I love.”
“I know you love reading about anthropology, and there’s no reason we can’t take an Abercrombie and Kent trip to Machu Picchu—or Samoa, wherever it was Margaret Mead studied, wherever you want to go. But you don’t have to prove anything.”
“I know,” she said.
“So why, when everything here is perfect, are you taking this on?”
“Because when I told you I wanted to be an anthropologist,” she said, “I meant it. Luxury travel isn’t the same thing.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” he said.
She agreed and apologized. But she kept at her work, knowing Peter considered it unnecessary and inconvenient, and slowly they began to have quite a different marriage than the one they’d started with.
Now, talking to Roberto, she told him about being in the desert with Jenny, how she and Peter had never been the same after that.
“We stayed together,” she said. “But we were not happy.”
“But you had so much,” Roberto said.
“It seems that way,” she said. “And we did in many ways. But not enough of the right things.”
“What are the right things?” he asked.
“I don’t know how to put it—we were broken. We were good parents to Jenny, but we weren’t good enough to each other. We stopped loving each other the way we used to. Before he died, we were planning to divorce.”
“You don’t believe marriage is forever?”
“Not when there’s too much hurt.”
He nodded, as if he understood something about that.
“What about you?” she asked to cover her awkwardness. “Do you have a girlfriend, are you with someone?”
“No,” he said. “No one.”
They drank coffee as the sun rose higher over the mountain, filling the lemon grove with a golden glow. Julia’s stomach flipped; they’d gotten off course, and she still hadn’t told him her plan. Serapio walked from behind the barn, obviously looking for Roberto. A rattletrap Honda pulled up, and three workers climbed out and stretched.
“Time for work,” Roberto said.
Julia paused. She knew she could have gotten him to stay—he would have considered it impolite to walk out while she was talking. But thinking about Peter had made her more emotional than she’d expected; all she wanted was a long walk on the beach with Bonnie. She could tell Roberto the rest later.
“Thank you for the coffee,” he said.
“Thank you for talking to me,” she said.
He paused, as if he wanted to say something more, but instead turned and walked into the orchard.
Lion
Lion knew the last week of October meant craziness in Malibu. When had people started decorating their houses as if for some kind of warped orange-and-black Christmas, trying to outdo each other with hideous and cheap commercially produced ghosts and goblins? Where was the originality? Half the town worked in the industry—if th
ey were going to do it up, they might as well have Industrial Light and Magic come in and create a worthy spectacle.
For Lion, living in a crumbling mansion of dusty dreams, he saw no reason to gild the lily. Decorating for Halloween wasn’t for him. He had the money to hire a studio set decorator and create a true haunted house, but it seemed a waste. If he felt like it, he’d dress up like Dracula on the actual night and hand out Italian chocolates. This might be the very year he’d do just that. His mood had changed recently.
Having Julia just across the mountains made Lion feel young again. Perhaps it was because of all the happy times she’d spent with him as a little girl, when he was dashing, daring, and indestructible the way only certain youthful male movie stars can be.
In those days he could walk down the beach at the Malibu Colony and be one hundred percent sure every eye was on him and every whisper was about him. What an ass he’d been! To think back and remember that level of hubris—God, a midday vodka was in order. He poured Grey Goose into a Steuben glass tumbler and toasted himself in the mirror, gray hair and all.
Julia had always kept him grounded. To her, he was just Uncle Lion. The fact he’d sometimes show up in a movie or in a magazine amused and delighted but never impressed her. She might not realize this now, but she was just the medicine he needed. With Graciela away, and his star fading a little more every awards season when he saw all the new faces up for nominations, he’d been feeling down on himself and his absurd profession.
But all he had to do was call, and Julia would come over or invite him to the Casa. It was lovely, the way he imagined it might be if he and Graciaela had a grown daughter. Today was gray and quite chilly. It called for a wood fire, which he built himself—the legacy of his New Hampshire boyhood. He’d called to ask Julia what she was doing, and she said she was in the midst of a project.
“How industrious!” he said.
“It is, sort of,” she said.
“You intellectuals,” he said. “Why don’t you come over here and work on it? It will make me feel so smart just to watch you.”
She’d laughed and said she’d be right over.
Julia brought her laptop and a stack of books and maps and set herself up in his study. The fire crackled on the hearth. Bonnie lay in canine bliss staring at shapes in the flames. Perhaps she imagined they were badgers to chase through the woods. Lion saw the same licks of fire and imagined they were his enemies in hell, all the actors who’d gotten the roles and awards that should rightfully have been his.
He sighed happily.
“What are you thinking?” Julia asked.
“Nothing. Just evil things.”
She smiled and went back to her laptop, clicking away on the keyboard. He set out the backgammon board and she didn’t even look up.
“You’re not even slightly curious about the wicked thoughts rattling around in my head?”
“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, leaning on her elbows and finally giving him some attention.
“Yes. I am remorseless. I’m filled with resentment for everyone who has more than I, and I imagine terrible things happening to them.”
“Who has more than you, Lion?” she asked kindly, and he could tell she meant it. He felt a twinge of shame.
“Oh, darling, don’t listen to me. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Material things don’t make you happy,” she said. “Right?”
“Right. And what are those awards”—he cast a glance toward the mantel, where his one Oscar, several Golden Globes, and one Palme d’Or stood amid framed photos of various leading ladies—“but objects that will outlive all of us?”
“Why are you so blue, Lion?”
“I didn’t think I was,” he said. “Having you here makes me happy. But I suppose it also reminds me of who I am missing.”
“Shall we say her name?”
“No,” he said. “Let me maintain the fiction that you suspect nothing. But we can toast her.” He raised his vodka and she raised her coffee and they drank to Graciela.
“Love in any form is still love,” Julia said.
Sometimes she surprised him. He knew of her deep grief, had seen it pouring off her skin, and realized she had closed her heart to all but family and the closest friends. But then she could say something like that.
“What are you doing there?” he asked, gesturing at her books and laptop.
“Revisiting some old research, mainly. Remember the year Jenny and I went to the desert in Mexico?”
“Of course. Your uncle was very proud of you, getting your master’s. I was worried about scorpions crawling into your sleeping bags.”
Julia laughed.
“Are you writing an article?”
“No, I’m mainly remembering what it was like to be in the Sonoran Desert. Retracing my steps, in a way.”
“Hm,” Lion said, watching her go back to work. Retracing one’s steps—he was familiar with that activity. Only he called it obsession. Well, that might be overly dramatic, but he did find himself reliving moments spent with Graciela. If he closed his eyes, could he feel Graciela beside him? Could he touch her face, kiss her throat? Could he hear her whisper, “Why can’t humans be allotted two great loves in the same moment, at the same time?”
“Oh Lord,” he said out loud, causing Julia to glance up in surprise. She smiled, as if she knew he was dreaming. The truth was, he felt sick of Graciela’s poetic words about two great loves. John and Lion, he got it. But he wanted to be her one and only—he always had. He didn’t feel her presence, couldn’t hear her voice, couldn’t laugh with her.
He wondered why Julia was reliving old days in the Mexican desert. Did re-creating those weeks of research somehow bring Jenny back? Lion stared at her, bent in concentration over the computer screen, and knew they were survivors on the same ship—floating on the open sea without the people they loved most.
Julia
Halloween passed, and Julia felt relieved. She’d had to steel herself for the day itself. Jenny had always loved Halloween, and in the last years of her life had taken to hanging tiny ghosts made from cut-up worn white pillowcases from the dead elm in the middle of her meadow.
Malibu seemed festive and celebrated the holiday with many lights and decorations on houses all along the Pacific Coast Highway, and in the Malibu Country Mart, and with tons of pumpkins piled around the Feed Bin at the foot of Topanga Canyon. Julia stocked up on candy, but no trick-or-treaters made their way up the long driveway to Casa Riley.
The weather had been chilly for about a week, but now the sun was beaming again, every day in the mid-eighties. Julia received a letter from John saying how much he enjoyed being in Ireland during the fall; the cold rain was inspiring him to stay in the library and write. She also received a letter—not just an email—from Chris Barton.
She had written to him about Roberto and Rosa, told him all she knew so far, and asked if he had any ideas on who might have information about a migrant child who had been lost in the desert.
Dear Julia,
What a pleasure to hear from you after all this time. I keep waiting to see your application for an associate position in the department, but so far no go. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you. I’ve gone from the desert to the jungle, and electronics are no more workable here than they were in Sonora. In a sense I’m backtracking from our expedition, into Mayan culture and various expansions, but this isn’t a scholarly paper, so we’ll leave that for now.
There are a few places you can try in your search for Rosa. I’m sorry, but the first is obvious: the Pima County Medical Examiner’s Office. Assuming your migrants crossed west of Nogales, Arizona, the desert is brutal and takes more lives than it spares. The morgue has a terrible backlog, but I’m sure would be helpful if you could provide the right information.
<
br /> Five years have passed—a long time not to hear news of the child, if indeed she survived. If she had, her father’s illegal status would make it difficult, if not impossible, for the authorities to contact him.
Knowing the name of the Border Patrol agent who detained Roberto and went to look for Rosa is helpful. He will have records of that search, and may be willing to share them with you. I would try him, or his supervisor, and see what you can come up with.
Another option—it might sound more hopeful but is not necessarily—would be the Reunion Project. It is located in La Jolla, California, and I highly recommend you visit my colleague there—Dr. Juan Rios. He is an applied anthropologist who went into forensics after so many migrants began dying in the desert and mountains. He gathers data from morgues, Border Patrol alerts, and individuals looking for information about family members or friends. His goal is to bring people together—alive if possible, but if not, and more often, so they can bury the remains of their loved ones.
I hope this helps.
Maxine is back in Connecticut right now but will be joining me for the holidays. I’m sure it’s a long shot, but if you find yourself hankering to lay your eyes on a seventh-century Mayan tomb, come down and see us. The kids will be here, too. You’ll never believe it, but Henry is working with me. Remember how bored he was eleven years ago? I’ll never forget Jenny getting him to scratch out a petroglyph in her rock collection—he drew an eagle, and was quite happy. The only time we really saw him enjoy himself that summer—he was dead set on making us regret bringing him along. He finished Harvard last spring and is taking a year to decide what’s next.
Anyway. Call Juan—I’ll write him and tell him to be expecting you.
